looks human to everyone else. As do you.”
“I appreciate the warning. What I see is not what humans see.”
“Don’t mistake me, humans will be in costume. It’s Halloween, and even when it’s not, we’re a magickally theatrical city, but I think you’ll be able to tell the supernaturals from the workers and trick-or-treaters.
Whatever the obstacles, Darkwyn intended to enjoy this new world.
“I still sense the warrior poet in you,” Jaydun said. “You have always balanced the cruelty of life with a higher purpose better than most.”
Darkwyn frowned, unsure. “We were all taught as much by the ancient tradition of our Roman leaders.”
“But you excelled,” Bastian said.
“Andra called me her black ice dragon. I would rather be hard-hearted than a thinker.”
“Our sorceress bolstered our egos.” Jaydun chuckled. “Did you never catch on?”
“No, he’s right,” Bastian said. “Darkwyn was one of the fiercest dragons, as unpredictable and dangerous as black ice. Andra meant it. She told me so.”
“Now I don’t believe either of you,” Darkwyn snapped. “I am on earth, Andra is on the Island of Stars, and I do not know what I meant to her.”
“We all meant the world to her,” Jaydun assured him. “She sustained us on a dying island, protecting us from Killian at every turn for centuries.”
“She did, and well,” Darkwyn agreed.
“Speaking as a man of earth,” Bastian said, “I understand Andra’s meaning of black ice. Warrior men and dragons are often called upon to harden themselves against emotions. We then think our hearts are dead, but they are not. Bruised perhaps, and so hollow they echo like empty casings, but still there, beating faint and steady. The good news is the right heart mate can heal you, bring you back to life. I know this for a fact.”
Darkwyn’s rude feathered friend landed on his head, but Darkwyn removed him. “You may sit on my shoulder.” He regarded his brothers. “A warrior poet, really?”
“Little bit.” Bastian shrugged. “But as a dragon you are also huge, dark, and hard as black ice.”
Darkwyn growled low in his throat. “I do hope, Bastian Dragonelli, that you pierced your ass, but good, on that thorn bush you landed upon.”
Bastian firmed his lips against amusement. Jaydun and Vivica did the same.
His brothers’ temperaments had improved. Darkwyn appreciated being with them again. “So I landed at the Phoenix, tattooed with a Phoenix, though the two are hardly the same.”
“Glad to hear that your roman tattoo survived dragonhood,” Bastian said.
“A memory from the past I am glad to embrace. Tell me, has Bronte’s building risen from the ashes? If not, why the name?”
Vivica led them through a set of glass doors. “Bronte’s Phoenix lives up to its name. It housed an inn, The Phoenix Hotel, until about forty years ago, then fell into decay. Bronte brought it back to life. It is now simply the Phoenix. Many towns in this country are named for the mythical creature tattooed on your chest.”
“I chose it to help me rise from the ashes of battle.”
“And so you did rise, from a battle of dragons on a plane far from ours.” Jaydun indicated that Darkwyn should precede him.
Puck flew inside. “Bite Me at the frickin’ Phoenix. Ride in a coffin, drink some blood.”
NINE
In what Vivica called “Solitary Confinement,” alone in his apartment at Works Like Magick, Darkwyn sorted his DVD lessons. “Vivica said that I am an undisciplined, disruptive dragon, Puck,” he told the caged bird. “I am supposed to put these DVD lessons in my computer in order of number, yet I find myself choosing according to subject.”
The discs slid in an unruly heap on the floor. As he picked them up, he found one about Salem. “Tonight I’ll sleep with this one.”
His first day, he’d gotten thrown out of a public lecture for “snoring and snorting like a pen of porcupigs” and disturbing the class.
On the
“I appreciate the warning. What I see is not what humans see.”
“Don’t mistake me, humans will be in costume. It’s Halloween, and even when it’s not, we’re a magickally theatrical city, but I think you’ll be able to tell the supernaturals from the workers and trick-or-treaters.
Whatever the obstacles, Darkwyn intended to enjoy this new world.
“I still sense the warrior poet in you,” Jaydun said. “You have always balanced the cruelty of life with a higher purpose better than most.”
Darkwyn frowned, unsure. “We were all taught as much by the ancient tradition of our Roman leaders.”
“But you excelled,” Bastian said.
“Andra called me her black ice dragon. I would rather be hard-hearted than a thinker.”
“Our sorceress bolstered our egos.” Jaydun chuckled. “Did you never catch on?”
“No, he’s right,” Bastian said. “Darkwyn was one of the fiercest dragons, as unpredictable and dangerous as black ice. Andra meant it. She told me so.”
“Now I don’t believe either of you,” Darkwyn snapped. “I am on earth, Andra is on the Island of Stars, and I do not know what I meant to her.”
“We all meant the world to her,” Jaydun assured him. “She sustained us on a dying island, protecting us from Killian at every turn for centuries.”
“She did, and well,” Darkwyn agreed.
“Speaking as a man of earth,” Bastian said, “I understand Andra’s meaning of black ice. Warrior men and dragons are often called upon to harden themselves against emotions. We then think our hearts are dead, but they are not. Bruised perhaps, and so hollow they echo like empty casings, but still there, beating faint and steady. The good news is the right heart mate can heal you, bring you back to life. I know this for a fact.”
Darkwyn’s rude feathered friend landed on his head, but Darkwyn removed him. “You may sit on my shoulder.” He regarded his brothers. “A warrior poet, really?”
“Little bit.” Bastian shrugged. “But as a dragon you are also huge, dark, and hard as black ice.”
Darkwyn growled low in his throat. “I do hope, Bastian Dragonelli, that you pierced your ass, but good, on that thorn bush you landed upon.”
Bastian firmed his lips against amusement. Jaydun and Vivica did the same.
His brothers’ temperaments had improved. Darkwyn appreciated being with them again. “So I landed at the Phoenix, tattooed with a Phoenix, though the two are hardly the same.”
“Glad to hear that your roman tattoo survived dragonhood,” Bastian said.
“A memory from the past I am glad to embrace. Tell me, has Bronte’s building risen from the ashes? If not, why the name?”
Vivica led them through a set of glass doors. “Bronte’s Phoenix lives up to its name. It housed an inn, The Phoenix Hotel, until about forty years ago, then fell into decay. Bronte brought it back to life. It is now simply the Phoenix. Many towns in this country are named for the mythical creature tattooed on your chest.”
“I chose it to help me rise from the ashes of battle.”
“And so you did rise, from a battle of dragons on a plane far from ours.” Jaydun indicated that Darkwyn should precede him.
Puck flew inside. “Bite Me at the frickin’ Phoenix. Ride in a coffin, drink some blood.”
NINE
In what Vivica called “Solitary Confinement,” alone in his apartment at Works Like Magick, Darkwyn sorted his DVD lessons. “Vivica said that I am an undisciplined, disruptive dragon, Puck,” he told the caged bird. “I am supposed to put these DVD lessons in my computer in order of number, yet I find myself choosing according to subject.”
The discs slid in an unruly heap on the floor. As he picked them up, he found one about Salem. “Tonight I’ll sleep with this one.”
His first day, he’d gotten thrown out of a public lecture for “snoring and snorting like a pen of porcupigs” and disturbing the class.
On the
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