‘Combat, survival and tracking, courtesy of Cormac Mackenzie, a First Class rebel who used to work with British Intelligence and, more specifically, the Department for the Defence Against Dragons.’
I raise an eyebrow in surprise.
‘He’s in command on Eigg and likes to remind people ofthe fact. Marquis says joining the rebellion only made him fancy himself more. But his rural Hebrides childhood makes him an excellent survivalist, and he’s a good man. Even if he did have us running laps on the beach at dawn.’ He pauses. ‘But you still haven’t asked me.’
‘Asked you what?’
‘Why I’m not dead.’
His eyes search my face again, like I’m a ticking timebomb and he’s waiting for me to explode.
‘I . . .’
Atlas is right. I haven’t asked the question because just thinking about it sets hot flames of anger dancing along my skin.
HollingsworthknewAtlas is alive.
‘What’s the armband for?’ I ask.
‘It’s the Coalition’s new symbol, a reminder of the swallow who keeps us – humans and dragons – together. You smashing the loquisonus machine and your knowledge of dragon tongues has recruited more dragons to the cause than ever before.’
I reach out and touch the armband, remembering how Hollingsworth called me the face of the rebellion. It feels ridiculous to have been given such a role just because I cracked the so-called dragon code and then refused to give it to Wyvernmire. I know the Swallow is just a symbol, meant to keep the rebels fighting. And Hollingsworth is a liar . . . but what if she’s right?
Could my being a translator, being abrasstongue, help us win this war?
‘The swallow was my idea,’ Atlas says. ‘Remember the legend?’
I nod. ‘Swallows were once dragons who could speak every language in the world,’ I say softly, ‘but it meant they carried the burden of being able to empathise. So they asked God to make them light and carefree. He turned them into birds, giving them tails forked like a dragon’s tongue, to remind them of what they once were.’
Suddenly, my anger at Hollingsworth is doused by excitement at the prospect of unlimited time with Atlas, with no classes or categories to keep us apart. Before I watched Ralph shoot him I had dared to imagine a future with him, fighting the rebels side by side, sharing strategies, a meal, a bed . . . I stare out into the dark, trying not to blush, but I can feel his gaze on me and with it a wave of anticipation.
His brown eyes find mine. He takes a step towards me.
‘Viv . . .’
And somehow my feet carry me forward without my permission, crossing the short distance between us until I’m so close I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His gaze flits from my face to my short hair, lingers on my mouth. And then his lips are crushing mine. My skin is ablaze and as a dragon roars in the distance, it’s like its fire is filling me, hot and hungry. My back meets the rough bark of a tree and my hands find Atlas’s hair as his own drop to my waist. I gasp and I feel his smile.
He pulls away, but keeps his arms around me. ‘I didn’t know Second Class girls kissed like that,’ he breathes.
‘They don’t,’ I reply. ‘Rebel girls, on the other hand . . .’
He laughs quietly and I rest my chin on his shoulder. Westand still for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the dark forest.
‘We should go back,’ he says eventually.
I would rather eat dragon dung.
‘Wait,’ I whisper into his jacket. ‘Why aren’t you dead?’
‘Fireblod,’ he says.
My head swims. The illegal medicine made from the blood of dragons?
‘Fireblod can’t bring back the dead.’
His hands grip my waist tighter. ‘I wasn’t dead, Viv. I was still alive, still hanging on. The fireblod healed the gunshot wound.’
‘Atlas?’ I say slowly. ‘Who gave it to you? The fireblod?’
