Chapter Thirty. When You’re Metal Tested #2
Bex lashes out, jaws snapping as she tries to bite the rope closest to her shoulder. So aggressive. For once, I can empathize when my classmates tremble in fear about approaching a dragon.
Rohan jerks when Bex snaps again. “She broke her head harness. We are trying to get another one. For now, I don’t know how you’re getting close unless—” He spots James next to me. “Oh, good, you’re here. You can hold her like last time.”
“No need.” Dad interjects, stepping forward. “I have something better.”
“Better?” a cold familiar voice asks.
When Mr. Murphy floats toward us, fear spikes my heartbeat. The hairs on my arms rise even in the sweaty heat. You’d think he’d focus on my dad, or his literal son in any sort of welcome or recognition. No. His deep eyes shoot toward me.
My heartbeat pounds to a new rhythm. He knows. He knows. I was called here for one purpose. Maybe to be questioned. Definitely to be watched.
“Kids.” Dad nods to the trailer, ignoring Mr. Murphy’s question.
James turns to get Hort, and I do the same.
I need to get out of Mr. Murphy’s eyeline before he has his proof just from my reaction.
I’ve never been great at pretending, have I?
How does James stand it? As I meet James in the back of the trailer and his expression changes to concern, I realize.
He wears a mask. Dig deep and find your confidence and then carve that into who you are right now.
Wear the mask of the Farren who can do this.
“I hope this works,” James says more to himself than me.
He crafts the iron handle upward. Hort takes one look at James and tumbles from the trailer, happy to be free. His right wing is as heavily bandaged as when he first got to the sanctuary.
When Bex sees Hort, everything changes. Scales shift to orange, the common sign of de-escalation.
She squawks in recognition, in greeting.
Hort responds in kind, making me feel awful for keeping them apart all these weeks.
If I’ve learned anything with Nity and her hatchlings, dragons are much more family focused than most trainers or researchers discuss.
Or maybe it’s a purposefully neglected area of study.
“I think we can untie her,” Dad says.
Rohan’s mouth drops open in shock, but my focus remains on Mr. Murphy, who narrows his eyes. “We have a trainer who might not make it, Patrick. Bex stays restrained.”
Hort nuzzles himself under Bex’s chin, carving out as much space as he can.
The reunion is heartbreaking enough without the ropes, but when Hort can’t get fully under her, Bex cries out, an explosion of grief.
The sound vibrates through me, bone-chilling pain.
I look at James. His mask slips, stoic indifference replaced with anguish.
“James,” Dad calls, with a waving hand. “We’ll take her vitals first.”
As James steps forward, I step back. A wrongness fills me even at the simple action.
“And Farren.” Dad turns. “Can you check the other dragons? Alert us if you see any signs of lethargy.”
“On it.” If Bex wasn’t diagnosed just from her reaction to Hort, my mission would be more than necessary.
I head to the caged stalls, glad my father was smart enough to give me a job, glad to get away.
We don’t want questions of why I’m not assisting.
I’ve been helping my father measure heart rates since I was twelve.
The issue emerges when I spot the first dragon, a bronze Sprinter, sheeted in metal scales. Typically, this could be a sign of pain, of sickness. That’s the problem with raising dragons in this environment. We can’t accurately determine a dragon in real physical pain versus emotional turmoil.
One by one, as I walk down the alleyway of barred enclosures, dragons release their metal.
Wings twinge and horned heads shake. It’s like I’m the devil by their reactions.
Which in itself is heartbreaking, but I don’t see any dragon laying still.
Some pace, another indication of anxiety, of a too-small space and lack of stimuli. Yet no one seems sick.
As I’m turning down the next row of enclosures, a slice of metal shoots at me in my peripheral. It’s fast, a flash. So quick my instincts kick in, I craft whatever was flying toward my head to the ground. An arrow-like piece of bronze glares back at me.
I look up to meet Mr. Murphy’s piercing eyes, most of him covered in shadow. He just … he just crafted that toward me. Which means he either felt confident enough in his assertion of what I am or he didn’t care if I lay here bleeding. Shock glues me to the spot. I don’t know what to do.
Next he pulls out a silver scale. A few twitches of his fingers and he’s carved it into another arrow-shaped projectile.
“What are you doing?” My voice is a shaking whisper. “Trying to kill me?”
He steps closer. “Nothing more than a crafting test, girl. I’d have stopped it in time from doing any real damage. But I had to be certain.”
I’ve never heard of crafting tests being so extreme. But I can’t exactly call him out on his bullshit, having myself avoided metal registration for over a year now. It doesn’t matter anyway, my racing heart yells. He knows. You’ve given him proof.
“Have you been using Hort to advance yourself?” Mr. Murphy’s words are like acid on metal. “Stealing silver?” You’d think he was confronting a murderer the way he spits his accusation.
“No. I—”
“I could have you arrested and put your whole family under investigation.”
Fear chokes any possible retort. He approaches like he’s going to grab my arm, drag me out of here and straight to a police station. I shrink back into the wall. What can I do? What can I say?
Suddenly, James pushes his way between us. I’ve no idea how he got here. How he knew to come. Relief floods me though at his presence, at not being alone. “I’ve been teaching her,” he shouts, no hesitation, just like he’d promised.
Mr. Murphy wavers like he needs to be sure he heard right. “You’ve what?” he says, soft and firm. Somehow, it’s scarier than shouting.
“I’ve taught her how to craft bronze,” James dares to repeat. He lifts his chin higher, defiant. “And silver.”
I hold my breath. That is until James’s father pulls back a hand and hits James across his face. Then I scream.