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Holy. Dragons.
Its gaze slips to Prometheus who has started to growl in warning. The larger dragon responds with a sharp noise andPrometheus suddenly changes course and we plummet toward the ground. The dragons follow us. Orcus holds me tighter. The dragon lands and we jolt to the left, but Orcus rights us. Tremors roll across the land as the other dragons land around us in a circle. We’re surrounded.
Smoke is rolling out of Prometheus’ nostrils and the little dragon is baring its teeth at the green-eyed dragon who tips his head to the sky and releases a stream of fire, hot enough to make sweat bead to the surface of my skin, into the air. The accompanying sound, somewhere between a growl and a high-pitched shriek, is nothing short of terrifying. Prometheus whimpers and drops its head low.
“This was a bad idea,” Orcus grumbles.
“It’ll be fine,” I whisper.
The dragon—who I assume is the leader—lowers its head and glares at Prometheus. The baby trembles and the leader releases a stream of smoke, opening its mouth to reveal sharp teeth and making the baby dragon squeak.
Mama!
Prometheus is scared. Oh, hell no. Before Orcus can grab me, I step in between the dragons and glare at the bigger one. Concern flares in the bond.
“Don’t you dare threaten Prometheus.” I scowl at the leader who tips its head so it can look at me. “It’s a baby. Whatever it did, it didn’t know better.” A burst of smoke rolls over me, and I choke a little but don’t stop glaring.
You defend the child,a deep rumbling voice sweeps through my mind. It’s ancient. I don’t know how I know that but I do. This dragon before me has been around for a very, very long time.
“I do,” I say even though this is 100% adumb way to diemoment.
A strong presence appears at my back, but I don’t lean into the safety of my ogre’s arms. I stand strong, if not a little shaky, and look the dragon in the eye. Something scrapes across my brain, like talons slicing through flesh, and I release a soft gasp, surprised but not in pain. Images—memories of me with Prometheus—flash through my mind, called forward by whatever magic the leader possesses. Orcus places a protective hand on my shoulder and steps beside me, ready to push me behind him at any given second.
“Daisy.”Say the word and I’ll find a way to get us out of here.
Mama.Prometheus butts its head against my hip and the leader’s attention slips to the smaller dragon.
It is unconventional, but Prometheus believes you are its mother. We will grant your request on one condition.
I arch an eyebrow. “What’s the condition?”
You take Septima with you.
Maybe that’s Prometheus’ real mom,I think.
No. The dragon’s parents died during a terrible storm. Zeus struck them down after they let their child toddle off for two days before looking for the babe.
That seems harsh.
To you, maybe, but Prometheus was only a few weeks old, barely able to walk let alone find food. We do not begrudge the sky god for his decision.
Glancing at Orcus, I relay the conditions. His gaze slips over the dragons and mine follow. Which one might be Septima? “We don’t have room for a full-size dragon in the castle,” Orcus says quietly.
Septima will find a place of their own. They will teach Prometheus our ways and the youngling will remain with who it believes is its mother.
That’s a fair deal.And even though I’m the queen of monsters, I dip into a low curtsey to show my thanks. It doesn’t take a genius to realize the dragons are outside of the umbrella of what Orcus and I govern. It would be foolish to assume they’d listen to us when they could smite us.
Some type of conversation flows through the ring of dragons in a series of chirps and growls and puffs of smoke. Five launch into the air, leaving the leader and a dragon with metallic red scales and vibrant golden eyes.
Septima.
I dip my head in respect as it studies me. In my periphery, I see Orcus do the same. Prometheus stumbles into me and I grunt, tripping over my own feet but catching myself before I go to my knees. The leader’s head weaves toward Prometheus, and it growls at the little dragon again, this time less threatening and more like a teacher scolding a student. Prometheus drops its head.
Sorry, Mama.
“It’s okay, sweet thing.” I run my palm over the top of Prometheus’ head. The two larger beasts watch our interaction with open curiosity. Clearly a dragon has never been raised by anyone other than a dragon. I glance at Septima. “I think we’ll do a good job,” I tell her. The red dragon releases a puff of steam. I can’t tell if that’s a yes or no, but I know Prometheus will be a good student.
The little dragon yawns and exhales smoke.
