by Casey Lane
Weird. "I didn't think witches got sick? Blood bond and all that."
Alex tried his best to smile, but it was pained. "It's rare, but it happens. That's the blessing and the curse of being blood bonded to a coven. When one gets sick, the rest of the coven's immunity steps up, but when more than one gets sick at the same time...well, the rest of the coven soon follows."
"That's where the others are? Home sick?"
Alex nodded, fingers drumming against the desk, gaze going to the clock on the back wall almost as if he couldn't help himself. It was like he was waiting for something but Rhys couldn't imagine what. After a minute, Alex leaned back in his chair, extending his arm to flip off the lights before hitting play on the remote. Rhys watched, bewildered as Alex yanked open his desk drawer and flung the controller inside with far more force than necessary. Something was wrong with him. Alex was never angry. Never. It was one of the most unnerving things about the man. Nothing ever seemed to bother him.
As soon as the lights went out, cell phones lit up around the room as people ignored the video to check their social media or text their friends. Alex either didn't notice or didn't care. He leaned himself back in his wooden chair, kicking his legs up on the desk as he laced his fingers behind his head. Rhys contemplated using his backpack as a pillow and, finally, taking the nap he was longing for, but he just couldn't stop thinking about Neoma and the dragon.
"Alex, can I ask you a question?"
The older man sighed, reaching for his thermos, wincing as he took another timid sip. "Sure."
"Are there-" he hesitated, knowing how stupid the question would sound. "Are there dragon shifters?"
A loud bang erupted from the back of the room. All eyes swiveled to Aaron, who flushed at the unwanted attention. He'd dropped his phone on his desk. "Sorry," he muttered, checking to make sure he hadn't broken it before setting it screen side down.
"Why do you want to know about dragon shifters?" Alex asked, sounding somewhere between bored and mildly curious.
Rhys shrugged. "No reason. Just something I read."
Alex frowned. "Read in human books? You know none of that is real. It's all just the garbage the Grove disseminates to keep the humans from learning anything useful."
Rhys blew a breath out through his nose. This was impossible. How was he supposed to ask about something without saying anything about where he'd heard it? "What if it wasn't in a human book. What if I heard somebody say something about it?"
The teacher's feet dropped to the floor as he rocked his chair upright, leaning forward. "Well, which is it, Rhys. Did you read it or did you hear it?"
Rhys licked his lower lip. "I heard it, but I can't say where, so don't ask."
Alex's lips twitched in an aborted smile. "Okay, what...exactly...did you hear?"
"The woman was a dragon and the dragon fed blood to the hollow people and then she killed them." Alex was starting to sweat, beads of perspiration forming at his hairline and trickling from his temples. He grimaced, taking another swig of whatever foul concoction was in his thermos. "Any idea what it means?"
"There haven't been dragon shifters in over a century, Rhys."
"But they existed? At some point?"
"According to the Grove's library, they were common in the Balkans and parts of Asia, but they were hunted to extinction years ago. Do you have any other information to go on?"
Rhys shook his head. "Do you know anything about the hollow people?"
Alex seemed to think on it before asking, "She said, 'the dragon fed blood to the hollow people, and then she killed them'?"
"Yes. That's all she said."
"Maybe she was talking about vampires? Some might describe them as hollow. Sunken eyes? Skeletal? Could she maybe have been talking about vampires?"
Rhys wanted to throw up his hands in defeat. He didn't know if that's what she was talking about. That's why he was sitting there sounding like an idiot talking to Alex. Why were adults always so dumb? "I guess. I just don't know what a vampire has to do with a dragon?"
"A dragon who's a woman," Alex repeated as if only to drive home how insane it all sounded.
Rhys thunked his head down on his desk. "Yes. I know how it sounds. That's why I didn't want to say anything. Never mind. Thanks anyway."
"Rhys, you know you can always talk to me. You know how...close...I am with your sister. I'm here for you, too. If you need anything."
Rhys glanced up just enough to glimpse his teacher's hopeful expression. "Thanks," he said, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt as he lowered his eyes once again. The last thing he wanted was to deal with Alex's weird crush on his sister. He was way older than her, and he was a witch. Witches and wolves didn't mix. Ever. It was a known fact.
Alex didn't seem to get that he was the only one who felt close in that particular duo. Isa was polite, and she considered the witch her friend...but like she considered Gen and Hadley her friends. He'd heard her say a million times that she wished Alex would finally just move on. It was clear Isa had. Wren had slept in Isa's room last night. Rhys had caught him walking out before the sun came up. Isa would never let a man sleep in her room unless she planned on keeping him. She just wasn't that type of person. The idea of Wren and Neoma staying forever gave him an anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. What did he care anyway, as soon as he was old enough, he was gone. Isa needed somebody like Wren.
Despite Rhys's best efforts, he did drift off, dreaming of a woman with fangs and dragon wings and hollow-eyed skeletons. He jerked upright at the sound of the bell, heart hammering against his ribcage as he fought to get his bearings. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve as the other students shuffled out of the room.
He was reaching for his backpack when Aaron dropped a drawing on his desk and then kept walking.
It was a picture of a vampire like creature standing at the prow of a ship, behind him, a crew of hollow-eyed beings feasted on what appeared to be a human fisherman. Across the top, Aaron had written a single word. DRAUGEN.
Rhys snatched up his backpack and chased after the boy, catching him just before he entered the art room. He reached out and snagged the smaller boy's shoulder. "What is this?" he asked, by way of greeting.
"You're welcome," Aaron said, pushing his black hair off his face.
Rhys rolled his eyes but eased back. "Seriously, man. What is this?"
"It's a draugen. Norse mythology of the human kind. You can find it in our library. According to the books, it was a vampire-like creature that would attack at sea and steer the ships into the rocks or something. I don't know if it's what you’re looking for but, like I said, it's in our library under the mythology section."
"Thanks," Rhys said, letting go of his arm.
Aaron put distance between the two of them. "Yeah, no problem. Hope it helps."
Rhys didn't head to Spanish, instead, making his way down the east hallway towards the library. When he entered through the large glass door, Mrs. Sykes glared at him. He stared back hoping she took his direct gaze as permission for him to be there. When she finally looked away, he slumped his shoulders, heading straight for the computers in the center of the room. He typed in the word Draugen and was shocked when three books appeared. He followed the numbers, weirdly grateful that the Dewey decimal system applied even in their supernatural town library.
He grabbed his books and threaded his way through the stacks to an old beanbag chair hidden at the very back of the library, invisible to anybody who happened to be passing by. He cracked open the book, using the index to find what he was looking for.
Draugen, from Norse "draugr" meaning spirit. The draugen is the ghost of a man who died at sea. He is large, covered in seaweed, rowing in a half boat. He emits a high-pitched scream when spotted, and legend states he can be seen on a stormy night, drowning sailors and fishermen, sinking their boats.
Rhys couldn't imagine that this was the dragon Neoma spoke of, but the other two books turned up nearly identical information. He kept r
eminding himself that this was human mythology and there was only a small bit of truth in any human text. He tried searching for the other word. Draugr.
Draugr (also called draug,dréag, draugar;draugur,dreygur, or draugen) is an undead creature from Norse mythology. The Old Norse definition is revenant or undead man. The Draugr live in their graves, guarding human treasure. Unlike ghosts, the draugr have a corporeal body with similar, physical abilities that they possessed while alive. Some believe the Draugr are created when an evil person refuses to cross over, but others believe the draugr spreads its sickiness like an infection.
Rhys didn't find that text to be much more helpful than the first, but he'd run out of library books. He moved on to the internet. There were a million different theories on Draugr or Draugen. Some said they were the ghosts of Vikings; others said they could make themselves big as giants. There were numerous posts about Old Norseman placing scissors on the chests of the dead and driving pins through their feet so they wouldn't rise from the grave. Rhys didn't think a couple of pins through the feet would stop anybody truly hellbent on returning from the grave, but then Rhys had once watched an entire week of Charmed just because he couldn't find his remote control, so what did he know.
He was ten pages deep in his search when a thread in a Viking chat room caught his attention. The group was discussing the variations of the draugr legend, and one post said that the Draugr carry the stench of decaying flesh and that they enjoy drinking the blood and devouring the flesh of their victims.
Rhys had smelled rotting flesh when Neoma told him somebody watched her from the woods and Neoma said the hollow people fed from her before the draugen killed them. It wasn't an exact match, but it made more sense than his dragon shifter theory. He just had to figure out how to find the truth behind the myth. The information that the Grove kept hidden deep in the darkest parts of the internet.
Rhys would just have to find another way.
Chapter Eighteen
Wren
Wren was at the top of the ladder, taping off the new piece of drywall when the front door opened and slammed shut with enough force to rattle the pictures on the wall. He frowned at the clock on the oven. Isa and Neoma, already? It was just past one. Isa didn’t say a word, didn’t acknowledge him in any way, just stormed up the front steps like she was on a mission. Neoma wandered into the kitchen and pulled open the door to the fridge helping herself to a Capri-Sun before sitting down at the table to watch Wren quietly.
Wren kept working, all the while cognizant of the rage pouring off Isa. He could feel her racing heartbeat, could hear her ragged breathing as she moved, slamming doors and drawers. Still, he kept working. She hadn’t invited him into her anger. If growing up surrounded by women had taught him anything, it was not to push a woman to talk before she was ready.
Half an hour later, Isa came down the back staircase into the kitchen. She wore a pair of flowy black cotton pants and an olive-green tank top; her hair once again piled on her head. She gave him a cursory glance as she passed, gaze stuttering as she took in his bare chest and faded jeans.
“Did I ruin the only shirt you own or something?” she muttered. Neoma giggled, and Isa’s lips twitched with the barest hint of a smile.
“You ready?” Isa asked Neoma.
Neoma smiled and nodded.
“Good, let’s do this,” Isa moved around the kitchen, pulling baking supplies from the cabinets and slamming them down on the island countertop with a level of hostility no confectionary ingredient deserved. When she finished assembling her components, she snagged Neoma from where she stood, depositing her onto the counter as if she was the final ingredient. She handed Neoma a wooden spoon and Neoma brandished it like a weapon like she and Isa were preparing for battle.
He couldn’t help but laugh at their odd behavior. “Are you guys okay?”
Isa turned on him, pointing a small jar of vanilla at him. “No. We are not okay. Are we, Neoma?”
“Nope,” Neoma confirmed, crossing her arms and making an unhappy face. “We’re mad.”
“Oh,” Wren said. “And why are you so mad?”
“The patri-carchy,” Neoma cried, pointing her wooden spoon at Wren.
Wren struggled to keep his expression neutral. “I see.”
Isa turned on him then, narrowing her eyes. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to stay on your ladder, doing whatever it is you’re doing up there, and Neoma and I are going to pretend you aren’t there while we listen to our music and bake our cookies.” Wren bit down on his tongue, praying his face didn’t betray him as she continued, “I’m warning you, there may be dancing, there may be swearing—by me, not you,”—she reminded Neoma, who giggled— “their might even be singing. But you, Wren Davies, you are to pretend you see nothing and you will speak of it to nobody. Ever. Are we clear?”
Who was he to argue with a five-foot werewolf brandishing extracts, “Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding with as much seriousness as he could manage.
She gave him one more scrutinizing look. “Good.”
With that finalized, Isa pulled a remote from the counter drawer and pushed a button. Music flooded the room from speakers Wren couldn’t see. He raised a brow as Cyndi Lauper sang of girls and wanting to have fun. Eighties music. He hadn’t seen that one coming. Isa arched a brow as if daring him to comment. Instead, he just started to whistle along as he returned to taping off the drywall.
Even though Isa was fuming, she teased and played with Neoma, fawning over her impressive ability to measure ingredients and take direction. He felt Isa’s anger coming down in increments as she measured and stirred, working with the quiet confidence of somebody who’d spent their entire life baking. She worked from no recipes, just instinct, and experience.
While she had requested he ignore her and Neoma, that was impossible. A task that should have taken him half an hour, easily bled into twice that as he found himself pausing to watch her. She twisted and turned, hips shaking and head bobbing to the music, sometimes singing quietly and off key to a song she particularly liked. She encouraged Neoma to sing loudly into her wooden spoon as if it were a microphone. Wren was more than a little shocked at the beauty of the little girl’s voice. He’d never heard Neoma sing before.
Isa was still angry, but he sensed her wolf was at peace, curled up in that place inside her. This was Isa’s safe space, and she’d welcomed him and Neoma inside. He needed to protect that trust, that comfort, at any cost. He’d brought trouble to Isa’s doorstep. He’d put her life and the lives of her children in danger. That guilt burned like fire in his gut. He needed to finish telling her the rest of his story.
When the front door flung open an hour later, he’d made up his mind to do just that. Wren listened as the kids dropped shoes and backpacks at the front door before pounding up the stairs. Neoma’s eyes went wide, and she looked at Isa pleadingly. Isa smiled. “It’s okay; I’ll finish up. You go play.”
Neoma dropped the spoon in the sink. “Tristin, wait,” she called, running up the stairs.
He glanced down as Isa turned the music down. “Okay, you can stop pretending to putty over that tape on the ceiling now.”
He did as she asked, coming down from the ladder.
She was watching him like she was waiting for something. “What’s going on,” he asked.
She spooned dough onto the baking sheet. “We need to finish talking about Neoma.”
He nodded. “Okay, what do you want to know.”
“Everything.”
He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before taking a seat at the stool just in front of her. “I can’t tell you everything because I don’t know everything. Honestly, I feel like the more I learn, the less I know.”
Isa nodded. “Just start talking, and I’ll do my best to keep up.”
He didn’t know where to start. Finally, he said, “Do you remember my father’s pregnant mistress? Seven months after Jaelle died, she gave birth to a little girl named
Ezri. When Ezri was still a baby, they realized she already had her magic.”
Isa frowned. He knew what she was thinking, that it wasn’t possible. A witch couldn’t inherit her powers unless somebody in their bloodline died to pass it on. “How?”
“Magna wasn’t sure. She thought maybe since she and Jaelle were both pregnant at the same time, maybe she’d somehow been able to pass her magic to Ezri in utero.”
Isa’s frown deepened, her brows knitting together. “I’ve heard of witches dying in childbirth and passing on their magic to the baby, but I’ve never heard of somebody dying and passing on their magic to someone else’s fetus, bloodline or not.”
Wren nodded. He had never heard of such a thing either, but he’d been so disgusted with Cain, he’d never actually taken the time to try to figure out how such a thing could happen. Truthfully, he hadn’t cared. “Despite my mother’s feelings, my father raised Ezri right alongside my other siblings just as he had Jaelle.”
“I can’t imagine how any woman would tolerate her husband’s mistress living next door, much less his illegitimate child being raised with her own children.”
His mother was a confusing topic for him. “Cain married my mother because she came from the right bloodlines and he coveted her father’s status and money. My mother married Cain because she loved him. But my father has always had a weakness for witches. Magna wasn’t the first; she probably won’t be the last. When my mother realized that Cain would never love her—that she’d bound herself into a loveless marriage—she confronted him, and they came to a sort of arrangement, living their lives but tolerating each other for the sake of the children.”
“That sounds awful. Your poor mother.”
“I’m almost positive my mother is in love with somebody else now, but back then, she was miserable. Dylan and I were fully grown, my sisters were teenagers, and my mother didn’t work. Her whole life was taking care of us, teaching us, taking care of the house, taking care of the garden. Now, she was watching Magna raise a baby with our father, and she felt like she had nothing.
