Dragon mothers are the fiercest creatures on Earth. A dragon mother’s love for her egg makes the rider-dragon Bond seem trivial. A mother will fight to the death against her own kind in order to protect her unborn offspring, which makes her subsequent disappearance upon her baby’s hatching contradictory. The mother ensures her egg cracks at the right time, but she has no need to ensure the baby’s life continues past its incubation period. Every dragon grows up alone. Whether they would’ve made excellent mothers or not, their children will never know.
—Excerpt from Carlos Torres’s Studying the Bond Between Dragons & Humans
I’M STILL REELING FROM THE RING OF FIRE WHEN MANNY DRAGS us into the locker room.
None of the riders are shivering. They keep glancing at one another with concern. Victoria’s the clear exception, burning with an effervescent thrill. She glides into the room, then catches her reflection in a mirror. Her smile is brighter than the sun on a summer’s day. When the rest of the team sits on the benches, she remains standing, as if she’s too wired to take a seat.
Manny simply says, “Start talking.”
Génesis takes the lead. “Our uniforms’ magic deactivated when we entered the Dark Island. I could hear it fizzle out once we landed inside. When we returned, the dragons must’ve restored their magic, because it protected us from that fire.”
At first, I think I’ve heard wrong, but when I check on Manny and Joaquín, they also look like someone’s given them an unsolvable trigonometry test. The Sol de Noche dragons can take magic away and give it back? That makes them more powerful than anyone in this locker room suspected. And their unprecedented magic has just been revealed to the whole world.
“What did you see this time?” I ask Victoria.
“The sand was still there, but now there are black palm trees and a black ocean and a throne.” I’ve never heard Victoria speak this fast or this high-pitched. “A freaking throne.”
Okay. I really need to sit down. I settle on the bench next to Héctor. “Victoria, I know you don’t have a sense of humor, but please tell me you’re joking.”
“Nope. I saw it, too. We all did.” Luis makes quick eye contact, as if he’s too stressed out to focus. “The dragons flew around the throne for a minute, but there was an invisible shield blocking it. We couldn’t get too close.”
What. The. Hell.
“The throne was built out of dragon-claw bone,” says Génesis. “Full-blown ivory. Each bone curved inward, as if the throne was designed to trap whoever claimed it.”
“No se olviden del pit,” Edwin cuts in. “Esas torres se veían brutales.”
Gabriela nods. “There was a square pit a few feet away from the beach’s shore, and these endless skyscraper claw-bone towers surrounding the pit.”
“Aiming straight for the stars,” says Héctor.
I put my hands in prayer form. Dragons who can build impenetrable thrones and bone towers are a little out of my league. They’re also out of Joaquín’s and Manny’s leagues, as they’re both totally spaced out. Not even Victoria snapping her fingers can get them to talk.
“Earth to adults. Hello, adults?” she says.
Joaquín comes to his senses first. “Did you all experience the Fade like Victoria had?”
Luis shakes his head. “There wasn’t silence or surprise. I could hear Daga singing in my head before she Faded.” He dabs a clean towel on his forehead. “Did y’all hear a song, too?”
Everyone nods.
Génesis says, “It was the same song they sing at the habitat, but I only had Rayo’s voice in my head. About five or six notes in, we Faded.”
“Igual yo con Fantasma,” says Edwin.
“Same here,” Héctor and Gabriela say together.
Joaquín blinks with heavy eyelids. “Then what happened?”
“We came back here, and the dragons went off with those flames,” Luis replies. “Daga wasn’t blocking me, but I couldn’t hear anything except for the roars. It gave me goose bumps.”
He lets those last words hang between us, waiting for the other riders’ reactions.
They’re all dreadfully quiet.
Then Joaquín says, “I think we can conclude the dragons’ song isn’t really a song. It’s a spell, and it’s getting stronger. So are your dragons. I just don’t understand why they keep Fading into the Dark Island during matches. They can secretly perform this magic in the habitat, but they’re choosing to do so in front of the whole world. Have they shown you why?”
“No, but they’re singing in our heads, and we can all Fade together now,” says Gabriela. “It could mean they’re almost capable of communicating more clearly.”
“They already are,” Héctor says. “That roaring was the angriest I’ve ever heard them. I don’t think it was an intimidation tactic for Zimbabwe. This was real rage. It was like they were out for blood. Like they were ready for war.”
“Oh, don’t be melodramatic. They just wanted to scare Taona.” Victoria is squatting down next to me, fixing her scraggly ponytail. “It was all strategy to stop her, and it worked.”
Gabriela rolls her eyes. “I felt it, too, Victoria. The rage. It was intense.”
“Like their wrath wanted to break free from its cage,” Génesis says.
Victoria’s good mood is dead and gone. Her arms crossed tight, she’s looking at everyone like she’s plotting their murders. “Because it was supposed to look scary.”
“You really think this was about winning a match?” Héctor raises his voice with every word. He stands up, towering over Victoria. “You’re really gonna tell me that’s all this was?”
“Obviously. Our dragons have sent us to the semifinals. Now we wait to see who wins the next game in a couple of hours and figure out how we can beat them in two more days.”
Héctor’s eyes are a silent plea for Victoria to see reason. “This was a call to arms, Victoria. You saw how the Pangolin dragons watched them in total awe. How mesmerized they were? Whatever our steeds did out there today, it wasn’t for us. It was for others like them.”
My heart’s speeding up. Esperanza’s first public Fade had been such a wild card. This show of magical strength has been bigger, bolder, harder to ignore. If it really is a call to arms, then that means the dragons don’t want to be here. But they don’t want to go home, either.
They want to fight the Sire. They just don’t want to do it alone.
My thoughts flash back to the Sire’s counter curse. He only needs a Hydra and a Pluma de Muerte, and even though México is competing in the Cup, he rescued an Un-Bonded dragon instead of using one from the tournament. If the counter curse requires a willing sacrifice, the Cup isn’t where he’s getting his ingredients. It’s just where he’s picking soldiers. What if he tries to break the Sol de Noches’ Bond first? He could use them to fetch the Fire Drake’s crystal heart.
Victoria’s yelling brings me back to the locker room. “I told you to stop being ridiculous, guys! Our dragons used their fire so other teams would fear them. And they were successful.”
“Enough!” Joaquín’s cheeks are bright red. “There are reporters waiting for you as we speak. The Dark Island stays between us. Now let’s head out.”
I hang back so that everyone else can exit before me. Joaquín, Manny, and I are the last ones in the locker room. I edge closer to Joaquín. “Do you think they want to fight?”
“Go to your press conference, Lana. We can discuss this later.”
I’m tempted to demand that he answer the question, but he already did.
I perk up for the cameras. From the side of the stage, President Turner watches us like a hawk. My team and I stick to the Transport angle, seconding Victoria’s claims that the ring of fire had been a strategic attempt to distract Zimbabwe. I get a few questions about my demonstration yesterday. Specifically, if I think the dragons were protesting, too.
“The Sol de Noche dragons are gifted at many things. One of them is winning matches.” I smile like I’m a born winner. “Just like the six people joining me on this stage.”
Ten minutes later, President Turner announces the end of the press conference. I’m whisked offstage alongside my teammates. President Turner and Manny whisper something to each other, probably about the Fade or the ring of fire. Then the president tells us, “Congratulations on advancing to the semifinals!” He leads the way back to the box seats.
My team’s victory is the talk of the town when we arrive. Even Onesa comes over to hug us one by one, congratulating us with more grace than I’ll ever have. “You were smart to run when I wasn’t looking. You wouldn’t have won otherwise,” she says with a wink.
“That’s the truest thing anyone’s said to me in my whole life,” I say.
“I’m glad. Remember that forever.”
She moves on to Héctor. They start chatting while I scoot away to the staircase.
Andrew watches me from the room’s topmost area, where the catering tables have been placed. He’s snatching a bottle of water without breaking eye contact, like he’s egging me on. We haven’t spoken since our post-Sire-message conversation. When his team won their Round of Sixteen match against Portugal, Andrew had high-fived everyone except for me. He’s also been MIA from BlazeReel Live. I don’t know if I’m to blame, but all signs point to probably.
He takes a swig of water and looks past the glass, where the field is being prepped for his match in a few hours. There’s something heartbreaking about the way he’s forcing his gaze elsewhere. How he’s ignoring the girl who promised her support and ended up shunning him.
Sorry, Andrew. I have bigger things to worry about than your bruised ego.
His team gets called to the field, along with Team Egypt.
He runs off to play a game he doesn’t even want to play anymore.
AFTER THREE AND A HALF HOURS, ANDREW PUNCHES THE IRON Scale onto the stone dais.
“Scotland is moving on to the semifinals!” Jeffrey Hines says.
The Scottish Golden Horns swoop down on Andrew at once. Their riders tackle him the same way I’ve been tackled during my past two matches. Andrew’s lifted onto their shoulders and shown off for the stadium to shower him in adoration. Some people are booing. The Scottish fans are properly celebrating with all sorts of chants, but one is louder than the rest.
“Galloway! Galloway! Galloway!”
His mother’s family name echoes across the field. If she’s watching, she must be thrilled.
“So we’re playing Scotland next.” Victoria claps with a cocky grin. “Should be fun.”
I focus on the boy who doesn’t want to play this game. He’s just won for his country, and he’s smiling like he meant to. In two days, we’ll be rivals on the field.
That is, if the Sire doesn’t come after our dragons.
“Yeah,” I tell Victoria, my hands limp on my lap. “Should be a lot of fun.…”
THE MAP OF PUERTO RICO IS STILL CHARRED ON THE HABITAT’S ceiling.
The coconuts are new, though. There’s a pile to the left side of the habitat. A few cracked shells are scattered here and there, but most remain whole.
Gabriela and I are the only humans here. We’re not being serenaded with a nighttime singing session. The dragons are in the large rock pit filled with water at the end of the habitat. They’re playing a game of “Who can splash more water at your face?” with impressive zeal.
Puya and Daga are the current MVPs. They’re scooping mouthfuls of water and spitting at their opponents in lightning-fast streams. Titán uses his wings to shield Rayo, Fantasma, and himself, while a swift Esperanza spits water back at them. On occasion, Titán flies as high as he can, then drops back to the lake in a perfect cannonball. Puya and Daga squeal in melodramatic angst. Esperanza huffs out the closest thing I’ve heard to a dragon laughing.
I’m far removed from the splashing. Gabriela sits next to me, searching for a Slovakian fashion designer’s runway show on her phone. Joaquín had asked her to look after the dragons while he Skypes with his family. I’d volunteered. Whether the Sire makes an appearance in President Turner’s body, or if he sends word to hand over the dragons, nobody’s touching them. I can convince him to use me for another mission. As long as President Turner and these dragons remain unharmed, as long as I can distract him from the Fire Drake, I’ll do what he tells me.
Part of me wants to share my Bond theory with my teammates. But without proof, Victoria would launch into one of her spiels about how I’m overreacting. I’m not in the mood to be told I’m wrong. Or to disturb what little peace we achieved after the ring of fire.
“Oh, cool,” says Gabriela. “Andrew’s finally posted on BlazeReel again.”
“Good for him,” I grumble.
Gabriela clicks on Andrew’s avatar, which has a red circle wrapping around it. The screen shows Andrew sitting on a couch at his Compound house. He’s still in his uniform, but his hair is a disaster. I hate myself for laughing as Andrew pulls his hair up high.
“Lovely to see you again!” he says. “I figured I’d provide you with quality content today, hence the new look. This is what happens when you let a Golden Horn comb your hair.”
Gabriela sighs. “So sad to see him in uniform. Those shoulders deserve cashmere.”
Andrew picks up an acoustic guitar from the floor. The guitar is midnight blue with a black swirl looping all around it. There’s a sticker on the left side that says WORLD’S BEST SON. The handwriting is slanted yet delicate, as if his mother scribbled it herself.
She knows better than anyone what the Sire’s capable of.
Andrew is still joking about his hair when I pull out my phone. I open the search engine app and type in “Lucy Galloway Foxrose Prep.” Most of the articles that pop up are related to her achievements as a young musician representing her school abroad. One article is about a Foxrose professor and author named Edna Clarke. It’s a tribute from a former student who collected quotes from other students. Ms. Galloway is one.
So are President Turner and Edward Barnes.
There’s a picture with the three of them outside of the school library. They’re showing off a huge yellow book titled Regular History & Customs for Magic Users. Edward Barnes is the carbon copy of the boy in that clearing photo. President Turner is also the same, but he doesn’t have dead eyes and a silent scream choking him. Ms. Galloway had been rocking bangs.
I fly through the rest of the photos. The last two are group shots. Every student featured in the article poses outside of Foxrose. Edward Barnes and Ms. Galloway are partially hidden in the back. She smiles for the camera. He’s tilting his head toward her, sneaking a glance in her direction. In the last photo, the same students are talking, dispersed into different subgroups. President Turner is busy with three other students. Barnes and Ms. Galloway are barely visible among the crowd, but I zoom in on the way they’re meeting each other’s gaze. His dreamy eyes aren’t a figment of my imagination. Neither is that shy smile. She’s giving him one back.
This could mean absolutely nothing. I could be blowing things out of proportion.
But it seems to me Edward Barnes and Lucy Galloway had a thing for each other.
I search for “Edward Barnes Foxrose Girlfriend.” Eight different articles state he never dated a fellow student. He didn’t date anyone in college, either. Hundreds of users in gossip forums have left theories about his dating life, ranging from midnight picnics with a tap-dancing freshman to raunchy escapades with a chess player, but their only evidence is that Barnes shared breathing space with those girls. Ms. Galloway’s name is nowhere to be found.
I lower my phone, eyes wide in horror. Edward Barnes had died twenty years ago.
Andrew had been born a year later.
No. Three months after his death: March 12, 1998. A boy born without his dad’s name.
A stiff hand finds its way to my lips. What if Edward Barnes is Andrew’s father?
This could be why his mom warned him to stop protesting. Andrew’s the missing link to breaking the Sire’s curse. He’s the freaking heir of Edward Barnes. Whether Ms. Galloway knows about the other ingredients or not, she’s been possibly hiding the most important one.
Now I have to help her save him.