When Dealing with Dragons

Chapter One. When You Save the Boy You Hate from Certain Death

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN YOU SAVE THE BOY YOU HATE FROM CERTAIN DEATH

FARREN

It was never my intention to be in the business of saving lives, much less responsible for the well-being of dragon riders. I much prefer treating and rescuing dragons over spotting a racing tournament. But alas, here I am, embarking on another long, grueling day on the Murphy racing tracks.

Summer has announced its arrival with a sweltering afternoon.

The heat hasn’t deterred an audience though.

As I dart from the dressing rooms and to my father’s evaluation station to offer a helping hand, swells of people churn in the opposite direction toward their arena seats.

The fifty-foot-high stone columns encircling the placid lake are filling up fast.

Forsen isn’t known for its fashion, but on a racing day that all changes.

A few thousand spectators, about half of the population, journey to the town’s outskirts to make a day of the event.

Trinkets of metal in the form of hair clips, belts, and thick necklaces adorn every attendee.

Bright fabrics flutter around me, the crowd matching their favorite Sprinter’s scales.

Someone bumps me hard enough to jostle my glasses.

“Sorry,” I apologize on reflex, but they’re long gone.

I’m just glad it’s not one of my many classmates here for the last race of the season to fawn over—I mean cheer on—the few riders who can compete at the championship level.

Unless a dragon is by my side to remind people I’m that odd rural dragon sanctuary girl, I’m pretty good at anonymity.

Pretending I’m normal. Pretending I’m something I’m not.

Suddenly, the crowd parts and for a moment of delighted surprise I don’t question it, surging forward. Then I see why.

James Murphy and Colm Ditters head this way.

At first glance, one might assume it’s Colm who’s most popular and controls the dragon races.

He’s tall, blond, and boasts a pair of piercing blue eyes.

But if you look closer, everything revolves around James, all eyes on him, flattery thrown like rose petals.

James is broad and stocky, aka perfectly built for dragon racing. Your standard slab of handsome according to other girls our year, but I don’t see how he’s attractive. He’s ugly on the inside and that’s what counts. Actually, more than counts, if you ask me.

I’m not one of his fans.

And right now, I’m faltering, wanting to melt into the throng of people making way for him like he’s a king. But they’ve already seen me, and Colm Ditters nods in greeting. “Hey, Farren, your ears burning? We were just talking about you.”

No doubt an unflattering comment. In fact, I’d rather not know. But curiosity toils deep in my chest. “That’s surprising.” I glance at James. “Murphy talking, that is.”

Colm laughs and nudges his friend like I’ve said the funniest thing.

Typically, James only talks to me to critique my crafting, but that’s at school.

At tournaments he ignores me completely, won’t even glance my way.

However, deep brown eyes fix on me now, and even with an unreadable expression, his discontent at my joke is still somehow palpable.

“We’re making bets on which one of you will win the all-around scholarship for Revers. Want in?” Colm smirks and I know the next words are only going to be worse. “If you bet on James at least you could win some money for tuition.”

Damn, that stings. It’s also nonsensical. No one would bet on me. Everyone knows I’m a copper-crafter. He’s a silver-crafter. If everyone agrees on the victor there is no bet, and moreover, no pot to earn from.

James must notice the illogical suggestion too because he says, “Someone would have to think she’d win for that to work.” A second later he flinches like he’s startled himself. “I mean—”

“We all understand what you meant.” I push past them, but then stop, spinning back.

“I don’t need your money.” A wild thing to say standing among the grand opulence of Murphy wealth.

Heck, any way I turn lies another facet of their fortune.

Dragon stalls to my left, training facilities to my right, then his mansion over my shoulder sitting tall atop the hill, enveloped in silver.

And yet, I can’t walk away without telling him that.

James’s gaze sweeps over my brown riding leather and copper breastplate, a blatant but wordless reminder that I’m a Murphy employee today. An employee who wasn’t planning on turning down the end-of-day paycheck. My pride deflates. I’m such a fool.

Finished with his silent critique, James turns and reverts back to ignoring me.

Colm’s laugh echoes as my only answer. “Way to piss off one of the spotters. Better not bail out around her post or she’ll let you drown.

” He ribs James. “Seriously though, how do you not care that a Revers racing scout is here? You really want the all-around scholarship more than a spot on the riding team? Sometimes I don’t understand you. ”

I slow to catch James’s answer, interest clawing at me.

“It’s a good opportunity,” he says, stoic as ever.

It’s the same answer he gave me two years ago when I interrogated him myself.

When I stormed up to him at school and—oh this is embarrassing—almost cried.

Right when I’d confirmed the rumor of his application, I knew my chances had plummeted—like my heart does now.

To win the all-around scholarship we must be proficient in all four categories of dragon education: crafting, riding, training, and medicine.

But society revolves around crafting ability above all else.

It’s hard not to when dragon metal and crafters’ ability to manipulate it has seeped into every part of life—housing, medicines, and even our clothing.

Once I only disliked the dragon riders, James lumped in as their leader. Now, I hate him in particular. Someone would have to think she’d win. There is self-confidence, there is arrogance, and then there is whatever awful combination James Murphy exudes.

I cut through the dirt of the training fields and the hordes of people still filing in and find my father inspecting a bronze-metaled Sprinter. One thing about summer sunshine, it sure makes a dragon’s metal glow.

“What’s the matter?” Dad asks with one look at me.

I adjust the copper breastplate as if tightening the metal around my torso can contain and hide all my insecurities. “Nothing.”

“Want to help me with check-in evaluations? I could use my best assistant.” He grins.

“I’ve told you that joke is getting old.”

His grin widens. “Best and only don’t always mean the same thing—”

“But in your case, they do,” I finish for him.

My father is so sappy. And I love him so much.

For the next hour the world rotates back to its usual tilt.

My father, the greatest dragon veterinarian in all of Forsen, and I, his only assistant, taking care of these magnificent animals together. Old hay musk, lizard breath, and all.

Of course, there is no escaping James Murphy forever. He arrives like the rest of the riders, a Sprinter named Hort by his side.

He looks at me like he always does, as if holding in an insult.

I hold in my own choice words and greet James’s dragon instead.

Hort swings his crocodile eyes toward me and taps his feet in excitement like a toddler.

I smile at the contrast between rider and dragon.

When a thousand-pound creature is friendlier, you know you have problems. Dad and I go through the typical procedures.

Measuring him and then examining his wings, his joints, his teeth.

I even pull on the buckles of the saddle to make sure the leather straps are secure, but not too tight.

“He looks good, James. Like a champion. We just need to check his metal,” Dad announces.

James whistles, one high note. “Hort. Shield.” It’s always majestic watching a dragon transform.

Blink and you’ll miss it quick, silver metal jets out and coats every scale, a sheath of armored protection.

The once orange-scaled beast now stands before us as a wall of impenetrable metal.

Nothing can pierce dragon silver, except dragon silver.

And in this form, nothing could stop the dragon except a silver-crafter.

Every dragon can fortify themselves in a type of metal though.

It’s Hort’s perfect obedience that’s truly novel.

These two facts have never added up. James being decent enough to train such a well-behaved dragon.

And Hort actually liking James. That training didn’t come with a firm hand, but a loving one.

Unusual for a Sprinter placed in the races, pushed to rely on their fear.

While my dad examines Hort’s wings, I pat his neck before sliding down his side to feel each of his joints again.

I have to get down on all fours to check his claws and the underside of his feet.

If a scale, especially a metal scale, is growing oddly it can cause excruciating pain.

This means I’m on all fours right in front of James Murphy.

Normally, riders backstep and allow me room to work.

Not Murphy. Never Murphy. He’s a perpetual hoverer.

I refuse to look up, willing him away. “Excuse me.”

Instead of moving, James crouches beside me. Anyone else, and I’d assume it was concern for their dragon. But this is John Murphy’s son. So, I know what this is—questioning my competence.