by Melissa Grey
“Hey,” Echo said quietly, her voice hardly above a whisper. She came to a stop in front of a freshly painted section of graffiti, written in a language she doubted few in Cairo understood. “This is Drakhar. A protection rune, I think.”
She had seen Caius paint such runes on the interior walls of their warehouse hideout in London. Every few days, he or Dorian would refresh them with a new coat of paint. They’d used white paint, the same color as the wall, so the runes would be less noticeable, but this one stood out. It was in bright green paint, which had dried in rivulets as it dripped down the wall. The angular shape had been drawn in a shaky hand, so unlike the careful, clean lines of Caius’s runes. Whoever had drawn this one had been scared, in a hurry, or both.
A heavy metal door, plastered with peeling signs for events long since past, stood not too far from the rune. Droplets of the same green paint had splashed on the ground, and the doorknob was streaked with faint green smears, as if someone had hastily wiped their hands before using it.
Rowan headed toward the door, but Echo pulled him aside and shook her head. Better for her to go first. Rowan could pass as human to an unsuspecting eye, but Echo was human. For the most part. If there were Drakharin hiding in the building, they might be spooked by the sight of an Avicen barging into their safe house. The scouts had said they didn’t appear to be skilled at combat, but it wouldn’t take more than one frightened lookout with a sharp weapon to start a fight that could potentially end in tragedy.
The door was locked, but Echo made quick work of it with the small lock-picking set she kept tucked in the interior pocket of her leather jacket. She never left home without it. She was just glad the lock wasn’t a dead bolt or something else that would require more advanced tools. The door was ancient, but its hinges had been recently oiled, and it opened without a sound.
Echo entered the building, Rowan close behind her. A naked lightbulb hung from a chain in the middle of the room, casting a weak, flickering glow that didn’t quite reach the shadowy corners. There was nothing in the room save for a rickety table with a broken leg shoved into one corner and a pile of broken wood slats. Near the door was a can of paint. Green, like the rune outside. It was the only thing in the room not covered with a liberal coating of dust.
There was a door in the far wall that led to a staircase. Echo stopped on the landing, straining to hear even the slightest sound. There was none. It was quiet, but not a casual quiet. It was a deliberate quiet. There was a quality to the silence that made her think of mice holding their breath, waiting for the falcon overhead to fly away. The only way to go was down, so that was where Echo and Rowan went.
Their footfalls were loud as they descended, even though Echo tried to keep her tread as light as possible. Whoever was down there would hear them coming. She could only hope that they were the “ask questions first, shoot later” type. She had survived a great many things in the past several months, but she wasn’t sure she would walk away from a slug to the chest. The Drakharin shared the Avicen’s distaste for modern human weaponry, but there was a first time for everything.
At the foot of the stairs was a wooden door emblazoned with the same protective rune as the wall outside. Echo pressed a finger to her lips, gesturing for Rowan to stay silent. He mimed locking his lips closed and then throwing away a key. Nerd.
Echo took up position on one side of the door while Rowan mirrored her on the other side. She crouched low and slowly turned the knob. A shuffling sound came from behind the door, like people scurrying out of the way. Echo pushed the door open and waited for an attack that did not come.
She met Rowan’s eyes. He shrugged. Echo peered around the doorframe. The room was dark, but the smoky scent of candles recently snuffed out wafted through the air. A faint whimper broke the silence.
“Hello?” Echo called out, keeping her voice quiet. “We come in peace.”
Rowan arched a bronze eyebrow at her. She mouthed, What? It seemed as good a thing to say as any. And it was true.
When no reply came, Echo stood. With her hands held up to show that she wasn’t carrying a weapon—a visible weapon, unlike the dagger tucked into her boot or the fire that tingled beneath her skin at the prospect of being used—Echo entered the room. The dim light from the stairwell penetrated only so far, but she could discern a few figures in the darkness.
More scuffling. An intrepid soul broke away from the group to come to the forefront. A female voice said something in Drakhar that lilted upward at the end. The intonation made Echo think it was a question, but she had no idea what the woman had said.
“I’m going to turn on the lights,” Echo said, hoping they could understand her.
The fire inside Echo wanted out. It was easy to call a tiny bit of it forth. Less easy was stopping the flow once it started. Echo snapped her fingers and the candles she had smelled upon entering sprang to life, unnaturally white flames shooting from their wicks before settling into a more conventional tongue of fire.
Startled gasps shivered through the group. There were about a dozen of them, not counting the ones hiding in the back who Echo couldn’t see. Men, women, and children in tattered garb who looked like something out of the eighteenth century. All Drakharin. None of them armed. The one who had come forward was staring at Echo in open mistrust. When Rowan followed Echo into the room, the woman swore and grabbed for an iron poker resting against the wall beside her. A frightened child broke from the group to run toward the woman, throwing her little arms around the woman’s waist.
“Oops,” Rowan said. Echo shot a quick glance behind her. He’d taken off his hat, and in the candlelight his feathers gleamed in all their tawny brilliance. The Drakharin responded to the sight of an Avicen as Echo had thought they might.
“It’s okay,” Echo said softly. “He won’t hurt you. We heard you were here and we thought you might need help.”
It wasn’t entirely the truth—they could have been hostile, for all Echo had known—but their current state made it painfully obvious that they did need help. Desperately. Their clothes were dusty from travel, worn through in places and held together by careful mending. The adults looked gaunt, their cheeks hollowed in a way that spoke of long periods without adequate sustenance. The children didn’t appear to be as malnourished. The elder Drakharin had probably rationed their supplies among themselves, giving the children the lion’s share of food. They went hungry so the little ones could eat. Echo was no stranger to hunger. She knew the feeling of an empty stomach cramping around nothing, and she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy.
One of the Drakharin stepped forward, a woman of apparent middle age, though her kind matured like the Avicen. When they reached physical maturity, the aging process slowed considerably, depending on how powerful their personal magic was. At nearly a thousand years old, the Ala didn’t look a day over thirty, but she was easily one of the most powerful beings Echo had ever met. This woman could have been in her midforties, maybe fifties. For all Echo knew, she had seen five centuries in her life, not five decades. A little girl clung to her legs, and though one of the Drakharin men tried to pull her away, she refused to budge, burrowing deeper into the woman’s leg. She peered around the woman’s knee, her eyes as round as saucers. She couldn’t seem to decide whom she found more fascinating: Echo or Rowan. Her gaze bounced between them frantically. A smattering of barely visible scales peppered the bridge of her nose.
“The prince told us to find you,” the woman said. The child huddled even closer to her, hiding her face in the woman’s skirts.
“The prince?” Echo said. Pricks of unease marched down her spine. This was a trap. They’d walked right into a freaking trap. “Tanith?”
The woman shook her head rapidly, her eyes wide and pleading. “No. The true prince,” she said in a rush, tripping over her words. “He said that you would help us.” She eyed Rowan with a wary look. “He said the Avicen were not our true enemy. Not many believed, but we had no choice. The prince”—she shook
her head as if dislodging something stuck—“the false prince, his sister…she has gone mad with power. It is not safe for us there. There is nowhere safe for us now.” She lowered her gaze to the floor, then dropped to her knees in a gesture of supplication. Her companions followed suit. “We are at your mercy, Firebird.”
Echo stepped toward her, but stopped when the woman cowered and pushed her child behind her. “Echo. My name is Echo. You don’t have to call me Firebird. And you really don’t have to grovel.” The woman didn’t budge. “Please stand up.” She didn’t. “Pretty please? With a cherry on top?”
The ragged group of Drakharin rose, uneasy, as if they didn’t trust her not to punish them for not showing the appropriate respect. It made Echo wonder just how badly Tanith had been mistreating her own people, to have drilled that level of fear into them.
“Caius told you to find me?” That Echo managed to formulate the question coherently was nothing short of a small miracle. A steady mantra pounded through her mind: He’s alive. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.
The woman nodded, though she had flinched at the sound of Caius’s name so casually invoked. Once a Drakharin was elected to the throne of the Dragon Prince, their names were consigned to memory, and eventually forgotten. Their names were shed like the lives they’d lived before, so that all that remained was a person wholly devoted to a life in service of their people. When Echo had asked Caius how the Drakharin referred to Dragon Princes of eras past, he’d laughed and said, “With great difficulty.” They were given titles after their deaths based on significant events during their reigns, but there was little consensus on which events were deemed most worthy of remembrance.
“How is he? Is he okay? What’s Tanith doing to him?” The questions tumbled from Echo faster than the woman could answer them.
“Echo,” Rowan prodded. “What are we going to do about them?” The last word was punctuated with a dismissive tilt of his head toward the ragtag group.
“Right,” Echo said. They couldn’t just leave them there. The next Avicen scouts to find them might not be as cautious as the one who had reported to the Ala. And if humans stumbled upon them…Well, that sentence was best left unfinished. She turned back to the woman, who seemed significantly less cowed by their presence after Echo’s display of concern for the true Dragon Prince. That must have earned her some brownie points. “Does everyone here speak English?”
The woman shook her head.
“Can you translate?”
A nod.
Echo addressed the Drakharin, pausing every now and then to give the woman time to translate. “There’s a safe place we can bring you. There are wards—strong ones—that will protect you. Not even Tanith can get through them.” Echo recalled laying the ward with her strength and feeling her magic seep into the land. “Trust me. I built them myself.”
The Drakharin shared a dubious look, none of them appearing convinced that leaving the relative safety of their hideout with an Avicen and public enemy number one was a grand idea.
“It’s an island,” Echo continued. “With a castle. It’s very nice.”
“Avalon?” Rowan’s voice was flat and disbelieving. He spoke slowly, as if she had just said something very, very stupid. “You can’t seriously mean to suggest we bring them to Avalon. That’s insane. You’re insane.”
Echo grabbed hold of Rowan’s sleeve and dug her nails into his arm as sharply as she could. He scowled and tried to tug his arm free, but she held on.
“Rowan,” Echo said through gritted teeth. “Sidebar.”
She guided him to the far corner of the room. The Drakharin could still see them and they could see the Drakharin, but if she pitched her voice low enough, she might not be overheard.
“Look at them,” said Echo. The Drakharin were a sorry sight, but it was the children who tugged at her heartstrings the strongest. They were so young. Too young for the hardship they faced. And their parents didn’t deserve to see their children suffer while they tried to find a better life for them. “They obviously need help. And think about the little ones, Rowan. They’re just kids. We don’t hurt kids.”
“I’m not suggesting we hurt them,” Rowan said, seemingly horrified that Echo would dare to accuse him of such a thing.
“No, you’re just suggesting we don’t help them, which is pretty much the same thing as hurting them,” Echo said.
Rowan did not appear entirely convinced, but his shoulders had relaxed somewhat, and Echo could tell from the softening of his expression that he needed only the tiniest of nudges to come around. She laid a hand on his bicep. “You know this is the right thing to do.”
He sighed. “I know, I know. It’s just”—he looked back at the Drakharin—“it’s not going to be easy persuading the council to open their doors to the Drakharin. Even refugees.”
“And that’s why you’re going to win their hearts and minds,” Echo said. “People like you. They respect you. They saw how you stepped up after the attack on the Nest, and they trust you and your judgment.” She gave his arm a little squeeze. “They can’t keep carrying on the way they always have. Somebody has to bridge the divide between the Avicen and the Drakharin. They need you to help show them a better way. The best way to fight hatred is with kindness. Be their example.”
Rowan narrowed his eyes at her, but a soft smile played at the corners of his lips. “That’s a mighty fine pep talk.”
Echo gave his arm a little punch. “I learned from the best.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Rowan said, “but what about Caius? And Dorian and Jasper?”
Echo squared her shoulders. “I’ll go back to the cabin and wait for them. You lead these people to safety.” At Rowan’s dubious expression, she added, “Can’t you handle a pack of Drakharin refugees on your own?”
He sighed. She saw the scales tipping within him. He didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to. But he would. Because it was the right thing to do. Because he was good in a way so few people were. After an interminable moment of Echo projecting a psychic Say yes! at him, Rowan rolled his eyes and said, “Yes. Fine. Go enjoy my stir-fry without me. I’ll bring them to New York.”
“I can’t enjoy the stir-fry,” Echo said. “You burned it, remember?”
Rowan shrugged. “So pick up some shawarma on the way back.”
“I will.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” Rowan stuck his tongue out at her.
Echo rolled her eyes and turned back to the Drakharin, a warm smile on her face. “Pack your bags. This nice man here is taking you to Avalon.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Autumn in Edinburgh was lovely. Or it would have been lovely if not for Jasper’s dour mood. Instead of appreciating the turn of leaves from green to gold, all he saw was decay and the inevitable mess as the leaves fell from the branches to become soggy mulch on the pavement during Scotland’s perpetual rainy season. He tapped one foot impatiently as he waited in line to order something warm to drink. Maybe if he ingested enough sugar, it would grant him a false sense of happiness.
Dorian had been in a rotten mood for weeks—understandably, but still—and it had proven contagious. Their last real conversation in the training yard hadn’t done much to lift either of their spirits.
The café was bright and cheerful, and the girl who took Jasper’s order offered him a wide smile he didn’t bother returning. He tugged his hat down over his ears. He hated hats. It galled him to have to hide his feathers—they were magnificent—and it would be hell to unflatten them later. As he waited for the barista to prepare his and Dorian’s drinks, he considered the patrons in the little café, nestled in a narrow side street in Edinburgh’s Old Town but close enough to the tourist center that the number of people provided Jasper and Dorian a modicum of anonymity. Jasper’s brown skin didn’t stand out quite so much, and no one looked too hard at the concealer caked over Dorian’s scales.
Jasper hoped Dorian’s contact would reach them s
oon. He wanted this business to be over with. Not only for Caius’s sake—he could admit to himself that he wasn’t nearly that altruistic—but also for his own. Once Dorian was happy, then Jasper could go on being happy. That this was the way of things made him cringe internally.
The barista finished making their drinks, topping Jasper’s with a generous helping of whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate sauce. He might have separated himself from the Avicen by attitude and distance, but he shared the sweet tooth so common among his kind. He paid, tipped the girl well but not too well, as both stinginess and excessive generosity were bound to attract attention, and made his way to the table near the back of the café where Dorian was currently staring a hole into the wall opposite his seat.
“Yoo-hoo, earth to Dorian.”
Jasper waved his elbow in front of Dorian’s face, ripping him from his guilt-ridden reverie. Jasper stood beside the table they’d occupied in the Edinburgh café since that morning. Dorian eyed the two steaming mugs of cocoa in Jasper’s hands with suspicion that lessened only somewhat when Jasper placed the plain one in front of Dorian and kept the sugary monstrosity for himself.
“The Avicen sweet tooth is a great and terrible thing,” Dorian said. He gave his drink a dubious sniff, then crinkled his nose in distaste. “I asked for coffee.” It was petulant, even for Dorian.
Rolling his eyes, Jasper slid into the seat opposite Dorian. He began spooning up the whipped cream and shoveling it into his mouth. He had to eat it before he could get to the liquid. Whipped cream facial hair wasn’t cute past the age of five. “Trust me, Dorian, caffeine is the last thing you need. You’re strung so tightly I’m expecting you to snap like a worn rubber band at any minute.”
“I’ve been awake for the better part of forty-one hours,” Dorian said, scrubbing a hand over his face. He did look tired. Dark smudges had appeared beneath his eyes, and his mouth was carved into a seemingly permanent frown. “And if I don’t ingest something caffeinated soon, I’m likely to pass out, face-first, into this hot cocoa.”