More Feylings twinkle to life above us, casting the cave in even more light. The storm is still a rage of darkness outside, but in this moment I’m so happy I could cry. It feels like a sign, like these smaller dragons are offering their support. I press my hands against the shell of gold. And I craft.
The rush of power pulses at my fingertips, like I’m letting loose electricity. I restrain that current of force, my fingers tensing against the golden-scaled egg. I can feel how easy it would be to break. Terror grips me at the thought. My whole life I’ve desired to be more powerful, hard like our metaled world. Now, all I have is weight suffocating me, clambering for release. But I know if I drop an ounce of that heft, the weight will be too much.
James clutches the back of my hands like he can physically hold me back. But he can’t. “Lightly. Like how you petted Hendrix when he was in pain.”
His words seem to answer my unspoken plea. I fasten myself to the mental image and his calm, soothing voice as James repeats, “lightly,” like a lullaby. The egg and I quake together. Then with only the pads of each fingertip, I caress like I’m merely petting the egg.
The gold cracks with a snap of sound. My stomach lurches, fearing the worst. When I craft the broken piece away, though, a silver snout nuzzles the hole. A little shuddering breath of life greets us. Nity bends overhead and pushes her nose against her baby’s. Tears brim on my eyes.
I did it.
Now cracked, the task becomes an easy one. Piece by piece I break the egg until James and I stare at the head and shoulders of a silver-coated dragon.
The top of the shell gone, the hatchling scrambles for freedom. When they pull themself out of the egg, they wriggle onto James’s lap before crawling up to his chest.
James gasps, holding the baby dragon like one would cradle a shy toddler. The scene melts me, because it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life.
James’s gaze hooks into mine and at that moment I can read his mind.Are you seeing this too? Capture it in your memory so we have further proof it existed.Slowly, he pets the silver dragon down their spine. The scales shift into black and the baby coos. At the coo, I lose it.
I scoot until I’m right next to James. The hatchling twirls large yellow crocodile eyes on to me and as I reach forward to stroke their scales, the newborn nestles back into James’s neck like I’m some kind of tormenting villain.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper. “You do nothing and get all the love?”
“I’ve told you before. I’m likeable.”
I scoff my frustration, since in this moment it’s hard to look at James and not see that likeability. But I’m simply relieved the hatchling is safe. The power still tingles on my fingertips, and I tuck them away. That could have gone differently.
A retching sound interrupts my thoughts. The baby silver Rimback spits up all over James’s shirt and my envy turns to joy. I cup my mouth,trying not to laugh as James stills, pulls back, and inspects the damage. And there is damage. Saliva and bits of gold run down his chest. Nity leans over and grabs the silver one by the neck like she’s apologizing for her baby being such a nuisance and she’ll take it from here.
I laugh at the absurdity of it all, at the relief of getting to this moment, all three babies alive. “Do you consider being thrown up on as a sign you’re liked? Because I might have some bad news for you.”
James gives me a squinty look of dismay before he discards his wet shirt in one quick over-the-head motion.
I stop laughing. My first instinct is to ask what he’s doing, but I wouldn’t want to wear fresh dragon puke. And yet, I’m frozen.
I saw his bare chest when saving his life. I know he’s fit. Even with clothes and chest guards, his broad shoulders are more than apparent. There is something much more intimate to witness him taking his shirt off himself though. Plus, being right next to said chest, alone in the dark.
The air between us seems pulled taut. For the millionth time I wonder why whenever my gaze snags in James’s, I feel caught. Words fail me. Then he trembles from the cold.
I tug at my own wet clothes, James’s cream sweater and riding pants, cozy in the loft, but currently sticking to me in a heavy icy hug. Now—not adrenaline-soaked, heart-beating-out-of-my-chest terrified—I too am freezing. The rain continues to pour, sprouting a waterfall along the entrance so thick it blocks any view to the black-stoned beach and ocean beyond.
“When the rain stops, you should go. Get some sleep. Get into dry clothes.” I specify dry clothes, but really, I mean any clothes.
“What about you?”
Across the cave, Nity’s babies chomp on gold. The firstborn, brazen and confident in blue scales. The alloy baby is still a fusion of silver and gold, too nervous to drop the metal protection. Even without the storm impeding climbing that cliff for towels or fresh clothes, I’m not missing a second of this. One, because it’s the moment I’ve been awaiting for months, and two, they might need me again.
“I’m not leaving.” But as I shiver, I know something must be done. Even with excitement, my willpower can’t outlast hypothermia.
“If we stay down here, we’ll need to get warm,” James says softly.
If he mentions body heat or the idea of cuddling for warmth something inside of me will combust. Embarrassment. That’s it. Embarrassment heats my cheeks.
“Wait, there’re blankets,” I say, too loud, bounding to my feet too fast. Like the hay, my parents and I have brought an abundance of different comforts into the cave to try to keep the eggs warm. Nity kept throwing the blankets in a corner, very much like a grumpy mother dismissing our rags.
I hand a red bundle of wool to James and he takes it with a thank-you. When I clamp the thick covering over me in a protective and concealing shell, the shivering wanes.
We sit beside each other, two lumps watching Nity with her newborns.
