Page 6 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
I move for the stairs but come up short as I take the first one. A book that was definitely not there a moment ago is nowsitting on the second stair. The same book from my childhood that I keep trying to give away, but can’t. I gave it to Ellowynas a baby gift after we found out she was pregnant, but it doesn’t seem to want to stay put. I keep assuring her—and me—thatit will stay with her once the baby is born. Once it understands it’s not mine anymore.
Though I’m starting to wonder.
I know I didn’t leave it on the stairs. I didn’t leave it in this house at all. And I doubt Ellowyn dropped it off in anticipationof my early return when she doesn’t know I’m here.
I flop onto the stairs and pull my knees to my chest. Then I stare at the book accusingly, because it’s like salt to the wound,rubbed in hard to make sure it stings.
It’s the concentrated version of all those childhood fantasies I was finally leaving behind.
I consider marching over to the fireplace and burning the book until it’s nothing but ash, because surely then it will leaveme alone. Except I am a firm believer that no book should be burned, ever. Except I gave it to Ellowyn as a gift for the babywho will be here soon. Except Sage was the one who made fun of me for my favorite book being afairy tale, and I will makemyselfinto ash before giving him a say now.
I pick up the offensive tome. “This. This was the bill of goods I let myself believe in,” I say aloud, arriving at the pageI used to sigh over.
“I am yours,” I read aloud.
I don’t even have to look at the words. I memorized them a long time ago, back when I still lived next door. I used to recitethem in my mirror, pretending I was the heroine of my own novel. That somewhere, dragons and epic battles were waiting forme. That I had somehow lived through them before, like maybeIwas the lone witch in all of witchdom special enough to have lived many lives.
That my entire existence would be marked by great passion and epic adventures.
I keep reciting the book, looking at the pages but thinking of the little girl I’d been back then, knowing full well I’d getin trouble if my mother found this book in my possession again. Pendells, she told me over and over, distinguished themselvesby leavingspecialto others.
I keep saying the words anyway.“You are mine. Our souls intertwine. I would lay down my life for you, but even then I would not die. Because love cannotbe torn asunder.”
I snort at that. I stare down at the illustration of a red-haired woman I used to tell myself looked like me, since no oneelse in my family did. At her sword and her tiara and a dragon winging its way through the sky with a pack of crows fannedout behind it. “What utter bullshit.”
Or is it that I want it to be bullshit, because then it wouldn’t hurt? Because my friends have significant others, and I havewitnessed their love. Real, beautiful love. Love that I have never once felt myself, not in the daylight.
No matter how many times I dream until my heart hurts at night.
I say the last part, the part that used to make me swoon, in nothing more than a choked whisper.“Love will set us free.”
I used to trace my fingers over those letters again and again and again while my mother icily tore apart my father downstairs.Having what she claimed were notfightsbut thehonestconversationsthat he always allowed. And he said little in return but,Now, Cadence. That’s not fair.
Maybe the real Pendell legacy is that we think love comes with interrogations that feel like barbed wire.
Before I can sink into that sea of self-pity, something trembles beneath me. The stairs shake, like an earthquake. But itdoesn’t remind me of the one I remember when I was a kid—waking up to a vague shaking kind of feeling and then going backto sleep because this is Missouri. We might have a fault line, but it’s not California.
This is deeper than anyearthquake. It’s the house, not the ground beneath me. Wilde House is... undulating. Like contractions. The mermaid-shaped chandelierin the entryway shakes and tinkles and sounds almost like someone’s shrieking.
Maybe the Joywood are up to something evil. Again.
I should get to my friends—but before I can push myself to my feet, I watch as a crack snakes down the length of the spindleholding up the newel post. Then the wood of the newel post seems to... peel back.
Away from those onyx eyes, and then something in deep, swirling blues and greenssmokesout of the opening. The familiar onyx eyes are moving with it.
I should say some kind of protection spell. Call out for help. Dosomethingother than watch the smoke engulf the foyer in front of me beneath the chandelier. Do anything butwatchas it begins to form a body. Claws.
Scales.
I must be dreaming. Hallucinating? Maybe the magic I’ve always thought was in tears is going a little haywire tonight, becauseAzrael isn’treal.
He’s a charmed carving, that’s all—but it sure looks like he just... escaped the newel post. While I sat on this stairand watched.
Now there’s a living, breathing dragon in front of me, fillingup the entire front hall of Wilde House with its high ceilings and graceful dimensions, though there is nothinggracefulabout adragonwhocan’t be real—
“Why wouldn’t I be real?”
The voice is smooth and silky and decidedly male.
