Dragon (21 page)

“Where?”

“To the village. To the wedding!”

A whisper of relief crosses his hairless face, and it occurs to me that, for a guy who always talked with his face and not his words, suddenly his expressive vocabulary has expanded far beyond what it was before. I can see his lips now.

And they’re crazy hot.

I feel this overwhelming sense of urgency, not just because I want to marry Ram and I want him to be the dragon king, but because I feel a horrible sense that this is not going to work out.

Maybe it’s because every time I’ve gotten my hopes up—that my dad would take me home, that Ram and Ion would drive me home—everything I’ve hoped for has been jerked out from under my feet and I’ve fallen and gotten bruised and had to claw my way back up, with literal claws, even.

Call me jaded or just realistic, all I know is, this is why Ion has been hounding me—because he doesn’t want me to marry Ram. And Eudora doesn’t want me to marry Ram. And now that I’m close, this close to happiness, so close I can see its face and it’s a hot face because it’s Ram’s face without the beard…I know, I just know, they’re never going to let it happen.

Ion and Eudora are going to stop this. They’d kill us before they’d let us have dragon babies together.

So all I can think is that we have to hurry, fly faster, get there before them, marry before they can stop us.

Even though all my instincts and everything I’ve learned tells me they will stop at nothing to prevent this marriage from taking place.

Ram must sense it, too, because he’s not protesting. He stripped down to his boxers already and he’s securing his backpack and his swords.

I’ve got my swords on at my hips and my daggers on my thighs, but I’m not sure about putting on my backpack and swords over my flannel shirt dress. “Your shirt is probably going to get shredded when I change.”

“It’s okay. I have other shirts.” Ram’s words are matter of fact, but the tone under his words and everything in his face says it doesn’t matter if we shred a thousand shirts, we need to get going.

This does not reassure me.

“Something else I thought of when I saw you fighting Ion,” Ram talks quickly, squeezing in the information before verbal discussion is no longer possible. “Dragons are armored, you know—our scales are essentially impenetrable, except for the softer scales on our undersides—belly, underarms, inner thighs. It’s nearly as tough, but it can be pierced by dragon horn.”

“Dragon horn?” I repeat.

“The horns on the tops of our heads—they’re the toughest weapon I know of, sharpest, too. The only thing that can pierce dragon armor at all, and then only dragon underbelly armor.”

“That’s why you flew under Ion and gored his belly with his horns.”

“Precisely. Our talons can scratch, our tail spikes can bruise, but our horns are one of the few ways to really hurt another dragon. It’s tough to kill a dragon that way, though. The horns are too short to reach the heart. Ready?” Ram asks, and takes my hands.

“Ready.” In spite of my fear, I’m more than ready. I’m eager, not just to get on with our journey and get to our wedding, but to be a dragon again, because to be honest, it was pretty fantastic. Exhausting, heavy even, and terrifying, but also amazing in ways I can’t describe. Because I could fly. And float like a boat. And, theoretically at least, breathe fire.

“How do you breathe fire?” I ask, now that I’m thinking of it, because if my hunch is correct I may need to use that skill before long.

“It’s a lot like singing.”

“Like singing?” I’m surprised by Ram’s answer, not only because I wasn’t expecting him to say that, but also because I’ve never heard him sing, nor can I imagine him doing so.

But sure enough, with a bit of a sideways smile that says he’s happy to teach me, and maybe even glad I asked, he explains, “It’s like when you sing a high note. You’ve got to raise the soft palate at the roof of your mouth. Do you know how to do that?”

“Yes.” Back at Saint Evangeline’s we were required to sing in the choir for at least one semester. The director was adamant about teaching us good technique and all the physiology behind it.

“Like so,” Ram opens his mouth, and then belts out a falsetto “Aaaah,” that’s actually pretty impressive.

“Aaaaah!” I echo him, in the same key and everything.

“Precisely. Just do that when you’re a dragon, and you’ll breathe fire.”

“But you can breathe fire as a human, too.”

“True, but that takes a bit more practice.” He winks as me, turns his head a bit to the side so he’s not aiming his mouth my direction, and then, making the same face he just made to sing falsetto, he breathes out a billow of orange-tipped flame. Then he closes his mouth and turns back to me. “We should get going.”

“Thanks for taking the time to show me.”

“I’m glad to. It’s a skill you might need.” An undercurrent of danger runs through his words, and he glances at me, a quick check to see if I heard that note and if I’m worried.

Of course I did, and I am. I raise an eyebrow just a twitch.

Ram closes his eyes, dips his head slightly to apologize for frightening me, and then admits, “I believe there is still danger ahead of us. Also, you should know, in case things happen which I fear may happen, your father is a scarlet-orange dragon. Eudora is yellow, a sickly yellow tinged with green.”

He has that look on his face again, the one I saw in my hallway the night Ozzie first started growling, the one that says this strong, nearly-invincible man, is worried.

Maybe even scared.

Chapter Twenty-One

Changing is not so difficult this time, though it’s still a monumental effort and I’m not sure I could have pulled it off at all if Ram hadn’t been holding my hands, pressing his forehead against mine. And then we fly through the night over the mountains. Ram sets a gentle, gliding pace, so that we reach my village just as the pre-dawn light is beginning to color the eastern horizon.

We land in the King’s Tower, which I remember from my childhood, a tall, medieval stone tower with high parapets surrounding the flat top, shielding the deck above from the sight of anyone below. I always just figured the name was an ancient one, not a clue to my father’s true identity. I haven’t seen the tower in over a decade, but it hasn’t changed, and I instantly recall memories I hadn’t thought about in years.

My father used to come down from the tower after trips, whenever he’d been away. He’d enter the city through the door in the base of the tower, dressed in a long, flowing robe.

As a child, I’d assumed that was normal, because that’s the way he’d always done it. But now I understand how unique and significant his entrance was.

Ram changes first. He’s still in his boxer shorts, and he explains the procedure to me, pointing. “There are doors—men’s, women’s,” he gestures to each in turn, on opposite sides of the round tower. “You’ll find a robe in there, put it on, go down the stairs. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

I nod my purple dragon head and Ram ducks away through the door. I’m alone. It’s not a comforting feeling. I want so very much to be human again, and get through the tower and be reunited with Ram, but I don’t know how to change.

Yet, even as I want it, and think to myself how very much I want it, and deflate my breath like he taught me, I see that my arms are brown again instead of purple, my fingernails rounded instead of sharp claws. I duck inside the door, slip into a robe, and hurry down the stairs as though someone might be just behind me, chasing me.

Ram is waiting for me in the large room at the bottom. “Ready?” He takes my hand.

I slip my hand into his and nod, exhausted and ready for a nap or a meal, preferably both. He’s acting as though stepping through the door is a big deal, and I suppose in some symbolic way, it is—my return to the town of my birth, to the people I was born to protect.

But it’s not yet morning, not really, and I expect we’ll slip into town quietly, without anyone noticing.

In that, I was wrong.

Ram opens the door and we’re greeted by a loud cheer, which startles me out of my drowsiness and makes me think somebody should have told the villagers to keep it down, or they’re going to alert the yagi to our arrival.

But then, if Ram is right and Eudora has spies among us, I suppose it doesn’t matter if we’re quiet or loud. She’ll know soon enough either way.

Villagers have lined up all down the central street that runs through town, just as they used to flock to the roadside to welcome my father. Back then, I never minded the crowd because I was always so excited to see my father. Now it’s a tad disorienting, especially considering the sun’s only just coming up, so it’s not fully light out, and I’m zonked from being a dragon.

Thankfully Ram has firm hold of my hand and guides me down the road. We’re both in flowing robes like my father used to wear—Ram’s a giant cloak-like garment that wraps all the way around him with an extra draping fold that covers his shoulders, a rich navy blue jacquard that’s vibrant and regal.

I had grabbed the first thing my hand touched that felt right, which turned out to be a teal and white paisley print with highlights of magenta, but it’s at least a sturdy cotton fabric instead of some of the flimsy chiffon things my fingers rejected at first brush. It fits like a wrap-dress, with a tie belt at the waist to secure it closed and adjust the size, and it makes me feel slightly feminine for the first time since I started being a butcher.

People are waving a cheering and even throwing down leaves and flower petals, like a ticker-tape parade, but more organic. Ram waves back, looking every bit like a real king should, kind of reminiscent of the way my dad waved to his people when he entered the village.

So I wave, too, even though I don’t recognize anyone.

I mean, I don’t recognize anyone. The buildings are the same, the tower was the same. I know we’ve got the right place, but was I really gone that long? Ten years?

We’ve walked about a block and I’m starting to get worried again, that maybe I was gone too long, and home was just a dream, and it will never be the same, when I spot the first familiar face I’ve seen.

And it’s not even human. I mean, it’s sort of pseudo-human. It’s a doll, the embroidered cloth doll face like my friend Arika and I used to play with. This one is being held by a tiny girl who looks barely old enough to stand on her own, maybe two years old at most. And the crowd’s kind of pressing close to us anyway, so I step toward the little girl as we move forward.

When I reach her, I crouch down and look at the doll.

The girl looks at me with round eyes. She doesn’t seem afraid of me, but she’s watching me carefully. I smile. “When I was a girl, I used to play with a doll like this. But I don’t remember her name.”

“Tulip.”

“Tulip, that’s right!” I stand, coming eye-to-eye with the little girl’s mother, who’s also holding two babies—twins. But that’s far from my biggest surprise.

“Arika?”

My friend smiles, and I recognize her, in spite of the ten years that have passed between us.

“Welcome home, Ilsa.” When she speaks, her English strong but accented, I remember in a rush things I hadn’t thought about in years. Like the fact that I grew up speaking Azeri until I was eight years old, which is why I remembered that yagi means enemy, even if I’ve forgotten most of my native tongue. I also recall that Arika and I learned English together, taking lessons from a tutor who came to my house. The reason Arika learned the language was so I’d have a friend to practice speaking with, besides my father, who spoke English well.

On some level, my father must have always known he was going to send me away to Saint Evangeline’s. That’s why I had to learn English.

But all those realizations come in an instant. I smile at Arika in wonderment, taking in the changes. She’s taller and more mature now, of course, but she also has children. Three of them! Granted, I seem to recall she was a bit older than I was, maybe even a year or two, but that would only make her nineteen or twenty at most.

And she has three children.

Ram squeezes my hand and we keep moving. I wave back at Arika and smile, and she and her daughter wave happily back, but inside me, my exhausted mind has kicked back on, mulling thoughts I hadn’t thought to think.

Arika has three kids. Granted, twins are not a common thing, but still, that could be me in another couple of years. Will be me, if the dragon-babies plan comes true.

I glance back, over my shoulder.

Arika looks happy. Her children look happy.

I pass the rest of the walk in a daze. This is craziness, you know, the plan for me to marry and have children. I’m eighteen years old. I don’t care if dragons are nearly extinct, and if they need me, and if it’s perfectly normal, even expected, to marry young in my native village, where life continues more like it did a thousand years ago than today.

We reach the stoop of the house where I grew up, a pale yellow stucco house that’s taller than most of the others in town, with blooming plants cascading from the second floor balcony, their vines encircling carved stone columns, filling the air with fragrant scents.

My father is watching from the top step, but comes down to greet me, scooping me into his arms. “You were supposed to wait for me to come get you! What happened?” He sounds pleased to see me, but concerned, just the same.

“Ion brought a message that it was time to leave. He said you’d sent him.”

“I did not. I would not.” My father straightens suddenly and looks at Ram solemnly. “Ion is no longer welcome here.” He shakes his head and turns to me. “Events of late have made it impossible for me to leave.”

I glance around at the village, which seems so peaceful, full of flowers and villagers scurrying back to their work.

My father clears his throat and leans close to Ram, speaking in a hushed voice. “Eudora is a crafty one. We’ve rooted out three of her spies in the past two months. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more. She knows Ilsa is coming of age, and she’s frantic to stop our plans from progressing. Speaking of, what does Ilsa know of what’s to come?”