Chapter Eleven
Dragons
The echo of Logan’s car door in the near empty garage startled me out of my thoughts. He was opening my door a moment later, ushering me to the place only Aern and I knew as his home. I was only vaguely aware of the extra bags he carried until we were inside and he placed them on the kitchen counter.
“You picked up supplies?” I asked.
“Only a few things. They had extra,” Logan answered as he sorted containers into the refrigerator and cabinets.
I smiled. The houses of the Seven Lines were never wanting for anything. And then I realized I was watching him far too closely. Again.
I cleared my throat. “I’m going to …” I trailed off, pointing vaguely toward the bedroom as I was stifled by my lack of a good term for what I was doing that didn’t sound like freshen up or slip into something more comfortable.
Logan nodded toward the pack that held the journals we’d collected from Morgan’s office. “I gathered a few things for you as well. I know you weren’t planning on spending this many days away.”
I stepped to the end table that held the bag, folding the top back to find two blouses, a clear zippered bag of travel sized soaps and lotions, and, to my horror, at least one pair of underthings. I stared up at Logan, mortified, and he immediately amended his explanation. “Ava put some things together. For you.” He rubbed a palm across his chest. “They keep extra on hand is all.”
I closed the flap, schooling my features. “Thank you. I’ll just …” With a tilt of my head, I backed toward the bedroom door. When I was hidden safely behind it, I held my head in my hands.
Eventually, I dropped the bag onto the bed, grateful to find the documents packed into a separate compartment from the clothes. After carefully spreading out the contents of the document side, I dumped the remaining items onto the charcoal comforter. Clearly Ava had no idea what we were up to, because she’d included a thin silk blouse and camisole in a pastel peach shade, and an ordinary black cotton tank top. I ran my fingers over the material—designer, new, the perfect size—and wondered what their stockrooms looked like. Or maybe they’d gone shopping for their prophecy girl. With a sigh, I took a set of fresh clothes and the zippered bag toward the bath. I paused when I saw the small carved box atop the side table. The lock of hair pressed against my hip, and I gently tilted the lid of the box to check inside. It was empty, the shallow interior seemingly untouched, so I laid my things aside to retrieve the banded lock from my pocket. It was oddly ceremonial, placing the last remaining piece of my mother there, and my chest squeezed for a long moment before I closed the lid.
I hadn’t gotten over her death, I realized. It had only gotten easier because I’d accepted the prophecy. I had accepted my place, and in doing so her place, in the order of things. I had a purpose. That purpose had been there from the beginning, but it was as if it had been pushing me, dragging me, forcing me along with it.
Now I was moving forward of my own accord, hunting instead of being chased. I would find the clue. I would choose our fate. And I was incredibly grateful Logan had a nice shower.
I leaned forward into the spray, allowing the steady thrum of water hitting stone to drown out my thoughts, willing the heat to permeate my muscles, stiff from the days of tension and disuse. I ran a hand absently over the scar on my side, aware that it could have been far worse. In a matter of weeks I had nearly healed. We might not have been as capable as those of the Seven Lines, but there was something in Emily and me that allowed us to repair faster and easier than the average person. Something that made us not quite human.
Twisting the handle, I closed off the spray with that train of thought. I ran a towel and comb through my hair, and by the time I’d made my way to the bedroom, I’d already populated a mental list of which documents to review first, which of Morgan’s things held the most promise for a hint of that clue. I threw on the black tank over a pair of designer jeans and stood barefoot above the journals.
It was the notebook that my hand reached for first, despite my utter dread of the idea. I pressed a knee into the bed, leaning on one leg as I paged through Morgan’s notes and scrawls. Dragon, drascendo, drestillia, draco. Mare, visum, oculus, serpens. Born of the Serpent. Daughter of Great Power. Eyes of the Sea. It was random and it was prophecy and no matter how many times he’d written it, it meant nothing to me.
And then it did. Suddenly, unquestionably, it did. My fingers drew back from the words as if I’d been burned; a terrible, undeniable sharpness was there that hadn’t been before as I reread our names:
Emily Elizabeth Drake
Brianna Katherine Drake