19. Instruments of Magic #2
With a curse, my hands scramble over the ground, dragging myself away.
Its sharp eyes fasten on my face with an intensity that feels much too wise and knowing for a brutish animal.
It is a stunningly awful beast. A dragon unlike the other three, and yet I realize I know nothing of these creatures. Maybe there are dozens more like this one, hundreds with dark, cunning eyes and glossy skin winking with shades of blue and purple, reminiscent of that crow from earlier.
It holds itself proudly, majestically with its broad chest and massive, leathery wings flung back. I gulp. It could devour me in one bite—exactly the way that poor woman had perished. Bile surges to my throat, and I fumble for my dagger, pulling it free and brandishing it before me.
The only thing I know about dragons comes from lore.
They once existed, dominating earth and sky until humankind banded together against them.
Enemies became allies in a quest to defeat them.
This same lore insisted upon their extinction, so it can’t be reliable.
I might as well toss out everything I thought I knew about them.
Nothing that came before was true. This is true. This is my reality.
I hold up both hands in a laughable attempt to disarm the creature whose gaze falls on me as heavily as a boulder. “Whoa, there. Easy now.”
The beast lifts its head slightly at the sound of my voice, lips parting, baring fangs as big as my head. The glow from the smoldering village catches its eyes so that I see they are not the gleaming black I first judged but a deep violet.
The dream.
It’s the dream come to life. Sleek onyx skin. Prismatic eyes.
A warning I ignored, stuffed away and buried, pretending it was no more significant than pocket lint.
The creature brings its big head closer and inhales, lightly nudging me with one of the many spikes jutting from its face.
I suck in a pained breath and hold it tightly inside me, bracing for the inevitable pain.
Saliva floods my mouth. Just the slightest amount of force and the beast could gore me, cleave me right in half.
I force myself to hold still, my heart pounding in my ears as I wait for the stab of a horn or those dagger teeth to tear into my skin. I jam my eyes tightly shut, but it never comes. The blood remains, thankfully, in my body.
Slowly, I open my eyes, watching as the onyx dragon steps back and turns, growling out guttural noises to the others. The three stop their quarrelling and approach with thudding steps, their manner deferential as they fall into line.
My gaze skims them, but it’s the mountain with the iridescent skin that exudes the most menace and power.
It makes several sounds, directing something to the silvery-white dragon.
This beast steps closer in response, its jaws opening, and I fear fire might come out to blast me—didn’t they breathe fire?
—but it never does. No. Only cool fog emerges, billowing and gusting past its fangs.
Fog.
Not fire. Not a horn or a spike. Not the flash and tear of teeth.
Not death.
The fog grows, rolling in great billows, easing from the silver one’s open jaws, manifesting from its very being, from somewhere deep within its body. It’s inexplicable. Magical.
The hazy white lifts off its pearly scaled flesh with a faint hissing sound, like oil in a hot pan.
I push off the ground, taking several sliding steps back. The vapor follows me, enveloping me, covering me completely, swallowing me whole.
It keeps coming, relentless—almost as though it truly wants to consume me. The tendrils of mist enfold me, humming over my skin and hair. No part of me is spared.
“Wh-what’s happening?” I demand, not really expecting an explanation.
Even if they understand me, even if they want to communicate with me, they can’t. Keen-eyed and intelligent they may be, but human they are not.
I glance around wildly as the mist shrouds everything in a blanket of white. Even the dragons. I no longer see them.
They no longer see me.
This might be my only chance. My opportunity to escape in the blanket of milk-white air.
I hunch low and slink away, still aware of the great, monstrous body nearby, the onyx dragon a pulsing presence even amid the camouflage of gusting fog.
Moving sideways, I lose myself in the vapor, grateful for its presence, for the swelling miasma. I clamp my lips closed so my frightened breath can’t be heard, pretending I am still that invisible girl. It’s not hard to do. I’ve lived that way for so long.
For years I could not get anyone to see me, but now, when it’s most inconvenient, when it’s a threat to my very existence, my enemies can see me. The cruel unfairness of it overwhelms me.
I slip through rolling fog, making myself as small as possible, easing slowly, carefully, hoping that I’m moving in the right direction and that I don’t bump into one of them.
The fog is a condition of life in the north, but I’ve never seen it as dense as this, so thick I feel it like a hand on my skin. Not that I’m complaining. Not if it permits me to escape, to vanish into the vapor . . . to survive.
The dragons make all kinds of sounds, clearly communicating with each other.
I pinpoint the onyx dragon’s voice. It’s deeper and more guttural than the others . . . but there’s also a quality to it. A biting authority. I may not understand the meaning behind the sounds, but I recognize he is in command.
The four of them grow louder, agitated, huffing and snapping.
And I know. They’re looking for me.