Page 62 of Crown of Wings and Whispers

I moved around to the far side of the carcass and realized it had been slit from stem to stern. “It’s wet, too,” I shouted.

Griffon stopped digging and came to look. He was obviously impressed. “I wonder how far she had to go to find water—”

“She can hear you,” she said. “Are you unfamiliar with lakes?”

He pointed. “A lake of ice—”

“With water beneath.”

Griffon and I looked at each other, both realizing a dragon the size of a massive bulldozer could easily break thick ice. He looked up, then inclined his head. “Is the Son of Fae at liberty to ask questions?”

“Only because my marka prefers you to live.”

“For which I am grateful.” He wrapped his arm around my head and planted a kiss on my brow, which drew a Hank-like hiss from the dragon. He was shaking, which proved he wasn’t nearly as calm as he pretended. “We must have a conversation about boundaries, but now is not the time.” He let his arm fall away. “What are you called, fearsome one?”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed and she blinked. And just that fast, her dark blue eyes turned green and I knew she was pleased he considered her fearsome. “My marka has yet to name me.”

“Me?”

“We are we. We must name ourselves.”

“But don’t you want to—”

“It is your place.”

I couldn’t believe that something so…substantial…had no name to begin with, but then again, she did say she’d just been born. I thought about the names some of my Highland friends had for their swords. It was more of a Viking tradition, I had assumed. But calling my big pretty friend something like Skyeater or Snowshaker would make her sound like a character for Dungeons and Dragons, which was, I don’t know, unworthy.

This was a living, breathing animal with a heartbeat. Yes, she could talk, and yes, she could hunt down a reindeer, kill it and clean it in a matter of minutes, but she was also a female and terrifying, and beautiful. Like the nine sapphires.

I asked Griffon, “How do you say sapphire in Irish?”

“Sapphire.”

That wouldn’t do. “How do you say it in Finnish?”

“Safiiri.”Sa-fee-ir-ee.

Four syllables. Too long. And I didn’t like Safi, so I shook my head.

“Gemstone is jalokivi.”Yah-lo-kee-vee.

“Jalokivi. Kivi.” I looked up at her and tried it out. “Kivi. What do you think?”

She bowed her big head. “I am Kivi.” And suddenly, she began to fade.

“What’s happening?”

Though her expression turned hopeful, she continued reverting back to her spirit self. “Unless you would like to fly…”

I shook my head. “Not ready for that. Sorry.”

“Then I will take my leave.”

“Where will you go?”

She pointed straight up.

“And when will you come back?”

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