Chapter Five. When You Become a Tripping Hazard
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN 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 light to 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.”
James opens his mouth and then closes it. “Never mind.”
We pass several cave-like stalls until we are in the nice and clean cavity Dad chose for Hort. I lead him in toward the silver banister he’s been chomping on. Though when I start to close the half door James stops me. “Wait.”
He abandons his trunk and steps into Hort’s enclosure, eyeing the space like an inspector would a crime scene.
“What are you looking for?”
James ignores me. Typical. “Hort. Stretch.”
With a whoosh, Hort spreads his wings to their maximum length and arches his head into full height—the stance of aggression. James circles. “It’s spacious.”
I don’t like how surprised he sounds. “You really thought we’d stick him in a small enclosure?” I grab a trout from a nearby pail and join James in front of Hort. “Free,” I call before throwing the fish into his mouth. Hort relaxes, happy with his treat.
“I had to make sure.”
Still. The disrespect, the implication we would let a dragon stay in an unhealthy environment—it’s enough to make my jaw ache.
When I usher him out and close the half door, James has another observation. “There’s no bars.”
Okay, so maybe I was wrong, and our barn is nothing like the Murphy facilities. “You mean … like cages?” I don’t mean to be appalled, but appalled I am. “Why do you need cages?”
“Because they are dragons,” James says slowly.
“Well, we don’t do that.” I don’t want to hear why James thinks cages are a necessity, so I change the subject. “The loft is at the far end of the barn.”
I head toward iron-slabbed stairs, James’s footsteps and the squeaky hinge of his trunk the only indication he’s following me.
I’m being kind of mean not helping James with his luggage.
Even if I hate him, the guy has a broken arm.
I twist around to begrudgingly offer my assistance and …
trip. I’m staggering forward, trying to catch myself when an arm slides around my middle and stops me from face-planting.
I breathe, trying to figure out what’s happened. Murphy has saved me. Or, well, let me not fall. I wasn’t about to die or anything. But more importantly, he’s pressed against me. I can feel his cast across my stomach, his voice right at my ear when he asks, “You okay?”
I glance from his shoulder to his eyes. And for some reason, this up close he isn’t angry or annoyed. This time that you okay looks and sounds genuine.
When he lets go a second later, I stumble away and up the first few stairs. Distance needed. “Yeah, thanks. The glasses aren’t for show,” I give as an excuse.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “Glad it wasn’t intentional.”
“Why would anyone trip intentionally?”
“For an excuse to get close to me,” James explains.
Anger pounds at the accusation. “I thought you understood I hate you?” That’s the second time I’ve announced that truth and I’m not even ashamed of my answer.
Anyone else and I’d feel awful, guilt-crawling-through-my-skin kind of bad.
With Murphy, though, there is no need to be civil.
I’m freely myself, blunt rudeness and all.
He shrugs. “Some people flirt weirdly.”
I hate how confident he is, how utterly arrogant down to the bone.
With four words, he’s insinuating I’m harboring a crush and I’m doing it weirdly.
Fake tripping or swooning into his arms weirdly.
But the only weird thing is the fact that I’ve never had a crush, on anyone.
I’d rather die than admit that to him though.
But then … is this flirting? Because in some bizarre way, it kind of feels like it.
No. Definitely not.
However, as my face grows red and I grow flustered at the thought, an idea forms. I could get Murphy out of my sanctuary in no time. If there is only one big rule he must follow, what if I made him break it? As we climb the stairs, I gather up my courage. “We could end this, you know?”
“End this?”
“You could train under any other vet in town. You don’t want to be way out here. And I don’t want you here.”
“Oh, so you already have a plan to get rid of me?” We’re right in the middle of the stairs, suspended halfway between floors as James leans on the railing. “That was quick.”
I take a step down, closer to him. “It would be easy.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I could make you fall for me. Make you break your parents’ rule.” I don’t know where my own confidence came from, but I just said that without a hint of doubt. My voice didn’t even tremor. Somewhere deep inside of me I’ve always wanted to confront him. Say I’m unattractive to my face. Say it.
His mouth parts in shock. When he reins in his surprise, he steps right into my personal space. Too close. Way too close.
“You’ve got a couple things wrong. I do want to be here, more than you know. And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” He lets out a dark chuckle, the closest I’ve heard to a laugh. “So, try your worst, Walsh. Try. Your. Worst.”
After what James said, those words deadly and dangerous, I scoff and then I flee. I flee all the way back to the house.
I slam the door a little too loudly, take two steps into the kitchen, and then slide down the cabinets, squeezing my eyes shut. When I open them, both my parents stand over me.
“What happened?” Mom asks.
I can’t tell her what I just did. That I tested James Murphy. I pushed him, and he pushed back. And for the first time in my life it’s not only embarrassment flushing my face. It’s something else entirely. “Please reassure me this isn’t the end of the world.”
“That’s a little dramatic,” Dad laughs.
I feel like being dramatic. This is a dramatic situation. In fact, it feels like a horrible play, convoluted with an exceeding amount of conflict.
Dad sticks out his hand. “Come on. Let’s discuss.”
I take it and haul myself up. “Is this even up for discussion? Tell me the truth. Do we need Hort to make it through the year?”
“It helps.” Mom lifts her hands in defeat. “It helps. And they are paying us a thousand sterlings to lodge James too, which means we can keep Shelly on the payroll. Aine made this very difficult to turn down.”
Damn it. That’s a lot of money and great news for Shelly.
Mom makes this place possible, scours through the ledgers like no one else could.
It’s why we are the only dragon sanctuary in all of Forsen.
Not because others don’t want to rescue dragons, but because the capital just isn’t there.
If she’s saying we need the money, we need the money.
“There is no way to undo this then,” I summarize.
Dad gives a small smile. “I know everyone here is worried. I’m worried too.
But—” There is always a but. There is always light in the darkness.
It’s what makes my dad such a good vet. He’s pulled animals through that others would deem doomed.
And he really doesn’t think the worst is about to happen having a Murphy here.
“But,” he continues, “I think James could be a huge help. With Hort, of course, but all the dragons. You know as well as I how some of our clients would prefer a silver-crafter operating during procedures.”
My jaw drops. “So what, we let James Murphy hold the scalpel and take the credit?”
“I’ve let you. I could teach him. We could teach him.”