There were no deer in this city to chase, nor gullies to soar through, but at least tonight there would be hunting of a sort.
Stephen launched himself through the window and into the spring night. The fog hid him well. For once, he was thankful for the modern world and its coal-shrouded cities. Perhaps someone would see a mysterious shape in the sky. Most would put it down to drink or weariness or the fog itself warping the silhouette of some bird. Besides, they were only human. Stephen’s other form might have worried.
When he was the dragon, those concerns were very much at the back of his mind.
He spread his wings and caught an updraft, following the trail of the shard. It led across London, occasionally crossing paths with the tracks of air sprites and other creatures, but Stephen found it easy enough to follow. He watched the lights of the city below him as they flickered and shifted, and knew pity for the people who lit them, penned in their little houses and watching the night as if it was an enemy.
He had been one of them until a few minutes ago. He knew this, but the mind of the dragon was both eternal and immediate. Now he was soaring, free and strong, with the world beneath him and the sky open above him. If he’d spent the last year as a prisoner—well, what was a year? He laughed and heard the rumble of it around him.
On the streets below, people would glance upward and mutter about coming thunderstorms.
The trail he followed led across the Serpentine, and Stephen banked sharply to stay with it, descending as far as he dared. The orange color spread out ahead of him into a nebulous cloud around a clump of tall, white buildings adorned with complicated ironwork. Stephen didn’t recognize them, and he was still too high up to read signs, but his human self knew that they were the abodes of wealthy men.
Without being seen, he could go no closer, but he knew that the trail stopped here in one of these buildings. There was more, too: a presence that he’d encountered before, though he couldn’t see it as clearly as he could the shard’s trail. In this shape, though, he could tell that it wasn’t entirely human.
Then, below Stephen, a figure emerged from one of the houses. The light around it shone very brightly to him, almost too brightly to see many physical details, and in a few moments, the figure got into a carriage and drove away, becoming quickly lost in the crowds. Stephen had a momentary glimpse, though, enough to see a thin male body and long red hair.
Stephen hadn’t met the man before, but he had seen him, and he knew where to find out more.
That was as much as he could achieve in dragon form. He beat his wings again and headed upward, then reluctantly back toward his home, aware that such nights of hunting would be infrequent for quite a while longer. It was a very human thought to have in this shape; repression was obviously taking its toll.
To distract himself, Stephen flew upward, above the fog, until the stars spread themselves up above him and the wind was cool around him. From high enough, even nights over London were lovely.
He wished that Mina could have seen the view.
He could almost hear her voice, marveling, and feel her slight weight on his back, her arms around his neck. She’d be brave enough for flight, Stephen knew; she’d take to it eagerly. She’d have a hundred things to say about the stars or the city from above.
It wasn’t wise to dream of her. If anything, being in dragon shape should have made the differences between them all the more apparent. Mina had stated her wishes very clearly that afternoon. She’d been very sensible about it, and perhaps her plan would even work. She was a modern woman, she had a mortal family, and she hadn’t asked to be any part of Stephen’s world.
All the same, he looked up at the stars and saw her face.
Twenty-three
“Not hardly,” said Polly, laying teaspoon in saucer with a percussive click. “I’ve been to the country.Ourwhole Sunday school class went when I was twelve. A treat, they said. Not much of one, I say. It rained the whole time, and there was mud everywhere.”
“Not like here, then,” said Mrs. Hennings.
Polly laughed. “Oh, I suppose you’ve a point. Mud just seemsmuddieroutside the city, though, without the paved streets and that. And I suppose the flowers are pretty, but you do get pigs. And cows,” she added, with a shudder that might have mostly been exaggeration.
“You wouldn’t have beef for dinner if you didn’t,” said Mrs. Baldwin.
“But she’s right,” Mrs. Hennings said. “They’re unsettling beasts, alive and up close. And as for pigs, they’re much better in sausage form.”
Mina grinned over the top of her letter. “I might agree if I’d ever met them,” she said, “but I hadn’t had the chance. We always went to the seaside. I think Florrie will like a few days in the country, though, and Bert too.”
“It’ll do them good, anyhow,” said Polly.
“Even with the mud?” Mina teased her.
“Even with. The doctors say fresh air’s healthy, and I’m not one to go against their advice. I’m just glad I’m grown now and strong enough that there’s no need.”
“Better hope you stay that way, then,” said Emily.
At midday on a Sunday, the rest of the house was quiet and clean. Stephen was out.
He’d often been out since the afternoon when they’d found out about the thieves. He and Mina still had breakfast together and still talked over the newspaper. He still kept her aware of what little progress he was making, but he made sure to stay at more than arm’s length. Serious and businesslike, they talked about scrying and occult clubs; abstract and scholarly, they spoke of museums and politics, and neither of them touched on anything personal.
She didn’t tease him. He didn’t call her “Cerberus.” In the daytime, he went out, and he stayed out until he had to come home and transform. Then, often enough, he went out again.
