“The wounded one needs a healer,” the male says, addressing Flint directly. “Do you want us to take them to Draig, or do you have a preference for the castle? The castle will be quicker.”
Flint looks at Magma, crouched with his hand in the dirt, and makes the assessment fast. “Draig Hospital. He can handle the trip.” He glances at me. “You good with that?”
I am so ready to go home that it isn’t funny. If I never see Mistveil again, it will be too soon.
“Draig is good,” I say. “Yes.”
A low sound draws my attention down. Magma has his eyes open. They’re glassy and not entirely focused, but they’re open.
“Water,” he rasps.
Flint already has a canteen off his belt. He gets it to Magma’s lips and angles it carefully. Magma gets two long pulls before Flint eases the canteen away.
“Easy.”
Magma gets his focus back by degrees. His gaze is on Flint.
“You came,” he says.
“Of course I came.” Flint puts the cap back on the canteen. “You thought I was going to leave you out here?”
Magma almost does the thing that might be a smile. “Didn’t want to presume.”
“Idiot.” But there’s no heat in it. There’s nothing in it but warmth.
“You ready to go home?” Flint asks.
Magma looks out at the trees.
“Am I ever.” He smiles, and that dimple pops out.
The two Red-marked shifters move back from us toward a small open gap in the line of grounded dragons. The male rolls his shoulders once. A sound comes out of him, something low and internal, and then his skin splits. It’s like a seam opening, something the body has always been capable of and is simply deciding to do now. The wings come first, tucking open from somewhere behind his shoulder blades. The rest follows fast, joints reorienting, the spine curving, the whole frame expanding and shifting outward with a sound that is more of a pressure change than a noise, and then there’s a dragon where the male was. Dark markings, a flash of red along the ridge of the wing, the same gravity to it that the male had.
The female shifts a half-second behind him, and it’s just as extraordinary to watch. I am reminded of how different they are.
“Are you good to fly with me?” Flint asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I glance over at Magma, who has moved to a sitting position while I was watching the dragons shift. His gaze softens, and he gives me the smallest of nods.
“Yes…sure. Thanks,” I tell Flint. “Will you be okay?” I ask Magma.
“Just fine,” he says. “That pretty Red Dragon female is taking me.” He gestures to the female dragon.
I feel a pang of jealousy, which is stupid.
“Come on,” Flint says, and I follow him.
Then he puts his hand out to me as we approach the dragon, and I take it. His grip is easy and steady. The dragon lowers slightly when we approach, not quite kneeling but accommodating, and I can see there’s no saddle, nothing to grip, just scales and the broad ridge of the neck where the head joins the shoulder.
It’s a long way up.
“Arms up,” Flint says from behind me, and his hands close on my waist and he lifts. I grab the ridge with both hands and find the footing, scrambling up the last of it on instinct. Then I’m up, and the ground is a long way down, and I am trying very hard not to think about it.
Flint pulls himself up behind me in one smooth move, no effort at all, and positions himself against my back, his legs on the outside of mine. His arms come around me.
“You alright?”
“Fine.” It comes out steadier than I feel.
