I go stock-still. “He likes you?” I don’t mean to sound shocked—Hort is the sweetest dragon I’ve ridden, but picky with his affection. To be frank he doesn’t like anyone who isn’t a silver-crafter, and even then, it’s a fine line. When Hort bucked her off this morning, I’d thought Farren had been having a difficult time with him. That I would be needed to help facilitate his recovery. One more reason I begged to be here for the summer.
But it seems the opposite. I’m unwelcome and unnecessary.
Farren looks up. “Why do you seem so surprised? Because he threw me earlier?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t exactly know what to say.
“This morning was because of you,” she continues. “You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.”
“I didn’t sneak up on you.” I just didn’t go shouting her name. A mistake around dragons. They like calm and quiet as much as I do.
Farren takes Hort’s lead and starts toward the barn. “How did you convince my dad to take you?” Farren mutters under her breath.
I jog a step to keep up and pet Hort’s chin when he swings my way. “I’m likeable. To everyone except you it seems.”
She startles like I was not meant to hear her. “You know?”
“Know you hate me?” I try not to look dejected. Luckily, I’m good at that. Not letting an inch of what I’m thinking betray me. Living with my father taught me that well. “Yeah. I know.”
“So why come here then? Why couldn’t you have found some other veterinarian to train under?”
“Well, I know you don’t hate me enough to kill me, Savior.” As soon as I say it, no matter how much my tone is jocular, it points more to the truth than I ever planned sharing. Farren knows something is up too because she stops. Which makes Hort halt as well.
I adjust my slinged arm, a nervous habit that’s formed over the last few weeks. I’ve always been quiet. Called shy as a child like it was endearing, and cold as a teen like it’s a problem. I could only open up to a few people. And I never thought in my wildest dreams I could overcome my introverted nature enough to talk to Farren properly, especially like this—in quips and barbs. Like my real self. In school I fumbled multiple times to create conversation, but now some of that fear has melted away. Almost dying in front of your crush might be the pinnacle of embarrassments. In fact, for the last two weeks, I’ve been contemplating what’s worse and drawing a blank.
Finally, she answers. “If we’re going to live together, you need to stop calling me Savior.”
“I can do that,” I reply. Seems I’m bad at nicknames, even complimentary ones. Figures.
As Farren directs her annoyance at me though, I realize something. This whole day it’s been the old Farren, the one who spoke her mind. The one whose hand would shoot into the air to answer any question about dragons and then volunteer information about them unprompted. I knew the lastyear she had been putting up a facade of indifference, that no one that outspoken could change into the wallflower she now pretends to be at school. I’d watch her to catch a glimpse of the true Farren. It seems all I needed to do was come to the sanctuary.
“But I’m noticing you seem mad at yourself.” I smile at her, wanting to keep this going, to tease her further. “Mad you couldn’t let me die when you had the chance, huh?”
Her eyebrows jump again before she reins herself in. She smooths down Hort’s scales. “I was mainly saving Hort. You just got lucky.” She turns to the barn and strides forward again, short blonde hair swishing over her shoulder. I can’t help laughing at her lie because if there is one thing I know about Farren Walsh, she’s caring—for dragons and people alike. Here, I’ll be safer than I’ve ever been. My heart though? That’s yet to be seen.
CHAPTER FIVEWHEN YOU BECOME A TRIPPING HAZARD
FARREN
I’m not doing my best as tour guide. But James Murphy, quiet as always, is giving me nothing to work with.
As we near the barn, we pass a swath of grass where the Rhinoridges love to graze. I can spot three right off, spiky spines extending out of the brush. James notes them without question. I’m itching to mention how we have one other, wingless, who likes to lay down and disappear in the grass.
If James were a normal new intern, I’d further explain we have fourteen rescued dragons in total. Those four Rhinoridges. An old mated pair of copper Sprinters, my parents’ first dragons and the catalyst for how they met. My girl Daphine, the only Ocean Swooper, a water dragon three times larger than your average Sprinter. Seven Skidders, who are wyverns, not dragons, but still tin plated. Thus, still in need of help when the whole group was found completely descaled and left for dead outside Hardsill, three hundred miles north of here.
And that’s the rescued dragons. We also have caves full of Feylings, bat-sized beauties who feast on bugs at night and dazzle the sky in twinkling lightto attract said food source. We also have a school of wild Ocean Swoopers who Daphine sometimes swims with. And one grumpy and enormous Tree Slinger, who hangs out in the woods farther inland and is smart enough to stay within the property.
But no, James asks nothing. How is it the boy only talks to infuriate me? And the one time I wouldn’t mind him asking questions he’s silent.
Opening the barn doors, I continue to expect no commentary. Though, I’d imagine our barn appears much like the Murphy facilities. Stone construction, dense, and dark like the caves dragons naturally nested in before the first crafters discovered they could control the metal that covers their scales and how to use it for themselves. Dad had recesses punched out to further resemble their natural habitat. Slabs of iron make up the floor with some loose hay scattered about that needs cleaning.
James suddenly speaks up. “It’s empty.”
“It’s midday,” I answer.
“But where are all the dragons?”
Now I’m confused. Why would any dragon be inside when they could be sunning themselves, or flying? “What do you mean? We don’t care for any nocturnal breeds. All the Feylings are wild.”
