Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
It’s the dragons that worry me.
I can protect us—or try to—from the evils on the ground. I know how to keep humans at bay. But dragons? Those are a problem. And they’re a problem that grows daily.
Dragons are supposed to be a predictable menace. They follow patterns. The males—the gold “king” dragons—attack every three days. Females—reds—attack for a week and then disappear for about three weeks after that. Everyone in the After has a mental calendar and knows when it’s dragon attack day. They’re more damn regular than my period.
Ever since I’ve “mated” with Zohr, there’s been a scarcity of golds flying over this area. I asked him about it the other day and he told me it was because they scented a male with his mate, and instinct would warn them away, along with Zohr’s “aversion” mental signal he sends out. Which works for me—the fewer dragon attacks the better.
It’s just that…I’ve been seeing a lot more reds lately. Normally you won’t see one in the skies unless it’s flame week. They go into hiding or avoid cities or something. I don’t know the specifics, and Zohr doesn’t, either, because he says their instincts are different than his. Fine, I can live with that. But that instinct doesn’t explain why I see them patrolling the skies lately. At first I thought they were looking for us. They’d glide through the skies, wheeling about, but Zohr tells me that they’re not trying to make mental contact. They never fly low enough to pick up our scents, either.
Zohr worries that they’re trying to go to the Rift.
I worry about that, too. Every time a red disappears into the clouds and doesn’t reappear in my sights, I worry I’ve seen a dragon just fall to its death somewhere over the horizon.
I don’t think it’s the same red over and over again, either. There are at least two, and maybe even three. I could swear one flew close enough to see its eyes, and I thought they were the strange, vacant gray of Azar and his mind-fuckery. That scares me more than anything. What if he’s building an army of zombie dragons to take over and this is just a long con? What if I’m being lulled into a false sense of security just because they don’t fly low and one day they’re going to appear en masse and nail us to the wall?
I’m not quite sure what to do, other than to hope we someday come across a fireproof hazmat suit and I never have to have a reason to use it.
Emma! Emma! Come to the roof!
I put down the jar of pickles I’m trying to open (with a pair of pliers, because lids that are seven years expired are a beast) and wipe my hands. I’m a little busy, babe. Can it wait?
No. It cannot. There’s excitement in his thoughts, and that keeps me from panicking.
All righty then. On my way. I grab the ladder and climb up to the ceiling, then snag the rope ladder that bridges the rest of the distance to the tall roof. I haul myself to the trap door that’s currently open and then onto the roof. Dusting myself off, I get to my feet and raise a hand to my brow, scoping the skies before I move to the edge, just in case.
A dragon glides in from the roof of a nearby building, and my heart stops. A chill goes down my spine and I can’t move, I’m so terrified. It’s so close—
The dragon tilts his wings slightly, adjusting with the breeze, and wobbles. Hard.
Zohr? I send, surprised. Is that you?
Would any other do this? He blows fire out his nostrils, moving his head in a slow clockwise motion. As I watch, the smoke forms a ring and he flies through it a scant second later.
I laugh, clapping my hands. You dork! Have you been practicing that?
The flying or the smoke? His voice is smug as he moves to the edge of the building and flutters to a landing. I pay no attention to the fact that his landing’s a bit hard and his wings are shivering, and I can tell he’s straining with the effort as he tucks them against his body. He was flying, and that’s all that counts.
“Both,” I call out, overjoyed. “You are such a badass! I can’t believe you! Flying again after only a few weeks!”
The wing stretching helps, he tells me, proud, and extends one so I can admire it. Scar tissue ripples up and down the length of his wings and they’ll never be pretty again. They still look wrinkled and a little smaller than they should.
It doesn’t matter. He’s flying.
Mostly gliding, he corrects. And not for long distances. But if we keep massaging them every night and I practice my flying regularly, I think I can build my strength up again.