eyes were mottled green, like some cats’, and the bright silver scales ran sleekly over its head and neck, glistening with the precious substance used to grow it.
Colin sucked in air, and the head swung around, but it pointed at her . Suddenly the wyvern hatchling was looking at her with its large luminous eyes. No, not an it—a him . Wyverns were difficult to sex, and yet, somehow, locked in his gaze, she was sure. She remembered his parent catching her this morning. This wyvern was too little to really be able to trap her, but still, she felt the insidious pull. He made a low purring noise, turning his head, and the spell was broken. He went back to rocking, trying to get free of his shell prison.
“Is it … now?” Colin asked.
Dorie shook her head. If they didn’t care about the wyvern hatchling it would be now, could be anytime they wanted. But you couldn’t help a hatchling free itself without likely damaging it—that was true of any sort of chick or lizard she’d ever heard of. This little one had to free his own self from the yolk sac and the shell. It was a waiting game now, a knife’s edge of just the right moment.
She looked down at Colin’s leg, preparing herself for what she would need to do. She realized now that she had been slightly hungry ever since Colin came in with the rat, and now, in this close proximity to his curse, she was positively starving. No wonder he didn’t have a close relationship with anybody. Carefully she leaned down to gently touch the scar, let her fey side feel the fellow bit of fey that lurked within. Even after two decades, the poisonous scars were angry, red, and raised, and they ran down the inside of his leg, from knee to ankle. The scars seemed to twist and move as she stared at them. It was a long scar. It would need every last bit of the wyvern goo. And every last bit of Colin’s fortitude.
The woglet’s trills called her back to him. From her limited experience with wyverns, they apparently made a variety of yodelly ululations, each more annoying than the last. This one sounded like a high-pitched kazoo and clearly meant effort. The egg rocked wildly back and forth and the wet silver wings suddenly came poking out of the top. The wyvern got one of them outstretched, then, exhausted, rolled over on top of his triangular head. “C’mon,” crooned Dorie. “You can make it.” She thought that might sound too feminine, so gruffly she added, “Let’s go, sport.” She retrieved her bag with the annoyed pigeon in it and set it down next to the table. The rat in its cage limped back and forth.
The other wing waved back and forth and finally stretched all the way out. The wingspan was surprisingly long for such a little creature. Then the wings folded up again and the wyvern got one leg out. His head naturally curled up into a ball and he rolled over again. His little stomach panted in and out as he ululated his annoyance with the situation.
Dorie felt every inch of her tense with the waiting. Beside her she could feel that Colin felt the same.
The wyvern warbled in little pants that sounded like an air raid siren as he struggled to free his foot. He hopped forward on one leg, kicking—and finally the other leg came free, and the egg half rolled away behind him. He plopped down on the towel, cooing, exhausted again.
“Now,” said Dorie.
She grabbed the discarded egg. Stuck her solidly human fingers into it, cleaning it free of the albumen that had surrounded the wyvern—the yolk sac and leftover strands of nutrient goo. It felt like any normal egg, but she kept her fey side firmly locked away. Not a good time to discover what fey poison felt like to that side of her. “Now,” she repeated, and Colin closed his eyes and she touched the anti-fey wyvern goo to the top of the red scar.
He shuddered and clutched his leg with both hands, letting out a muffled oath. She had hoped he could keep still—too late now if he couldn’t. No time to tie him
Colin sucked in air, and the head swung around, but it pointed at her . Suddenly the wyvern hatchling was looking at her with its large luminous eyes. No, not an it—a him . Wyverns were difficult to sex, and yet, somehow, locked in his gaze, she was sure. She remembered his parent catching her this morning. This wyvern was too little to really be able to trap her, but still, she felt the insidious pull. He made a low purring noise, turning his head, and the spell was broken. He went back to rocking, trying to get free of his shell prison.
“Is it … now?” Colin asked.
Dorie shook her head. If they didn’t care about the wyvern hatchling it would be now, could be anytime they wanted. But you couldn’t help a hatchling free itself without likely damaging it—that was true of any sort of chick or lizard she’d ever heard of. This little one had to free his own self from the yolk sac and the shell. It was a waiting game now, a knife’s edge of just the right moment.
She looked down at Colin’s leg, preparing herself for what she would need to do. She realized now that she had been slightly hungry ever since Colin came in with the rat, and now, in this close proximity to his curse, she was positively starving. No wonder he didn’t have a close relationship with anybody. Carefully she leaned down to gently touch the scar, let her fey side feel the fellow bit of fey that lurked within. Even after two decades, the poisonous scars were angry, red, and raised, and they ran down the inside of his leg, from knee to ankle. The scars seemed to twist and move as she stared at them. It was a long scar. It would need every last bit of the wyvern goo. And every last bit of Colin’s fortitude.
The woglet’s trills called her back to him. From her limited experience with wyverns, they apparently made a variety of yodelly ululations, each more annoying than the last. This one sounded like a high-pitched kazoo and clearly meant effort. The egg rocked wildly back and forth and the wet silver wings suddenly came poking out of the top. The wyvern got one of them outstretched, then, exhausted, rolled over on top of his triangular head. “C’mon,” crooned Dorie. “You can make it.” She thought that might sound too feminine, so gruffly she added, “Let’s go, sport.” She retrieved her bag with the annoyed pigeon in it and set it down next to the table. The rat in its cage limped back and forth.
The other wing waved back and forth and finally stretched all the way out. The wingspan was surprisingly long for such a little creature. Then the wings folded up again and the wyvern got one leg out. His head naturally curled up into a ball and he rolled over again. His little stomach panted in and out as he ululated his annoyance with the situation.
Dorie felt every inch of her tense with the waiting. Beside her she could feel that Colin felt the same.
The wyvern warbled in little pants that sounded like an air raid siren as he struggled to free his foot. He hopped forward on one leg, kicking—and finally the other leg came free, and the egg half rolled away behind him. He plopped down on the towel, cooing, exhausted again.
“Now,” said Dorie.
She grabbed the discarded egg. Stuck her solidly human fingers into it, cleaning it free of the albumen that had surrounded the wyvern—the yolk sac and leftover strands of nutrient goo. It felt like any normal egg, but she kept her fey side firmly locked away. Not a good time to discover what fey poison felt like to that side of her. “Now,” she repeated, and Colin closed his eyes and she touched the anti-fey wyvern goo to the top of the red scar.
He shuddered and clutched his leg with both hands, letting out a muffled oath. She had hoped he could keep still—too late now if he couldn’t. No time to tie him
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