by Amparo Ortiz
Ten minutes later, President Turner announces the end of the press conference. I’m whisked offstage alongside my teammates. President Turner and Manny whisper something to each other, probably about the Fade or the ring of fire. Then the president tells us, “Congratulations on advancing to the semifinals!” He leads the way back to the box seats.
My team’s victory is the talk of the town when we arrive. Even Onesa comes over to hug us one by one, congratulating us with more grace than I’ll ever have. “You were smart to run when I wasn’t looking. You wouldn’t have won otherwise,” she says with a wink.
“That’s the truest thing anyone’s said to me in my whole life,” I say.
“I’m glad. Remember that forever.”
She moves on to Héctor. They start chatting while I scoot away to the staircase.
Andrew watches me from the room’s topmost area, where the catering tables have been placed. He’s snatching a bottle of water without breaking eye contact, like he’s egging me on. We haven’t spoken since our post-Sire-message conversation. When his team won their Round of Sixteen match against Portugal, Andrew had high-fived everyone except for me. He’s also been MIA from BlazeReel Live. I don’t know if I’m to blame, but all signs point to probably.
He takes a swig of water and looks past the glass, where the field is being prepped for his match in a few hours. There’s something heartbreaking about the way he’s forcing his gaze elsewhere. How he’s ignoring the girl who promised her support and ended up shunning him.
Sorry, Andrew. I have bigger things to worry about than your bruised ego.
His team gets called to the field, along with Team Egypt.
He runs off to play a game he doesn’t even want to play anymore.
AFTER THREE AND A HALF HOURS, ANDREW PUNCHES THE IRON Scale onto the stone dais.
“Scotland is moving on to the semifinals!” Jeffrey Hines says.
The Scottish Golden Horns swoop down on Andrew at once. Their riders tackle him the same way I’ve been tackled during my past two matches. Andrew’s lifted onto their shoulders and shown off for the stadium to shower him in adoration. Some people are booing. The Scottish fans are properly celebrating with all sorts of chants, but one is louder than the rest.
“Galloway! Galloway! Galloway!”
His mother’s family name echoes across the field. If she’s watching, she must be thrilled.
“So we’re playing Scotland next.” Victoria claps with a cocky grin. “Should be fun.”
I focus on the boy who doesn’t want to play this game. He’s just won for his country, and he’s smiling like he meant to. In two days, we’ll be rivals on the field.
That is, if the Sire doesn’t come after our dragons.
“Yeah,” I tell Victoria, my hands limp on my lap. “Should be a lot of fun.…”
THE MAP OF PUERTO RICO IS STILL CHARRED ON THE HABITAT’S ceiling.
The coconuts are new, though. There’s a pile to the left side of the habitat. A few cracked shells are scattered here and there, but most remain whole.
Gabriela and I are the only humans here. We’re not being serenaded with a nighttime singing session. The dragons are in the large rock pit filled with water at the end of the habitat. They’re playing a game of “Who can splash more water at your face?” with impressive zeal.
Puya and Daga are the current MVPs. They’re scooping mouthfuls of water and spitting at their opponents in lightning-fast streams. Titán uses his wings to shield Rayo, Fantasma, and himself, while a swift Esperanza spits water back at them. On occasion, Titán flies as high as he can, then drops back to the lake in a perfect cannonball. Puya and Daga squeal in melodramatic angst. Esperanza huffs out the closest thing I’ve heard to a dragon laughing.
I’m far removed from the splashing. Gabriela sits next to me, searching for a Slovakian fashion designer’s runway show on her phone. Joaquín had asked her to look after the dragons while he Skypes with his family. I’d volunteered. Whether the Sire makes an appearance in President Turner’s body, or if he sends word to hand over the dragons, nobody’s touching them. I can convince him to use me for another mission. As long as President Turner and these dragons remain unharmed, as long as I can distract him from the Fire Drake, I’ll do what he tells me.
Part of me wants to share my Bond theory with my teammates. But without proof, Victoria would launch into one of her spiels about how I’m overreacting. I’m not in the mood to be told I’m wrong. Or to disturb what little peace we achieved after the ring of fire.
“Oh, cool,” says Gabriela. “Andrew’s finally posted on BlazeReel again.”
“Good for him,” I grumble.
Gabriela clicks on Andrew’s avatar, which has a red circle wrapping around it. The screen shows Andrew sitting on a couch at his Compound house. He’s still in his uniform, but his hair is a disaster. I hate myself for laughing as Andrew pulls his hair up high.
“Lovely to see you again!” he says. “I figured I’d provide you with quality content today, hence the new look. This is what happens when you let a Golden Horn comb your hair.”
Gabriela sighs. “So sad to see him in uniform. Those shoulders deserve cashmere.”
Andrew picks up an acoustic guitar from the floor. The guitar is midnight blue with a black swirl looping all around it. There’s a sticker on the left side that says WORLD’S BEST SON. The handwriting is slanted yet delicate, as if his mother scribbled it herself.
She knows better than anyone what the Sire’s capable of.
Andrew is still joking about his hair when I pull out my phone. I open the search engine app and type in “Lucy Galloway Foxrose Prep.” Most of the articles that pop up are related to her achievements as a young musician representing her school abroad. One article is about a Foxrose professor and author named Edna Clarke. It’s a tribute from a former student who collected quotes from other students. Ms. Galloway is one.
So are President Turner and Edward Barnes.
There’s a picture with the three of them outside of the school library. They’re showing off a huge yellow book titled Regular History & Customs for Magic Users. Edward Barnes is the carbon copy of the boy in that clearing photo. President Turner is also the same, but he doesn’t have dead eyes and a silent scream choking him. Ms. Galloway had been rocking bangs.
I fly through the rest of the photos. The last two are group shots. Every student featured in the article poses outside of Foxrose. Edward Barnes and Ms. Galloway are partially hidden in the back. She smiles for the camera. He’s tilting his head toward her, sneaking a glance in her direction. In the last photo, the same students are talking, dispersed into different subgroups. President Turner is busy with three other students. Barnes and Ms. Galloway are barely visible among the crowd, but I zoom in on the way they’re meeting each other’s gaze. His dreamy eyes aren’t a figment of my imagination. Neither is that shy smile. She’s giving him one back.
This could mean absolutely nothing. I could be blowing things out of proportion.
But it seems to me Edward Barnes and Lucy Galloway had a thing for each other.
I search for “Edward Barnes Foxrose Girlfriend.” Eight different articles state he never dated a fellow student. He didn’t date anyone in college, either. Hundreds of users in gossip forums have left theories about his dating life, ranging from midnight picnics with a tap-dancing freshman to raunchy escapades with a chess player, but their only evidence is that Barnes shared breathing space with those girls. Ms. Galloway’s name is nowhere to be found.
I lower my phone, eyes wide in horror. Edward Barnes had died twenty years ago.
Andrew had been born a year later.
No. Three months after his death: March 12, 1998. A boy born without his dad’s name.
A stiff hand finds its way to my lips. What if Edward Barnes is Andrew’s father?
This could be why his mom warned him to stop protesting. Andrew’s the missing link to breaking the Sire’s curse. He’s the freaking heir o
f Edward Barnes. Whether Ms. Galloway knows about the other ingredients or not, she’s been possibly hiding the most important one.
Now I have to help her save him.
Dragons of all species are remarkably self-sufficient. When they break out of their eggs, they’re physiologically programmed to adapt to their environments and hone their survival skills without the aid of other dragons. According to rider testimonials, their steeds know the identities of their parents. They leave a magical imprint on their newborns. Dragons can also sense when their parents or offspring die. Their mourning process varies from species to species, but it’s never quite as volatile as the one observed in humans, since the latter can either grieve in harmless ways or they could endanger the lives of others.
—Excerpt from Carlos Torres’s Studying the Bond Between Dragons & Humans
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I HATE THE BUREAU FOR TAKING SAMIRA’S WHISPERER.
I’m hiding in the bathroom again, desperately trying to speak to the only person I trust to help me with this heir theory. The bureau must’ve taken off her Whisperer so she couldn’t be tracked if mine were compromised. So I try calling her on my phone. Nothing. Wherever she is, it’s the safest place on the planet.
Maybe it’s for the best. I shouldn’t bother Samira with wild theories when her life is in danger, thanks to me. I should be bothering the bureau. Go directly to the people who can actually do something. They can’t possibly know about Andrew, or else they would have protected him, right? Unless they’re pretending not to know to throw off the Sire’s scent?
I dash out of the bathroom and search for the card Agent Horowitz gave me the day we met. Luckily, there’s nobody in the kitchen. I fetch the house phone and dial Agent Horowitz’s number. She’ll probably be quicker to answer someone calling from the Compound.
She’s not picking up.
“What is it with people ignoring me tonight?” I leave her a message so she’ll call me the second she gets it.
When I hang up again, I can only think of one other person to contact. If President Turner knows and my heir theory is true, he’s been lying for years. And if someone like me can connect the dots, the Sire won’t be far behind. We have to work together to guarantee Andrew’s safety.
I press number three.
After four rings, the president picks up. “Good evening, House Puerto Rico! With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“It’s Lana, Mr. President. So sorry to bother you, but there’s something I need to discuss. I tried contacting Agent Horowitz, but she’s not picking up. And I don’t have Director Sandhar’s number. Could we all meet up tonight somehow? I’d rather talk in person.”
“Right. I see.” President Turner’s cheerfulness is dead and buried. “Well, my dear, I’m afraid Nirek will be a little hard to reach.”
I press my back against the wall. “What happened?”
“I’ll call back tomorrow, Ms. Torres. I’ve got a lead on the Sire and his Dragon Knights. Nirek and his squadron are in Sweden right now. I’m supposed to hear from them soon.”
The weight of his words pummels me into silence. I’m left open-mouthed and numb in the empty kitchen, a smile slowly creeping onto my face.
Then I whisper, “You found the Sire?”
“We don’t know for sure. But I’ll call you back.”
“Why would he be in Sweden? Is he at another sanctuary?”
The president is quiet. Then he says, “Perhaps.”
Well, that was a cagey response. What else would the Sire be doing so far from his last-known location? The only other thing he cares about is the crystal heart and—
“Oh my God,” I say. “Is the Fire Drake in Sweden?”
“I don’t have that information, Ms. Torres. We’ll speak soon. Good night.”
President Turner hangs up.
How convenient. The Fire Drake has to be in Sweden. The president might be lying to keep me out of more trouble. I place the phone back on its perch. After so long, the Sire could be hours, maybe even minutes, away from getting caught. But he might not be in Sweden by the time the bureau locates his hideout. He could flee with the last ingredient for his counter curse.
Either way, Andrew is still in danger. If I’m going to protect him, I have to do it alone.
I pull up the BlazeReel Live app. Andrew’s online. I click on our message history and start typing:
Hey. Just wanted to see if you are available to talk today. Would that be okay?
He replies five seconds later.
depends. will you kidnap me and take me to an EDM festival so I’m driven utterly mad and am incapable of playing tomorrow?
Damn it. How did you know?
i’m a genius.
Debatable. So are you free to chat?
sounds horrible. see you in half an hour?
Half an hour it is.
ANDREW IS ALREADY INSIDE THE WHITE TENT WHEN I GET THERE.
It’s the same tent we had our welcome party in. Most of the decorations are still here, but the stage, the chocolate fountain, and the photo booth are gone. Andrew is playing a song I don’t recognize on his black-and-blue guitar. He seems to be on another plane of existence, eyes closed and head tilted back, as he jams out on the same couch my team had claimed.
I walk up to Andrew. “Is that an original?”
Andrew cracks an eye open. “Did you just ask me if a Garbage song is mine?” He whistles. “I don’t know if I should feel flattered or disappointed in your lack of Garbage knowledge.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of them. Just not that song. What’s it called?”
“‘Lana Torres Doesn’t Know Who We Are.’ Massive hit in Europe right now.” Andrew grins. He strikes one more chord, then hugs his guitar close. “This is ‘Happy Home.’ I’d recommend it, but you don’t listen to fantastic music, so it would be a waste of my time.”
“Dramatic as usual, I see.” I sit next to him. “How’ve you been today?”
“Spent. We’ve been training even harder to beat your lot tomorrow. You?”
“Same,” I lie.
I can’t wait till the day I won’t have to make stuff up for Andrew’s sake. Right now, though, it’s all about getting the information I need in order to keep him safe, which includes some more lying. His mother must’ve spoken about Edward Barnes at some point. If she never did, that’s a huge red flag. How could you never mention going to school with the most important wizard in history?
If she spoke negatively about him, my theory could still be correct. Bad-mouthing Edward Barnes could make it seem like she’d never be caught dead having a child with him. But if she’s said only good things, that reduces the odds. Ms. Galloway would have to be the most reckless liar in the world to speak highly of someone she’s trying to distance her secret child from.
“You look like your head is about to explode from thinking so hard,” says Andrew.
“I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve been meaning to apologize for the way I treated you the other day. I was really rude, and I’m sorry if I hurt you, Andrew. We don’t have to be on the same page, but we do owe each other respect.” I hold out a hand. “Truce?”
Andrew’s gaze softens. He looks from me to my hand. “I don’t get many apologies, so I should relish this one a wee bit longer. Keep your hand like that for about six more hours.”
“Andrew.”
“No, no. Talking ruins the moment.” He breathes in like he’s in paradise.
I playfully punch his shoulder. “Come on, man. Truce or no truce?”
With a quick strum of his guitar, Andrew nods. “Truce.” He shakes my hand.
Get in his good graces? Check. Now on to the next step.
“So how’ve you been?” I ask. “And how’s your mom? Did she see your winning match?”
“She did. I called her right after I got to the house. She just kept crying from joy.” Andrew taps his guitar in sporadic bursts of energy. “I always feel better after I talk with her.”<
br />
Here goes nothing.
“You know, I remembered what you said about her growing up with the Sire around. It got me thinking about Edward Barnes’s reputation and how he was so beloved.”
Andrew stops tapping his guitar. “Mum’s told me how kind he was. No bad vibes there.” His expression turns sour. “Wish she could’ve had better judgment when it came to my dad.”
He’s talking about his dad as if he’s not Edward Barnes. As if they’re two different men.
“What has she told you about your dad?” I dare to ask.
Andrew balks at my question. He places his guitar on the couch in one slow movement. “She didn’t have to tell me much. I’ve met him.”
I can hear the wind rustling the sand outside, but it feels like the commotion is happening inside me, flinging me in all directions. This is the boy who told Jeffrey Hines that his father had left his pregnant mother and never looked back. Now he’s telling me he’s actually met the guy?
And it’s not Edward Barnes.
Andrew isn’t the missing key to breaking the Sire’s curse. His bloodline isn’t tied to the most important wizard in history. Besides, Andrew’s a Regular. Since his mother is a witch, his father must’ve been a Regular, too. Some Regulars are born from a pair of magical parents, but it’s rare. I’d been too caught up in my theory to even remember that. The Sire’s been pining for the crystal heart, like I suspected, not an heir that doesn’t exist.
“You … you’ve met him?” I whisper.
“Yes, we’ve had a chat,” Andrew admits. “But you can’t speak of this publicly.”
I nod. “This stays between us.”
“Thank you.” Andrew picks at a loose thread on the couch’s armrest. “Mum told me the basics. He’s a Regular from Aberdeen who’d moved to Glasgow for a graphic-design job. He used to play the drums in his spare time. They met at a pub where he was performing. Dated for a few months. After she got pregnant, he got fired for drunken behavior, got banned from loads of pubs for picking fights, fled back home, and wanted nothing to do with me.”