His eyes close, and he sucks in a breath. There’s a faint tremor running through his fingers. “Are you alright?” I ask, filled with a desire for him to be okay.
His eyes open. They’re golden in this light, and the lamplight must be playing tricks on me, because for a second I think I see flames in his pupils.
He blinks and then offers me a crooked smile. “Ask me that question in a few minutes.” He stays silent for a few seconds while I cling to his hand, his head cocked as if listening to something. I think I hear a bell ring, and he nods as if answering someone. “Yes, come.”
I let him tug me out of the library, and when we come to the staircases, he takes the upper one. He hasn’t shown me up here, and I look around curiously, trotting to keep up. There’s a sense of urgency about him now, as if he’s made a decision and must go through with it. He seems at once eager and yet almost scared.
We come out into a vestibule. There are no windows, just a set of double doors. He strides over to them and pulls them open. He gestures for me to follow him, and I gasp as I round the doors.
We’re standing on a huge stone patio on the cliffs. Above me is the wild grey sky, and the sea stretches as far as I can see. The roar of the waves is deafening, and the wind is fierce, dusting my lips with salt. It makes me feel dizzy, as if a gale might pick me up and bowl me over the ocean. I turn, taking in the area, and frown. It’s a beautiful view, and yet there’s not a scrap of furniture on the patio—nothing on which to sit and absorb the stunning scenery.
Sigurd lets go of my hand, and I blink as he starts to strip off his clothes.
“Lovely as this sight is,” I say tartly. “You being naked is not going to answer any of my many questions.”
A smile tugs at his full lips, but he carries on stripping. His golden skin seems to glow in the grey light. His earlier amusement has fled, and now he’s serious again. He hands mehis clothes, and I clutch them, the scent of him striking and almost comforting.
“Stay here by the doors,” he says with quiet urgency. “No matter what you see, youmuststay there out of the way.”
“Out of the way of what?” I ask, but the wind snatches my words away, and he doesn’t answer.
He strides into the centre of the patio. He stands still for a second and then stretches out his arms. The tattoos on his body are bright and bold, and I watch him in fascination. My earlier concerns about his mental stability are resurfacing. I reach down and pat my phone. It seems a comforting gesture, a link to the outside world, even though it’s not working.
Gulls ride the wind above us, calling raucously. Their cries become louder as the wind increases in fierceness. Sigurd continues to stand there.
I narrow my eyes when I notice something’s crawling up his back. I quickly move forward, thinking to brush it away, but then I gasp.
One of his tattoos is moving. Within seconds, all of them begin to move, sliding over his body in lazy figure-eight movements, slow at first and then faster and faster. Suddenly, they light up and begin to glow in the dim light.
“Oh mygod,” I breathe.
As I watch them dance across his skin, I realise they’re not random designs. They’re the same symbols I’d seen on the mirror’s frame and door amongst the rocks on the beach.
I shake my head. This can’t be happening.
But it is. And now the designs are transforming again, become even brighter, leaving behind trails of fire and sparks crisscrossing his beautiful body. The sparks flare into pink and gold stars, and there’s a sweet smell of burning wood like I’d noticed in his lounge, where he burns those apple logs.
“Sigurd! Are you alright?” I call.
He just raises his arms and laughs joyfully. Smoke appears, drifting around his feet before starting to rise. It weaves around him, and he lowers his head, his golden eyes watching me intently as the smoke tendrils fully conceal him. There’s a sudden loud bang and a hiss like a rocket firework going off. Sparks shoot up into the grey sky like those from a bonfire.
I blink, holding my breath, waiting for the smoke to dissipate.
The wind sweeps it suddenly away, and there, standing in Sigurd’s place is a creature. A massive creature.
I take a gulping breath of heat-singed air, watching a fiery haze swirl around a massive, muscled body with four legs, a long tail, and… wings?
If I’m not mistaken, I’m face to face with a dragon.
“What thefuck?”
Ihaveto be mistaken. I drop his clothes and scuttle backwards until my back hits the doors. I rest my hands against the wood to keep myself upright. This can’t be.
“No, no, no,” I chant. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. “It’ll be a trick of my eyes,” I say. “When I open them, Sigurd will be standing there, and he’ll shout April Fool, even though he’s a few months too early. And then we’ll laugh, and afterwards I’ll run away as fast as my legs will carry me, which admittedly isn’t that fast. I’m not built for too much speed at one time.”
But when my eyes flutter open, the dragon is still there.
He’s easily the size of a bus, and he looks just like an illustration in a children’s book. His scales are a pretty pink, gold, and midnight blue, and his wings, even when tucked into his sides, are enormous. His massive feet with their fearsome talons could crush me to dust in a second, but oddly, I feel no fear. Just a profound sense of incomprehension—as if this is happening to someone else.
