Chapter Eight. When You Try to Save the Girl, but She Saves Herself #2
I don’t quite expect my father to greet me or be ecstatic I’m back after one day away, but his “Why have you come?” stings just the same.
However, I know the question is rhetorical.
The instant he looks away, he’ll have forgotten my existence.
One huge upside to the broken arm. Because if I’m not a rider, if I’m not training, then to him, there’s no point to me.
Dr. Walsh keeps his eyes on the flashing metal and arched back. Then he encircles Hendrix with a copper blade, poking his legs, his wings, his chest. No reaction.
“What happened?” Dr. Walsh calls out in his soft voice. “I was told it was a broken wing.”
Mr. Ditters, Colm’s father, steps forward. A bitter-faced man with enough etiquette and sense to fill a teaspoon. “We think it is.”
Dr. Walsh jerks like he’s been slapped. “It’s a broken back, Mr. Ditters.”
Colm’s dad has the audacity to look appalled. “Rounds out to be about the same thing, right?”
A deep frown marks Dr. Walsh’s face. Bex keeps roaring behind us. And dread churns in my stomach. This isn’t a 612. It’s a 912.
“What’s the verdict, Patrick,” my father asks. “Can it be saved?”
Dr. Walsh rubs his face. “I’m sorry, John. He’s paralyzed from the neck down. This dragon will never be able to fly again.”
My dad stands quiet and it feels like we all hold our breath. Or maybe that’s just me, knowing his next words dictate Hendrix’s fate. “Death then.”
“I’m sorry. It’s—”
Dad interrupts Dr. Walsh with a raise of his hand. Then he shouts in the other direction. “Scalers, now. Prepare this animal.”
A chill runs through me, cold and hollow.
Scalers are the horrid name for the horrid men at my father’s disposal who craft off the metal-plated scales of a dragon, alive or dead.
But I know my father. I glance at Farren caressing Hendrix’s head.
At each soft calming brush Hendrix’s silver withdraws, revealing his once brilliant orange.
My father will make the scalers do the opposite.
The awfulness of it all pounds behind my eyes.
Hendrix will know only torture in his last moments.
“You,” my father snaps at Farren. “Stop! I refuse to let that dragon die uselessly.”
Realization hits Farren a beat later. “No. Please. He’s already scared and in so much pain. There’s plenty of silver. Don’t torture him for a few more pounds.”
Dad appears downright perplexed. A few pounds of silver could feed a family of four for a year. He can’t comprehend her, let alone her resolve. “You know nothing of business, girl.”
Farren stands, spine straight, so goddamn confident. “And you, nothing of compassion.”
I ready myself to jump in front of Farren, to take the blow that would surely come if I said something even half as brazen, or true.
My father advances forward as I do the same. Mr. Ditters scuttles in between, oblivious to the tension. Teaspoon-like behavior. “John, I expect this to be marked as an accident and Colm will be getting another silver Sprinter for the upcoming season.”
The face my father offers is abhorrence personified. “Mr. Ditters, if I remember correctly, the contract we signed mentioned renting only Hendrix…” His eyes flick to Colm. “On your son’s request.”
Mr. Ditters blusters. “At quite a hefty price, I’d say.
The insurance I never missed a payment on as well.
Promises of ranking at the championship level were discussed.
” The Ditters are a notorious bronze family, clawing their way up to silver.
They want so badly to be like the Moores, who jumped from copper to silver, it’s embarrassing to watch.
A championship title would ensure Colm and the future Ditter generations a seat at the figurative gluttonous table of the upper class.
“Your son will be lucky not to lose his flying license, Ditters. I don’t offer any more charity after that.” My father turns. “Where are my scalers? Get Art Whimbley out here now,” he yells.
Farren lurches toward her father with tears in her eyes. “You have to convince him. He’s still a baby.”
With a squeeze to her shoulders Dr. Walsh nods. “I’ll try, sweetheart. I’ll try.”
As the three vastly different men disappear into the training facility, I focus back on Farren. She falls to Hendrix’s side. With a howl of pain, Hendrix lays his head in Farren’s lap. I stand numb, trying not to cry, trying not to watch Hort’s brother struggle to breathe, but I can’t look away.
It’s an all-too-familiar scene, and how I first met Farren. We were twelve and she was calming a dragon as her father set his broken leg. And I stood there terrified and awestruck, fascinated by the veterinary profession, and my first crush.
I remember approaching her after and asking how she’d done it.
“Did what?”
Conquered your fear or not harbored any to begin with. But I couldn’t express myself. “The leg,” I’d sputtered.
“Well, I couldn’t just watch him be in pain, right? You can’t just watch.”
She’d known that even at twelve, and yet for so long I stood by passively. I watched. I’m not twelve anymore though. There’s no reason to stay and dwell in fear. There is no reason not to join her.
I take one step and silver flashes out of the corner of my eye.
Bex is done being held back. The trainers lose their grip on the harness and it’s over.
Bex spreads her wings and rises in the air, rage swirling in her eyes.
She pumps her wings once, twice, and then soars straight toward her son. Straight for Farren.
“Farren!” I yell. No, scream.
I raise a hand to craft, to push on Bex’s every metal-plated scale, but I don’t know if it will be enough. With a Sprinter’s speed and power stacked against me, I’m not sure any crafter would be enough.
Farren jerks at my warning, raises her hands in self-defense. Trainers scream out commands to no avail. Bex is a fury of fear and anguish, every scale spiked in the air. To her, Farren is a threat, hurting her baby. A threat she plans on neutralizing.
Crafting has always felt like struggling against an invisible barrier of weight.
Trying to stop Bex is like holding back two tons of that weight.
So, when I skid backward in the dirt, when my cast cracks, it makes sense.
It makes sense why I’m failing. Still, I use every ounce of muscle and power I have.
Bex keeps coming, jaws wide, teeth bared.
My heart pounds and hands tremble, and not just from the effort. This could be the end. This could be how we all die. I reach for a silver coin in my pocket, craft it into a long piercing shard. I don’t want to kill this dragon, but she’s not touching Farren.
I ready myself to throw even as I continue to be hurled back from crafting.
Then Bex halts midair like ropes tether her in place. Wings flap, neck strains, but she’s been stopped, controlled. I can feel myself crafting, but it’s wrong, not nearly enough pressure pushing back on me.
“Keep holding her, James,” a trainer shouts. I don’t know who because I’m only focused on one thing. And it’s not keeping the silver-plated Sprinter away from Farren like I had intended. Because I’m not doing anything.
She is.