Page 97 of Dragon Fires Everywhere
There is somethingfamiliarabout this Raven King, and I can’t figure out what. Is he in the book? Have I dreamed him?
It doesn’t matter. A curse is wrong, and if I can undo it, I will.
“I’ll read the book, but I don’t think it will work the wayyou want it to,” I tell him, carefully, because he’s the kind of being that makes every word feel like a vow. “There’s more to this, but I will try, because the Riverwood doesn’t want to seeanyonesuffering under a curse.”
“Yes, he certainly looks like he’s suffering,” Azrael mutters.
But I ignore him. I whisper a spell to bring the book to me. This in itself feels like a bad sign, because if we really neededit—if this wassupposedto work—wouldn’t the book appear on its own?
Still, there’s no harm in trying. The book materializes in my hand. I’ll read the Raven King what freed Azrael and hope itdoes the same for him.
As if this is all the boring frivolity of the peasantry, Gideon is once again sprawled out on his tree branch, appearing almosthalf asleep.
But I know better than to believe the way powerful creaturesappear.
The dragon tear is warm against my collarbone. I feel... fractured, and yet it’s not bad. Just like the pieces of myselfhave detached into multiple sections and are standing next to each other.
Not aloss, just a rearranging.
I shake the thought away. I look down and begin to read the same passage I read Azrael only a few weeks ago. Maybe I don’tsay the words with as much bitterness as I delivered the words during that post-Sage debacle, but I try to imbue each wordwithsomekind of magic.
But for all the strange connection I have to Gideon, I know nothing is happening. No curse is being lifted. Nothing is beingchanged.
When I’m done, I look at him, and he is scowling. His violet eyes seem to glow with an unleashed violence. I can see eachand every one of those things Frost warned of—mercurial and untrustworthy being the least of them.
And yet I am not afraid.
“Do it again,” he demands.
I lift an eyebrow at him, a look I have perfected for use on young people running amok in the museum on field trips.
His scowl deepens, and his violet eyes are nearly pulsating with thatglow, but when he speaks—through clenched teeth—I can tell he istryingto not bequiteso demanding. “Try it from the beginning.” He pulls a face. “Please.”
I don’t need anyone to tell me that the Raven King does not use that word often.
If at all.
I nod and do it again. When it fails, I try yet again. Emerson and Ellowyn have to head to their stores, Zander to the ferry,and Jacob leaves two different times to attend to Healer matters. But Frost and Rebekah stay through the duration.
We do it a few different ways. I even try a dramatic reenactment of how I first delivered the words to Azrael-as-newel-post.
But nothing works as the afternoon slogs on. Nothing changes. No curses are lifted, and magic barely ruffles the breeze aroundus.
The sun is beginning to set. I see Gideon eye it with frustration. Then me. With a lot more than frustration. “So much foreveryonebeing free, Georgina. I do nottruckwith liars.”
“Doubtful, as one musttruckwith oneself,” Azrael mutters, but it doesn’t matter, because in a sparkle of magic, Gideon is a violet-eyed raven, flyingtoward the confluence and leaving us all behind.
I look up at the pieces of my coven still here. “I really did try.”
Rebekah puts her hand on my shoulder. “You tried harder than anyone else would have. It wasn’t the book, and you knew that.Come on, we’ll take you back to Wilde House and—”
But I shake my head.I need to have a private conversation with him.
Rebekah gives Azrael a distrustful look. “When you’re done,head right to the farmhouse. Or Zander and Ellowyn’s,” she says. “No flying over the river alone.”
I nod, the memory of the black in the river trying to take me under too vibrant to evenwantto argue. Rebekah gives me one last look, delivers something closer to a scowl to Azrael, then steps over to Frost. Theydisappear together, hands clasped.
I turn to Azrael. I can see he’s trying to adopt a veryI don’t care about anythingexpression and demeanor, but he’s failing. A million frustrations exist in his eyes, brighter than the black or the gold.
