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“Girl takes her role as DM a little too seriously,” Catcher murmured. “Details at eleven.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the rise and fall of its wings, the rainbow of color that spilled across its scales with each rhythmic movement. It was graceful in its way.
The dragon lifted into the air.
YOU DID NOT CREATE ME.
Sorcha’s smile was immense, her pleasure obvious. Her arrogance now physical. “Oh, I created you,” she said. “I brought together the disparate consciousness of all touched by my magic, and I created you.”
YOU DID NOT CREATE, it said. I EXISTED. PAIN AND RAGE EXISTED. YOU BROUGHT ME INTO THIS FORM.
“You’re here now!” Sorcha yelled impatiently, lifting her hands to the sky. “And I am in control. Come to me,” she ordered, and pointed at the street in front of her, like a human might order a stubborn dog to sit.
There was magic behind the order—the buzz of magic that pulsed through the air, the stain of the darkness that surrounded it.
The dragon swooped in front of her.
Tremulously, just as a girl might have taken her first cautious step toward a quarter horse, Sorcha took a step forward, green silk undulating around her body with each flap of the dragon’s wings. It settled on the ground, heat and moisture rising from its wide nostrils.
The dragon lowered its nose, its body only feet from hers, as if waiting for her command, her signal to move.
The dragon opened its eyes . . . chartreuse and angry . . .
And bit Sorcha in half.
And then, with a gulp and chomp, it finished her off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MIDNIGHT RUN
We stared in shock and silence for a full ten seconds, gazing at the spot where Sorcha, our feared enemy, had stood. Now our enemy was being crushed and crunched with horrible liquidy sounds while the dragon mawed on her remaining bits like a cow chewing its cud.
“She was our enemy,” Mallory said. “But . . .”
“But we would have incarcerated her,” Catcher said. “Not made her dragon kibble.”
We all looked at Catcher. “I won’t apologize for wishing her dead, although I’m guessing ‘chewed up’ isn’t a very pleasant way to go.”
We all looked back at the dragon, which coughed, then spat out one of Sorcha’s heels.
“Why do I want to laugh?” Mallory asked.
“Because this is horrible and uncomfortable and the best dark comedy ever written,” Catcher said.
“Yeah,” Mallory said.
But the comedy ended. Done with its snack, the dragon lifted its head, narrowed its reptilian eyes at us.
