Even her mind, which felt like so much jelly by that point, could grasp the meaning of those attributes.
Dragon.
The shadow lashed out at it with its arms. There was a hissing noise as it struck the dragon’s flesh, but Mina didn’t stay to see the rest of the battle. The shadow was distracted. The dragon was distracted. She took a deep breath and bolted forward, away from the locked door.
As she’d hoped she would, she passed under the dragon’s neck as it flinched backward from the shadow. The beast snarled, terrifyingly close to Mina’s ears. The sound gave new energy to her exhausted frame, and she scrambled onward past the folded wings and the scaled bulk of the dragon’s body, past the lashing tail, and into the empty hallway beyond.
She didn’t have time for relief. She ran again. Behind her, she heard movement, then footsteps, if something so loud could be called that.
Another door lay ahead. This one was unlocked. Mina felt the dragon’s presence behind her as she ran through. Did they breathe fire? She was dead if they did—unless this one simply didn’t want to burn the house down.
Why would it care?
Why would a dragon be in a house at all?
She wanted to wake up. She wanted to slap whoever was responsible for this final insult. Her week hadn’t been enough. Running from shadow monsters and being pinned against a room with—something unnatural—in it hadn’t been enough. No, there had to be dragons, too. If guardian angels existed, hers was due a kick in the shins.
The next door opened easily enough, at least, and deposited her in what must have been a drawing room. The curtains were mostly closed, but Mina could see a little bit of night sky through them. The stars would be out any moment. So would she, in all likelihood.
But there were windows and the street and—yes—a poker by the fireplace. She grabbed it just as the dragon burst through the door.
It shouldn’t have fit through the door at all. Not the beast she’d seen at first.
It was smaller now.
There was ablurrinessabout it too. Mina couldn’t make out its features, or even its form, particularly well. Terror might do that, but she’d been terrified before, and the dragon had seemed vivid enough then.
It didn’t matter. She lunged for the window. The poker smashed through a pane of glass.
Then the dragon was in front of her, between her and her escape route. Mina shrieked again, this time in frustration as much as fear. It had to befast, too?
She couldn’t even look at it properly. It kept twisting, or being twisted. She could tell that it was rearing up now on two legs, which there shouldn’t have been enough space to do. Otherwise it was as if she couldn’t focus her eyes, or as if some prism hung between her and the dragon, splintering its image into many angles.
Well.Fine. She’d at least make it have a bad night.
Mina drew her arm back, tightened her grip on the poker—
A hand grasped her arm. A human hand, by the feel of it, since her bones were in one piece and there were no claws piercing her skin. But when Mina looked down, the skin on the hand was deep red and scaly.
That shape lasted for a moment, long enough to burn itself into Mina’s mind. Then the scales vanished, the skin turned pale again, and she was looking at a hand that might have belonged to any gentleman.
Her own hand dropped to her side, the poker in her grasp suddenly very heavy. Mina looked up at golden-brown eyes, deep red-black hair, a square chin, and a thin mouth.
“Cerberus,” said a familiar deep voice, heavy with irony and resignation. “Might I ask what you’re doing in my house?”
Three
The best laid schemes of mice and men, as another Scotsman had observed, often went awry. Stephen had heard as much quite a few times in the century since Burns had written his poem, but the phrase had rarely seemed as true as at that moment. Granted that his plans hadn’t been that well-laid; still, at no point had they featured either a battle with manes or further conversation with Miss Seymour.
Miss Seymour herself did not look like she found their current situation either an expected or a desired development. The muscles of her arm were rigid under his hand. Her whole slim body was tense—torn, Stephen thought, between the primitive urge to flee and the more intellectual knowledge that it would probably do no good. Even knowing the woman as little as he did, he would also have wagered that the impulse to belt him with the poker was in there as well, which was why he hadn’t let go of her arm.
“I… You…” In the dim light, her eyes were very wide, very dark. Shock. She shook her head violently, though, and then turned from disbelief to defensive hostility, raising her voice and thrusting her chin forward. “I told people I was coming here tonight. Plenty of people. They’ll know it if you do anything to me.”
“Wise of you,” said Stephen. “But not necessary. Contrary to rumor, I don’t really eat virgins.”
If Miss Seymour blushed, it was too dark for him to see it, at least in human form. The dragon wouldn’t have found the dim light a problem, but the dragon would also have gotten a poker in the face some minutes back.
“And what,” Stephen went on, “did you tell these people? I can’t imagine you’re advertising your services as a housebreaker.”
