At least Ilith had left her clothes this time. Not every change did.
She was told experience would help with that. Admittedly, she’d gotten better over the last few months, a situation Tate was grateful for.
At the moment, one of the only things she could find to appreciate about her dragon.
She couldn’t believe that winged lizard had left her holding the bag. Again.
Tate lifted her head to find Thora glowering at her.
One eyebrow twitched and the veins in his temple bulged. Tate was no expert in judging other people’s states of mind, but even a blind person would pick up on the rage seething below Thora’s paper-thin calm.
No one spoke for an interminable moment.
“Would you like to explain what in the Creators’ darkest nightmares do you two think you are doing?” Thora finally asked in a controlled voice.
Tate looked around and winced. It looked even worse viewing it with human eyes rather than from Ilith’s perspective.
The immaculately groomed lawn had giant grooves in it. The bare dirt looked scarred and unsightly, in what should have been an elegant and peaceful sanctuary.
That wasn’t all. There was a dent in the wall Ilith had crashed into, along with several shattered windows. A fact Tate hadn’t noticed until this exact moment.
“You did say to keep the children entertained,” Tate started.
Thora’s expression froze as he stared at her with something she thought might be disbelief. It was hard to tell sometimes with him.
“Really, it’s his fault.” She pointed at the rose-gold dragon. The dragon startled, sending Tate an incredulous look that she ignored. “He showed a handful of gems to all these dragonlettes and told us to steal them. This is the logical outcome.”
Tate’s nod emphasized her words.
If all else failed—shift the blame. It was a motto that had always stood her in good stead.
The rose-gold dragon reared onto his hind legs, his form shrinking in seconds. The bearded man who’d stood guard earlier was left in the dragon’s place.
Jacob, the other dragon, and the rest of the children, stood off to the side watching with interested gazes.
Out of the corner of Tate’s eye, she saw Dewdrop and Jack jog up, a little out of breath as they took in the destruction.
Older than he looked, Dewdrop’s real name was Daniel, but Tate had been calling him Dewdrop almost from their first meeting. He’d taken a liking to it and now rarely answered to anything else.
Like his name suggested, he possessed a youthful face that always reminded Tate of the first dew on a crisp morning. Refreshingly innocent in a way he used to his advantage.
More often than not, people underestimated him; not seeing the danger masked by his pure features.
Like many in Aurelia, whether they admitted it or not, Dewdrop’s ancestors were descended from sleepers. Those locked into slumber after the great war between the Creators and the Saviors. Like all sleepers, his family possessed strange abilities. In his case, his voice was his most powerful asset. Able to incapacitate or kill based on his whim.
That lethal killer had the cheek to flash Tate a thumbs up as he gave her a goofy grin.
Tate frowned at him but didn’t have time to give him the response he deserved as Blaise strode over.
“You’re not putting the blame for this on me,” Blaise said. “This was your idea.”
“It was not.”
“Who said that we should exhaust the children?”
Okay. He had a point there.
After weeks of semi-careful study, Tate noticed the children seemed more stable when they were tired. It was as if the dragon felt the same exhaustion and was forced to retreat into slumber, giving the children a much-needed break from the constant strain on their minds.
