1. Arthur #3
Caliban appeared a moment later, his dark hair perfectly in place, his striking features schooled in that ever-present composed expression, his stance saying he was ready for anything.
He wore the same tailored coat he preferred for travel, the one reinforced with fireproof lining.
The scar along his left hand caught the light from the lamps, a quiet reminder of the oath he had taken for my family.
He carried calm the way other men carried their wallets—without thought and always available when needed.
“Alpha,” he said. “You seem distressed. Should I prepare medical supplies or emotional support?”
“Neither.”
“Emotional support, then.”
“No.”
“Very well. Understood.” A pause, then Caliban said, under his breath, “Definitely emotional support.”
I refused to acknowledge it, though that strategy had never once discouraged him.
“You need to see something,” I said, pulling the compendium toward me.
Caliban stepped to my side without hesitation. He had been beside me for as long as I could remember. My father had hired him as my steward when I was a child, though he’d been my guard and instructor as well.
He had been the one to walk beside me through lessons I did not excel at and navigated the silences my father did not know how to bridge. When my father’s expectations became too heavy, Caliban absorbed what he could without comment.
My father trusted him in ways he had never trusted me. I had learned to live with that.
Mostly.
After my father died, Caliban did not leave, even though his contract had been with my father and not with me.
He did not offer platitudes or attempt to manage my grief.
He simply remained. He took over what needed doing when I could not do them.
He stood watch when I could not sleep. He learned my routines before I realized they had changed.
He was the closest thing to a brother I would ever have, and I respected him fiercely.
I tapped the entry in the compendium. “Caballero was granted direct access to dragon leaders. He was the last human to have had that kind of access to our world. This man documented our bloodlines, migration patterns, and the magical decay. We should have traced this sooner.”
To my irritation, Caliban was typing on his new phone.
“Caliban,” I said. “I am explaining something important.”
“I’m listening.”
“You are typing.”
“I’m gathering information. I can type and listen at the same time.”
I stared. He kept scrolling.
My father would have confiscated the device and said it was evidence of intellectual laziness and an affront to discipline itself.
Caliban had only recently purchased the phone and appeared to be acclimating to it through full-time immersion.
He was always on it, reading articles, watching short videos, and scrolling through social media—whatever that was supposed to be.
He absorbed information at an alarming rate and occasionally supplied me with facts I hadn’t requested, facts which usually dealt with human celebrities.
I had yet to identify their strategic value.
I had purchased myself a phone as well, and I still resented how useful it was. Questions that once required weeks of research now resolved themselves in seconds. It was annoyingly inconvenient.
Then, Caliban read in his even tone: “Cristóbal Caballero. Historian. Known for Recopilación de Linajes de Dragones Notables de este Milenio. A detailed record of dragon bloodlines. Nearly all copies were destroyed. One lost in a printing house fire. Two seized during political unrest in Europe. One vanished in America during a moral panic.”
My chest tightened. “How do you know that?”
Caliban lifted the phone. “I Googled it.”
“You Googled it.”
“Yes.”
“You searched for a dragon compendium on a human search engine?”
“Yes.”
I would need to revisit several strongly held opinions. I had no words.
He continued. “It appears one copy survived. It is held by a public institution.”
My heart pounded with the force of the revelation. “Where?”
Caliban turned the screen so I could see.
Tarrytown Public Library. Rare Books Room. Special Collections.
Artemis Ripley, Head Librarian.
A human public library. My father would have said that was an invitation to catastrophe.
There it was. My answer. My direction. My next step.
Caliban frowned at his screen. “Huh.”
“What,” I said.
“Justin Timberlake is canceling his world tour.”
I blinked. “Is that relevant?”
“No,” he said. “But humans are reacting strongly. I’m attempting to understand morale.”
I moved to the door without commenting on that.
Caliban followed. “Be careful of the weather. There’s a lot of lightning tonight.”
“I will be.”
“No, you won’t,” he said. “You never are.”
He was correct. I resented that.
My irritation only fueled the energy surging through me. As soon as I stepped out onto the terrace, I shifted. My body strengthened into its true form, wings opening with clean force. The fall wind hit my scales, and the cold gave me clarity.
I launched myself into the air.
Ahead, the human world waited. My father would have hated me going there.
But my destination was clear.
My future waited in a small library on the east coast of America.