Page 3 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
I shake my head, out here by myself. It’s a silly thought. Particularly considering a coven is made of seven. This is my coven.I belong with them.
But Thanksgiving isn’t about covens or witches or St. Cyprian. It’s just... giving thanks. And they’re all having plentyof thanks without me.
Because you weren’t supposed to be back yet. Because you decided to make your return a surprise.
No amount of reason gets me to move my feet. I just stand here, feeling like I don’t belong. And when I reach into my pocket,curling my fingers around the crystals that always guide me, I get nothing. I frown and touch the necklace I often wear—ateardrop-shaped piece of prehnite I’ve worn on a delicate gold chain since the day of my pubertatum, when my mother gave itto me. It’s the only time my mother has ever given me a present that made me feel like she was trying to understandmeinstead of the daughter she wished I was.
Tonight it offers nothing but a kind of bleakness that sinks in deep.
Which is a sign in and of itself, I decide. I should have gone to see Sage first.
So that’s what I do instead.
2
Sage is the one who missed me the most, as he told me every single day I was gone. He sent me more little presents on theroad than Emerson did—and that’s saying something, because Emerson is hard to beat.
Sage has been increasingly concerned I’m focusing too much on work, and he’s right, isn’t he? I can see that now. The pastfew weeks have been all work. If I went into Jacob’s house right now, it would devolve into work talk. Riverwood plans forthe Cold Moon Ceremony. More speeches about our plans and priorities. More dark imaginings about what the Joywood had plannedif all their machinations had actually worked.
All of it worth discussing, but still, all of it work.
This is supposed to be a holiday foreveryone, even the ruling coven, so I decide I’ll see my friends in the morning.
I know they’ll be happy to see me then. And will be as excited as I am that I found everything I needed on an acceleratedschedule. We’ll dive deeper into all things Riverwood, and the rest of the steps that need to be taken before and after theCold Moon.Tomorrow.
Tonight, I’ll go see my boyfriend like a normal person. I’ll go live a life that is independent and mine, instead of trailing after Emerson like a puppy.
That’s how Sage characterized my relationship with her before I left. But then he apologized for getting negative. For lettingthe prospect of missing me cloud his thinking.
I don’t fly this time. I picture Sage’s place—a converted carriage house separated from his parents’ beautiful Romantic Revival–stylehouse up off Main. The Osburns weren’t part of the original witch settlers to St. Cyprian. They arrived in the early 1900s,after the town was set up to be the capital of witchdom, so they’re a little removed from the bricks.
I set myself down just outside his door, because my boyfriend likes rules and propriety. I’ve never dropped in on him unannouncedbefore, and I’m sure that even though he’ll be happy to see me, he’ll be a lot happier if I knock.
Society has rules for a reason, I have heard him tell his students at the high school with great seriousness. And I’m a Historian while he’s a Praeceptorofhistory. We have rules for everything and we swear by them. We like rules, Sage and me.
Even if, sometimes, I dream of life-altering love that could shake the stars loose with its intensity—
That is not realistic, I lecture myself.And also it is childish. It’s time to grow up and live in the real world.
I should be grateful for what I have. I should treat my daydreams like intrusive thoughts. This is the last stretch of a longyear, and it’s past time I get with reality.
I go to knock, very properly, on his door—but I don’t.
Something is wrong. I feel it dance over my skin like a shiver of warning. It’s not a premonition. It’s nothing that specific,just a very genericofffeeling that even the most out-of-touch humans might feel when somethingisn’t right.
I let my hand fall. Then I stand there, trying to figure out what feels sowrong. It’s not the kind of black, choking evil thatI’ve encountered entirely too many times over the past year—thatfeels oily and gross. This is just...off.
I frown at the porch. Sage’s bicycle is there, but it isn’t neatly locked to the Fenrir-shaped spigot as usual. It’s lyingon its side, like he haphazardly left it out like that. But Sage is the leasthaphazardperson I know, and that’s a high bar when you’re a Pendell who’s best friends with Emerson Wilde.
There’s no window to peer through. There’s only this shivery certainty that something isn’t adding up. I look over my shoulderat the little alley that stretches between two of the bigger roads. I hear a crow squawk from its branch in one of the trees,which sends that shiver deeper.
It reminds me of the dream Ellowyn had that she told us about—with princesses riding dragons and a crow army, not unlike afairy-tale book I loved as a child. But thatcertainlyhas no place in the here and now.
I scowl at the alley. There are usually a few cars and trucks parked there, and tonight is no exception. But the one thatsticks out as odd is a big black SUV.
One I recognize. Because Cailee Blanchard owns a little boutique shop on Main Street close to Emerson’s Confluence Books andis forever parking it on the street right in front of Emerson’s shop instead of her own or in the alley behind the shops.
I’ve had many conversations with Sage about her because her oldest was a holy terror in one of Sage’s classes last year. Herhusband, Dane, was a staunch Joywood supporter at the ascension trials, but Cailee is the type that doesn’t believe a woman’splace ispoliticswhen she has children to care for and a hobby business to run. I know this because she tells everyone this, without solicitation.She and Dane live way off the bricks, in the part of town where all the historical buildings were razed for cookie-cutterMcMansions.
