Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88669 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
It could have all been in my head, but I was sure the Huntress winked at me before I turned to follow the dragons and Marvel out of the park.
Chapter 20
Flying High
Damien
Maddox and Claire sat giggling in the corner of the room, by the pinball machine that constantly dinged and dazzled. We were in the arcade room, lit up by neon lights and sparkling screens. There were two arched windows bordering the pool table that allowed the room to soak in some of the last light from the dying sun, a view of the surrounding Malibu mountains painted in those golden strokes. The walls were the gray stone of the castle, which contrasted against the more modern lights and toys in the room. Robby, who had taken a nibble of the brownie, was in deep conversation with Dawn about her theories on how the Tears started and where (if anywhere) did they lead. Even Warrick was with us, looking slightly pale but actually smiling.
I made sure he didn’t have any of the brownies, but apparently, even just being around us was enough to bring some of the shine back into his bright eyes. He lay on the couch, curled into the corner, a heavy pink blanket over his lap and a book shut on top of it.
The thermostat was set to a warm seventy-two degrees, but Warrick was clearly getting colder and colder. His jaw trembled, which he tried to hide but I could see it. He was the youngest brother, my little brother. Of course I could see it.
“Want me to turn up the heat?” I asked him as I sat down next to him on the couch.
“No, no, I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” he said, his smile quivering as he coughed into a closed fist. I saw a flash of emerald green scales ripple across his forearm.
Fuck. I glanced around the room. No one else saw.
It was getting worse, but at least there was hope now. I had to remind myself, I had to fight back the images of my own mother burning. Of her face—a warmth constantly radiating from a wide and easy smile, framed by golden blonde hair—twisted in agony. In an expression I never fathomed she could even wear. Excruciating pain and a depthless sadness, knowing she’d never be able to hold her children again.
And there was nothing we could do to save her. All we could do was watch her burn.
I’d never forget that helpless feeling. It rooted itself deep down into my soul, twisting around my gut like barbed wire. I bled for my mother every fucking day, wishing I could have been faster, or smarter, or that I could have been the one taken instead. Those memories—that sinister emotion—it wrecked me, and it made me all the more terrified for my brother.
But I had to believe it wouldn’t be Warrick’s fate. I wouldn’t allow it, not if I needed to bring down the vampire matriarch with my own bare talons.
I put a hand on my brother’s shoulder. He must have lost at least ten pounds in the last two weeks. He was always the smallest out of the siblings, but now he looked like he was a sneeze away from snapping in half. Seeing him like this… it tore me apart. Shredded me. I thought back to the times I’d protect him as a kid, when he would be bullied and take it, crying on his way home about the mean hyena shifters in class. He hated confrontation and would rather laugh off cruel comments to only later internalize and believe them.
I showed up to school the next day—a sixteen year old dragon pissed as fuck—and I scorched the front lawn with a blast of flame from my fists, right as they were being dropped off.
They didn’t say a single thing to my little brother after that. And the four weeks of grounding my father had dropped on me was worth seeing Warrick happy. Besides, mom managed to negotiate the four weeks down to one and a half, giving a silent stamp of approval for my actions. A slap on the wrist, sure, but a wink and a whisper of how proud she was of the both of us soon followed.
My brother smiled at me, his eyes still bright under those thick-rimmed glasses.
Eyes just like mom’s.
The blade between my ribs twisted. Breath stolen.
“Hey, Damien, do you remember that time mom was teaching me how to fly?”
The question had come from Xavier, who passed on the brownies but instead nursed a fireball and coke. His favorite drink, even when we all teased him about it. He was on the beanbag chair wearing his usual uniform: tank top and gym shorts with a backwards blue LA Dodgers baseball cap. A patch of gold scales glittered against the tan skin of his bicep, rippling when he brought his glass up to his mouth.