Chapter 10 #2
This one is a red, its burnished scales glowing in the mellow light of the early-evening sun.
The flap of its gargantuan wings creates a gale that blows my hair back, and the ropes attached to its tethers snap and strain.
The air becomes noticeably hotter the closer to the paddock I draw; the dragon stamps its foot and snorts, emitting small licks of flame from each nostril.
I have to admit—it’s actually kind of…majestic?
Harrisford hasn’t noticed me yet. He’s with Danny Wong and three others—one of the myth.creat vets, and two other strangers who I presume are vet nurses. All of them are wearing enormously thick leather gloves and steel-capped work boots.
The supervising vet watches from the sidelines, arms folded.
Meanwhile, the others are stationed in the four corners of the paddock, each holding the end of one rope.
The dragon continues to flap its wings, rising and sinking with the movement, but its restraints stop it from flying off.
I lean my elbows on the fence, one foot propped on the stile, and take a moment to observe, with both personal and academic interest, the intricate knots the veterinary students have tied.
There is no way that dragon is escaping tonight, and for that I am very thankful.
Eventually, Harrisford gives a shout, and all four ropes slacken. He’s obviously been assigned as the lead student for this particular case.
The humans slowly let the dragon down, allowing it to descend, until finally it hits the ground with a judder. Carefully, Harrisford approaches the beast, inspecting a neat line of sutures beneath its wing.
Even though we have spells for healing, we still need to use sutures for severe lacerations.
Just-healed skin remains fragile for days—stitching a wound closed allows it to heal without re-tearing.
Plus, in a mobile place like beneath a wing, the tension on the skin is even greater, the risk of wound breakdown too high to leave the healing solely to magic.
Harrisford spends a long time poking and prodding at the wound and muttering to himself. Once he’s satisfied, he nods and signals to the others.
“She’s healing well,” he says to his assistants, then taps the dragon on the rump. “Take her back to the stables; then you’re free to go.” The nurses slip all but one of the ropes off the dragon, then begin leading her away.
Harrisford confers with his supervisor briefly. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but based on Harrisford’s expression I can guess the subtext. When they break apart, the supervisor claps him on the back before walking away.
I check my strap and grimace. It was as I guessed: Harrisford got full marks for this case, which means he’s drawn even with me.
“Nice job, mate,” Danny says. “Keep doing what you’re doing, and that Ministry job is yours.” He slings an arm around Harrisford’s shoulders before ruffling up his hair. Harrisford bats him away, grinning. I exhale forcefully through my nose, my jaw clenching.
Harrisford isn’t getting that job. I am.
I haven’t quite hidden my irritation when Danny finally spots me. “All right, Gwendolynne?” he booms, flashing me a smile, dimples blooming in his round face.
“Hiya, Danny,” I say, trying to smooth away my scowl. Danny is a right idiot, but at least he’s always been kind. Not like Harrisford-fucking-Briggs.
As though he’d just noticed me, Harrisford finally looks up.
Pointedly, he turns to face me and tugs off his gloves—first one, then the other.
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, and I glare right back.
All of the warm feelings I’d gleaned from watching the dragon have fully dissipated, and now I’m just annoyed.
Danny looks between me and Harrisford, the smile dying on his lips, before saying, “Well, see ya, then,” and speeding off.
“Late again, Chan?” Harrisford calls, tucking his gloves into a pocket of his coveralls. With the dexterity of someone who has done this many times before, he swipes a rope off the ground and begins to rapidly wind it.
My scowl deepens. I have a good excuse, but it’s not my place to tell Harrisford about Conall Peters’s grief. “You weren’t even done here, anyway.”
He looks up and cocks one eyebrow, still working on coiling the rope. “What if I was hoping to show off to you a little?”
I press my lips together and look away. I’m trying not to notice how the navy coveralls strain against his broad shoulders or how his hair is all sweaty and damp and plastered to his head. “I think I saw enough,” I mutter. Cocky bastard.
He doesn’t respond, just returns his attention to the rope. When I look at him again, he’s grinning.
“How are we getting to your place, anyway?” A breeze dances across my skin, ruffling my hair.
He tosses the coiled ropes into a large crate on my side of the fence and then climbs over right where I’m standing, forcing me to shuffle sideways. I sigh. Why do men like Harrisford always have to take up so much space?
Hefting the crate into his arms, Harrisford starts toward the building, which houses upward of a dozen of the world’s most dangerous monsters. From within its concrete confines, chains jangle, wings rustle, and there’s the occasional whooshing sound of fire.
“We’re going to fly,” he says, not looking at me.
Reflexively, I reach out and grab him by the arm, my fingers digging into hard muscle. “Fly?”
He stops, then jerks his chin at the building full of dragons, which is apparently our destination. “Yes, Chan. Fly.”
“Oh no,” I say, backing up and crossing my arms tight across my chest. There’s absolutely no way I’ll be entering that stable.
Sure, dragon-riding is a common enough transport method—but not for me.
I’m not even comfortable going too near a dragon, let alone riding one.
Watching from a distance, with a fence between us, is close enough, thank you. “No, no, no. Not that. Anything but—”
“We don’t have a choice.” Harrisford’s growing frustration is evident. “I don’t own a car, and since we’re planning to sneak into my father’s study, I can’t exactly borrow his.”
“Then we’ll catch the train!”
“The train!” He has the audacity to look horrified. “Listen, Chan.” He sets the crate down, rubs his face with both hands, then spreads them wide. “We can’t take a car. Trains are filthy and take too long. It’s either a dragon or my bike.”
I’ve seen Harrisford speeding out the gates on his motorbike before, trails of dust suspended in his wake. I try to picture myself perched behind him, my arms wrapped around his middle. My hands gripping his firm abs and my face pressed against his back.
A shudder rolls right through me.
Then again, even on a dragon we’d have to be wedged up close. At least, though, the trip would be over quicker. Chewing my lip furiously, I finally concede defeat.
“Fine, I’ll ride the bloody dragon,” I mutter, stalking toward the stables, not bothering to check if he is following.
Harrisford dumps the crate full of ropes inside the stable office, pulls off his boots, then proceeds to peel off his coveralls.
Beneath them he’s wearing one of his signature white linen shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, leather braces, and a pair of beige riding jodhpurs that hug his muscular backside distressingly well.
Thankfully, I only catch a glimpse of these clothes for a second before he throws his travel cloak on over the top.
He frowns at my skirt as he does up the clasp at the neck. “I thought I told you to dress warm,” he says, his tone disapproving.
Irritation rakes its way through me. “I brought a coat.”
“Yes, but…” With one hand, he gestures vaguely in the direction of my bare legs.
My gut clenches, and I tug my skirt down. “Well, I wasn’t exactly aware we’d be riding a fucking dragon, was I?” Now that I’m here, I regret not wearing trousers. What if my skirt rides up? What if he sees the scars on my legs?
Harrisford yanks his boots back on more forcefully than is necessary—his right first, then his left. “Believe me,” he mutters, lacing them. “I am acutely aware of that.”
When he’s dressed, he opens the gate to a pen with a creak. I peer into the darkness. A standard green dragon—I mean, a standard dragon—crouches in the corner, its fire-filled eyes glinting.
“This is Arkany,” Harrisford says, as though introducing his skittish nemesis to one of the college dragons is a normal, everyday occurrence.
“Arki for short. She’s one of the most placid dragons at Seamere.
” He’s already altogether much too close to the beast, stroking the leathery scales of her neck.
Placid? My heart is bashing itself against my ribs so hard that I’m quite sure she can hear it. “Hello, Arkany,” I recite obediently.
There’s a long pause before Harrisford hisses out the side of his mouth. “Chan! Where are your manners? Introduce yourself back!”
“Oh,” I stammer, my face flushing. “I—I’m Gwendolynne Chan.”
Using the supernumerary claws on her wings, Arkany toes her way forward, her snout raised high in the air. She turns her head sideways, appraising me with one of her reptilian eyes, then lets out a little puff of smoke.
Harrisford beckons me over. I creep forward so slowly I may as well be staying still.
When I’m finally close enough to feel the heat radiating from Arkany’s skin, I hesitate, hovering about a meter away, clutching my coat to my chest. My legs are trembling so hard they feel like they’re about to collapse, and patches of sweat are gathering at my armpits.
Reaching out, Harrisford places a hand on the small of my back—surprisingly gently—and draws me even closer.
I stumble a little, resisting weakly, until we’re both standing right by the dragon, our bodies flush.
Harrisford is much taller than me, so my eyeline is somewhere at his upper chest. And it makes absolutely no fucking sense, but Harrisford’s heat through his clothes feels even warmer than the actual dragon.
“It’s the same principle as approaching a unicorn,” he says, his voice low, and he’s close enough that his breath stirs the fine, loose wisps of my hair.
“If you stand closer to them, it’s actually safer.
” He pats one of the dragon’s powerful hind legs, which is unnervingly close to my face.
“See? If she kicks you, it will have less power behind it. It’ll do significantly less damage. ”
Briefly, I consider asking him to define significantly and less damage, but then think better of it. Honestly, it’s probably best that I don’t know.
Instead, I raise one skeptical eyebrow at him. “You say that as though I regularly associate with unicorns.”
Harrisford chuckles, turning to me. “Come. We’ve no time to waste. I’ll give you a hand up.”
Awkwardly, I clamber onto the dragon’s back.
Even with Harrisford pushing me from behind, it takes me three tries to swing my leg over; I’m pretty sure he cops an A-reserve, front-row view of my bum in the process.
Eventually, though, I’m stable enough to scramble forward and wedge myself in the furrow in front of Arkany’s wings.
Harrisford springs up infuriatingly easily and settles himself behind me. I can smell his cologne and a faint trace of sweat. I can feel the hard lines of his chest snug against my back and his hands palming my hips. Immediately, my pulse begins racing. My palms grow hot and horribly clammy.
How the hell am I going to hold on?
I don’t need to wonder for long, because the next moment Harrisford is winding his strong arms around my waist. Oh, I think, and my mind briefly goes blank.
Then, too soon, Arkany is lumbering forward, out of the open gate and into the warm summer eve. I suck in a sharp breath as the dragon crouches low, ready to take off, and Harrisford tightens his hold.
“Ready?” he says, the rumble of his voice tickling the back of my ear.
“No—” I start to say, but the dragon shoots into the sky, and my words are lost to the wind.