“You’re a lovely woman,” said Stephen. “I’d rather assumed that was the main cause of what’s between us.”
“Polly’s just as pretty as I am, and you’ve never kissed her. But thank you.”
Stephen turned to face her, laughing and surprised. “You’re far from the usual sort of woman, Cerberus. I hope you know that. And how do you know I’ve never kissed Polly?”
“She would’ve said. And you’re a gentleman.”
“It’s nice to know how you weigh the evidence,” he said wryly. “And now what? Assuming you’re correct, what do you propose doing about the situation?”
Mina shrugged. “Be around other people, even if we can’t tell them everything? Spend more time apart? Just knowing will help, I hope. Knowing why we feel the way we do. And that it’s irrational. And that nothing would work between us,” she made herself add.
It was painful, and it was true. Even if Stephen’s blood had been only human, it would still have been blue. If they gave in to their passion and the worst happened, she could be his pet, if he took her as a mistress, or his obligation, if he did the gentlemanly thing. She could never be his equal. She doubted if she’d ever come as close as she was now.
All she could do was throw away the last five years of her life. All she could do was discard independence and ambition and training in exchange for physical satisfaction and a connection that would disappear as soon as the situation changed.
Stephen must have known something similar, to pull away when he did. Now, however, he didn’t speak either to confirm or deny Mina’s assertion. He only watched her, and the shadows from the bookcase slanted across his face, hiding his expression more than his will already did.
“They say knowledge is power,” Mina added, trying to speak lightly.
“That they do,” said Stephen. “They might even be right now and then.”
“We’ll have to hope,” said Mina. “And who knows? The Yard might bring Ward in tomorrow, and I’ll go home, and we can both get back into our right minds.”
She didn’t sayeverythingcanbelikeitwasbefore, because it wouldn’t be true for her. Dragons and demons and magic weren’t the sort of thing she couldunknow. For Stephen, nothing would have really changed: he would get on with whatever lords and dragons did. Later perhaps he’d tell his family about the weeks he’d had to spend hunting a sorcerer with a stubborn mortal girl. She would be a story for some winter evening, a tale that went well with brandy.
Around the tightness in her throat, she spoke again. “You should go off and do something useful. I’ll be working in here.”
“I’ll find you if I’ve need,” said Stephen.
“Do that,” said Mina, and turned back to the books. She didn’t want to watch him leave.
Twenty-two
Lord and typewriter girl, human and dragon-blooded, Stephen and Mina had at least this much in common: at some point, each of them had learned that keeping busy was the best way to handle trouble. For once, that lesson had not come down to Stephen from his father, but rather from Campbell, the man who’d herded cattle and done a hundred other odd jobs when Stephen had been a boy.
He couldn’t mend fences now or stack wood. He could still work. Moreover, he could work to hasten the day when Ward was no longer a threat. If that was also the day when Mina left his house, then that was also for the best.
The shard of “John Smith” would help him. He couldn’t do much with it as a man since the human senses didn’t attune themselves very well to magic.
As a dragon, he could see much more.
When he’d sought Mina’s company, he’d taken the shard with him. It was still in his pocket when he left the library, aching in both body and spirit, and strode down the hallway to what had once been a dining room.
The chairs and table were gone these days—the idea of holding a dinner party in this house now had seemed comically insane—and the floor stretched wide and bare beneath Stephen’s feet. The door was locked and chained, the walls engraved with silver sigils, and silver shutters covered a huge window on the western wall. Over the last year or so, Stephen had come to know the room well.
For the first time since he’d had the room built, Stephen turned from the locked door and opened both the shutters and the window. He placed the shard carefully in one corner of the room, then sat in the last red-gold rays of sunset and waited.
He tried not to think of Mina.
This was probably the only room in the house, aside from the servants’ bedrooms, that she’d never entered. Watching the sun sink behind the roofs of London, Stephen wished for an absurd and painful second that he could have showed it to Mina, that he could have seen more amazed joy in her face or danced across the smooth floor with her.
It wouldn’t be possible. She might have been more curious than afraid at the sigils on the walls, but the claw marks on the floor were another story. He would see nothing but horror in Mina’s face once those caught her eye.
Before Bavaria, changing shape had never been painful. Now the curse yanked him into dragon form, twisting bones and muscles like an impatient maid wringing out clothes, and for once, Stephen welcomed the pain. It was a distraction; it was also a prelude. That night, his other form would be useful.
As dusk fell over London, Stephen’s body grew and twisted. Wings unfurled from his back, filling the room; claws dug more deep gouges in the floor. He threw back his head and lashed a scaled, spined tail, feeling the room and the house and the city around him far too close for his liking. He wanted to fly. He wanted to hunt.
He turned his eye to the corner, to the shard he’d placed there. Now it shone burnt orange, and a trail of the same color rose off it, climbing into the air and out the window. Stephen looked for a long moment, drew a deep breath—there was a hint of the sharp smell of the gas, though no such thing could hurt him in this form—and sprang upward.
