“It’s a gut feeling. Just… watch out for them.”
Twelve Sprinters hover above the crystal blue lake, awaiting the releasing bell. At the start every dragon wears their natural scales, and a rainbow of color glistens in the sunshine. From my vantage point I can only see the dragons’ bellies though. A certain orange dragon on the far outer edge of the group draws my attention. I shake my head and fiddle with Daphine’s reins. As an official spotter I’m supposed to watch out for everyone, not just James Murphy.
Daphine turns her slim blue head as if she can read my thoughts. And the judgy look in her eyes tells me she’s unimpressed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I huff. “I’m doing my job.”
The bell peals, the audience above me roars, and a dozen dragons bolt forward. Wings expand and beat the air, then level out to glide around thefirst corner. It’s there the talent separate. James is always in the leading pack, but never the leader—until the last straightaway. Damn, I even know his strategy. Dad really got into my head and now he’s all I can focus on.
I force myself to watch the other dragons. Cara’s in the back fighting to avoid confrontation. A few riders dip under the main pack to try to gain an edge. Colm’s one of them, taking the next straightway hard and fast.
A part of me yearns to fly as well, to glide alongside those twelve other racers. But the races aren’t simple entertainment. I mean, yes, they are entertainment. The flapping banners and cheers of fans filling the sold-out arena evidence enough of that. But races are also another economic ploy to acquire dragon metal. Entice dragons to be terrified so they use their metal and thus shed more. Which means some riders encourage cruelty and violence.
Barreling toward the third curve where I’m stationed, two dragons fly too close to one another and their metal emerges. A silver tail whips and bashes into the dragon behind and that Sprinter falls back with a howl. I flinch. Hopefully, not a broken jaw. Thank god dragons don’t breathe fire like the myths depict or we’d be dealing with more than shattered bones.
They are all about to enter my curve of the track and I tense. The patrol, another type of spotter who flies beneath the race, hangs back to provide a safety net to the dragon in distress. I can tell every other spotter’s focus is pulled in that direction as well. Mine too, until my father’s words tug at me to look toward James again.
That’s why I notice the wobble. When Hort falters, I jerk to attention. Wing spasm? James can fix that though. He might fall out of the leading pack, but he can ease Hort’s flying pattern and—
Before I can finish the thought, Hort drops. Right in front of me.
It’s not every day you watch the boy you hate plummet through the air on his dragon. All my emotions knot and twist as James Murphy keeps spiraling. Gleaming silver metal grows over each of Hort’s scales indicating one thing—terror.
Onlookers shout and scream. All eyes are aimed at the tournament favorite falling out of the sky for no apparent reason.
My whole body tightens. Beneath me, Daphine grunts. “Come on,” I whisper.He’ll right himself. He’ll get back control.Half my job as a spotter is knowing when to act. I shouldn’t interfere until—
James and Hort flail past my eyeline and toward the lake below. He’s not going to make it. He isn’t going to bail off Hort either. He’s going down.
I yell. Don’t even know if it’s a command or an outburst of my shock. But Daphine heeds my intention, nonetheless. She throws herself from our spotter perch and into the air. As her wings tuck into a dive, her own copper metal sprouts and encases her scales in preparation for impact. Wind lashes, sunlight scorches, but that’s nothing compared to the fear pumping through me. Too late, it shrieks. Too late.
James crashes into the water. A thrashing torrent of beating wings.
And I crash right behind.
CHAPTER TWOWHEN DECIDING YOUR FUTURE
JAMES
Iremember most everything about my fall except the fifteen minutes where apparently Farren Walsh hoisted me out of the water and gave me mouth-to-mouth. I replay that fact in my mind over and over. Farren Walsh. I had to drop right at her spotter station. And I can’t remember a thing. I bury my face into my pillow. I can’t catch a break. I wasn’t sure I’d survive. Now, having been saved, I don’t think I can endure the embarrassment.
My arm aches, pulling me back to my senses and the bigger problem at hand. The race was only yesterday, but everything has changed. It’s dusk and for once my house lies quiet.
The door creaks as my mom enters. For a moment we stare at one another like strangers. The shadows hide the blaze of her red hair and the swarm of freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. “Were you sleeping?”
“No, just…” I can’t tell her how much I’m trying to will myself to remember a certain fifteen minutes. “Thinking.”
“I brought tea.”
“Oh.” That’s unexpected. I’ve been brewing my own silver teas since Iwas thirteen.Don’t assume anyone will craft it for you, Dad always says, typically right after Mom or I hand him a mug. “Thanks.”
She passes me the full warm cup, flakes of silver dragon metal infused into the liquid in order to heal my broken arm faster. I down the medicine in one go. I’ve been forced to chug the stuff so much today my mouth tastes metallic.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I adjust the sling. “I’m okay.”
Mom hesitates before snatching me into a hug. “James, I—” My heart hammers. Now, we’ve veered into more than the unexpected, but downright rare. Is she going to apologize? Admit that—
