Page 68 of Dream Reaper

“Fight, Dragon,” he growled between his teeth, caught halfway between human teeth and dragon fangs. “Don’t give in. Just don’t.”

He caught the injured girl around the waist and slung her over his shoulder. Ava and Brynja stepped away without a word, falling into his wake like ripples around a sea monster swimming hard for open water. Together, they trudged back to the camp, into the warm glow of the bonfires, into the temporary safety of numbers.

The girls rushed toward them as Jerrid laid their injured friend down on the ground. It was the one with the ponytails, the one they had met when they first stumbled upon this strange group of girls.

Some of the women looked at him warily, their eyes lingering on his arm, on his face.

Oh, yes, his fangs.

Fine…

Dragon pulled his teeth back with no small show of reluctance. Soon the scales on his arm receded too.

He rubbed his fingers over the raw, itching skin until the scales finally sank back inside. He stepped away, leaving Ava and the girls to do the healing. He wasn’t needed anymore. Not here. He wasn’t built for healing, wasn’t meant for it.

Protect.

Yes, that’s what they would do. That primal instinct to protect drove him back to the outskirts of the camp, where he began a slow and methodical scouting expedition of their defenses.

While the others tended to Ylsi, Jerrid’s head continued to plague him. He stalked around the camp for his third circle, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed as he tried to ignore the pounding headache.

It was like a drumbeat inside his head. No, more like a hammer against an anvil. Over and over and over again.

Don’t like this, Dragon thought wearily.

Jerrid’s stomach clenched at the tone of despair in the dragon’s voice. His presence was growing weaker. What would happen if he couldn’t fight anymore? If he succumbed to the shadow, would that mean instant failure for Jerrid as well? He didn’t think he’d be able to hold out on his own. Not against this thing.

If this truly was the monster the prince of Gelaira had been fighting, how in the world had he survived so long without the elvish healer to help him? Lady Persis—Princess Persis now—had magic to help him. Sand magic. Healing magic. And Prince Haryk had fire magic.

All Jerrid had was Dragon. And if Dragon fell…

There was no doubt in his mind what his own fate would be.

We have Meat Pasty.

Jerrid’s footsteps faltered. He tripped over an upraised root and righted himself before continuing onward.

“Yes, but she doesn’t have strong enough magic. Her fire is…weak and unpredictable.”

You don’t know that.

“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it in action. She can barely summon it. It’s a miracle she was able to cauterize our wound.” His hand drifted to his side, and the makeshift bandage wrapped around his waist.

She’s growing stronger.

Jerrid blinked and considered that. She had been able to cauterize his injury…and she’d made that ridiculous blood oath, without even realizing what she was doing.

“Why? Why is she suddenly getting stronger? Do you think it’s something to do with the shadow?”

As if it had heard him, the pain in his head intensified.

Dragon winced but snorted. Us.

“Us? What does that mean? You think we have something to do with her powers growing?”

Dragon didn’t answer. The pain continued to grow, lancing through his skull like a physical blade digging into bone. Jerrid pressed both hands against his head, unable to stop the cry of pain tugged from deep inside his chest.

Dragon roared along with him.