Page 17 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
And then we’re flying. Soaring through the dark night sky, him with his wings stretched out wide and me on his back like Ibelong there. Like I’ve done this a million times before.
Something in me seems to shift, then settle at that, like I really have.
But all I can think is that I amflyingon adragon.
And I want to laugh. I want to throw my arms up toward the stars, the moon. I want tosing.
It’s just like my book, I think.
Except better. Much, much better than any fairy tale could ever describe. Because I finally feel... at home.
Like I was made for this. For him.
This soaring, scalding, pulsingyesthat turns me inside out, and I love it.
It’s not just the pretty lights of St. Cyprian and all the other towns along the river that sparkle down below us. It’s notthe simple truth that flying and the magic that lets us all do it are wonderful things to experience on their own—becausethis is nothing like that.
Flying on a dragon’s back is nothing like flying on my own.
Flying onthisdragon’s back, I correct myself, because I know with a certainty that feels old and weathered within me that this is an experience thatis singular to him.
To him and me.
Like I’ve been waiting to finally meet him all my life, and all this heat andcertaintyinside me is recognition.
Azrael dips and rolls, and I can feelhisdelight,hisfreedom. He makes no noise, so I don’t either. We’re nothing but wings and his raw, earthy magic, starshine and moonlight.
We’reus.
We rise and plummet, soar and roll, and I think,Finally.We’reus.
Maybe the Joywoodcan’tfeel this, and wouldn’t even if we flew straight at them. That even if they could feel us up here, they wouldn’t understandit.
Because what do they know about a joy so deep and encompassing that it feels like an ache? Something almost like grief. Somethingthat wide and exhaustive, but threaded through with dragon gold.
I don’t know how far we go or how long we’re gone. It could be a string of forevers, all that same sweet rush of tumblingthrough the sky.
It feels as if we’ve lived each one. A thick and colorful bouquet of lives, the two of us intertwined—
Though witches don’t believe in reincarnation. That’s for other beings, perhaps, but not us. We live too long, some say. Weare already too magical, claim others, and cherish our ability to go to the other side and still affect those back here.
Eventually Azrael circles back from forever to St. Cyprian and to Wilde House, rising up from its part of Main Street withall of its usual authority and grace. And just as I was pulled out of my bedroom in the first place, I’m swept back in ona wave of blue-and-green smoke that morphs from scale to man as we go.
It’s exhilarating. Itaches. It’s too much.
Now we’re standing in my room once more, but we’re both a little windswept. Our eyes are shining from the cold air and glowingfrom all that magic. I can see myself in my mirror. I can see it all over him.
And his eyes are gold and on me.
The way he’s looked at me a thousand times before, I think—
But no. That’s not possible.
Too many emotions are battering around inside of me, almost too much to bear. If he were anyone else, I’d probablylet myself cry, because sometimes tears are the only way to get things out. But Azrael isn’t anyone else.
I don’t know what to do with him.
He moves toward me, two meaningful strides that almost have ustouching—
