Chapter 15 Brynn #2
Another shrug. Her hair cascades over shoulders that seem more see-through than yesterday. Her once-vibrant red velvet dress looks like someone took an eraser to a painting. Faded. Worn out.
“Ezekiel and Angus?” I ask. “They make it?”
One curt nod. At least there's that.
I clear my throat. “So, um, thanks for the supernatural backup. Not that I'm complaining, but why pick the B-team Salem when Esme's the ghost whisperer extraordinaire?”
The words taste bitter. Like chewing aspirin. I'm so sick of being thought of by everyone as Salem Lite, the knockoff version you buy when the real deal's out of stock.
But by my ancestors, I'd give anything to have her annoying perfectionist ass back here right now.
It's weird—when she's around, I'm practically allergic to her presence.
Now? I keep turning to make some smartass comment and she's not there to roll her eyes at me.
Typical Esme, disappearing when I finally have something worth saying.
Helena just gives me that dead-person stare, her ghost-chest doing this fake-breathing thing as she eyeballs Hedder's crusty old journal. She's laser-focused on it, and not in a casual “oh neat, reading material” way.
“Okay, spill it. You didn't just materialize here for my sparkling personality, did you?”
She shakes her head, still fixated on the notebook.
“You've seen this before? Like, when you were alive-alive?”
A nod.
“You actually read this thing?”
Her whole ghost-vibe shifts. Her eyes go all soft and sad, like someone just kicked her spectral puppy. I mentally flip through my Salem family trivia cards.
“Wait a sec—holy crap. You and this Hedder chick were classmates at Darkbirch! You both fought in the Blood Wars!”
She jabs a translucent finger at the corner of the page.
“So if she's writing all this dragon fanfiction... she had an inside source, yeah?”
No answer, but her finger stays put, like she's trying to drill a hole through the paper.
I flip the page and nearly choke: actual notes on the dragons' exodus. The musty paper smell hits me like a caffeine shot, each whiff making the centuries-old ink dance.
“Dragons are worth saving,” Hedder writes.
I snort. Yeah, tell that to the Darkbirch elders.
“They're preceptors of knowledge, collectors of our world's greatest and most precious fortune.” Fancy way of saying book nerds with scales?
“Knowledge was always key to them, far beyond their physical capabilities. Their cities rose from mountains to skies. Their fires burned bright. Metal bowed to them. Wood turned to ashes. But it was their knowledge and dedication to preserving ancient texts that made them paramount to our existence.”
Helena hovers like the world's most faded photo filter. I can literally see the table through her now. Dust motes float through her translucent hair like tiny stars. She's going ghost-transparent, which is saying something since she's already, you know…
“This is frickin' gold,” I mutter. “Bet these pages haven't seen daylight since some librarian with a powdered wig shelved them.”
By noon, Chad finds me practically making out with the books. My stomach's performing its own death metal concert while my brain's buzzing like a live wire.
“You look like walking death,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me. His eyes flick to Helena. “She's barely there...”
“Yeah, fading fast,” I sigh. “Ghost-wrangling isn't exactly a sustainable energy practice after getting my ass handed to me last night.”
He actually snaps his fingers at Helena like she's some kind of spectral puppy. What a dick.
“Do that again and I'll hex your fingers together,” I warn him.
“Brynn, you need sleep.”
“And a cheeseburger.”
“We have training today. What am I supposed to do with you like this?”
I glare at him over a tower of ancient tomes. “I've been solving dragon mysteries while you were probably doing whatever it is pretty boys do in the morning. Moisturize?”
“Corvin said—”
I slam the book shut. “What’s Corvin’s number? I’ll talk to him. Make him understand I'm not his backup Esme.”
Chad's shoulders drop. “He's busy. Leading the search party for your sister and the dragon.” He leans in. “Spoiler alert: we really, really want that dragon.”
“Yeah. But they're wasting their time,” I say. “When a dragon wants to hide something? It's like trying to find my will to live on Monday mornings—completely freaking impossible.”
“That's... depressing.”
I wave my hand, and Helena's ghost dissolves. Poor thing needs to recharge in whatever spooky green room ghosts hang out in. I should probably crash too, but my brain's still doing the hamster wheel thing. Plus, I need Chad. Ugh. Even thinking that makes me want to gargle bleach.
“So about last night,” I mutter, picking at a hangnail. “That Ezra creep would've turned me into a Salem kebab if you hadn't shown up. So... thanks. For saving my ass.”
Chad's eyebrow does that annoying sexy arch thing. “Trust me, Salem, that ass is worth saving.”
“Wow. Did you workshop that line, or does douchebaggery just come naturally to you?”
“Try thanking me and slapping me. See which feels better,” he says. “Though I doubt you could reach me in your condition.”
“You just love poking the bear, don't you, Valgrave?”
He plants his elbows on the table and does that thing where he stares at me like I'm some rare specimen he's dissecting. A sunbeam slices between us, lighting up his eyes—green with those… freaky red patches that vanish the second he leans back. Weird.
“You're a rage-monster with actual skills,” Chad says. “When you're pissed, you stop overthinking and just... execute. That's how badasses are born.”
“I'm not a badass. I'm the backup Salem. The store-brand version.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Finding Esme is the priority, not playing pretend-Esme in some trials we all know I'll bomb spectacularly.”
“Fair. But how exactly are you gonna find her when entire teams couldn't?”
I shove the ancient notebooks toward him. “These bad boys. Dragon disappearance journals, circa old-as-dirt. And guess what? I found a pattern.”
“Brynn Salem and her patterns.” Chad rolls his eyes. “Enlighten me.”
“Some Darkbirch rebels were total dragon fanboys during the Blood Wars. They had this crazy idea we could all hold hands—darkbloods, clearbloods, dragons—and sing kumbaya.”
“Right. And unicorns shit rainbows.”
“Look, according to our crusty elders, yeah, it's delusional.
The whole 'eternal enemies' spiel. But before everything went to hell, dragons were our only problem child, and even that relationship was on-again-off-again.
We're all magical blood cousins or whatever. We all want the same crap—our land, our magic, basic existence rights. Nothing fancy.”
Chad's stomach growls. “Fascinating history lesson, but I'm starving. The cafeteria smelled like actual food, not ancient paper and your desperation.”
My own stomach betrays me with a matching rumble. “Gods, you're such a dick. Look, these dusty old rebels thought we could all play nice if we let the dragons be our referees.”
“The same fire-breathing lizards that burned half our ancestors?”
“Yeah, well, our hands aren't exactly clean. Remember Gold Mountain? We went full baby-snatcher on their eggs and hatchlings.”
Chad actually winces. “Fair point.”
“Wait—” Something clicks in my brain. “You said my ass was 'worth saving.'”
Chad's face does this confused puppy thing. “Um, yes? It's a quality ass.”
“No, you moron. Worth. Saving.” My fingers practically tear through pages until—“Got it! Listen: 'Dragons are worth saving, but must abandon their beloved skies. A sacrifice for survival. Mother Earth will welcome them, her heart of Draethys beating fiercely for her winged children.'”
“Heart of Draethys,” Chad echoes, suddenly not looking as hungry.
“Ring any bells?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Draethys. No.”
“I think it could be a real place… I’ve found a few more references to it from journals dating back from the same period. It’s described as some sort of haven. But it’s not above ground.”
Chad's brows furrow. “Underground?”
“Yeah, genius. As in not-in-the-sky. Dragons ditching their whole flying schtick. 'Deep in the bowels of the earth,'” I quote. “We could find this place. Tonight. Like, now-ish.”
“Brynn, the trials—”
“Screw the trials!” My voice cracks embarrassingly. I slam my palm on the table hard enough that dust puffs up from the ancient pages. “My sister is GONE. Jax is basically a vegetable. My mom's one bad day away from a total breakdown. And everyone's too busy playing war games to give a shit!”
Chad's face does this weird thing where he almost looks human. “Okay.”
“Look, I've got the brain cells for this mission. I can find this place. But I need...” I swallow my pride like a horse pill. “...backup.”
“You trust me?” His eyebrows shoot up like I just suggested we make out.
“Trust is a strong word. More like, (a) you kept me from becoming a Salem shish kebab last night, and (b) you're basically a cockroach—annoying as hell but surprisingly hard to kill.”
He freezes, processing.
“That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”
“Don't let it go to your head.”
“I grow on people.”
“Like a fungal infection, yeah.”
But here's the truth I'd rather die than admit: Chad's the only one who makes me feel like I might not totally suck at this whole darkblood thing.
He pushes all my buttons, but sometimes that's exactly what I need.
Our coven's too busy playing chess with my sister and her dragon boy to see what's right in front of them—we're all sick of this endless blood feud BS.
Maybe it's time someone tried to flip the damn table. Maybe that could be us.