“That’s how Bastian gets his power,” I say.
“Youliveby them,” Renee repeats his line from a few days ago, then laughs. “This is insane.”
I nod, repeating, “I know.”
“But also, so rad,” Drew says.
“Indeed,” Bastian comments.
I grab the spell book from the counter and look at my dragon. “Does this have anything in it that could help protect us from the warlock?”
He grabs the book. “Possibly. We may be able to make modifications to existing spells that were designed to fightme.”
“I thought you said this wasyourbook of spells,” I say.
He shrugs. “All books left in my vicinity become mine.”
“You didn’t make this?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, this was crafted by the mages guild ages ago.”
“A guild, huh?” Drew asks as he snaps into a piece of celery.
“Ages ago?” Renee asks. “How many ages are we talking?”
I assumed Bastian was old since he had been clinging to first editions from a hundred years ago like his life depended on it, but is he older than I’m thinking? I glance at him for confirmation.
“Many centuries,” he says.
Well, at least I’m not nineteen and illiterate.
“Hang on,” Renee says, holding up her hands. “Start from the beginning.”
So, we do. Bastian doesn’t say anything I don’t already know about him, and I tell them about how we met.
“He’sthe lizard?” Renee asks, trying to cover her smile and failing.
“Dragon,” Bastian snaps.
She bursts with a loud guffaw that comes straight from her belly and doubles over, holding her gut.
Drew snaps into another celery stick. “What was that creepy guy all about?”
“He’s a warlock, hunting me,” Bastian says over Renee’s dying laughter.
“Why?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Hunters have their reasons. Some want to use my power, some want to take it, but none of them have good intentions.”
“What’s your magic?” I ask giddily.
He doesn’t know mine, but he must know his own by now.
Bastian scowls and his eyes track back and forth like he’s reading. “I have the power to do many different things, but what most hunters are interested in is my enchantment spells.”
“What are those?” Renee asks, just as excited as me.
He raises his hand and black ink culminates at the tip of his nail. He draws through the air in front of him like a painter, but the lines he’s making don’t amount to anything to me. They’re like pictographs, but fused with symbols that might be letters, or words.
