I stare up into the eaves of the tower, but nothing moves except for a nesting pigeon. A gust of wind hits my face as I turn the corner. The wall has been knocked through, opening on to the outer terraces of the tower like a gaping wound made of limestone and jagged metal. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift. It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room. Standing with its back to me, its body spanning the whole space, is the dragon.
It is staring out across the parapet walls that overlook the campus below and the city beyond. Its spike-encrusted tail is curled round its body like a cat’s and its skin, a deep pink colour, is covered in scales that glitter like glass in the moonlight. It’s the biggest, most terrifying dragon I’ve ever seen.
On a research trip with Mama I barely remember, I once slept among friendly wyverns, their bodies giving off heat like snoring suns. During the zeppelin air raids of the Great War, I watched dragons guard their posts on Fitzroy Square, queue inBlackfriars to be armoured, deflect bombs above Westminster. But this is something else entirely. This is a criminal dragon.
What the hell was I thinking? I back away slowly, but my foot meets a lump of stone.
Shit.
I wince as the stone skitters across the ground. My heart thumps loudly in my chest. The dragon’s tail twitches. How long has it known I’m here?
At least you can’t run away now.
I clear my throat and try to keep my voice steady.
‘Are you the library dragon?’ I sound like a frightened child.
The dragon lets out a purr. ‘Which other dragon would I be?’
It’s speaking English with a Slavic accent – is it Bulgarian? This really is the worst idea I’ve ever had.
I swallow. ‘I was wondering—’
‘I haven’t taken knowledge requests since 1903.’
Its voice is hoarse yet soft, and undoubtedly female. The dragon turns suddenly, swinging her huge head towards me. Her face is covered in spikes, too, and there are white rings round her eyes.
‘I’m not here for a knowledge request,’ I say quickly.
She lets out a growl that vibrates beneath my feet. ‘Well, that is fortunate,’ she says. ‘I would have sliced your tongue from your mouth if you were.’
I feel my insides shrink. ‘Is that what you did to the last student who came up here?’
‘Alas, I do not recall.’
‘Dragon memory is capable of recalling over ten timesthe information retained in a human brain,’ I say. ‘And the humans here seem to remember quite well.’
Do I have a death wish? The dragon’s tail moves as she stares at me with eyes like bright amber globes. Above her giant talons are several rows of silky black feathers. She’s beautiful, but there are sores up her legs and a greyish tinge to her skin.
‘You’re a prisoner,’ I say, pointing to the tiny silver box I know is attached to the space between the dragon’s wings.
It’s a detonator, fused to the creature’s skin and filled with an explosive.
‘How observant,’ the dragon replies.
‘Are you a Bulgarian dragon?’ I remember Marquis’s sketches of the different species. ‘A Bolgorith?’
‘So what if I am?’
‘Moyava maìka izlydane e v Bolgor,’ I say in Slavidraneishá.
My mother is from Bulgaria.
‘The child speaks dragon tongue.’
A thrill shoots through me. She understood what I said. For the first time in my life, I’m speaking Dragonese with an actual dragon.
‘I speak Slavidraneishá, Wyrmerian, Harpentesa, Drageoir, Draecksum and a little Komodonese. And some human languages, obviously.’
