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It screamed again, and we clapped our hands over our ears, but the scream still pierced through, furious and cutting. The sound wrapped claws around my heart and squeezed, and for a moment I couldn’t find my breath.
Sorcha had made a monster of the Egregore. And her monster was coming for us.
“I hope to God that is Chris Pratt riding a velociraptor,” Catcher said.
“I don’t think we’re that lucky,” I said.
“I honestly wouldn’t be surprised to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse right now,” Ethan said, gripping my hand with steel force.
There were two more pounding concussions. And one more minute of silence—the horrible silence of anticipation, the blissful silence of not yet knowing what monster awaited us.
The ground shook as it lifted off the hilltop, screaming furiously.
It moved on four legs, had a long and serpentine neck, was covered in gleaming black scales. Or I thought they were black. They were so dark it was hard to discern a color, but they gleamed in a shimmering rainbow of luminescence that shifted as the creature moved.
Its wings were thin and veined, mottled dark and red, with claws at the ends of the supporting bones. Its body ended in a long, whiplike tail, and steam rose from its length like it had ascended directly from the depths of hell. Its tongue, long and black, was forked like a swallow’s tail.
I stared at it, my brain trying to catch up with my eyes, trying to process what I was seeing.
Catcher got there faster than I did.
“Holy shit,” he said. “She made a dragon.”
• • •
There was no breathing of fire, at least as far as we could see. No medieval maidens in pointed caps, no armor-wearing knights. But the thing Sorcha created sure looked like a dragon.
We just stared at it, trying to comprehend what we were seeing.
“Get them!” Sorcha screamed.
Like a newborn fawn still getting used to its feet, the dragon lumbered forward, tripped on the curb, crumpled. It stood again on wobbling feet and stretched its wings, flapping them awkwardly and out of rhythm, still learning the syncopation of flying.
The hollow sound of an outboard motor drew our attention, and we all turned around. Jonah steered a boat to the south end of the island, negotiating through slabs of ice. He sent waves over the shore as he moved in, then gestured us forward. “Let’s go!”
“That’s our ride!” Catcher said. “Run!”
“Get everyone off the island,” Ethan yelled into his comm as we ran. “She manifested the Egregore into a dragon. Yes, I said dragon,” he repeated, in case anyone hadn’t yet seen the monster flapping its way across Northerly Island.
We hauled ass toward the boat, splashed through mud at the shoreline, and climbed into the boat.
“Where am I going?” Jonah asked.
“Back to shore,” Ethan said. “And step on it.”
• • •
Jonah steered back into the harbor, moving as quickly as he could through the chunks of ice that still floated in the water, ignoring the NO WAKE signs and sending the other boats swaying.
It had become suddenly and swampily August. I pulled off my jacket, stuffed it beneath my seat.
“What the hell was that?” Jonah asked.
“Dragon,” Catcher said. “She made a damned dragon.”
“Quit saying that,” Mallory snapped, lifting her head from Catcher’s shoulder. “Dragons aren’t real.”
“I’m pretty sure that was a dragon,” I said.
