Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Draco
Two months after the world learned my name, I find Charity standing in her workshop—the real one she rented in Brooklyn, bigger than our apartment.
It has proper ventilation and industrial equipment.
In an unexpected display of grudging support, her parents had all her sculptures and equipment shipped over to the new workshop.
I wondered if they just wanted to get rid of the evidence of their daughter doing dirty work like welding, even though it served them well when she donated pieces that put them in the charitable limelight.
The dragon sculpture dominates the space, eight feet of steel courage towering over us both.
"I want to donate it," she says without preamble. "It won’t fit in our apartment, and I don’t want to hoard a dragon." She laughs. Goddess, will I ever tire of hearing her happiness? "I want to give it away."
"Where?" I ask. The look on her face tells me she's already decided.
"There's a women's shelter in Brooklyn. They help survivors of domestic violence rebuild their lives.
They're opening a new community center next month, and they want art that represents strength and courage.
Art that says you can be fierce, you can protect yourself, you can take flight.
" She touches one of the steel scales. "I want them to have this.
I want women who are finding their own strength to see it and know that sometimes the most dangerous thing you can be is brave enough to leave, but sometimes being brave means fighting back.
The dragon symbolizes both choices. One thing is clear–you can become the dragon instead of the maiden. "
The sculpture glints in the afternoon light—wings half-unfurled, ready to either fight or fly. My name made solid. But more than that: her understanding of what it means to survive.
"It's perfect," I say.
"I thought so too." She turns to face me, and there's something mischievous in her expression. "But I'm not done with dragons."That's when I notice the workbench behind her, draped with a canvas cloth.
"I made something else," she says, pulling away the covering.
It's a dragon. Smaller—maybe eighteen inches tall, perfectly balanced on its hind legs. Same fierce expression, same half-unfurled wings, same promise of protection and flight. But scaled down, intimate. Personal.
"For us," she says. "The big one needs to go protect others. But I wanted one that stays home. One that reminds us where we came from and who we fought to become. Every time we leave, we remember we're brave enough to face the world. Every time we come home, we remember we're safe here."
I pick it up carefully. It's lighter than it looks, every scale individually welded, every claw articulated with impossible precision.
"It's incredible," I manage. "Both of them. The gift and the one that will have a place of honor in our home forever."
"Courage given and courage kept," she agrees. "That's what dragons do, right? They hoard what matters."
We arrange the donation that afternoon. The shelter director cries when she sees the massive sculpture.
News crews pick up the installation—“Anima Ventis Donates Major Sculpture to Brooklyn Women’s Shelter.
” Reporters quote her saying, “This piece represents what our residents are becoming—fierce, protective of themselves and each other, ready to take flight into new lives.” Charity watches the coverage curled against my side, and I feel her chest rise and fall with steady breaths.
"No regrets?" I ask.
"None." She looks up at me. "I made it for you before I knew you. Now it gets to protect other people. That feels right."
The small dragon sits on our bookshelf by the apartment door now. Lucky has already claimed the space near it as his favorite napping spot, like he knows it's meant to guard us.
Small but fierce. Protecting our castle in its own way.
Four months later, I'm standing on a glass platform suspended thirty feet above a museum floor, and I've never felt more alive.
The coin rolls across my knuckles—flash, vanish, return.
Old habit. The crowd below murmurs, expensive jewelry catching the gallery lights.
I palm the coin and let it disappear, then pull it from behind the ear of the museum staffer standing three feet away from me on the platform. Gasps ripple through the audience.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I call, my voice carrying through the vaulted space. "Two thousand years ago, I learned magic to survive. Tonight, I perform it because I choose to."
I'm wearing black leather pants and a fitted shirt that cost less than what most of these people spend on shoelaces.
No tux, no bow tie. Just me, exactly as I am.
The event coordinator tried to argue, but Charity shut that down fast. "He's not your trained monkey.
He's the best street magician in New York, and you're lucky to have him. "
Damn right.
The platform begins to rotate, controlled by cables I rigged myself.
Below, Charity's sculpture dominates the center of the gallery—a massive piece of flowing metal that seems to defy physics, titled "Awakening.
" When the light hits it right, you can see wind patterns frozen in steel.
The museum purchased it for six figures.
My woman doesn't mess around.
I catch her eye from across the room. She's wearing a dress the color of deep wine, fitted at the top and flowing at the bottom, her platinum hair swept up to show the curve of her neck.
She's learned to stand differently these past six months—shoulders back, chin up.
Not the nervous heiress who found me hiding in her cottage. This woman owns her space.
She winks at me. I nearly drop the coin.
"For my next illusion," I continue, recovering smoothly, "I'll need absolute silence."
The crowd obliges. Even the society vultures who initially called us a scandal now hang on every word. Funny how respect works—turns out you just have to stop caring if they give it.
I produce a silk scarf from nothing, letting it float between my hands. The ancient skills I learned from Titus in Rome's slums, refined with years of muscle memory. Below, I spot movement at the gallery entrance. My stomach tightens.
Mr. and Mrs. Pembroke have arrived.
They haven't seen Charity in six months. Not since the interview in People where Charity calmly explained to a national audience that she'd been raised as a replacement for a dead sister and it nearly destroyed her. It got a lot of media attention. Her parents didn't call.
I make the scarf ignite in mid-air—flash paper, perfectly timed—and the crowd gasps. Through the smoke, I watch Charity's parents scan the room. They're dressed as if they're attending a funeral, all black and pearls and disapproval.
Then, they see the sculpture. See the placard: "Awakening" by Charity Pembroke, also known as Anima Venti.
Mrs. Pembroke's hand goes to her throat.
I finish the performance with my signature move—escaping from a locked box while suspended upside down. The crowd erupts in applause. I take my bow from the platform, then rappel down the cables because stairs are boring.
By the time I reach Charity, she's already moving toward her parents. I fall into step beside her, close enough to intervene if needed but letting her lead. This is her fight.
"Mother. Father." Her voice is steady, professional. The way she'd address any gallery patron. "Thank you for coming."
"Charity." Her mother's tone is strained. "We didn't realize you'd be… displaying your work publicly."
"Under my own name?" Charity's smile is sharp. "Yes. Turns out 'Anima Venti' was good for mystery, but Charity Pembroke is better for business. My agent says I'm booked through next year."
"Your agent," Mr. Pembroke repeats flatly. His eyes drift to me, dismissive. Then they catch on my hand resting at the small of Charity's back. Protective, possessive. "Still with the… performer."
"Draco," I supply helpfully. "We've met. Several times, actually."
"Yes." He doesn't elaborate.
An awkward silence stretches. A waiter passes with champagne, and Mrs. Pembroke takes a glass like she needs it to survive. Her gaze lands on Charity's dress, and something flickers in her expression.
"That's a beautiful gown, dear. Is it… new?"
"From a thrift shop in Brooklyn." Charity smooths the fabric, and I feel pride swell in my chest. She looks like a goddess in that dress, and she found it for forty dollars. "This one actually suits me. Better than the clothes you used to dress me up in like a doll."
The words land like stones in still water. Mrs. Pembroke's face pales.
"Charity, we only wanted—"
"What was best for me?" Charity's voice stays level, but there's steel underneath. "Or what was best for you? What looked right to your friends? What helped you pretend Grace never existed?"
I see Mr. Pembroke flinch. The name hits him hard.
"We loved your sister," he says quietly.
"I know." Charity's expression softens, just slightly. "But you never let yourselves love me. Not as Charity. Only as Grace's replacement."
The Roman coin walks across my knuckles—nervous habit. I still, forcing my hand to be calm. This isn't about me. This is Charity stepping into her power, and my job is to stand here and radiate support.
Mrs. Pembroke's eyes are shining with unshed tears. "We thought keeping her room exactly as she left it would honor her memory. But we never talked about her, never grieved properly. We just… froze that day along with her room."
"You turned me into the shrine instead." Charity's not angry anymore, just honest. "Every piano lesson, every society event, every 'perfect daughter' performance—it was all for her. Never for me."
"You seemed so content," her father says, and he actually sounds confused. Like he genuinely believed the performance.