the oldest.
“I think you should take us flying.”
Jennifer, who was part of Aunt Judith’s clutch, was eleven and closest to him in age although Wendy, who was Uncle Randy’s, was only a few weeks younger. Even after a year, it still kind of weirded him out that Gale fathers were so . . . alive. Female dragons ate their mates.
“Jack!” Jennifer poked him in the chest with an imperious finger. “Did you hear me? I think you should take us flying!”
He caught her hand, careful not to hurt her. “Why?”
“Because you aren’t seven years older than us.” Tugging free of his grip, she folded her arms. Her expression dared him to argue. “We totally can ride you. I saw the movie.”
“You can carry both of us because you’re so big,” Wendy added. “Auntie Gwen says you’re big enough to come with bar service.”
“What?”
Wendy shrugged. “I don’t know either, but that’s what she said.”
“We should go now.” Jennifer grabbed his hand and pulled him away along the path. “We should go while Mom is busy with Richard.”
Richard was only just hatched, smelled bad a lot of the time, and screamed when he wanted feeding, but Aunt Judith didn’t seem to mind.
“How fast can you get into the air?” Wendy asked as they crested the hill.
“Why?”
The girls leaned out to exchange a look across his body that made him think of Allie and Charlie.
“You should do it fast,” Jennifer told him. “Hit the air as soon as we get on. Oh, and change now. Right now.”
They’d all seen him change. Allie hadn’t wanted anyone relocating to Calgary who had a problem with him, although Jack had assured her he could deal with them. Turned out dealing with them topped the list of things that weren’t allowed.
The moment between skin and scales burned. Sometimes, Jack wanted to get lost in the fire. Just let it burn and not worry about who he was or what he was supposed to be doing or what world he was supposed to be doing it on. He’d bet lower dragons did it, just woke up one morning, decided they’d had it with never knowing the answers, and burned away. But he was the Prince. And, right now, he was a Gale.
He shrugged, settling into scales, shifting a wing at the last moment so as not to knock down a small tree.
For all they wanted into the air right away, the girls wasted a moment admiring him . . .
“Oh, my God, so totally gorgeous.”
“He gleams like real gold in the sun, doesn’t he? He just gleams.”
“He’s definitely prettier than Connie Anderson’s stupid pony.”
. . . before they ducked under his wings, scrambled up his tail, and climbed until they sat together on his shoulders; Jennifer out in front, arms as far around his neck as they could reach, Wendy behind her.
“Go, go, go!”
So he went. Balancing with his tail, he rose up onto his hind legs, slammed his wings down, and grabbed sky, moving as fast as he could. He could hear them shrieking with laughter, but he tucked his legs up against his belly and concentrated on gaining altitude. At his size, he felt a lot better when he had a bit of distance between him and the ground. Leveling out at about two hundred feet, wings sculling to maintain lift, he suddenly realized he couldn’t feel Jennifer’s arms. Or the insignificant weight of their bodies. Or the drumming of their heels.
When he looked down, their pinwheeling forms had almost run out of sky.
He couldn’t reach them in time.
There was only one thing he could do.
Standing on a riser built to look a bit like an overturned dory, Bo played “The Duke of Gordon’s Birthday” as a line of step dancers formed a wall of nimble feet and nearly motionless upper bodies along the front of the festival stage. Festival rules required one traditional dance tune per set and, at just over three and a half minutes, this was the longest strathspey any of the bands had played yet. Mark and Tim had bodhran and accordion out in support, but this was all Bo.
He
“I think you should take us flying.”
Jennifer, who was part of Aunt Judith’s clutch, was eleven and closest to him in age although Wendy, who was Uncle Randy’s, was only a few weeks younger. Even after a year, it still kind of weirded him out that Gale fathers were so . . . alive. Female dragons ate their mates.
“Jack!” Jennifer poked him in the chest with an imperious finger. “Did you hear me? I think you should take us flying!”
He caught her hand, careful not to hurt her. “Why?”
“Because you aren’t seven years older than us.” Tugging free of his grip, she folded her arms. Her expression dared him to argue. “We totally can ride you. I saw the movie.”
“You can carry both of us because you’re so big,” Wendy added. “Auntie Gwen says you’re big enough to come with bar service.”
“What?”
Wendy shrugged. “I don’t know either, but that’s what she said.”
“We should go now.” Jennifer grabbed his hand and pulled him away along the path. “We should go while Mom is busy with Richard.”
Richard was only just hatched, smelled bad a lot of the time, and screamed when he wanted feeding, but Aunt Judith didn’t seem to mind.
“How fast can you get into the air?” Wendy asked as they crested the hill.
“Why?”
The girls leaned out to exchange a look across his body that made him think of Allie and Charlie.
“You should do it fast,” Jennifer told him. “Hit the air as soon as we get on. Oh, and change now. Right now.”
They’d all seen him change. Allie hadn’t wanted anyone relocating to Calgary who had a problem with him, although Jack had assured her he could deal with them. Turned out dealing with them topped the list of things that weren’t allowed.
The moment between skin and scales burned. Sometimes, Jack wanted to get lost in the fire. Just let it burn and not worry about who he was or what he was supposed to be doing or what world he was supposed to be doing it on. He’d bet lower dragons did it, just woke up one morning, decided they’d had it with never knowing the answers, and burned away. But he was the Prince. And, right now, he was a Gale.
He shrugged, settling into scales, shifting a wing at the last moment so as not to knock down a small tree.
For all they wanted into the air right away, the girls wasted a moment admiring him . . .
“Oh, my God, so totally gorgeous.”
“He gleams like real gold in the sun, doesn’t he? He just gleams.”
“He’s definitely prettier than Connie Anderson’s stupid pony.”
. . . before they ducked under his wings, scrambled up his tail, and climbed until they sat together on his shoulders; Jennifer out in front, arms as far around his neck as they could reach, Wendy behind her.
“Go, go, go!”
So he went. Balancing with his tail, he rose up onto his hind legs, slammed his wings down, and grabbed sky, moving as fast as he could. He could hear them shrieking with laughter, but he tucked his legs up against his belly and concentrated on gaining altitude. At his size, he felt a lot better when he had a bit of distance between him and the ground. Leveling out at about two hundred feet, wings sculling to maintain lift, he suddenly realized he couldn’t feel Jennifer’s arms. Or the insignificant weight of their bodies. Or the drumming of their heels.
When he looked down, their pinwheeling forms had almost run out of sky.
He couldn’t reach them in time.
There was only one thing he could do.
Standing on a riser built to look a bit like an overturned dory, Bo played “The Duke of Gordon’s Birthday” as a line of step dancers formed a wall of nimble feet and nearly motionless upper bodies along the front of the festival stage. Festival rules required one traditional dance tune per set and, at just over three and a half minutes, this was the longest strathspey any of the bands had played yet. Mark and Tim had bodhran and accordion out in support, but this was all Bo.
He
Similar Books
