I gently remove a canvas from a box. It’s small by the standards of the collection I’ve opened so far—two feet by eighteen inches. But it’s stunning. I take a photo of it with the new camera that arrived on Friday. The name on the bottom right is legible, but I don’t know the artist. T. Fischer. Fischer—it’s my last name, too. Fischer isn’t Smith or Jones, but it’s not uncommon.
The painting is adorable—a mountainscape with quaint cottages in the valley below—but the thing I’m so taken with is a section of field with little mushrooms in it. The kind with the red cap and white dots. It’s just precious. It’s well done, the colors are balanced, and the lighting isn’t overly dramatic in that way I believe can make a painting look cheap. It’s just the sort of tongue-in-cheek landscape that I would paint, if I still painted anymore.
It’s killing me to not send a picture to Wren. But if I leave here before the six months are up, it’s going to be because I want to go, not because I fudged up on the NDA.
It’s like she can hear me thinking, because my phone rings, and Wren’s picture pops up.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hey back. I’ve got fantastic news.”
“What?”
“I was supposed to have next week off for my birthday. I thought I could come see you, but the flight’s full. So . . . I did a swap. Now I’m working a trip to Zurich next Friday. Then I have Saturday off. I have to report Sunday morning, but I looked it up and I could take the train after we land, clear customs, and be out to your village by nine a.m. on Friday. We can spend the day together, then I take the trainback Saturday midday so I’m ready to be at the airport at the ass crack of dawn on Sunday.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No way, my favorite sister.”
“I’m your only sister.”
“Still my favorite, and you would be if I had another sister. Unless she was uber cool like Taylor Swift or Emma Stone or something.”
“How quickly I’ve been downgraded.” That instantly reminds me of Roark, and my chest tenses up.
“You’re doing good, right?”
“So good. This is my dream job. Living the dream, like Uncle always says.”
“He’s far from living the dream.” She laughs. “But you? You’re destined for greatness.”
“I’m not sure how you and I came from the same mother, but I’m glad you feel that way. I feel the same about you.”
“Currently I’m destined for my blackout eye mask and a rocking date with my pillow, for what I hope will be a good, solid ten-hour relationship before he breaks up with me, like all guys do.”
“You’re too good for that pillow, anyway. Love you, Wren. I can’t wait to see you.”
It’s going to be a fantastic week.
21
ROARK
Avoiding her is killing me. Kieren and Evander have gone back to Crest Wing to help convince the queen that her daughter has to finish at the academy. That if she doesn’t, she’ll limit her chances of finding her thunder. But more importantly, she’s driving everyone in Crest Wing castle crazy.
Evander came home for a quick check-in yesterday, right after Aisling convinced the chef to write “Free Aisling” on the queen’s pancakes. The king wasn’t amused. I, on the other hand, found it fucking hysterical. But then, I don’t have any daughters. I have a feeling that if I did, I might feel the exact same way. Locking them up during a tumultuous time doesn’t sound so bad. Yes, we’re a warring society, but the five clans have gotten along in relative peace for a long time. There’s no reason it couldn’t go back to that—if the damn Firesteds can get their inferior asses in line.
Kieren is doing more than just persuading his parents to let his sister have her education. He’s gathering informationabout who would support his sister replacing us, and who might challenge her if she were to get the throne.
We live in the Crest Wing castle when we’re not here at Cloud Rift. We’re in the human realm to grow our hoard and, for a few months longer, evaluate candidates. Or rathercandidatebecause Raine’s our last. It’s a relief. My father used to say,“You can’t be a winner if you quit. You have to stick it out, do the time.”He missed the big picture. Sometimes, to be a winner, you have to know when to quit. Open a door for something new, something different, and stop bashing your tail against the volcanic rocks.
My phone dings. I ignore it. A few months back, Evander thought it would be funny to sign me up for a bunch of spam sites. No, I don’t want to decorate my living room with a new sectional sofa, and I don’t need twenty-five gallons of popcorn. I was blocking them, but they’re like hydra heads, so I’ve given up. With everything that’s going on, I don’t have the bandwidth to change my fucking number. I hate carrying the thing around anyway.
It dings again a few minutes later, but I avoid it. I’m tracking ghosts. Not literal ghosts but flashes of Firested around the realm and Earth. There’s something going on. There are more Firested dragons on Earth right now than in the realm, and that’s fucking weird. They’re concentrated near their portal in the South Pacific. But there have been sightings of them in Southern Europe, and that’s too close. Between the realm and Earth, there’s space enough for all of us. They don’t need to be in our backyard.
I shoot off messages to my team around the world. Sure, humans know about shifters—thanks to the damn witches a few decades ago—but there’s still lots they don’t know about: fae, trolls, vampires, and the damn witches themselves. There’s even plenty that I’ve thought were rumors orlegends that now I’m thinking aren’t, like how mermen and kraken might be shifters themselves, not the monsters that the fairytales talk about.
I don’t care as long as they stay out of our way, out of Crest Wing, and out of the affairs of our realm. We like being forgotten. Leave the Earth dragon shifters to themselves. Do I like being thought of as one? Hell no. We’re far superior, from our hoards to our strength. But if it protects our realm, staying in the shadows is for the best.
