Chapter Eight. When You Try to Save the Girl, but She Saves Herself
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN YOU TRY TO SAVE THE GIRL, BUT SHE SAVES HERSELF
JAMES
I didn’t know what Dr. Walsh meant by middle seat. Now? Now, I’m quite acquainted with the situation at hand. Dr. Walsh drives a copper-infused truck with a trailer big enough for a Sprinter hitched to the back, leaving only two real seats in the front. Driver and passenger.
It doesn’t matter that I didn’t put up a fight, that Farren won and then immediately lost when Dr. Walsh remembered my cast. None of that matters. What matters is Farren and I are currently pressed together shoulder to knee.
Torture. An hour of torture lays in front of me.
We bump along the gravel road, passing the old copper sign that reads WALSH SANCTUARY. Each time my left arm jostles against Farren’s right, we both lean away another inch. So, torture and my back is going to hurt.
I need distraction and, though beautiful and serene, the fields outside my window aren’t going to cut it. I gather my courage and speak. “What is a six-one-two?”
“Ah, yes.” Dr. Walsh smiles. “First lesson of the family business. We use shorthand for our patients in case we need to discuss injuries in front of anyone. First number is how bad we think the case sounds for the dragon on a scale of one to nine. Second is how bad the client thinks it is on a scale of one to nine. And the third, what metal class of dragon. Six iron, five tin, four copper, three bronze, and two silver.”
“Oh.” But there’s something that doesn’t add up. “Why are silvers two? Shouldn’t they be one?”
Farren tenses beside me.
“It’s wishful thinking, but I’d like to believe gold-plated dragons aren’t extinct,” Dr. Walsh says.
And the way he says it, so hopeful, like humanity isn’t full of evil people who wiped out an entire species of dragon.
It was called the golden slaughter and still noted as the worst mistake in human history.
Around eight hundred years ago, dragon hunter became a decorated occupation, and they pillaged dragon nests, particularly the valuable and enormous golden Rimbacks.
Little did they know two hundred years later, crafting would be discovered and the health benefits of certain metals identified, changing humanity forever.
But by that point it was too late. Too many golden dragons had been slain, too many nests emptied, and hatchlings left to die without their parents’ shed scales for sustenance.
Now we can only imagine what diseases and injuries gold tea could cure.
Dr. Walsh squeezes the steering wheel. “If gold-plated dragons really are all gone then I still like to keep that one spot open. To respect the tragedies of the past so we don’t forget what caused them.”
Mrs. Walsh was right. Dr. Walsh’s tone never wavers.
He’s steadfast in his calm optimism. For the next hour, all I need to do is nod as Dr. Walsh talks about his business, a rundown of all his clients.
Neighbors who have fostered herds. Riders with an added reptilian family member.
Inner-city clients who train, breed, or race.
Sometimes all three, like my father. Or the Moores who run the auction house.
Farren hops in with a detail or fact every now and then like an assistant would and even she doesn’t sound like she hates me as she volunteers information.
So, I sit there trying not to touch Farren and I learn.
Outside my window the grass fades and the metalwork begins. It’s subtle at first. Iron-rich rock walls guarding houses. Tin-carved gates and street signs adorning every corner.
Then we can spot the wall. Stone now enforced with metal; the fortification surrounds the old town center of Forsen.
It was erected to keep out dragons, to guard against the creatures until our ancestors discovered and cultivated their crafting abilities.
Then within years, humanity turned from hunted to hunter and over the next centuries we domesticated Sprinters and other species to use for transportation, entertainment, and medicine.
The wall now stands as a relic, a placeholder that designates the wooden town center from the new “metal” homes and businesses splattered across the rest of the rolling valley.
“Metal” because every house is still wood or stone, only plated with whatever metal classification the family belongs to.
Because how dare one decorate their home without vain self-identification.
My father’s training facility sparkles on the outer edge of town, silver-coated structures consisting of a mansion atop a hill, the dragon stalls, and then the massive man-made lake used for races.
It’s where I’ve trained every day since I was twelve.
It’s where I fell two weeks ago, the water used for instances like mine, to mitigate a fall.
I’ve lived on this vast property my whole life and yet compared to the real coastline and the freshness of the Walsh Sanctuary, everything appears shiny and artificial.
Columns of stone fifty feet high encircle the lake, seats carved into the rock and padded with bright cushions for audiences. The air smells stilted, no sea breeze to blow away the mugginess. A dragon roars in pain in the distance, a haunting, familiar sound.
I bump Farren, not even realizing I’ve flinched.
As I adjust back into my tilting lean, she shifts to look at me. “Didn’t think you’d be home so soon, I’m guessing.”
“Yeah. Home sweet home.”
We drive toward the cages. We call them the stalls, but after experiencing the Walsh barn—they’re clearly cages.
A large patch of dirt we use to mount the dragons looms in front of us.
With a jerk, the car stops and Farren knocks into me.
Neither of us acknowledge the contact because all our attention fixates on the orange Sprinter laying on the ground before us.
The arch of his back contorts upward, all wrong, wings bent to the side unmoving.
“Oh no,” Dr. Walsh whispers as he creaks open the door.
Farren rushes out of the car, voice taut as she answers. “I thought it was only a broken wing.”
I exit the truck on wobbly legs. It’s not Hort, I remind myself. Hort’s safe. But his brother, Hendrix, lays broken in a way I’ve never seen before.
Dragons plate themselves in metal when they are afraid or in pain, pinpointing where they feel vulnerable and thus protecting themselves.
Therefore, one would expect the silver arching over the misshapen back.
Instead, the metal only covers from nose to neck.
And it’s—I’ve never seen anything like this before—it’s flashing.
Like a seizure, the silver plating grows and retreats as if he’s trying to switch himself on.
In the corner, another dragon roars. Hendrix’s mom, Bex.
A retired Sprinter bred to produce the fastest racers.
She’s sheeted in silver, not scared for herself, but for her baby.
Two trainers, Rohan and Talia, hold her back with a head harness, trying to coax her away from the scene.
Her shrieks echo across the arena, making even the placid lake ripple.
I’ve heard Bex irritated before, but never have I heard this screeching anguish.
I’m so consumed by the agony I don’t notice Colm Ditters’s presence until he’s blocking Farren. He’s wet. He’s shirtless. And he doesn’t have a scratch on him.
Colm is Hendrix’s newest rider. Of course it’s Colm Ditter’s dragon hurt to this extent. Because Ditters is an average rider who thinks he’s as good as me. That sounds arrogant, but the proof lays in front of us, the dragon suffering because of his incompetence.
However, except in riding skill, Ditters is everything I’m not. Tall, lean, charismatic. He has no problem, even in this wretched moment, approaching Farren. “Hey, looking good without the glasses, Farren.”
She simply crosses her arms. “And you look … unscathed.”
He smiles, thinking she meant it as a compliment. “I know how to bail, unlike this guy.” He tilts his head toward me.
“Good for you,” she says as she brushes past him.
“You could still give me mouth-to-mouth though,” he calls after her.
She glances back with disgust before jogging to Hendrix. A small part of me wonders if she thinks of saving me with that same repulsion.
I try to step around Colm. I’m not a talker in general. Ditters though, I’ve always tried to ignore.
Yet, like always, he engages me all the same. “Did you just get out of the Walshes’ truck?” He laughs. “Didn’t know breaking your arm meant you’d have to work with the bottom of the food chain.”
Like always, I want to punch him. I also want to iterate the Walshes are coppers, still way above average when compared to the majority of the population.
But that further feeds into hierarchy and implies that if they were iron-crafters I’d have to accept the insult.
Accept that Farren Walsh is beneath me when in truth she’s better than us both.
Compassionate instead of conceited, caring instead of callous or cold.
“Seems like you should be more worried about yourself right now.”
Colm glances at Hendrix. “Yeah, it sucks. I was training him on tight turns and his wing gave out. Luckily, I did bail, or it would have been the two best riders out for the season.”
I only glare and bump his shoulder as I pass. He’s delusional if he thinks he’s even second best.
As I near Hendrix, I realize what I should have asked in the truck. What am I supposed to do, because Dr. Walsh and Farren work as a perfect team. Farren calls out Hendrix’s heart rate and pupil dilation. Dr. Walsh examines the shoulder blades, the point that bows unnaturally.
Any suggestion or offer to help feels like an intrusion. So, I stand and watch.