Winging It

by Deborah Cooke

  I picked up one – not the biggest, as it was half the orb – and turned it over so that the smooth outside was facing me. I could see the reflection of myself in it, distorted the same way a fish-eye lens would distort it.

  I made a face at myself and my reflection made it back.

  Much uglier, though.

  Then I got serious. I stared into the surface of the stone. It was very black, so dark that it was easy to think that the surface wasn’t hard. It made me think of looking into a deep shadow, one that goes to depths beyond expectation.

  I looked more deeply. I thought about Wyverns past and my almost complete lack of data about their history. I thought about needing to solve riddles without having very many clues.

  And it suddenly seemed as if the piece of the orb I held was full of stars. It could have been a chunk of night sky in my hands. I stared more deeply and one star brightened.

  It shot across the piece of stone – or deep inside it – like a falling star.

  It flashed.

  Then all the stars that had been in the stone disappeared.

  I didn’t have time to be disappointed. A verse popped into my head. I heard the words as clearly as if someone had read it to me, but it was in my own voice.

  As if I was reading a verse to myself, even though I’d never heard this one.

  I put down the piece of stone, tugged out my messenger, and tapped in the verse before I forgot it.

  Wyverns past of snowy white

  Gather to initiate

  The newest member of their kind;

  Always with hope that this one unbinds

  Past errors and misjudgments

  That condemn each Wyvern to lament

  That love can never touch her life

  Without instead a sacrifice.

  Each new Wyvern may hold the key

  To change the Wyverns’ destiny.

  Then I read it again. Twice.

  What did it mean?

  Could I be the one holding the key?

  Suddenly I realized that the doorbell was ringing.

  The time to find out whether I’d lost my powers or not was right now. I held my breath and called to the shimmer that let me move through space. It didn’t answer right away, as if it just wanted to make me sweat.

  I did.

  My mouth went dry.

  The doorbell rang again.

  I shouted in my mind for the shimmer, wishing with all my heart to be on the other side of the door to the hoard and the dragonsmoke barrier. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoped hard, and … presto.

  It worked.

  The doorbell rang a third time as I fell into the closet, making a whole pile of my mom’s shoes cascade to the floor.

  I zipped out of my parents’ suite and ran to the front door. There was a delivery guy already turning to leave.

  ‘Oh, there is someone home,’ he said, then came back to the door.

  ‘Sorry. I was, um, busy.’

  He eyed me, obviously tabulating possibilities, then decided it wasn’t his business. Maybe I was mastering my dad’s glare. ‘I’ve got a package for Zoë Sorensson.’

  ‘That’s me.’ I saw the scribbled dates of failed deliveries noted on the label; then he turned for me to sign for the box. It had been sent overnight from Pennsylvania.

  I don’t even know anybody in Pennsylvania.

  ‘I came twice last week. The ones that require a signature are a pain in the neck.’ He looked at my signature. ‘Have you got any identification? Can’t be too careful.’

  I got my wallet and he had a look at my student card. Then he waved and shouldered his bag. ‘Have a good day,’ he said, heading for the elevator.

  I shut the door and leaned against it, the package in my hands. It had no return address, really, just a post office box. It was flat and rectangular, not light but not heavy, either. I leaned closer and gave it a sniff. Then my eyes widened in surprise.

  Jared.

  I smelled Jared.

  I ripped the box open then, making a mess of the kitchen one more time. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by its contents.

  But I was. I stood there, staring at it in shock.

  It was a book.

  An old book I’d held in my hands a couple of times before.

  The Habits and Habitats of Dragons: A Compleat Guide for Slayers, by Sigmund Guthrie.

  There was no note, but really, the fact that Jared had sent me the book said it all. He didn’t want me to contact him anymore. He didn’t want to see me again.

  He was bailing on this dragon girl.

  Forever.

  If you don’t think that was the most depressing news I’d heard all day, you can think again. And if I was feeling a bit sorry for myself and my previously undiscovered talent for making everyone disappear from my life, at least there was no one to see it.

  ‘Did you know?’ I called to no one in particular.

  I’m pretty sure I heard Sigmund chuckle in reply. But he didn’t give me any more answers, and he didn’t appear to advise me.

  Brothers.

  Well, I had the only reference book in existence on the Pyr. Might as well use it.

  I meant to start reading my brother’s book from page one, but when I opened the cover, the book fell open to a later page.

  There was a bookmark.

  With a note.

  And it was from Jared.

  YES!

  It wasn’t a long note or an especially romantic one. It wasn’t even signed. But I knew it was from him because it was short and to the point, as well as challenging. That was Jared all over.

  Where’s your beryl, dragon girl?

  The bookmark was in the page with the appropriate entry.

  Beryl – a gem or token of power, typically given from one Pyr to another. In the ancient history of the Pyr, there are far more references to beryls and their use, although even then, the vast majority of Pyr would never have any personal experience of a beryl. Like so many rare items, a beryl is frequently believed to be a myth.

  According to Pyr lore, a beryl can seal an agreement. There is some implication that beryls carry power, although the references are vague as to how those powers are assumed by the recipient.

  The one common element in stories involving beryls is the strong association between beryls and Wyverns. There has been some speculation that there is only one beryl, which takes different shapes at different times under the command of the one Wyvern, and that this token is passed as a legacy from each Wyvern to her successor. As each Wyvern must die before her successor can be conceived, it is unclear how this transaction might occur, or whether this tale – like so many others associated with the Wyvern – is simply fabrication.

  I read it twice. Where was my beryl? I looked down at the ring on my hand, the one Rafferty had given to me.

  Was it my beryl?

  How was I supposed to shake any power from it?

  There was a puzzle and I had to solve it.

  Sooner would be better.

  By Thursday, I was convinced that this was going to be the worst two weeks of my life.

  Unless things got infinitely more miserable on the Friday before my birthday.

  I was worried sick about Meagan, because that goofy golden spell light was everywhere. It circled her like a flock of Day-Glo fireflies. I couldn’t even look at her without feeling like freaking out.

  We were arguing like crazy.

  We were also making zero progress on finding where the others were being held captive.

  And Trevor was loving it.

  After Monday’s session, Meagan had nothing but suspicions. Trevor had made just enough suggestive comments to lure her into coming back. And he had asked her to attend some ceremony on the night of the full moon with him.

  She thought this was progress. I thought it was terrifying.

  Meagan was confident that she could resist their spells and that she could get more information. I wished I shared her confidence. I ha
d to believe that no matter how much – or how ferociously – she hummed, no matter how completely brilliant she was, the spell would eventually get to her.

  I halfway thought it already had. She talked nonstop about Trevor and how amazing he was.

  Would I be able to count on my best friend when everything went down? Or would she – against her will – be just drawing my kind into a final fatal trap?

  I wasn’t sleeping much, which was okay, because I wasn’t hot to meet up with Urd and her skull face any time soon. Take my word for it – the prospect of an actual death makes it tougher to confront figurative and/or symbolic death in an unemotional way.

  On Thursday when Meagan went to jazz practice with Trevor, I went back to her house feeling useless and futile and edgy. Homework was exactly what I wanted to do. Uh-huh. My messenger sounded just as I was settling in and I seized the excuse.

  It was a message from my mom.

  She said my dad would be home for my birthday. She didn’t say more than that, but I understood the implication.

  She wasn’t coming back for it.

  That was pretty much the last straw. Did I have to lose every single person I cared about? Jared had bailed on me, probably forever. The guys were trapped by Mages. Derek was trapped, too. My mom was staying in England.

  If this kept up, my dad would have a fatal accident on the way home, Meagan would be sucked up and destroyed by the Mages, Isabelle would trek off to some ashram to find her inner fortune-teller, the other Pyr would be trashed by the Mages, Derek and Jessica would have their shadows eaten, and I would be completely alone.

  I heard Meagan’s mom come home and shout hello. I yelled back at her that I was studying, an activity that she adored. I knew she wouldn’t interrupt me.

  Except to maybe come and confiscate my messenger.

  Then I remembered what she’d said about my mom needing to be able to envision a future with my dad to even want to be with him.

  I couldn’t see the future, much less conjure up some illusion of it for my mom. I had no idea what happened in the dark corners of their relationship and really did not want to know.

  But I wanted her to come home.

  And that meant I needed her to want to be with him.

  Maybe the answer was in the past. There must have been some reason why she loved him in the first place. There must have been something good. She’d known what he was right from the start, but that hadn’t mattered seventeen years ago. Maybe I could find her memory, if she was with my dad.

  I closed my eyes and put my hands flat on the desk. I looked for the coppery conduits that led to each of the living Pyr and I found the one that was my dad’s. I checked every line I could see, but there weren’t any that led to the guys. They were in some lost zone, where I couldn’t reach them.

  I went back to the line that led to my dad and followed it, hoping against hope that this strategy would work. I was startled to find myself in his thoughts, that room of stainless-steel drawers stretching into the distance behind me. It was like I wandered out of that room, to go look out the windows.

  I was where he was.

  I saw what he saw.

  I recognized Trafalgar Square. I’d been to England enough times with my parents, to visit my aunt.

  It was snowing in England, too.

  More importantly, a woman in a black cape, a woman with long red-gold hair and a decisive stride, was walking away.

  And my dad wasn’t pursuing her. He just watched her go.

  I sensed his bleak mood and felt his yearning. I knew he believed there was nothing more he could say. I understood that he was convinced that he had failed.

  I took a chance and leapt from his thoughts to my mom. I wasn’t sure it would work. It was an intuitive choice, a jump I made without thinking too much about it. I wasn’t sure I could slip into her thoughts, but I sure was going to try.

  I prayed.

  I hoped.

  I leapt.

  And I found myself in a kitchen filled with happy, colorful clutter. There was a sealer jar of knitting needles and baskets of wool, the colors spilling to the floor. A pile of books toppled on the counter, several cracked open in front. A kettle was whistling, being ignored even though it was boiling.

  One entire wall of the room was a bulletin board. I moved closer to look. It was covered in photographs, postcards, scribbled notes, letters, and greeting cards.

  I saw the snapshot of a dark-haired baby nestled in a familiar afghan – the one that was still on the end of my bed – and smiled.

  I’d found my mom’s memory.

  I poked around, stirring a few things that seemed evocative of when she’d met my dad, and then I hoped for the best.

  And got the heck out of there before I learned too much.

  * * *

  Meagan was jubilant when she got home from jazz.

  She sat and bubbled and enthused, exuding confidence and Mage news.

  I could only watch the sparkles in her eyes.

  They were gold.

  Mage light.

  They were getting to her and she didn’t even know it.

  She’d been late getting home. She bounced in, that golden light having invaded her eyes and its lilt infecting her voice. Trevor had driven her home. Trevor had confided in her. The next Friday was going to be Trevor’s initiation to the next level of Mage apprenticeship.

  Trevor had kissed her.

  This was not good.

  And there were eight whole days until the ceremony. Two more jazz band practices. A seemingly infinite stretch of time for the Mage spells to wind into Meagan’s thoughts and undermine everything.

  We argued again, and she told me that I was wrong.

  She was lost, or close enough to it.

  It was time for me to make that deal with Kohana.

  I didn’t want to meet Kohana in the dreaming, because I wasn’t entirely sure what was possible there. Never mind that he was more adept with whatever was going on in that alternate reality.

  Nope. I would meet him in plain old Chicago. I had his feathers and I knew he didn’t like that. I had to believe that he was waiting for an opportunity to begin our discussion again.

  I gave it to him.

  I had three feathers. I needed to let him see that I had them, but I didn’t want to lose my grip on them. On impulse, I shook out my ponytail, found some dark thread and bound one feather into the hair hanging on either side of my face. They flipped around a bit, catching the wind in a different way than my hair usually did.

  He’d notice that.

  He’d probably guess it was a lure, but I figured he’d take the bait.

  The third feather I hid. Insurance. Even you don’t need to know where it was.

  Then I pulled on my leather coat and went walking, my hands shoved in my pockets and my hair blowing around.

  I hadn’t even gone a block before I felt his presence. His yellow gaze seemed to burn into my back. I kept walking, pretending I didn’t know or didn’t care that he was there.

  By the second block he was following me, covertly. He darted from roof to roof, staying just out of sight, but I was aware of his hungry gaze.

  I deliberately turned into the park, heading for the center where the trees would offer perches to Thunderbirds.

  And he came, like a projectile out of the night.

  ‘You said you didn’t want to make a deal,’ Kohana said by way of introduction. He was in a nearby tree, eyes glowing as he looked down at me. We were alone in the park, just the way I wanted it. I felt in control of the exchange – a rare enough thing with Kohana that it made me a bit dizzy.

  ‘Maybe I changed my mind.’ I twirled one feather. ‘I’d like some information.’

  ‘In exchange?’

  I nodded and brushed the snow off the bench there. I sat down, seemingly at ease, and waited.

  He looked around. He hopped to another branch. He looked at me, then scanned the perimeter of the park. He clearly suspected a tri
ck. I did my dragon thing and didn’t move one muscle. I could have waited through eternity for him to make up his mind. I breathed long and slow and deep, watching him without blinking.

  I knew what he would do.

  Although I smiled when he did it.

  He landed in front of me, a black bird as tall as I am. His eyes blazed vivid yellow, and he fidgeted with the thunderbolts in his claw. ‘An answer for a feather,’ he offered.

  ‘Only real answers count,’ I said. ‘No games.’

  I sensed his impatience. He looked away, then back at me again. ‘No tricks.’

  I untied the one feather from my hair, then held it between us. ‘Why does being a wildcard make me Mage prey?’

  He didn’t like the question. ‘That’s complicated.’

  ‘It’s one question.’ I spun the feather. ‘Answer it or not.’ I’d snagged some matches from Meagan’s mom’s array of candles and now I pulled them out. I lit one, scratching it on the bottom of the box, and held the flame toward the black feather.

  Kohana caught his breath, then spoke quickly. ‘A wildcard is a one-off, a rogue variant in a species. A wildcard has extra powers. There’s only one in every kind at any time, or there might not be one at all.’

  He stopped and I held the flame closer to the feather again.

  ‘All right. All right. There is a story that there will come a day when special children are born to each kind of shifter. These children will have powers previously unknown outside of legend and they will change the world. They can change it either way, for better or for worse, but the change will be irrevocable.’

  I threw the match into the snow and it hissed as the flame went out.