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His hands clenched suddenly, and I saw him arch his back spasmodically. He breathed in harshly before settling back down. I managed to crawl forward a few more feet before he slowly, painfully sat up.
I was weeping openly then, unsure what had just happened but glad he was alive.
He touched his face, his arms, then peered down at himself before looking around. He clapped eyes first on the Red, and I saw him smile like he’d just seen something of infinite beauty.
And then he turned those beautiful green eyes on me.
Green eyes, I realized, my heart turning to stone.
The man who had been my lover stood up, shaking himself like he was getting used to a new skin. At that point I’d collapsed, mewling piteously. My knee was on fire and my brain was just done, trying to process what I knew had happened but was completely unwilling to admit.
I could only watch as what had been my Anyan and was now the White King strode over to where the Red lay, watching him and purring. I hadn’t known dragons could purr, but I wasn’t able to be surprised anymore.
He laid a hand on her head reverently, and then he began to change. Going through the strange, horrible process Morrigan had at Borough Market, Anyan’s limbs lengthened, his back crooking as glittering scales the color of pearls replaced the flesh I’d loved so dearly. Soon enough the White stood, in its true form, eager to meet its mate.
It nudged the Red, sending her a wave of power that she received gratefully. She got to her feet, spreading her wings. They nuzzled each other, and I felt their enormous magic combine as they launched themselves into the sky.
I don’t know why they didn’t kill those of us left alive on the ground. I guess they were just that happy to see each other.
I watched them fly away, my head and heart still numb, and then I looked around. My eyes roved dispassionately over Lyman’s bled-out body, the headless form of Jarl, and the wreck we’d made of another British landmark, and then I heard the keening.
I was able to ignore it at first, still too heartsick to process anything. But then I understood I should see what else had happened, and I looked around.
Magog was cradling the white-faced form of Blondie. The Original’s lower half was soaked in her own blood.
I watched, emotionless, as the raven stroked my friend’s dead face. It would be hours before I would understand she was really gone.
And that I was totally alone.
Tempests Fury Page 55
