Three Kinds of Wicked

by May Dawson

  I’ve learned the past five years to run away from trouble and to seek as much plausible deniability as possible, but the glass is already broken. I’m already in pretty dire trouble with some librarian somewhere. Late fees are nothing compared with breaking priceless relics.

  I step carefully closer to the shelf, crunching broken glass beneath my shoes, and look through the wreckage. The wand lies, looking as smug as any piece of wood and metal can, in the center of the carnage. It’s on a bed of four or five broken glass bottles and boxes. The bottoms of the bottles still stand, jagged and dangerous.

  The good folk of Avalon have a flair for the dramatic. I’ve seen these bottles in plays and storybooks: enchanted message-bottles float in wells, enchanted so that only the knight’s fair maiden will draw it up in her bucket.

  There’s a shred of paper in the wreckage. When I pick it up, I accidentally touch a knuckle to the broken glass. It’s too clean a cut to hurt; I don’t even realize until my blood drips down my hand and a red bead of it falls onto the shelf.

  “Fuck.” The curse seems to resound in the hush of the library. I’m thoroughly dirtside at this point. I don’t fit in with this beautiful world.

  I transfer the paper to my other hand and wipe my bloody knuckles on my jeans. Mycroft will be put out that I’ve hurt myself yet again and require tending.

  The slip of the paper says, At Freer’s Market, You Can Buy Gold, Potions and Pies! Everything You Need Under One Roof!

  I’ve found a fucking commercial.

  “Thanks, wand,” I mutter. I debate whether to pick it up out of the glass with the hand that’s already bleeding or risk the other one.

  Then I hear the soft beating of a heart. Not mine. This is a low, steady rhythm.

  I pluck the wand out of the glass. I’m ready to run. I’m ready to club someone with this wand, since that’s all I know how to do with it.

  And frankly, the wand deserves a bit of clubbing.

  I peer down at the wreck of glass, sure that somehow, the heartbeat comes from there.

  The drop of blood shimmers, red and translucent, in the broken remnants of the glass box. With every heartbeat, the blood seems to shake.

  I am not an idiot—all evidence at the moment aside—so I know I need to take this damn thing to Mycroft, Airren and Cax. I am not prepared to deal with the beating heart in a box on my own. I will happily ’fess up and pay the library fines (with Cax’s money, of course).

  But when I reach out, my fingers shake. I’m afraid I’ll drop the damn thing, but I pick it up tentatively anyway, careful not to cut myself again. Because I don’t want to drop it, I cradle it against my chest. I rush back down the hall, ignoring the crunch of glass underfoot.

  The beating heart grows louder, matching my own. When I look down, I swear the drop of blood has grown. It’s as big as my pinkie to the first knuckle now, still deeply red like a ruby and shimmering with magic.

  “Hey guys,” I call.

  The door flies open. Mycroft flies out as if he’s been standing there with his hand on the doorknob. His hands are already forming fists like he’s ready to kill someone. He’s big and imposing and terrifying.

  And so sweet.

  When he sees me, his shoulders visibly relax.

  “I did a thing.” I shrug apologetically, raising my hands that are knitted around the broken box.

  Airren and Cax are on Mycroft’s heels, but they come to a quick stop. Cutter saunters out behind them; he doesn’t much care if I die or not, I guess.

  Mycroft’s gaze falls to the box. Then he turns away and runs his hand over his hair. “I told you, we shouldn’t leave this girl alone for five minutes. Hazard to herself and others.”

  “How in the world did you find this?” Cax is by my side in a few steps. “A blood egg? It’s priceless.”

  “It was priceless, before she marked it,” Mycroft says drily.

  Cax slides his palms beneath mine, keeping my hands from shaking as he carefully examines the egg. “It’s done. The egg’s bloody.”

  “The egg’s wasted,” Mycroft says.

  “It’s not a waste,” Cax says defensively. “Tera can use the egg.”

  “What is the egg?” I break in. “What priceless thing did I accidentally bleed on?”

  “You did a lot more than bleed on it.” Cax takes the box from me, carefully, almost reverently. “Are you serious that you did this by accident? You broke the box hiding the egg and dripped your blood on it?”

  “It’s almost like the idiot child has every idea what she’s doing, and you’re a bunch of gullible saps,” Cutter mutters. The man does love to mutter.

  The look that Airren gives him should, technically, cause Cutter to drop dead right there.

  “Blame Mycroft’s wand,” I say.

  Cutter snorts. “I already do.”

  Mycroft swivels, giving him a once-over that should cause him to drop dead twice.

  “I’m still waiting for an answer.” My tone is loud and firm, and I’m not sorry. “What is the egg?”

  When I look back down, the egg has grown to the length of my pinkie to the second knuckle.

  “It’s old magic, the kind that doesn’t come easy anymore,” Cax tells me.

  That phrase, old magic, fueled my father’s attempt at revolution.

  “White dragons used to lay their eggs to lie dormant until they bonded with a human. It was similar to how dogs evolved to co-exist with humans, but even more intense. Of course, white dragons are more-or-less extinct and wildly sought after…” Cax looks up from the egg. There’s an intensity in his deep blue eyes that makes me bite my lip.

  “What?” I ask, afraid of the answer. “So you really think this is a white dragon?”

  “I think you must be the luckiest girl on the face of the earth, and not just because you have me in your life,” Cax says, but the humor in his voice doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “I swear to God it was an accident,” I say. “Mycroft’s wand broke the box.”

  “It must like you better than it ever liked me.” Mycroft folds his arms impatiently.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.” My voice comes out small.

  “No one thinks you did.” Airren rests his hand on my shoulder.

  “Well, what’s done is done,” Cax says. “Let’s get this thing out of the glass before it breaks it. You’re on babysitting duty.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The egg’s bonded with you. You have to take care of it until it hatches. You’re like a dragon-mommy now.”

  “She shouldn’t even be on babysitting duty for herself,” Mycroft grumbles, although it doesn’t sound as insulting as it should, coming from Mycroft. He doesn’t think highly of anyone but himself, or at least he pretends not to.

  I meet his gold-flecked brown eyes, my chin lifting. “I’m going to need your help, Croft. Why don’t you find me a book on white dragons?”

  There’s a subtle change in his face. I’ve used his nickname, the one I’ve heard Cax use. A familiar, lonely ache seizes my heart.

  Don’t kiss me like that unless you mean it, you jackass.

  I sweep toward the office. “Get me a book. Help an idiot child out.”

  “I never said that.” Mycroft sounds testy.

  I shake my head. He might as well have. He might as well be two-of-a-kind with Cutter. I wouldn’t care, except I’ve started to trust him.

  Mycroft sighs, as if there’s so much more he wants to say to me. But then he turns and storms for the door. I turn back just in time to see the tension in his tall, broad-shouldered frame as he rounds the corner.

  Airren glances at me with concern in his bright blue eyes. “He’s just worried about you. You already attract too much attention. The dragon is the last thing you need.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “A little late, though.”

  “I’m just saying, cut him some slack.”

  “I only need one overprotective ass in my life.” I wink at Airren.


  He quirks his lips to one side in response. “You worry me.”

  I set the egg carefully on the table, bracing my elbows on either side. It’s only when Airren moves to stand beside me that I realize I’m standing over the egg as if I intend to protect it. The egg trembles slightly after each beat of its heart reverberates the deep red shell.

  “Life’s a lot more interesting with you in it,” Airren says.

  What was his life like before I arrived just a week ago? My life—even as a suspect in a murder investigation—is better than it was.

  I still can’t cast, but magic seems to be finding me.

  29

  Cutter’s wand slides across the blackboard then snaps back into his hand. He nods, glancing down at it—apparently this is how the police record information around here. “I’m going to run these names back at the precinct house. See if we can find some more up-to-date connections.”

  “Find us at the dorm if you need to later,” Airren says. “We could all use some dinner and a break.”

  “No rest for the wicked.” Cutter’s eyes linger on me.

  For a second, that look cuts through me. But then I remember the way he said I was terrifying, and he meant it. I flash a bright smile in his direction.

  Airren’s keen blue eyes always take in too much. He follows Cutter to the door, his movements quick, like he has something he has to say.

  But Cutter spins around, his hand on the doorknob. “I hope you know what you’re doing here.”

  “I do.” Airren’s voice is low and sure.

  Cutter shakes his head. Before he can open the door, Airren puts his hand on his shoulder and says something into his ear. I can’t hear it, but Cutter shrugs off his hand and turn to him, eyes blazing.

  “We’ll see.” Cutter’s voice is full of held-back anger. He jerks the door open and and slams it shut behind him.

  When Airren opens the door again, the empty warehouse stands in front of us.

  I cradle my egg, which fills my palm, and head toward the door. I’m not even limping anymore. I wish I could thank Mycroft. I’d like to heal the sudden rupture between us without apologizing. I don’t think I owe him an apology.

  I mean, I feel like I owe everyone in Avalon an apology. But I can’t go on living like that. I need to make peace with my past or I need to move on to a new realm.

  I glance at the blood-red egg cradled in my hands. Move on to a new realm. With my dragon. Jesus. I muse out loud, “If the kids in my old foster home could see me now…”

  Mycroft joins us, a pile of books tucked under his broad arm and a stony look on his face.

  Cax reaches out to touch one of the book’s spines. “I thought we weren’t allowed to take this out of the library.”

  “We aren’t allowed to do a lot of things.” Mycroft’s tone is low and gruff. “For the love of Christ, Tera. Put that thing in your pocket.”

  “I’m not breaking the priceless egg.” The steady heartbeat presses against my palm. It’s oddly calming, as if the baby dragon is soothing me as I sooth it. “It’s going to draw attention anyway. I don’t know where I’m going to hide a dragon in the dorm.”

  Mycroft shakes his head. “Maybe not.”

  Cax’s stomach rumbles. He raises an eyebrow at us both, taking a step back into the warehouse. “Do you think we could go before we miss yet another meal?”

  “You know, Marines miss a lot of meals,” Airren says, his voice casual.

  “Why do I get the feeling sometimes that you don’t want to be best friends forever?” Cax asks.

  As the two of them bicker, Mycroft falls in beside me.

  “What do you mean, maybe not?” I try to keep my voice level, but I’m already keenly protective of my little egg. I don’t know how the hell this is going to work, the egg and me, but I also know damn well I’m not giving up on the orphan dragon who found me. There’s magic in this.

  Some people think magic is blind to man, just another natural phenomenon. I don’t believe in much, but I’ve spent the last five years dreaming of coming home to magic. I don’t believe it’s blind. This bloodied egg feels like it carries magic and warmth and hope.

  “The dragon thing isn’t entirely accurate. It’s simply the form they most often take, especially now, when there are no bonded dragon/human pairs.”

  “Why aren’t there pairs anymore?”

  “Because humans die a lot younger than dragons,” Mycroft says. “It takes an egg so long to hatch, most dragons still don’t live long enough to raise their last-laid egg. That’s part of why scientists think they evolved that human bond.”

  “And why do you think it’ll stay a secret?” The words make a lump rise to my throat. I can’t let anyone see that I already am desperately invested in the idea of keeping this dragon. It makes it seem like I did do it on purpose.

  I said I wanted to be normal, but maybe what I really want is to be different and yet to be loved anyway. I’m usually just weird. Being one of the few humans bonded with a dragon would make me special for once.

  “Dragon is a misnomer,” Mycroft says shortly. “They’re actually shifters. A dragon is their most common form.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If you could be anything, wouldn’t you be a dragon?”

  He has a point.

  Once we’ve jogged down the steps of the library, Airren falls back, casually, until his shoulder brushes mine. Cax continues to walk a few steps ahead, his hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that gives him away. My body guards are on duty.

  It really is oddly touching to be surrounded by their big, protective bodies, although I’d rather I didn’t need any protecting. “You guys are adorable.”

  The first red-gold leaves fall from the trees, waving softly in the air as they descend on the soft breeze. We turn a corner and the trees part. I look all the way down the long hill of campus to glimpse the town below and its tidy, cobblestone streets and the little rows of shops.

  “You’re petting the egg,” Airren whispers from behind clenched teeth, his eyes still on a swivel.

  My lips part to argue with them, but I look down first and realize my fingertips are resting on the hard red shell. I’ve been stroking it absent-mindedly, keeping time with its beating heart.

  Airren glances at Mycroft. “Are you sure about what it is?”

  “I am,” Mycroft says.

  Airren mutters, “I don’t like this.”

  “I haven’t really liked anything about this place since we started freshman year.” Mycroft’s tone is pointed, and Airren harrumphs in response. There’s something going on between them, too. It almost seems like Airren’s responsible for Mycroft being here, as if Mycroft followed him for some reason. I don’t know why Mycroft wouldn’t love this place, where he’s recognized as some kind of magic prodigy and everyone knows his name for good reasons.

  When the path turns and Rawl House comes into view, I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  As we head inside, Airren says, “Let’s get our food and go upstairs.”

  “Am I supposed to live in Mycroft and Cax’s room forever?” I ask.

  Cax leans over my shoulder to say, “Living the dream. Do you know how many girls would like to be in your place?”

  I stare at him, my eyebrows lifting. “My place? You mean a murder suspect and the despised daughter of a dark magician?”

  Cax shrugs. “When you say it like that…”

  I’m going through the line, staring between the glazed carrots and the green beans amandine to decide which I’m less likely to abandon on my plate, when someone shoulders their way between Cax and me. Cax’s just stuck a roll in his mouth because he doesn’t have any more room on his tray, but the playfulness drops away as he rounds on the stranger.

  “What’d you do to Luca, you bitch?” The guy who looms over me is big enough to be scary and sad enough to be pitiful. His dark eyes glitter with unshed tears, and the sight is jarri
ng; I don’t expect to see a young man with military-short hair and jacked arms cry in the middle of the cafeteria. He’s shaking, as if he’s just barely holding back his rage

  “I didn’t do anything.” My voice is soft, but I don’t hold out high hopes that I can calm him. I glance past his shoulder at the faces turning toward us.

  “What the hell did you just say to her?” Cax’s voice comes out with a distinct lack of volume control. More heads swivel in our direction.

  “I’m not talking to you, Cax.” The stranger puts his shoulder in front of Cax’s, blocking him from my view; his chest is in front of me. I try to set my tray down on the edge of the counter, but I miss. Carrots and lettuce fall onto the floor, followed by the thud of the tray slamming into the hardwood.

  Cax grabs the boy’s shoulder. “Well, I’m talking to you, Jon.”

  “Easy, easy.” Airren says. There’s heat in his deep blue eyes, surprising me, but his tone is relaxed and he holds his hands up like he’s trying to calm things down.

  The egg. If there’s a scuffle, the egg could be broken. I spin on my heel, heading for the door.

  Jon follows me. His voice is loud now. “Luca was a good guy! He never did anything to anybody.”

  Even though I don’t look back, the air behind my back is displaced as if he’s following close on my heels. I have too much practice running to look back. Airren is right behind him, saying calming things in a low, persuasive tone.

  Jon grabs my shoulder.

  “Oh, forget it,” Airren interrupts his own kind monologue. Jon is wrenched back, away from me. His fingers curl painfully into my shoulder, but I already know he won’t keep that grip for more than two seconds before one of my men turns dangerous. I’m afraid for the egg.

  Jon’s grip yanks me back, but Airren catches me around the waist. I turn to see Mycroft standing over Jon. Mycroft hits him across the face. Jon slams into the floor. He doesn’t try to get up again.

  Right. Add the one-punch-knockout to the list of Mycroft’s many superpowers.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Airren tells me, but his arm is still tight around my waist. He glances down at the egg, and without having to talk about it, the two of us rush for the stairs.