Blade Bound

   She blew out a breath, nodded, and carried her pot into the middle of the field, right on the fifty-yard line.

   She put it down, then looked back at us, held up a finger. “One thing first,” she yelled as we walked toward her, and then leaned down and did a tidy cartwheel across the grass, followed by a front handspring.

   When she came up, she pulled down her shirt, pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said with a grin. “Figured I’d get it in now in case I don’t get another chance.”

   “You are medal ready,” Ethan said with a grin.

   We took the positions we’d agreed upon—four roughly cardinal points around her, fifteen feet away.

   She pulled out a can of white spray paint, grinned as she shook it up, the metal bearings rolling around inside.

   “I’ve always wanted to do this, too,” she said, and began to spray white symbols around the crucible, symbols of alchemy.

   When that was done, she tossed the can away, pulled a vial from her pocket, and emptied it into the crucible.

   “What is this, exactly?” Ethan asked.

   “A little river water, a little scraping from Sorcha’s alchemy, a smidge of grass from Wrigley Field, and sand from Oak Street Beach, and a few other odds and ends, combined with a little magic of my own. Like calls to like,” she said, straightening again. “Or at least that’s the theory.”

   She pulled a box of matches from her pocket and took one out, holding it up while she waited for our nods.

   “Ready,” Ethan said, and she nodded.

   “And away we go,” she said, and whipped the match against the side of the box, sparking sulfur into the air.

   She dropped the flame into the crucible. Almost immediately, thick white smoke began to rise from the vessel’s top, streaming upward in a column toward the sky and spilling the Egregore’s scents into the air. Smoke, earth, and water, carried by magic.

   The smoke rose like a signal fire over the stadium and seemed to glow orange in the lights. Mallory took a seat on the ground.

   “While we have a moment,” I said, “how’s Margot?”

   Jonah looked startled by the question. “I’m not— Why do you ask?”

   I gave him a bland look.

   “That was a setup?”

   “It was supposed to be. No spark?”

   He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to discuss this with you.”

   I narrowed my gaze at him, but the harsh look didn’t work. I’d have to talk to Margot later.

   “The dragon’s moving,” said Wilcox in our ear. “He’s off the lighthouse and headed your way. ETA three minutes.”

   “Lighthouse still intact?” Jonah asked.

   “It is.”

   “Good,” Jonah said with a nod. “That’s something, anyway.”

   Some nights, you took the victories you could get.

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

 

CONSEQUENTIALLY

 

The dragon circled once, then twice, around the tower of smoke, screaming wildly. Like called to like, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it said. Was it hopeful there was another like it, or angry at what it might have believed was the origin of its anger?

   “Swords up!” Ethan called out, and we lifted our blades.

   It dove like a waterbird and came in fast, moving within twenty feet of us before banking again, rising along the bleachers, and turning for another pass.

   It dropped again, and this time aimed for Mallory.

   Jonah jumped, spun his katanas against the dragon’s right wing, managed to nick the tendon.

   I ran beneath the dragon, sliced at its leg, in a spot with scales thicker than those on its toes.

   The sword was strong, and Catcher’s magic made it stronger, but it was still tough going, felt like cutting through concrete. Each millimeter forward took a disproportionate amount of effort.

   I managed to slice a wound into its thigh. The dragon shrieked and ascended again, trailing blood into the sky. And then it turned and headed in for another round.

   “Second volley!” Catcher said, and Ethan rolled his blade around his body, gaze set on the creature arrowing toward him.

   The dragon reached him, snapped its teeth, and roared with pain and anger. ENEMIES.

   Ethan dodged gnashing teeth and swung the sword in an arc, catching the plates on the underside of the dragon’s neck. They cracked with a snap, like tiles breaking against concrete, blood welling in the cut beneath them.

   The dragon hit the ground, rolled, leaving a trail of blood across the grass, and scenting the air with blood and chemicals. Ethan ran toward it, sliced its leg. I did the same with the other, then darted away when the dragon roared with anger, rose to its feet.

   Our magicked swords were working. We actually had a chance at this.

   And wasn’t that always when pride got in the way?

   The dragon climbed to its feet. It was nimble in the air, but not on the ground, so I expected it to amble forward. Instead, it darted to the side, head snapping. Its teeth—serrated and sharp—scraped against my arm, leaving a trail of pain and heat.

   I cursed and dodged away, and the dragon screamed as a katana lodged in its foreleg only inches away from my head.

   I looked back at Jonah, hand still lifted in perfect follow-through form.

   “No throwing swords near a vampire’s head!” I called out. “New rule!”

   “Saved your ass, didn’t it?” he said, running forward and hopping onto the dragon’s foot, snatching back his sword before flipping away again.

   Little wonder he was captain of the Grey House guards.