Hydra (15 page)

Ed is standing in front of the door looking out the peephole window.

“Ready?” I ask.

He turns to face me, his eyes slightly rounder than usual. “There be people out there.”

“Yes. They turn out to welcome us home. It’s a tradition.” I cross the small room and peer out the peephole.

Immediately I understand Ed’s concern. We didn’t even come close to sneaking in unnoticed. There are people—a lot of people—more than usual, even—lining the sides of the street that runs through the center of the village to my childhood home at the opposite end. There are probably more people than Ed has seen in one place…ever? I don’t know.

I slip my hand into his. “You can do this.”

He stares at the door, and I can see the battle he’s waging inside. He is a big tough guy. Wise and capable and strong. He’s overcome many trials and lasted far longer than nearly all the other dragons in the world.

And right now, he’d much rather be hiding at the bottom of Loch Ness, than walking down this street filled with people happy to see him.

“Come on. I don’t want them to worry.”

Ed winces.

“I’ll keep hold of your hand.”

“Ye’ll hold me hand?” His pale face regains a measure of its color.

I can’t help smiling at the note in his voice, part eagerness, part relief.

“Ye won’t let go?”

“Not until we’re inside my house.” I’m not sure why there are so many people lining the street to welcome us home. Granted, I haven’t been home from school yet for summer break, so it’s been months since anyone’s seen me. But there really is a crowd out there, growing bigger even as we stall. They’re not here to see Ed, are they? They wouldn’t know about him unless my mom and sisters came home and told them. News travels quickly in our intimate village, but it has to start somewhere.

Which means they probably beat us home.

“Ready?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Just walk with me. Smile and wave, if you can. It’ll be fun.”

Ed looks unconvinced. “Not my kind of fun.” But he takes a deep breath and opens the door.

The crowd raises a cheer as we step out together, my coarse-woven geometrically-patterned robe a splash of color, lime-green and brown and teal, next to the simple but soft navy blue terrycloth robe Ed chose for himself.

I wave at the people with my one free hand, and children squeal with delight and people shout words of welcome. I recognize the faces of many friends, and might have stopped to hug them or even chat, except that Ed is grapping my hand with a pressure that communicates urgency.

I glance up at his face. His expression is solemn. He nods greetings, acknowledging those who shout their welcome, but he’s got his free hand tucked up into his sleeve, and when he tries to smile, his face looks pained.

I give his hand what I hope is a reassuring squeeze, and he looks down at me.

I’m still smiling, probably beaming, because in spite of my general embarrassment, in many ways I do love coming home and being greeted like this, and seeing my friends and so many familiar faces.

Ed looks at me for one long second, and then he smiles, too. A genuine, if self-conscious smile.

The people cheer louder.

I squeeze his hand again, and we walk briskly toward the house where I was raised, a granite fortress tucked securely against the side of a mountain—carved into the hill itself, in places.

My family is waiting there on the steps—my father, Ram, and my brothers, Ram and Felix. My mom and my sisters are there, too. Mom is the first one to break away and scoop me into a hug.

“We were worried about you. Why didn’t you call?”

“Cell phone reception sucks in the Black Sea.” I shrug. “I didn’t think you’d be worried.” I don’t tell her that we were too busy fighting yagi and trying to sleep off overwhelming exhaustion to even think about what day it was, let alone whether too many days had passed, and if my folks might be worried. “Besides, phone calls aren’t secure.”

“You could have at least texted to let us know you’re alive.”

“I’m alive.” I waver unsteadily and yawn. The excitement of the welcome-home parade is wearing off quickly, leaving only fatigue. “I need a nap. Food.”

“Come inside.” Mom leads me and Ed in through the wide doorway, and my siblings hug me and ask questions about where I’ve been.

Thankfully, Ed is willing to answer, in spite of the fact that the seven members of my family constitute a fairly large crowd, in Ed terms. But maybe, having just passed through the throngs that lined the main street of our village, seven doesn’t seem like so many.

My mother has already told my family members who Ed is, and they listen to him with a level of respect usually reserved for my father or grandfather.

I lean against Ed’s arm, not just holding his hand but propping myself against him. He’s got his free hand around my waist, keeping me from sagging into a snoring puddle on the floor.

Ed’s explaining to them about the water yagi, about how they attacked us in the Black Sea. That they weren’t just a figment of my imagination. They’re real.

Through my mostly-closed eyes I catch a glimpse of my dad’s face. He looks sincerely concerned, like maybe the worst of his fears have been realized.

Then my mom returns with roast pork (she must have stepped away—I was too tired to notice) and she leads us to the dining room, where I wash down a heaping serving of meat with iced tea before I nearly choke on my drink. Even my throat is too tired to constrict in even rhythm.

“Sorry,” I apologize as my sisters hand over their napkins, and I mop at the front of my robe. “I’m too tired to eat.”

“I’ll help you to bed,” my mom offers. She supports my arm (I’m so tired I don’t even know if I could make it to my room without her help) and I give Ed one last look before I retreat.

He’s watching me go, his green jeweled eyes brimming with something like concern and affection, I’m not sure. I’m too sleepy to sort it out right now.

*

Next thing I know my sisters are in my room hauling me out of bed and pulling dresses from my closet and chattering all crazy excited. A glance at the clock tells me I slept away most of the day.

Rilla holds up a fluttery hunter green chiffon dress I’ve never worn on account of it’s not remotely practical, what with its low draped back and teensy spaghetti straps. There’s no way to wear a bra with it.

“This one! Perfect!” Rilla holds it up to me as Zilpha props me upright next to the bed.

I’m shaking my head, but Zilpha’s squealing and even starts clapping, which leaves me unsupported.

I make a move for the bed. If I can just get under the covers without them noticing, maybe they’ll forget about me and I can go back to sleep.

But Zilpha grabs my shoulder. “Come on, Wren. You’ve got to shower and get ready for dinner.”

“Too tired. I’ll eat leftovers later.”

Rilla waves the dress at me, urging me toward the bathroom. “You have to come to dinner. We’re all going to be there. We’re going to talk about the water yagi and what to do about them. Ed’s going to be there.”

Ed’s going to be at dinner? This only makes sense now that I think about it. Ed will be there…as will both of my sisters. This is my chance to help Ed fall in love with one of them instead of me. I have a job to do. Someone’s got to play matchmaker.

“Fine.” I drag myself to the bathroom. I can do this.

For my sisters.

For Ed.

*

Less than an hour later I’m sitting at the dinner table waiting for everyone else to join us for the meal. I’m wearing the hunter green dress, but only because my sisters are both wearing fancy dresses, and I don’t want them to look out of place.

We don’t usually dress up for supper. While we’re technically princesses and my dad is the dragon king, and all that, we’re normally not that weird. It’s just that sometimes my mom gets it into her head that it’s a special occasion, like for holidays and birthdays and when we’re all home together after my sisters and I have been away at school.

And since Ed is dining with us—our first dragon guest ever besides my grandfather, who’s also joining us—that makes it a very special occasion, indeed. So special my sisters curled their hair and threatened to curl mine, too, but fortunately by then we were running out of time, and I told them they had to pick between hair and makeup, so of course they went with makeup, because with our Azeri eyelashes we can do amazing things with mascara.

So I’m sitting here looking at my plate and wondering if it would be dreadfully uncomfortable to use it as a pillow, since I’m still tired and we’ve been waiting for at least three minutes now, when I hear the distant echo of voices reverberating through the stone halls.

Finally, the rest of my family is on their way.

I can hear my grandfather’s voice, snappy and young-sounding even though he’s well over two hundred years old. Although actually, if you think about it, two hundred isn’t even that old compared to however old Ed is, something like six hundred, maybe? I never did get a clear answer on that.

Not that age matters at all for dragons. We grow at a rate similar to our human counterparts, reaching full physical maturity in our mid-to-late teens. From that point on, we don’t age at all. We’re immortal (not invincible though, that’s something else entirely). We
can
be killed, we just don’t age.

While I’m thinking these things the voices draw nearer until my father and grandfather enter the room. They’re wearing dinner tuxedoes and their faces are freshly-shaved. My grandfather’s long dark hair is pulled back in a single braid, and my dad’s shoulder-length black locks are combed back, away from his face.

My brothers enter behind them—Ram, the eldest, in a suit just like my dad’s, with his hair just like my dad’s. He takes his role as heir to the kingdom very seriously. In fact, about the only difference between Ram and my dad is that my brother is even more serious and even, in some ways, more mature than my dad. Not to imply that my dad isn’t mature. He’s extremely responsible and dependable. He’s king.

It’s just that my brother is even more somber and formal and straight-laced.

And then Felix, the youngest, the only one who inherited any of the Scottish coloring from my grandmother, which hit him in the form of dark auburn hair (which he keeps cut short), deep blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his burnished cheeks. He’s got on gray slacks, a navy jacket, and a pale blue shirt with a red bow tie. It’s not quite dinner apparel, but compared to some of the things he’s worn to the table, it’s a huge improvement over what it could be.

Felix can be a goofball. Sometimes I think he’s trying to get Ram to loosen up. Or maybe he just seems comical to the rest of us because we’re so used to Ram.

Behind Felix, apprehension dogging his steps, enters Ed. He’s in a plaid kilt with a cropped jacket, white shirt, and bow tie. At first I’m afraid they’ve cut his hair, but then I realize his long red locks are only pulled back into a ponytail that makes him look like an ancient warrior. Most startling of all, his beard has been reduced to a crisp goatee that accents the angle of his jaw.

And what an angle it is.

He looks gorgeous.

And also terrified.

I rise to my feet to welcome him before he can think better of this dinner gathering and flee. In five steps I’ve rounded the table and linked my arm through his.

“Don’t run away.” I whisper. “There’s going to be food.”

A grin spreads across his face as he looks down at me. I’d thought, when I first saw the trimmed beard, that he looked fantastic.

He looks even better when he smiles.

For a little while, I’m not sure how long, we’re just standing there looking at each other. I’m adjusting to his new look, trying to acclimate to it so that my insides will stop doing fluttery flips in his presence. And then my mom comes in and announces the meal is ready, and we should bring our plates through the kitchen, buffet-style.

I admit, this isn’t a traditional Azeri meal, but that’s because my mom spent most of her formative years in England. We fill our plates with different kinds of meat and a few roasted vegetables, mostly for variety and fiber and to appease my mother’s guilty feelings about eating so high up the food chain.

We head back to the dining room, where my father and grandfather are already trying to sort out the business with the water yagi, which apparently Ed continued to explain to them after I went off to bed.

There’s a bit of jostling for places as we take our seats. I’m trying to maneuver Ed to sit by my sisters, but Ed seems more inclined to sit by me or my brothers. I end up compromising by taking the seat next to him across the table from my sisters. At least there they can admire how handsome he is.

I’ll spare you the details of the conversation that followed, because there was a lot of interrupting and talking over one another, and repeating things because of the talking over one another, but the basics are thus:

My dad’s spies have seen Eudora working on something at a lake near her castle in Siberia. They weren’t sure what it was. Her activity there was confusing to the spies because as far as we know, yagi are bred in a lab. But on closer inspection, they’ve discovered the presence of something unnatural in the lake—and it sounds like the water yagi Ed and I encountered.