Page 61 of Of Blood and Banes
“Yes. Though, some of the others are harder to understand.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Some of them have accents and different tones I’m trying to get used to. The second one on the right behind A’nala slurs his s’s a lot. And the third one in the left line doesn’t like to speak to me. Actually…I don’t think he speaks much at all. A’nala says for me to not bother him.”
She veers left, the wind slicing beneath her wings and ripping at my braided hair. I crouch down, pressing myself tighter into her to avoid the wind. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Tawny mentioned a few days ago about there being other dragon riders, and I’ve never seen them until today. But…it sounds like you’ve met them before?”
“Once or twice.”
“And you didn’t tell me, why?”
“Just as you feel you can handle yourself, I can also handle myself.”
“I have decades of life experience over you, though.”
“AndIcan speak with other dragons. You cannot.”
“Touché.”
“Plus, it’s not like you tell me every time you meet someone new.”
Daeja flies over to them, eventually joining in the back of the right line. While I’ve seen birds migrate over the Northern Forest back in Padmoor every winter, seeing dragons fly in such an organized formation was something else. Even one dragon gliding through the sky was majestic. Their heads dipping as the rest of their bodies rolled in rhythm. Their strong muscled shoulders flexing with each flap of their massive wings.
The other dragons within the formation are fairly similar: shades of reds, oranges, and yellows. Horns of different sizes crowd their skulls, spines, and tails. But what really draws my attention are the scars marring each of them. Holes tatter all of their wings, causing a soft whistle as the wind tunnels through them. Sections of scales are shredded with deep scars, the sheen of their bodies dulled by the ragged marks. One of the dragon’s horns is broken in half, its wicked edges standing proud from its head. Another dragon has a chunk missing out of the top of its tail.
“You’re staring. Even I can feel it.”
“Sorry.”I duck my head, focusing instead on the expanse of sky ahead. I can’t look down. Because if I look down, my queasiness will resurface as fast as the blink of an eye. At least admiring and watching the other dragons distracted me for a split second.
“A’nala wants us at the front with her and Sethan,”Daeja explains before she cuts around the line of dragons we were following. She pumps her wings harder to pass the other dragons, each flap draining more of her energy. The dragons likely have years of experience over her—she’s still only a baby. Their wings are almost double in size.
The group must notice or words are exchanged, because one by one the dragons slow to a glide, allowing Daeja to advance forward. I glance sideways at the other dragons and riders we pass, dipping my head awkwardly as they glance our way. We make it to the front of the formation, and A’nala’s yellow eyes shift over to us lazily before refocusing on the path ahead. Sethan turns his head to me as we level out beside them.
He points at me, then holds up one finger, and taps his head.
My first lesson.
He takes his hands off the saddle horns, unhooks the metal attached to his waist belt, and pushes up off the saddle throughhis feet in the stirrups. He stands with his hands held out open and to the side, tilting his head back and allowing the wind to whistle over his face, his eyes closed and face relaxed.
He makes it look so damn easy.
I scan A’nala, the positioning of Sethan’s feet in the stirrups, his lonely saddle horns, and the hooked straps fluttering freely in the wind.
He turns to me with a challenge in his eyes, dipping his head in encouragement. Oh,hellsno.
“You’ll be fine. You’ve ridden me plenty of times before without a saddle and hooks.”
“Yes, but we weren’t even above the treeline! We had a lake beneath us whenever I did fall. And not to mention, we’ve never flown at this speed?—”
Sethan shouts something inaudible and flips me a middle finger.
Ex-fucking-cuse me?
He must see the shock and annoyance wash over my features because he shakes his head vigorously and points at the base of his middle finger.
Ohhh.I flick my attention down to my gloved hands. Despite the dark tattoo of a ring around my finger being covered, I understand it all the same. Daeja won’t let me die. And it isn’t because our lives are interconnected. But because she genuinely wants me to live—I’m her family, just as much as she is mine.
