1
WOMEN, JOURNEYS & DRAGONS
Dragons Island, The Commonwealth of Massachusetts, 1887
War had pushedher to run from her home island, and war had made her resilient. War had made her strong. War had made her brave.
And yet, as she ran again, it was fear that drove her. Fear and a voice. A voice that kept calling her ever since she left Cuba. A voice that told her to seek, to find, to hurry. The voice that had been a companion for years was what had saved her yet again. But the voice kept telling her that they had very little time.
Hurry, hurry, hurry…
The new shores had been a safe haven from the war at home, she had thought. In Cuba, she’d had nothing, yet in Cayo Hueso, she had made her money rolling her cigars. She had prospered among her people in the new lands. Until even Cayo Hueso wasn’t safe anymore. Until a man took it all away from her. Until his rage and his obsession left her bruised and bleeding andalone. It was then that the voice called to her louder than ever before. And she listened, leaving behind pain and loss.
She gripped the wooden rail of the boat harder, till her knuckles turned white. Till the cuts on them opened again. She had fought back. She had gotten him just as good. Men like him understood nothing but force. She smiled into her shawl as her white knuckles bled. Pride had kept her warm during the long nights as she made her way up from Florida to the Commonwealth.
Yes, she had fought back. Did she kill him? She didn’t know. She had run the second his head hit the edge of the hearth, her diary and her money the only possessions she carried.
The second she jumped over his body and out the door, she knew where she was heading. She had to reach that voice. The one that kept her sane, kept her purpose, kept her moving even when all she wanted was to lie down and never wake.
In the distance, she could see the giants. Three massive beings guarded the place she had dreamt of. The tiny horn of the boat sounded shrilly, announcing arrival, and her fingers uncoiled from the rail.
The captain gave her an appraising, mean stare as she descended onto the sandy shore. The fisherman yelled after her, hawking his wares, crabs, oysters and cod. She gripped her satchel tighter. Hunger clawed at her throat, but fear was still greater. And above all, her feet were taking her forward, toward something that felt both familiar and foreign. Known and new. Among the little huts and stone buildings, she found herself standing in front of the tall and imposing marble and oak hall. It carried a plaque, a name, and a crest. A flag unfurled in the morning breeze. Three dragons and a crow flew free.
Something she did not know was broken inside her snapped back into its rightful place. Maybe her bruised ribs. Maybe even her wounded heart.
She heard a whisper and closed her eyes. It had taken years. It had taken so much pain and so much blood. She turned slowly, and when she felt a light touch on her cheek, she opened her eyes. She would know this face anywhere. She had been looking at it every time she’d laid her head to dream. Green eyes and red hair. And the voice, the same husky, sweet voice…
“I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”
2
DERYN, FIRE & MEETING FATE
Crow’s Nest… Present Day
“I’ve been waitingfor you for so long…”
They had to meet again over flames. Deryn shook her head to clear the ash from her line of vision as the Atelier burned, and she ran headlong into the fiery embers of dark eyes. There couldn’t have been any other way. And she knew it in seconds, even before she whispered the faithful words in awe.
Something shifted in the air, something dead inside her trembled to life, and the soot on her hands left black marks on her skin as she dragged them down her face. She didn’t need a mirror to recognize her own expression. Astonished. Shell-shocked. Ambushed.
In her sister’s backyard, with Rhiannon’s Wind still ravaging the brick-and-mortar remains of the storied building, Deryn Crowhart met her match. A memory was resurrected. It blinked into existence and speared the sky, a column of flame and yearning.
Deryn had always known this moment would come. It had seemed inevitable. Fated. She had to laugh at the Fates’ sense of humor, though. As her sister’s life was falling apart, as Rhiannon’s path was twisting up and her magic was flickering in and out of being, Deryn was facing her own—not at all metaphorical—fork in the road. Take the wrong turn and miss out on destiny.
And yet, as the world burned around her, Deryn understood there was no missing this. Even if she had the will to try, she wouldn’t be able to do it. Not when she knew these eyes. Not when the history behind them was laid bare in blood and fire.
She almost smiled at the absolutely enraged expression in the shadowy eyes. The woman was angry as hell, in total control, and not afraid to let everyone know. She was ordering around the arriving firefighters and dragging away debris, surely ruining those beautiful hands. She didn’t seem to care about her manicure or her skin. As she passed another bucket of water down a nascent makeshift line, she looked concerned for the building and for the people. Perhaps that was where the anger came from… Everything around them was in ruins, the historic structure in pieces, and if not for Rhiannon’s Wind and the Crowharts’ Circle, a lot more of the town would be in danger. Deryn understood the anger. At the desolation. At the waste. At the slow-moving, shock-stricken townies.
But the concern? Deryn wondered who the woman was and why she’d care at all, this figure leading the effort to salvage the remains of the old building. Deryn was needed at Ceridwen’s. Rhiannon had been barely hanging on when they put her in Christian’s car earlier, and yet Deryn couldn’t move, struck by this image of authority in motion.
The woman shouted at a lackadaisical fireman, and he jumped into action. Deryn almost laughed.
Oh, yeah… This will be so much fun!
So, it would be Fire meeting Fire, then. She smirked.
Bring it on.
