Singe My Nights: Dragons of Blood and

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SINGE MY NIGHTS
DRAGONS OF BLOOD AND BONE
BOOK TWO

AVA WARD

DRAGONLIGHT PUBLISHING LLC

Copyright 2024 Dragonlight Publishing LLC. All Rights Reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book or any portion thereof may not be
reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook may not be
re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this
book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.

First Kindle Edition, 2024

ISBN 978-1-943199-47-1

Edited By: Jean Lowe Carlson and Sara Carlson.

Proofread By: Jean Lowe Carlson and Sara Carlson.
Cover Design: Copyright 2023 by JoY Designs. All Rights Reserved.
 CONTE NTS

About Singe My Nights

1. Home
2. Family
3. Blood
4. Mates
5. Monster
6. Forbidden
7. Trust
8. Bestie
9. Close
10. Strong
11. Ancestor
12. Truce
13. Choose
14. Rage
15. Ocean
16. Fury
17. Power
18. Second
19. Usurper
20. Bond
21. Bite
22. Attack
23. Morning
24. Search
25. Cursed
26. Tomb
27. Altar
28. Trap
29. Fucked
Get the Next Book
Get Notified of New Books
Also by Ava Ward
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Enter the Launch Weekend Giveaway!
 ABOUT SINGE MY NIGHTS

They killed my mentor. Now, I’m coming for them.

My enemies killed a woman who was like a mother to me. Now, I’m out for blood, as my mates and I hunt down her killers.
The problem is, we don’t know who they are just yet—only that a monstrous dragon of undead bones did their dirty work for
them, nearly killing me in the process.

As the darkest side of my Bloodwalker magic rages for retribution, we search for the truth.
Secrets emerge as my mates and I face our families and our pasts—to bond our power like never before, so we can be ready
for what’s coming.
Because I’m on the hit list now, as enemies surround us. I must bond my two mates closer than we’ve ever been.
Or fall into darkness, when I should be ready to strike…

A spicy, slow-burn reverse harem dragon shifter romance with fated mates, enemies-to-lovers, and a kickass heroine,
the Dragons of Blood and Bone series is for adult audiences who like their dragons hot!
 1

HOME

R age burns the dragon blood inside my veins and always has. Few things soothe it; the ocean is one of those things, as I
stare out over the shining water below. I remove my motorcycle helmet and gloves as I stand on the Swedish headland;
the crash of the ocean eases my inner fury. Gulls whirl and call on the rocky bluff, and a cold spring wind whips my
long blonde hair in its braid.
My sleek black Ducati stands beside me on the bluff; as I wait in my motorcycle leathers, I hear two more bikes roar up the
winding coast road. Their engines cut and I feel more than hear two drakes dismount in the gusting wind, coming to me.
One my bound Bloodmate.
The other mine, but not Bloodmated to me yet.
Bjorn Magnussen’s energy roars like a forge fire as he comes to stand beside me on the promontory. My First Drake smells
like good cigars and peat whiskey with honey in it, plus a scorched flavor like battlefield char as the wind blows his scent to
me.
His six-four, massively fit body vibrates with anger in his black bombardier jacket with its lambswool collar, dark jeans,
and boots. His palpable anger fixes upon the fishing village of Jurggadden, nestled in the inlet’s jagged cliffs, as he stares out
over the cove.
As he echoes my fury, both of us raging at what we’ll face there soon.
Ström Eriksson feels like the ocean wind, however, as he comes to stand at my other side. Perfectly built in his tawny bike
leathers, Ström’s energy is like the brisk north wind as those gusts tease my hair. No less intense than Bjorn, Ström’s dragon-
power feels like the vibrancy of a rushing river. His scent is like glacial river water with elderflower in it as it hits my tongue,
brisk and fresh.
A drake of bright humor but deep thoughts, Ström is unusually quiet today. I feel his tension, even though I can only sense a
whisper of his thoughts, since we’re not Bloodbound yet. Like Bjorn and me, Ström’s considering the fact that a lot of potential
enemies could be in the village below us right now.
Everyone who’s anyone, gathering for my mentor Maryse Allbright’s wakes this week.
At my signal to get going, we break from our trio, donning helmets and gloves and returning to our bikes. I fire up my
Ducati, turning it hard and peeling out, back to the winding coast road.
Bjorn and Ström roar out fast behind me, to head down into the village of Jurggadden. I resist seething up into my rageful
dragon now as we head down into the town. Usually a sleepy fishing inlet, this town is nevertheless the hub for the surrounding
countryside with its festivals.
Done up to the nines for Beltane, the village is a riot of flowers, colorful ribbons, and party lights strung from every
thatched roof and white silberskrae timber. All the rustic Viking lodge-houses have flowers and streamers overwhelming their
ingresses, lights cascading between the houses into the city-center and down the steep, winding causeway to the wharf.
Beltane is a gay time, the best festival of the year here. The beauty and light of this week’s festivities are only marred by
portraits of Maryse around town, draped in colorful streamers and flowers for her passing.
Black crow feathers and white ones from gulls are woven into those streamers, to speed Maryse’s flight to the Void of
Ancestors. She was a pillar of the community, and a member of the Black Dragon Knights, the covert ruling body that
commands every aspect of Blood Dragon life, even more so than our King.
That my drakes and I are part of also—subject to their orders, though we may hate it.
I feel not just my loss but everyone’s now, as Bjorn, Ström, and I park our bikes and cut their engines before Maryse’s
traditional lodge-house near the highest edge of town, backed by the cliffs. Flowers engulf the porch, streamers and feathers
everywhere; we have to palm them aside to get to the open front door, servants coming and going as they prepare for a family
wake tonight. It’s darker inside the lofty hall than out in the bright, spring day. As I enter, I blink to adjust my vision.
And am accosted into a massive bear hug.
 Trublut Lakkvie growls with delight, heaving me up and spinning me around before setting me back down. He’s dressed in
black tactical gear, combat boots, and a white wolf pelt like always; his kind lavender eyes beam in his grizzled, battle-scarred
face. Basically my father since my teens, he’s not even that much bigger than me. The strength in the wiry Trublut is massive,
though, as he roars with joy, clapping my shoulders and kissing cheeks.
He crams me into another of his big hugs then, as if we haven’t seen each other in ages. He knew I was coming; I called
yesterday telling him we’d be here for Maryse’s send-off, and also to talk with him about a Bloodbonding ceremony she
mentioned in her last words to me, to help bond my drakes better and gain more control over my Bloodwalker power.
Everything with Trublut is like this, though, as he roars with laughter to see me, despite his beloved lifemate’s passing.
A heart as wide as the sky—and arms that hold the world.
“Rikyava! Darling girl. You made it. Good, good,” Trublut says in his thick Swedish accent as he grins at me, then winks at
my two mates. “And you brought your drakes. Good. A Blood Dragon drakaina should have a few drakes with her for Beltane.
Should she not?”
I blush instantly. Trublut has always been very frank about sex, and though I am a grown-ass woman now, it still
embarrasses me. I brush my innate squeamishness aside, however. I fuck; I like it.
And I want to do it with both drakes now lingering beside me.
As Ström laughs in surprised delight and Bjorn gets uncomfortable, sticking a hand out to Trublut like he’s taking me to the
prom, Trublut laughs and slaps them both on the shoulders.
“Younglings! Come inside. You’ve arrived just in time for tonight’s family party. Khosh has the feast cooked already and
Vjen and I were just working on Maryse’s send-off net. There is much to do before her send-off to the Ancestors in three days.
But first, you must go get changed! Our party starts in half an hour and you do not want to be late to the drinking. Yes?”
As Trublut grips my men’s shoulders, then mine, giving me a kind smile, I finally see the sadness in him. It grips my heart as
my own ache returns it; he sees my agony and pulls me into a gentler hug now. He holds me as we breathe together for a
moment.
Then pushes back, cupping my cheeks with his rough hands.
“Yes. Yes.” He smiles. “Let the sadness flow, Rikyava. For if we do not, it lingers in the heart, devouring us. And we need
our hearts to be alive, to celebrate with those who are still with us. Let your sorrow move you like a great tide and set you free.
Yes?”
“Yes,” I say, even as I smile back tears. I don’t want to lose it right now, but I want to cry for my mentor’s passing. Though
I loved her, Maryse and I had been on the rocks these past twenty years, because of how I thought she pushed me away after my
sister’s coup against our King. Little did I know Maryse was protecting me from danger; perhaps even from inside the Black
Dragon Knight’s High Council, to whom I used to report.
Danger we’re all in now—though we have no clue where it’s coming from.
As we follow Trublut into the house, I put danger and intrigue aside, for now. We’re here to help Maryse’s soul go to the
Void of Ancestors with her wakes and final send-off this week; as we enter the house, I see the long, Viking-style lodge hall is
much the same as when I was last here a week ago.
Rustic and comfortable yet elegant, built in a traditional style with a ginormous fire pit in the center and a venting hole far
above, Maryse’s abode with her mates is made of soaring silberskrae timbers that create vaults like a ship far above. Suites of
rooms sprout off the sprawling main area, with heavily carved white wooden doors; every timber and beam are lovingly
decorated with Blood Dragons in battle and celebration.
Our classic rune-language tells ancient stories of valor as it winds around every pillar, even on to the elegant yet rustic
wooden furniture. The hay and cedar scent of the longhouse contrasts with a sharp, musky incense that wafts through the gables
from beautiful silver censers that smoke blue-white as they hang from the eaves.
Bearskin rugs and wool blankets are everywhere on the driftwood-carved couches and chairs; the polished timber floors
are covered with massive, woven rugs. Charms of feathers, driftwood, nautical rope, and dragon scale dangle from every
vaulted window and door.
To push back darkness and keep evil away.
A dozen massive trestle-tables are laden with food and drink around the perimeter of the hall now, however, in preparation
for tonight’s wake. This evening’s party is only a family affair, but more food is still coming from the kitchens—a veritable
feast being prepared for tonight.
When Blood Dragons party, they party hard; since so many of us die in epic battles thanks to our Berserker nature, we
celebrate life rather than mourn death. Only after we have thoroughly celebrated our dead do we send them off to the
Ancestors.
As lively music starts outside in the town, I know tonight is about to get crazy. Because we’re celebrating not only
Maryse’s life this night, but also the start of Beltane. Everyone in the entire village is going to get roaring drunk in an hour or
less, as the sun sets.
And I plan on being one of them.
 As Trublut leads me into the commotion inside the lodge now, I see my second stepfather, Khosh Harrowsblut, conducting a
symphony of servants cleaning, decorating, and getting food out. With a long blond mane shaved on both sides into ornate
patterns of knotwork and dragons, Khosh is dressed in his normal forest leathers, like he’s been hunting in the wilderness for
weeks.
With feathers and beads braided into his long hair, Khosh wears a triple band of braided crimson leather around his left
arm, decorated with raven and gull feathers. It’s a Blood Dragon death-celebration band; my third stepfather, Vjen Jormunder,
wears one with a modern charcoal vest, white shirt, and slacks as I come to where Vjen sits at a trestle-table.
Vjen has a large white lambswool net strewn across the table and bowls of crafting supplies, like colorful beads, feathers,
and ribbons. It’s a beautiful send-off net he’s weaving for Maryse, according to the oldest traditions, but with a lovely, modern
touch like his own sensibilities.
Both Vjen and Khosh beam as I arrive, Khosh’s eyes a vivid lavender like Trublut’s, though Vjen’s are a stunning, clear
blue like a Siren. Khosh steps in to kiss my forehead as Vjen rises from the table to kiss my cheeks.
“Yava! Finally,” Khosh says as he welcomes me.
“You had us worried you would not make it.” Vjen jokes lightly now as he squeezes my hands, though he knows I would
never miss tonight’s event, or the rest of this week. At a hundred and fifty years old, Vjen is the closest in age to me; his clear
blue eyes are both happy and sad as he hugs me like a brother, then hands Trublut a finished band to fasten around his arm.
Khosh’s gaze is furious now, however, as he snaps a correction at one of the servants, directing her to set a plate of
myrkdall blood sausage to the far right of the nearest table instead of on the left. It’s out of character for the good-natured and
normally ultra zen Khosh. Like a Buddhist monk combined with a mountain man, he’s usually extremely calm and teasing. I see
how Maryse’s death has torn up Khosh’s zen, however, as he glances at me.
And sighs, rubbing a hand over his lined face.
“Yava. Forgive me. I haven’t slept much,” Khosh says, as his cheeks redden from embarrassment.
“Can’t understand why,” I say with gentle cheekiness, reaching out to take his hand.
“We all understand, Kho. It’s alright.” Vjen wraps an arm around Khosh’s waist, bolstering him. It’s needed; Khosh looks
so tired right now he just might drop. We all share a deep moment as Trublut reaches out, touching Khosh’s shoulder and giving
him a careworn but kind look.
Before clapping that shoulder briskly.
“Well. You should go get ready, youngling. You can catch up with old drakes later. A celebration awaits. Yes?” Trublut
says, interrupting our sorrow as he turns to me. As he nods me towards a door that leads to a bedroom wing of the lodge, I
know he’s telling me my old room has been made up for me and my mates, so we can get cleaned up.
“Right. Party first. Tough stuff later.” I smile now, genuinely happy to see them, even as my heart aches. I grip Trublut’s
hand and kiss Vjen and Khosh’s cheeks, knowing we’ll have plenty of time to dig into grief and politics over the next few days.
As Bjorn, Ström, and I peel off to get ready, Maryse’s drakes stay to finish the evening’s preparations. My drakes and I slip
into my old room and I see our bags from our motorcycles have made it inside already, thanks to the mysterious workings of
Maryse’s servants.
They seem to know everything that goes on in her house, as I head over to my magically downsized duffel on the bed,
restoring it via a shrink charm on my bike keys. We packed light for this trip, but still had to shrink our duffels to get them on
our Ducatis, those crotch rockets not known for storage space.
As I unpack some sexy party clothes now, courtesy of Ström’s extensive guest wardrobe at the Old Palace, Bjorn and Ström
unpack as well. Delving into his suitcase, Ström flings club-chic pants, vests, and shirts around like he hasn’t a care. A
different temperament, Bjorn unpacks methodically, pulling out neatly folded and rolled items from his military-issue duffel.
Unlike Ström’s attire, Bjorn’s stuff is all-purpose outdoors wear or warm tactical gear. I wonder if Bjorn even owns a suit, as I
linger and stare.
Far too obvious, as both drakes glance at me with heat in their eyes now.
But rather than ogle my First Drake and my not-quite second one as we all dress, I know I need to keep my shit together this
week. Tonight is just a family party, but it’s also the first night of Beltane. The evening is going to get raucous; Trublut is known
for how he can get down. And with how much Maryse’s three drakes need some joy right now, I know tonight’s party will have
a ridiculous amount of drinking in Maryse’s honor.
The Beltane festivities will extend through every house in Jurggadden. Doors will be thrown open to drink and roar and get
merry. Though our party is for those who were close to Maryse, anyone might show up at her lodge tonight—even enemies—
and my drakes and I need to be ready.
As we stare at each other, I feel how we all take a moment to gather our strength now as we prepare for tonight’s party.
Because though my drakes’ and my energy snarls for battle, we know there could be a lion’s den of Blood Dragon leadership at
this party tonight. We still do not know who betrayed Maryse to her death and why.
We only know they nearly killed me also in the attack that took her out.
But though I’m still furious about her death, I feel how drained I am from the events of a week ago. Even as my rageful
power sings through my bones and blood, I’m too exhausted to shift into my dragon; Bjorn, Ström, and I all barely recovered
after that attack, and it’s why we drove bikes down here today rather than fly.
We had the mickey taken out of us when that terrible undead bone-dragon tore apart the Council Hall of the Black Dragon
Knights. I’m putting on a brave face, but I still feel all through my body how I nearly died from the Bone Magic curses that
riddled me, bleeding me out like a stuck pig.
From the undead dragon’s terrible roar, that broke all my bones in an instant.
I see an echo of that creature in my mind now, from the vision I had when all this shit started—of a dead, bone-white
dragon eye staring at me in a snarling face of bones that’s somehow black as death. It rolls me for a moment and I shiver,
blinking away a sudden fugue state.
It’s the same monstrous dragon of bones that killed Maryse in the attack. But I know now that this isn’t just any vision; this
shit is real, as I see the attack from a week ago in my mind.
As I glance at Bjorn and Ström and feel their deep fatigue also, despite their own rage at our situation, I know they spent
every ounce of energy they had to keep me from crossing over to the Blood Dragon Ancestors that day. I would be an Ancestor
right now if my mates hadn’t donated countless amounts of blood and metaphysical energy to save me.
Something Maryse’s mates couldn’t do—her death by the creature’s power happened so fast.
As Bjorn, Ström, and I all glance at each other, I feel how we know it’s time. We’re going to get gussied up for this shindig,
head out there, and face our enemies in solidarity, no matter what.
Tonight, it’s time to celebrate life, and that we are still alive after all that shit went down. Tonight, we’re going to drink like
there will never be another cup, and party like there’ll never be another sunrise.
Because a Blood Dragon never knows when there won’t be.
 2

FA M I LY

I head into the adjacent bathroom to get ready for Maryse’s first-night wake. Though I’d love to stay in the main area of
my old bedroom and get naked with my drakes, with how our inner dragons are raging, getting undressed together might
lead to some very interesting things right now.
We need to stay focused tonight; it’s the bathroom for me as I shimmy into a tight, ruched lavender silk cocktail dress with
black lace shoulders to party with the best of them. My recently healed wounds from the bone-dragon attack still hurt, but the
tight dress looks stunning on me. Plus, it pairs with the bitchin’ crimson and black lace stiletto heels I slip on next.
Feeling good and mean as I test their heels—strong enough to be kicked right into someone’s eyeball or neck.
An amethyst, fire opal, and silver torque goes around my neck now, plus matching earrings. I think about Maryse as I slide
her dragon ring on my finger, the one she told me once belonged to my ancient Bloodwalker ancestor. Done in silver and fiery
tones with red garnet, fire opals, and purple amethyst, the ring matches my ensemble tonight.
As if it was always meant to be mine—descended from the Bloodwalker who made it.
I say a small prayer for the Ancestors to welcome Maryse’s spirit now, as I add a few knives from the Paris Hotel to my
person tonight. I can usually gut a man just as fast with a magical Bloodblade manifested from my power as an actual weapon.
Tonight I just feel off, though, and it feels better to wear something sharp. Two knives get strapped into holsters high on my
thighs, invisible by the ruching of my dress. One goes into a slim sheath in my cleavage, because that’s my go-to hiding place.
Boobs can hide a lot of things, and for me, it’s weapons.
At last, I take a few minutes for my hands to fly through an ornately woven braid, cascading down over my shoulder with
my long Scandinavian-blonde hair. As I work, I murmur prayers, setting my braid with crow and gull feathers to speed
Maryse’s flight to the Ancestors.
Their fluttering soothes me as I exit the bathroom and arrive before my drakes, dressed and sitting on rustic chairs in my
old room. They stand in unison as they see me, their eyes wide at my decidedly sexy appearance, when they usually only see
me in motorcycle leathers, Blood Dragon battle leathers, or other casual attire.
My eyes are just as wide. Dressed in a classic black tux with a white bear pelt chained around his shoulders, medals of
Blood Dragon valor clipped to the tux, Bjorn is magnificent tonight in a way I’ve never seen him. Ström is a lean, mean dream
in his sleek charcoal suit with dark green pinstripes, plus a gold and green dragon-patterned lining that makes his stunning
emerald eyes ridiculously vivid. His watch, ring, and cufflinks are gold and malachite; the overall effect of both men is
absolutely arresting as they offer me their arms at the exact same time.
Then glance at each other with protective jealousy.
“I suppose we’re both your escorts to the ball.” Bjorn lifts his chin, not ceding to Ström as he waits for me to take his arm.
“Beauty and wit before brawn.” Ström is cheeky as he maintains his position, not lowering his arm either as I feel his
energy subtly contest with Bjorn’s.
“What? You’re the beauty, Bjorn’s the wit, and I’m the brawn?” I lift an eyebrow at Ström as I solve the problem by
stepping between them and taking both men’s arms, Bjorn on my right and Ström on my left.
It makes Bjorn scowl, but he only gives an irate rumble that I took Ström’s arm at the same time as his. Because even
though he’s pissed about it, I feel through our new Bloodbond that Bjorn knows the score. He doesn’t like that I’m treating
Ström as an equal tonight—someone who’s not Bloodbound to me yet, only chosen by my Bloodwalker power as a potential
mate.
Bjorn is our Blood Dragon King Huttr Erdhelm’s top security commander, though. He’s savvy with politics, especially
when intense danger is involved, and knows we have to show solidarity in front of any who may be our enemies tonight.
And fight about our personal issues later, in private.
“You know you’re the beauty, Yava.” Pleasure shines in Ström’s eyes now to have equal status with Bjorn tonight.
“Rikyava’s a knife. Ready to gut a man when he’s not looking,” Bjorn says with gallows humor now as he sets his hand on
the door, then nods at my outfit. “Or am I wrong that you’re hiding blades beneath that dress?”
“Three.” I reach down and flash the thigh sheaths beneath the short hem of my skirt. “Two on the thighs⁠—”
“And one in the cleavage. I know you,” Bjorn says, his lips curling up in rare amusement as he shakes his head at me.
I purse my lips and give him a mock kiss that he guessed right. Even as I do, I realize Bjorn does know me. He and I were
together on and off for over twenty years before everything blew up so spectacularly between us—and how I left him so
suddenly on the night of the rebellion.
As I look at Ström, however, I feel how he also knows me. We worked for the entirety of those same twenty years together
in the Kingsguard; though that’s not much time in dragon years, it feels like a lot to me. At nearly eighty years old, I’m still
considered a youngling; our kind can reach thousands of years if they’re crafty or careful.
But having two drakes by my side is new to me—both of them wicked fighters, highly decorated in the Blood Dragon
Kingsguard, and high-status in our society, thanks to their Jarl-heir bloodlines. I feel pride and uncertainty both as I prepare to
exit my room between them, dressed to the nines and ready to fuck shit up.
As Bjorn, Ström, and I all take a deep breath, Bjorn throws the door to my childhood bedroom open. Dressed in our party
finery, we exit through a short hall, and then we’re stepping out into the main hall of Maryse’s lodge-house, turning heads.
As we make our way into the party, I note it’s in full swing already, though we weren’t all that long dressing. I was right
about this event; Maryse’s first-night wake is already a rager in classic Trublut style. People are drinking like crazy, not to
mention devouring the long trestle-tables laden with food from Khosh. As we nod and kiss cheeks, people from Jurggadden I
knew as a youngling tell me they’ll drink heavily in Maryse’s honor tonight.
Which makes me smile.
The main hall of the lodge is truly opulent to celebrate Maryse’s life and Beltane. Flowers and ribbons are twined around
every timber, the rustic chandeliers lit bright with a roaring pit-fire in the center of the space. The feast Khosh prepared has
every table bending with cooked meats, honeyed jams, and mead as my drakes and I make our way through to where Maryse’s
drakes hold court.
Most of the dragons here are already roaring drunk though the sun has just set; in every corner of the hall, Blood Dragon
songs are starting, ale and mead are being quaffed, and people have begun to play drunkenly on Maryse’s traditional
instruments all around.
As we arrive at where Trublut, Khosh, and Vjen are greeting friends and drinking hard, silver tankards of mead are pressed
into our hands. Bjorn slams his back in respect for the dead as I gulp mine a bit more responsibly.
With his massive size, Bjorn can drink like a fish and not get to red-out, a Blood Dragon’s version of blackout where we go
Berserk into sex, fighting, or both. I can hold my own, but am far smaller and need to keep it together tonight.
Though what I really want to do is rage wild.
I expect Ström to be the biggest drinker of the evening, however, and am surprised when he isn’t. He has only a sip of his
mead, then sets it resolutely aside. As Bjorn lifts an eyebrow, Ström shakes his head. I have no time to ask Ström why he’s
holding back, however, as Trublut turns to us.
Raking us all into big, inebriated hugs.
“Younglings!” He grins as he kisses my cheeks. “You look fabulous! Her drakes clean up good, eh, Vjen?”
“Better than we do,” Vjen says now as he kisses my cheeks also, gripping my hands. As Khosh sets his forehead against
mine briefly, I note how all three drakes are dressed in what they were wearing earlier. As if all their preparations took
everything they had, all three are at least six ales in now as Trublut waves for Bjorn, Ström, and me to finish our drinks and
hands us another. We smash tankards with Maryse’s drakes and drink.
Nobody holding back now, as we celebrate the life of the dead.
But Trublut soon makes an excuse for himself, Khosh, and Vjen; he waves our sextet away to a quieter section of the hall,
taking us out of the crowd. Over by the kitchens, we’re tucked in beside a massive taxidermy bear and a nook of battle drums
Maryse always insisted on keeping, though no one was ever sure why.
As we gather, Trublut waves his hand, producing a complex blood-sigil with his fingertips. He creates an energy like a
warm wind with his power; a halo of blood droplets so fine it looks like mist seethes out, nearly invisible as it gathers around
our group.
As the firelight hits that barrier, the slightest shimmer of rainbows can be seen. At almost a thousand years old, Trublut is
one of the oldest drakes in our clan. Even without Maryse’s Bloodwalker magic flowing through his veins anymore, he’s still a
powerhouse of a drake, and vastly talented with his abilities. That shimmering barrier is soundproofing magic he’s manifested
in the air, a wickedly difficult magic to produce.
Despite the party raging all around, we can speak privately now.
“So. Younglings. We must talk, before we truly party tonight,” Trublut says in his resonant baritone. The power in his voice
rumbles my blood, even as I realize why he called us into this private chat.
To get us all on the same page tonight, as we search for Maryse’s killer.
“What’s there to talk about?” I say with a dark growl as something fierce sharpens inside me. My drakaina heaves in fury
as she coils up barbs-out in my veins for war. “We find whomever killed Maryse, then we kill them. Done.”
“Easy, Rikyava,” Vjen says with warning now in his mellow tenor voice. “We’re all looking for answers this week, as we
hold our three-day send-off for Maryse. We need to find out who killed her, and nearly killed you with that insane bone-
dragon’s attack on the Black Dragon Knight’s Council. You should know, the Council has put a moratorium on Trublut, Khosh,
and me investigating her death. They’ve threatened us with death if we get involved. You can see why all of this needs to be
done quietly. Without hitting the questions too hard or with too much piss and vinegar.”
Vjen’s the lover of the group and the most thoughtful of Maryse’s drakes; I feel a dark fury simmer from him now, however,
as he tells me the score. Though he, Trublut, and Khosh are all relatively calm as they deliver this news, I am incensed about
what the Council’s done.
And stare at Maryse’s drakes with my mouth agape as my drakaina roars all through me now.
“They’re not going to let you look into your mate’s death?! That’s insane!” I say, seething.
“That’s their ruling.” Khosh’s voice is quiet, though his demeanor holds danger as his violet eyes flash dragon-red. “The
Council wants to handle the matter without involving lower-level Knights. Though we were their High Matriarch’s mates for
years, it doesn’t matter. We’re not on the Council—so we don’t get a say.”
“Fucking hells!” My wrath surges now, terrible. A wash of intense darkness takes my vision as a roar surges all through
me. A massive, black drake rises inside me, threatening to swamp my regular, blood-bright drakaina as I churn, furious.
Bjorn feels it through our new bond. He takes my hand, as his brilliant eyes flash pure gold with the power of his drake.
Though he’s usually one to bust heads, I feel him pour a deep, grounding energy through me now via our new bond. He’s
Captain of the Blood Dragon Kingsguard in Stockholm; though he’s a hothead, he’s also a commander through and through.
I’ve learned recently that Bjorn’s also changed since we were last together. He goes to therapy now, and anger management
classes, and has better control over his dragon than he ever used to. I feel how that work is changing him now, as his grounding
energy flows into me via our new Bloodbond.
I haven’t properly bound Ström yet, but I feel his refreshing river water energy pour into me also through the
unconsummated bond we have. It bolsters me with thoughtful restraint as he reaches out also now, touching my low back.
It’s not as strong as Bjorn’s deep flood of power, but it’s there—a Bloodbond my magic still wants to make. My drakaina
likes Ström’s drake just as much as Bjorn’s. She revels in the bright, lance-sharp sensation of Ström’s energy surging into me as
we touch.
Rolling around in it, like a cat.
“Calm your beast, youngling.” Trublut admonishes me now as his intense violet eyes pin me. “Council members may be
here tonight, or for the other festivities this week. They’re all far more powerful than you, and you can’t just go roaring off and
rip any of them a new one.”
“My drakaina can hold her own.” The black beast of my Bone Magic seethes inside me.
“Maybe. But against them? Not without training, and proper Bloodbonds like you could gain in the ceremony Khosh, Vjen,
and I know. Which could help you and your drakes balance your power far better,” Trublut says with a definitive eyeball now,
as if he can feel what’s happening inside me. As Maryse’s First Drake, he was mated to her for centuries. He probably knows
the feel of the black dragon that lived inside her Bloodwalker power.
Just as my drakes know mine.
“Heads will roll, Rikyava, I promise you that,” Bjorn says now. Still holding my hand, he grips it tight in his warm fist as
his irises go bright gold from his dragon. “If we find anyone connected to Maryse’s death, I’ll crush their skulls myself.”
Gazing into Bjorn’s scalding gold eyes, I feel his sincerity. I know he’ll do it; he’d kill anyone who fucks with me and the
people I love, even if they just look at me wrong. It’s a quality of Bjorn’s I both love and hate; his ability to go Berserk at the
smallest slight, into the rageful death of his drake. Love it or hate it, it’s something I deeply respect about him.
That Bjorn gets shit done—when shit needs doing.
“Hey. If you want to storm into the Knight’s Council like a bull in a china shop, I’m in.” Ström is chuckling with humor as
he glances at me. “But I’m also a proponent of winning when we raise hell. Kicking priceless Ming vases over all the way…”
As he pierces me with his bright, carnal gaze, wit flashes in Ström’s emerald eyes, so sharp and clear they’re like new
grass on a summer day. He rubs a hand through his short, ash-blond hair and over his trim blond beard, lifting an eyebrow at
me, and I love it. Cocky, there’s a side of Ström that’s all business, though, as darkness gleams in his eyes.
Ready to fuck shit up whenever I say so.
I feel strength flow into me through our bonds, then, even though those bonds are still incomplete with Ström. As the black
drake of my Bone Magic slithers up behind the brighter drakaina of my Blood Magic, towering over her ruby and gold scales
like a seething mass of violet night, I feel how both drakes’ energies influence mine, different but united in their support.
As my connection to Bjorn roils and burns, grounding me from going Berserk in a bright rage, Ström’s magic cools me,
helping me find better clarity and presence. Ström’s and my connection stretches now, longing to be consummated as his vivid
emerald eyes sear with heat.
Passion thrums between me and both drakes, then. As both my essences of magic rise inside me, the brighter power of my
Blood Magic drakaina and the seething mass of my darker, stronger Bone Magic behind it, I know the two essences are linked.
I feel their connection as both my drakes touch me. My drakaina rules my veins right now, but my black drake takes over
when I’m ready to fight. Both powers are necessary to create what I am, however—a Bloodwalker like the ancients. When my
two internal magics join, it creates my real power. Though Trublut’s right, I certainly don’t have control over that process yet.
And have no idea what it can do.
As both drakes growl and my magics snarl within, I don’t miss how Vjen’s gaze roves over me, then Bjorn and Ström. Vjen
says nothing, but his clear blue eyes see something in our power as he watches us. It’s something that makes me remove myself
from Bjorn’s and Ström’s touch, as I set my hands on my hips now.
To cover how my veins heat hard for both drakes, as they raise the powers within me.
“You’re right.” I take a deep breath now as I glance around Maryse’s mates and my drakes. “But I can’t stop thinking about
that monstrous bone-dragon that killed Maryse. When it smashed in through the Black Dragon Knights’ Grand Council Hall, its
roar called my blood right out of my body, breaking all my bones. That was beyond powerful curse-work. That thing’s
appearance wasn’t happenstance; someone knew about that beast. And why it went straight after Maryse and me—just after we
were accused of consorting with Bone Mages by the Black Dragon Knights Council.”
“You can’t push the Council just yet, Rikyava,” Trublut says, his intensity easing to a sad smile at my ferocity for his dead
lifemate. “Maryse was certain someone on the Council betrayed her because she was learning about Bone Magic and its
connection to her Bloodwalker power. Her Bloodwalker power, and yours. We will investigate her death, but everything must
be done covertly, without the Council’s knowledge. Am I clear, youngling?”
“Crystal.” I acknowledge my stepfather’s words. Still, I feel how hard my black drake snarls through my veins, wanting to
punish anyone even remotely connected to all this fuckery.
Vjen notes it and passes a hand through my aura, using his magic to soothe mine. I shiver but can breathe easier now; Vjen’s
metaphysical power is just as strong as his dragon’s physical might. It’s even stronger than Trublut’s magic sometimes, though
in a way I’ve never quite been able to describe.
But something hits me then as Vjen touches me.
Something we need to talk about before we can go any further.
“You all knew about Bone Magic,” I say as my gaze pins each of Maryse’s drakes, Trublut last. “You were all holding out
on me when Maryse told me about Bone Mages. You knew she had Bone Magic in her Bloodwalker power. And was looking
for a Bone Mage mate, to stabilize the darker side of her magic.”
“We did,” Trublut says, stoic now, though his ancient gaze is kind. “But that is a tale for another time, youngling. Which we
shall address in full, I promise.”
I nod, knowing Trublut is as good as his word. I grip my hand into a fist now as I think of my mentor’s last message to me,
though. As the silver dragon of Maryse’s ring with its four fire opals, red garnet, and purple amethyst in its jaws glints in the
firelight, I feel her final warning drill through my bones.
Because she found out about Bloodwalker power, and how it keeps Bone Magic alive in the world, no matter how hard the
Council tries to stamp Bone Magic out. She was trying to mature her Bone Magic when she died, by covert liaisons with some
unknown teacher. But that maturation was cut short when someone killed her, wanting to prevent her power from reaching its
fullest potential.
And mine.
As I think about Maryse’s death, a strange feeling of responsibility hits me yet again. It churns inside me as if this was all
my fault, even though I had nothing to do with the monstrous dragon of bones that caused her death.
That feeling plagues me now, as if all this shit was caused by my own bones and blood. As both my magics snarl, united in
their fury, I don’t miss the ripple of crimson and gold, then black and violet scales that blossom out over my hand.
Evidence of my Bloodwalker power rising.
“Careful, Rikyava.” Vjen warns me as he sees that ripple of magic. His blue gaze pins mine, intense. “Going wild tonight
and losing control of your Bone Magic in front of anyone on the Knight’s Council would be a death sentence. Bone Mages are
forbidden, by ancient order of the Knights.”
“I won’t lose my shit.” I take Vjen’s warning to heart. Because he’s right; each and every dragon on the Black Dragon
Knights High Council will feel this energy inside me if I shift. As the black drake of my Bone Magic churns, I feel how it wants
to devour my brighter drakaina. It wants to go ballistic for revenge, but I won’t let that happen.
Unless someone attacks us—and then I won’t hold back.
“Let’s do this,” I say as I stand tall, ready. “Let’s get out there and party. And sort-of-not-quite fuck shit up.”
“Until it’s time.” Retribution flashes in Bjorn’s gold eyes, furious.
“Completely.” Ström gives a vicious grin, brutal in its cold precision.
Though my drakes have their differences, I know they’ve got my back. As Trublut, Khosh, and Vjen nod also, I know we’re
ready to sort-of-not-quite fuck shit up with the Black Dragon Knight’s Council and all their control over every dragon’s life in
our Lineage.
Until it’s time.
 3

BLOOD

“Y ava! My niece! There you are!”

As someone toweringly large shoulders through the crowd, straight to our little group, I recognize that massive
voice booming through Trublut’s soundproofing charm. My uncle King Huttr Erdhelm’s voice thunders through the din
of the party and all the general noise as he reaches us. As he pushes through the throng and people part for him, Trublut makes a
quick sigil with his fingers and crashes his sound-silencing barrier.
Done so cleverly, it’s unseen by all but the most trained eye as it dissipates.
As Huttr nears us, he opens his enormous arms, raking me in. He’s been drinking heavily; my blood-uncle’s embrace is
bone-crushing as he roars in my ear with a bellow, then thumps me on the back and shakes me by my shoulders.
He wears black battle-leathers decorated with military medals and gold chains of state with a white polar bear pelt tonight,
his white-blond hair pulled back in braids and shaved on both sides with dragons. His blond beard forked and braided, Huttr is
intimidating, and even more massive in stature than Bjorn. But he feels like home to me as we embrace.
A towering man of strength and power, as his crimson-gold eyes flash with the might of his dragon.
Dressed similarly to his father, my cousin, the Blood Dragon Prince Halfdir Erdhelm, steps forward now, embracing me as
well. I feel comforted that my blood-family is here tonight; as I glance around, I don’t see any of the Black Dragon Knights
Council here, though plenty of others are watching our interaction.
The looky-loos are close enough to observe their King and his blood-family, but not close enough to listen in to our
conversation. It strikes me then that though Maryse had extreme status in our world thanks to being on the Black Dragon Knights
Council, she had no royal family. Born a simple fisher-dragon’s daughter, she was raised in this village and earned respect
over her lifetime by being clever, magnanimous, and powerful in her magic.
Whoever got to her also tried to get me, but I was in a room full of enemies then. Now, I’m in a room full of family and
friends.
Powerful family, as one more of my cousins walks in through the door.
The crowd parts for my cousin, King Rhennic Erdhelm of the Storm Dragons of France, as he pushes in through Maryse’s
lodge house. His vivid lavender eyes pin me as he makes his way right to us, everyone stepping back with respect to let him
through.
Though our Blood Dragon King is Huttr, Rhennic is no less powerful—and some would argue quite a lot more, since he’s
King of the largest Dragon Lineage in the world. He’s Huttr’s youngest son, half Blood Dragon by birth, and raised in
Stockholm with Halfdir. But Rhennic’s magic manifested as Storm Dragon in his teens; his aura crackles with storms as he
approaches.
I turn towards him, my drakaina trumpeting inside that my favorite cousin has arrived.
“Rhennic!” I hug him, letting him crush me close as we come together.
“Hey, girl,” Rhennic says in his smooth voice as he embraces me. “Thank all the gods you’re okay.”
Handsomely put-together, Rhennic wears a midnight blue vest and slacks, the sleeves of his charcoal shirt rolled up. Tall
and slender thanks to his mother’s French Storm Dragon heritage, but with good shoulders from his father Huttr, Rhennic’s
chiseled features look like his father and older brother. Golden-blond with a trimmed red-blond beard, he could be cast in the
show Vikings, he’s such a looker. He’s got the best heart I know, though; as I pull back, he rests his forehead against mine with
a hard sigh.
“Fucking hells. I wish I had been here when all that shit went down last week. I wanted to come right away when I heard,
but I was tied up with Storm Dragon business.” Rhennic’s violet eyes go a dark storm-purple in anger now as he pulls back, his
irises flickering with lightning. He growls as his dragon seethes, actual starbursts of lightning blistering around us now from
his power. Rhennic has excellent control of his Dragon, though, and they don’t harm anyone.
Just put on quite a show, which everyone’s watching now.
 “You can’t be everywhere,” I say as I grip his hand. “I’m just thankful you’re here tonight.”
My favorite family member, I never ignore Rhennic’s calls. He’s extraordinarily busy these days, however, leading his
massive Lineage after his mother’s recent demise.
Everything inside me lifts to know my entire family’s here, though—fighters, all. Though Rhennic is the son of the Blood
Dragon King and the late Storm Dragon Queen, he didn’t get his position because he was next in line. He was his mother’s top
battle-commander and fought countless challenges to secure his position as Storm Dragon King.
And won every goddamn one of them.
As my uncle greets Maryse’s drakes now with hand shaking and hard claps to the shoulders, then thrusts a fresh ale at me
from a server’s tray, taking a new one for himself and both his sons, I toast with him. I slam it back, despite knowing I should
drink sparingly tonight. One cannot be seen not drinking with their King, or with the Storm Dragon King, when such monarchs
come to a party.
Rhen only sips his ale, setting it aside as he embraces his father and older brother. He eyes the room now, taking in
everyone watching us as his fierce protectiveness surges.
Rhennic’s, Halfdir’s, and Huttr’s powers blister around me now, along with Ström’s and Bjorn’s, and Maryse’s drakes.
Because it’s not just my ass on the line with all that’s happened—it’s all theirs, too. The political arena is boiling with the
Blood Dragons and Ice Dragons on the brink of a new war, thanks to the magical explosion that started all this shit, which is
connected to the Bone Mages and everything with the Council. It’s a situation my mates and I were investigating before
everything with Maryse went down.
A situation that’s still unresolved—which puts the entire royal family at risk, including me.
But before we can dive into either politics or recollections about Maryse, a jubilant laugh rouses me; I turn, grinning now,
because I know that robust, elegant voice. With strength and femininity, and a voice that can scream like a harpy in her dragon-
form, the owner of that voice is upon me all at once. As she seizes me in a strong hug, I laugh, feeling better than I have in ages.
My Paris bestie has just arrived.
And she couldn’t have come at a better time.
“Yava! You hot bitch! I’ve missed you!”
We do a little happy dance as we hug; Layla Price’s jade and gold eyes beam as she pulls back now, kissing me on either
cheek. A drakaina I’ve only come to know in the past two years since she first discovered what she was, Layla is a fucking
powerhouse of a Royal Desert Dragon, and something rare called a Royal Dragon Bind.
She doesn’t look like she could fuck up even the toughest Royal drakes with her strong yet alluring power, but I know she
can. Of medium height and a slender but curvy build, her long, sable hair is sleek, her skin lightly tan from her half-Moroccan
parentage. Her cheekbones are high from her Russian Ice Dragon father, her lips full in a way that even made me nearly swoon
the first time I saw her. Exotic is just the barest term for Layla.
And her heart is pure gold, as she pours her strong, direct kindness into me now.
I’m so happy my best girl from France has arrived, as my heart constricts now from all the love in my life. A lump forms in
my throat, even as I beam at all the friends and family that are here for Maryse’s wake. My drakaina trumpets with gratefulness;
I have so much goodness in my life, despite having not been a part of my clan for the past twenty years.
Blood Dragons are all about found family, however; because so many of us die in battle, we form fast and deep bonds with
anyone who makes us feel at home. Those people are here with me now, the closest of them at least, except a few folks from
the Paris Hotel who can’t just fly up to Sweden at the drop of a hat.
I feel surrounded by love, my heart glowing as I flick a tear away. Now isn’t the time to get all sappy and cry, so I laugh
instead, seizing Layla in another big hug and shaking her around a bit in the Blood Dragon way.
She weathers it. Even though Layla is a much slighter build than I am, her metaphysical power is massive. I feel her badass
Desert Dragon drakaina riot now like fire all through her.
As she laughs, grinning at me.
“Okay, ladies, break it up.” Rhennic is laughing now as he mock-hauls us apart. “It’s my two weeks to spend with Layla,
Rikyava. You’re making me jealous.”
Layla and my cousin Rhennic have a complicated love life; he’s King of an entire Dragon Lineage with a billion things to
do, and she’s life-mated to four other drakes besides him, all with either Kingships of their own, or prominent, high-profile
lives. Plus, she’s an ambassador for the Red Letter Hotel chain in the Twilight Realm, and travels all around the world when
she’s not with her mates, helping solve problems for those high-class establishments and their ultra A-list guests.
She’s a busy cookie—and so is her love life, as she steps back from me now, cuddling into Rhen and wrapping an arm
around him like they can’t wait to get some alone time.
She keeps my hand, though, squeezing it like a sister.
“How’s tricks, stranger?” she asks now as she holds my gaze, penetrating. Though we’ve not been friends long, somehow
Layla and I understand each other to our bones. Both women on a mission, both strong in our drakainas in a world full of big-
dick drakes; she and I have been no-bullshit with each other from the first day we met.
 Just the way I like it.
“Tricky.” I lift an eyebrow, gesturing at the party. “So… you heard.”
“Rhennic and I were at the start of our two weeks together when Halfdir called us about what went down.” Layla nods,
sober yet furious, as red-gold fire blazes in her eyes now. “I’m so sorry, Rikyava. Don’t worry, though—we’ll catch the
bastard who did this.”
“It’s my shit to sort out, but thanks, girlie.” I smile because I do appreciate her sentiment; Layla and Rhen have my back.
I’ve got friends in high places and not just because I was born into royalty, but because I do impeccable work for good people.
I trust that the cream will always rise to the top when it counts.
And Layla and Rhennic are top-shelf dragons, hands-down.
“Bad business, all around.” Huttr cuts into our conversation now as he turns to me from where he was talking with
Maryse’s drakes. Giving a massive bark, he slaps me on the back. “Well! Can’t kill an Andersen off easily, can they? Not like
Riksfold.”
“No, they can not,” I agree, though something inside me darkens then, knowing I’m the last Andersen left after the past few
decades.
I feel how Bjorn and Ström churn with bitter fury also at my uncle’s sudden mention of Riksfold. Sixty-plus years ago, the
Battle of Riksfold between the Ice Dragons of Russia and the Blood Dragons of Norway and Sweden was a battle Bjorn,
Ström, and I all lost close family in. Explosive, that battle was the opening attack of a war that would last until just a few years
ago, when our King negotiated a peace treaty with the new King of the Ice Dragons.
A war that might reopen now, with everything that’s happened in the past few weeks.
As Ström’s energy sharpens like daggers around me now, I glance at him and see his dark frown. He lost his elder brother
in that battle, the previous Heir to the Eriksson Jarldom, before it passed to him. They loved each other but didn’t get along,
and I know it weighs on him that he never got to make reparations before his brother died.
Bjorn’s jaw is set also, his energy roaring now as it pummels through me via our Bloodbond. He lost his beloved mother in
that battle, the only one who supported him against his merciless father. His father had already banished Bjorn from their
territory and from ever inheriting the Jarldom decades before when Bjorn was just a teenager, though Bjorn’s never said why.
My family fractured after that fight, as well; my elder sister went crazy with rage against our King after Riksfold, blaming
him for our parent’s death. Twenty years ago, she led a coup against King Huttr, our own uncle.
And even I was on the hit list for failing to join her.
“In any case, I roar with grief at your loss, Yava,” Huttr says as he clears his throat, then takes another ale, quaffing it as if
to cover the verbal dagger he just thrust in my heart, though he didn’t mean to. “Maryse was the best of us. A good woman, a
fine matriarch, and a terror on the battlefield. She will be missed.”
“She will.” I clink goblets with my uncle as Ström, Bjorn, Halfdir, Rhennic, Layla, and Maryse’s drakes all take drinks,
celebrating the dead. The party is getting raucous all around now, but we hold a calm space in our nook as we chat with our
King.
“I’ve put our Lineage on high alert with everything that’s happened,” Huttr continues. He’s referring to not just the death-
dragon attack on the Black Dragon Knights but also to what happened before that—an explosion on one of our Outer Islands
that decimated an Ice Dragon village and nearly reopened war between the Ice Dragons and Blood Dragons.
“I know the Outer Island explosion still has yet to be solved, but I’m taking you off the case, Rikyava, for now.” Huttr
eyeballs me. “You, Bjorn, and Ström are released from all duties, so you may follow up on this attack that killed Maryse.
Though the higher-ups are doing an investigation, I feel you would do better launching your own.”
“The higher-ups don’t want anyone looking into it,” I say now, using the code word my uncle, cousins, and I have had for
years for the Black Dragon Knights when we mention them in public.
“Any of us.” Trublut snorts as he lifts his latest ale, taking a swig, though I know now that he’s not as inebriated as he’s
pretending to be, to get information out of people tonight.
Even our King.
“I don’t give a damn what they say!” Crimson blazes in Huttr’s eyes now as his gaze rakes us all. “They’ve been too
clandestine for centuries; now with this direct attack, I believe they’re at risk. It’s unacceptable for the highest ruling body of
our Lineage to be under threat. I am in talks with them right now to allow my warriors to protect them, and for them to let my
people dig into whomever may be behind this. In the meantime, I know you all are going to go rogue and look into this on your
own. Whatever support you need from me, you shall have it. Such atrocities will not go unanswered by the Blood Dragon King,
and I have a feeling you all may be more successful than most at finding out who did this.”
“Thank you, my King.” Trublut is formal now as he gives a deep incline of his head with his hand on his heart. As Khosh
and Vjen honor our King also, Bjorn, Ström, and I do the same.
Huttr’s words lift a tremendous weight from my heart. Getting direct permission from our Blood Dragon King to look into
this matter is massive, because it gives us bargaining power if the Black Dragon Knights decide they don’t like what we’re
doing and haul us in for a court-martial.
 Not only that, but a carte blanche offer of help from Huttr is a big deal, even to someone like me who is his own flesh and
blood. It’s an all-access pass to wherever we might need to go and whomever we might need to talk to, in the entire Lineage.
To figure out who did this—and bring them to justice.
“I’ll draft up a formal Blood Seal tonight, so you have proof of my words.” Huttr gives a sober nod to Trublut. “And you
two.” Huttr turns to Ström and Bjorn now, eyeballing both men as they stand at my sides. Huttr is jovial, but he doesn’t miss
much; an eagle eye and a sharp mind, he reads everything about me and my two drakes before he speaks. “Keep my niece
company tonight. No beautiful young drakaina should be seen with anything less than two furious warrior-drakes at her sides,
so say I and so say most. Though my Yava can hold her own in a fight, if she goes about brawling tonight because of grief at her
mentor’s loss, you two must join her.”
“We will, my King,” Ström says at once, getting Huttr’s insinuation that if trouble finds us tonight, we stick together.
“Absolutely, King Erdhelm,” Bjorn says more formally, with a deep nod.
“Good,” Huttr says now as he watches the three of us. But there’s no more time, as he’s approached by his Consulate, a
bear of a man named Benner Hjus. Benner speaks low to our King, and Huttr nods. He turns back to us, motioning for his son
Halfdir to accompany him.
“King’s business. We must go. If time permits, I’ll see you all tomorrow night for Maryse’s bonfire vigil. My coin is paying
for this party tonight, however, so you better enjoy. And drink most irresponsibly, to celebrate a good woman’s life.”
Huttr eyeballs his youngest son Rhennic as he gives this last order, who is never a big drinker, before he grins at Layla.
They laugh, Layla stepping forward to kiss my uncle’s cheeks now, as the two are on very good terms.
“We will, King Huttr.” Layla beams at him.
“My son did good, locking you down.” Huttr grins as he pats Layla’s cheek. As he looks to Bjorn and Ström next, he lifts an
eyebrow. “You two could benefit from Rhennic’s example. HA!”
With a laughing roar, my uncle slaps both Bjorn and Ström on the shoulders with a ribald grin as my face flushes, hard.
Huttr’s already departing, though, not caring how much he noses into other people’s love lives as he punches his youngest son,
Rhennic, on the shoulder. The royal brothers embrace as Halfdir and Huttr turn to go. But Bjorn’s, Ström’s, and my faces are
burning now as Huttr slaps people on the back and punches shoulders.
His big laugh booming all the way out the door.
As our King leaves, Trublut excuses himself to go get something to eat, and Khosh and Vjen follow him. They have a lot
more partygoers to welcome now, since our conversation took so long; I get a new tankard of ale from a server, about to turn to
Rhennic and Layla, when a commotion erupts from over by the nearest trestle-table.
As my drakes and I turn towards it—most likely an impromptu brawl, as happens at these things—Bjorn and Ström
straighten like a whip’s been cracked across their backs.
I see it, too, as horror floods my veins. Because over by the table, Trublut is down on his knees. Surrounded by a knot of
Blood Dragons, Vjen has his arms around Trublut’s waist.
Vjen doing the Heimlich maneuver as Trublut chokes.
 4

M AT E S

A terrible roar rises inside me as I see my favorite stepfather choking to death at the party. I shove through the gawking
crowd, hammering people away from me now with blasts of Bloodwind so I can rush to the table. Vjen’s Heimlich
maneuver hasn’t worked. Trublut is blue now, unable to breathe as his eyes bulge. Khosh summons a hard thrust of
targeted Bloodwind to punch Trublut right in the solar plexus and eject whatever it is he’s choking on, and I see it does nothing.
Terror rises inside me as I watch Trublut continue to choke.
His eyelashes flickering now as he spasms like a beached fish.
“Trublut!”
Not even a tremendous blast of power from Vjen does anything now, as I hear three of Trublut’s ribs crack. I roar in horror
as I shove in, Bjorn and Ström right behind me as people clear a path. Magical drives from both Khosh and Vjen have failed—
usually plenty to solve a choking incident among dragons—and I do not know what I’m going to do.
Trublut is like my father; I can’t lose him. As a roaring sensation sears all through me now, devouring my blood and bones
to my very fundament, I clap my hands to Bjorn and Ström’s wrists. Before I know it, I’m gripping my drakes where they stand
beside me.
As a tremendous wave of energy shoots through me, devastating as it roars up in the night.
It heaves like a towering demon inside me, my black dragon snarling to my very bones. Its furious, world-devouring voice
roars through my lips as pure power tears from my throat, a massive blast of energy slamming people to their asses all around
me.
The voice of my Bone Magic is a terrible sound, made of death and wrath, as a roaring leviathan of black Bloodwind
leaves me. A deathly violet light flashes through my veins as that unhinged power shoots from me and my two drakes, right to
Trublut.
Hammering him and making a popping sound launch from his throat.
Trublut’s gasping air, coughing now as whatever was choking him is launched from his throat by my power. I feel my
darkest magic flood into him, reviving him from the brink of death now as something dark skitters across the floor.
I’m on it, fast. Before it can get away, I’m stomping on it, roaring with the full power of my Bone Magic in my voice; it
hammers all through my body as my hands and fingers shift with shimmering violet-black scales, surging down my legs into my
feet.
I stomp on whatever shot from Trublut’s throat; the movement of my Bone Magic thunders the house. I look down,
withdrawing my broken stiletto heel as wrath seethes through me at whatever was choking Trublut.
To find it’s only the meat of a walnut I’ve smashed, shattered into the indented wood of the floor.
“The hells?” I could have sworn what I saw was some kind of demon spider, large as a baseball, as I brought my heel
down on it. As I stare at it now, however, I see faint black and red-scrawled runes flicker out with a last flare of deathly red-
violet light. They leave behind the same terrible red and caustic, oilslick-black runes from the Outer Island explosion, and from
the bone-dragon attack.
Bone Magic.
“Cursed! It was cursed!”
I blink as Khosh’s words lance through my dragon’s mind. Confusion takes me now, as I find I have no enemy to fight; I
wrestle with the wrathful, annihilating rage that is still trying to swamp me from my black dragon, as my vision floods black at
the edges rather than red, my ears roaring with sound.
Khosh rushes to me, swiping the crushed fragments of the walnut up as Vjen stays with Trublut, rubbing his back and
helping him breathe. I should have told Khosh not to touch it, though, for it sloughs to dust on his fingers, removing any clues
we might have hoped to find about who cursed the walnut meat and when.
The evidence is plain, however. Someone killed Maryse, almost killed me, then finally attempted to kill the strongest of
Maryse’s drakes. As Maryse’s mates and I stare at each other in shock, the party silent all around us, I know all this shit is
linked.
Someone is trying to cover up some strange resurgence of Bone Magic in the world, and they’re fucking with everyone I
know to do it. It started with the explosion on the Outer Islands, which led to the discovery my mates and I made about Bone
Mages and their ancient power being used at the explosion site. And then it led to Maryse telling me Bone Magic is part of our
Bloodwalker power, to her then being silenced by that monstrous bone-dragon attack.
Now this.
As I nod at the recovering Trublut, Vjen still rubbing his back to help him get air, I glance at Khosh. “Why Trublut? Why
now?” I ask as everything inside me still vibrates with the blackest wrath.
To tear whoever’s doing this limb from limb—without mercy.
“I don’t know.” Khosh scowls like a thundercloud, glancing around as if to find the assassin who cursed the walnut and tear
him to pieces. “Trublut knows all the proper sigils for the Bloodbonding ritual, though. He is the only one who does, since
Maryse taught him, but not Vjen or me. If I was someone who wanted to stop you from opening fully to your mates and your
Bloodwalker power… Trublut is the one I’d target. This is what happens with Bloodwalker power if you don’t secure those
bonds. Death to your chosen mates.”
As Khosh beckons, I glance behind me.
And see Bjorn and Ström both down on their knees on the floor, gasping.
Bjorn and Ström are pale and look like they’ve been hit by a Mac truck as they both shake. Ström dry-heaves with his head
hanging, his fists on the carpet, as Bjorn grits his teeth, breathing hard in severe pain. Both men’s hands and wrists seethe with
dragon-scales blossoming and receding, as they flare in partial shifts to control what went down just now.
As Bjorn glances up at me, agony in his gold dragon-eyes, I feel myself go white. It’s only then I realize my magic just
drained them both nearly to death when it surged up so fast and hard inside me. It pulled power from them, rising on instinct,
without my conscious control over the strength of that draining, or the outcome.
To eject one Bone Magic-cursed walnut from Trublut’s throat—and save him from dying.
Too late, I glance around and note how many people saw this insane episode of Bone Magic I unleashed just now. It’s then I
see Black Dragon Knight’s High Council member Bintha Lofta—Head Battle Matron of the Knights—staring at me with her
mouth agape.
Knowledge in her intense, dark eyes.
Bintha says nothing to me, however, as Trublut recovers and Vjen and Khosh finally help him rise. As the partying resumes
now, like nothing really happened, Khosh ushers us all back towards the drake’s private wing of the house. For most people
here, nothing did happen; few Blood Dragons even know Bone Magic exists, much less know what they’re looking at when
they see it. Most dragons here just think they saw an extended episode of choking that was solved when my magic hammered
Trublut.
My mates and I know differently, though, as Khosh ushers us in through the drake’s private door.
Bintha’s dark eyes following us all the way.
The Head Battle Matron of the Knights doesn’t come after us, however, as we take a side-hall that leads into my three
stepfathers’ living quarters. As we all enter and Khosh shuts the door, Vjen helps Trublut to a seat on Maryse’s enormous bed,
that looks small now that she’s no longer in it.
As Vjen gets him water, Trublut takes it; he still looks shaken as he drinks, though his color is much better. My magic
basically restored his life, I understand, as I take a moment to process.
And know that it would have drained both Bjorn and Ström to death to do it.
“Are you alright, Tru?” Khosh asks, as Trublut sets his empty water glass aside.
“Well enough.” Trublut nods, though his eagle eyes pin me. “I have you to thank, youngling. Though the price for restoring
my life could have been steep.”
He glances at my mates, and I know what he’s thinking. If he had been a moment more gone, my magic would have ripped
the life right out of Bjorn and Ström to revive him.
A sacrifice Trublut just isn’t willing to make.
“You need to learn how to control your power, youngling,” he says, “so accidents like this don’t happen again.”
“We need to find out who cursed that walnut with Bone Magic,” Bjorn growls as his fiery gold eyes flash with anger. “They
nearly killed you!”
“No,” Trublut says, firm as he looks between me and my drakes. “You three need to master your power. Although you
saved me tonight, trading two lives for one is a bad deal, always. And your Bloodwalker power would have drained them
both, Rikyava, to revive me. You know it as well as I do.”
As I sink to a seat near the bed, sober with everything that’s happened, I know my stepfather is right. I lean forward, lace
my fingers, and set my elbows on my knees. “Tell me what we need to do.”
“You need to bond your two mates with the Bloodbonding ceremony, officially,” Trublut says as he digs his gaze into me,
Another random document with
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my expressions of gratitude.” Mr. Goupil spoke rather deliberately
and seemed to choose his words with care. “That your telegram
received no response is a matter of extreme regret. Yet, when I
inform you that it never reached me, you will, of a certainty,
exonerate me from discourtesy, Mr. Laurie.”
“Why, surely,” agreed Laurie eagerly. “We had already found out
that the telegram was delivered to the wrong person, sir.”
“Ah! Is it so? But doubtless!” Mr. Goupil paused and nodded
several times. “Allow me, please, the explanation of certain ever-to-
be-regretted circumstances. You must know, then, that after the
death of my excellent and never-to-be-forgotten wife I was plunged
in sorrow. You, sir, have never lost a beloved wife—but, no, no, of a
certainty you have not!” Mr. Goupil laughed at himself heartily before
he went on. “Very well. To pursue. In my sorrow I returned to the
country of my birth for a visit, to France, to Moissac, where live many
of my relations. But, sir, one does not elude Sorrow by crossing the
ocean! No, no, it is here!” Mr. Goupil struck himself twice on the
chest. “Soon I return, sir, yet in the brief period of my absence the
harm has been done!” He paused with dramatic effect.
“Indeed,” said Ned sympathetically, yet puzzled.
“Yes, sir, for although I am absent but five months, yet when I
return a so horrible deed has been perpetrated in my name.”
“Indeed.” It was Laurie’s turn this time. Mr. Goupil’s large
countenance depicted the utmost dejection, but only for a moment.
“In my absence,” he went on, brightening, “my lawyer, in whose
hands all my affairs of person were left, learned of the terms of the
will of my late wife’s mother. The will says that at the death of my late
wife the property in this so quaint town occupied by my dear sister-
in-law shall revert. Thereupon, stupid that he was, my lawyer
proceeds to write to my sister-in-law to that effect. The rest, sir, you
know. Yet this lamentable news reached me but three days ago!
‘What,’ asks this lawyer, ‘will you do with this property in Orstead,
New York?’
 “‘What property do you speak of?’ I ask him. He tells me then. I am
overcome. I am frantic. ‘Imbecile!’ I shout. ‘What have you done?’ I
come at once by the fastest of trains. I am here!”
“That—that was very nice of you,” faltered Laurie, keeping his
eyes carefully away from Ned.
“Nice! But what else to be done? For nothing at all would I have
had it so happen, and so I hasten to make amends, to offer
apologies to my dear wife’s sister, to you, sir, to correct a so great
mistake!”
“Certainly,” assented Laurie hurriedly. “Of course. But what I don’t
understand is why the letter that Miss Comfort wrote to you didn’t
reach you, sir.”
Mr. Goupil made a gesture of despair. “I will explain it also. My
dear sister-in-law made a mistake of the address. I saw the letter. It
was wrong. I—but wait!” Mr. Goupil drew forth a handsome card-
case, selected of the contents, and reached forward. Laurie took the
card and read:
Chicago Sioux City Des Moines
GOUPIL-MacHENRY COMPANY
Stocks Bonds Investments
514–520 Burlington Bldg., Sioux City, Ia.
Members of the
Chicago Stock Exchange

“You see?” pursued Mr. Goupil. “My dear sister-in-law made the
mistake regrettable. She addressed the letter to the ‘Goupil
Machinery Company.’ There is none.”
“I see,” said Laurie, enlightened, as he passed the engraved card
to Ned. “This MacHenry is your partner, sir?”
“Of a certainty. Adam MacHenry he is, a gentleman of Scottish
birth, but now, like me, William Goupil, a citizen of the United States,
sir.”
 “Oh! Well, but look here, Mr. Goupil. Miss Comfort must have had
your initials wrong, too, then, for—”
“Ah, another misfortune! Attend, please. My name is Alphonse
Guillaume Goupil. Yes. Very well. When I am in this country but a
very short time I find that Alphonse is the name of all waiters in all
hotels everywhere I go. I put aside Alphonse then. I am Guillaume
Goupil. Then I become prosperous. I enter into business. Many do
not know how to pronounce my first name, and that is not well. So I
then spell it the American way. To-day I am William Goupil, American
citizen!”
“That explains why the telegram didn’t get to you,” said Laurie.
“Well, the whole thing’s been a sort of—of—”
“Sort of a comedy of errors,” suggested Ned.
Mr. Goupil seized on the phrase with enthusiasm. “Yes, yes, a
comedy of errors! You’ll say so! A comedy of errors of a certainty,
beyond a matter of a doubt! But now, at last, it is finis. All is
satisfactorily arranged. You shall hear. First, then, I offered my dear
sister-in-law a nice home in Sioux City, but no, she must stay here
where it has been her home and her people’s home for so long a
time. Also”—Mr. Goupil laughed enjoyably—“also, Mr. Laurie, she
fears the Indians! But at last it is arranged. In the fall she will return
to her house. By then it will be a place worthy of the sister of my dear
and greatly lamented wife. To-morrow I shall give orders, oh, many
orders! You shall see. It will be—” Mr. Goupil raised his eyes
ecstatically—“magnificent!”
“Well, that certainly is great,” said Laurie. “I can’t tell you how
pleased I—we both are, Mr. Goupil.”
Mr. Goupil bowed again, but without arising, and smiled his own
pleasure. “I shall ask you to believe, Mr. Laurie, that never did I
suspect that my dear sister-in-law was in any need of assistance.
But now I understand. It shall be arranged. From now on—” He
waved a hand grandly. Words would have said far less.
He arose. Laurie arose. Ned arose. Mr. Goupil bowed. Laurie and
Ned bowed.
 “Once more, Mr. Laurie, I thank you for your kindness to my dear
sister-in-law. I thank also your so noble brother. I shall be in Orstead
for several days and it will give me great pleasure to see you again.
We shall meet, yes?”
“Of a certainty,” answered Laurie, with no thought of impertinence.
“To-morrow, perhaps, at Miss Comfort’s, sir. We are going there in
the morning to say good-by to her.”
“Excellent! Until the morning, then.” Mr. Goupil bowed. Laurie
bowed. Ned bowed. Mr. Goupil placed his derby in place, gave it an
admonishing tap, smiled pleasantly once more, and was gone.
Laurie closed the door after him and leaned weakly against it.
“If anything else happens to-night,” he sighed, “I’ll go batty!”
 CHAPTER XXV
THE MARVELOUS CATCH

W ednesday afternoon, and the hands of the clock in the tower of

the Congregational Church, seen distantly over the tops of the
trees, pointed to eighteen minutes before three.
Ideal weather for Class day, hot in the sun, pleasantly warm in the
shade, with a very blue sky trimmed around the edges with puffs of
creamy-white clouds. An ideal day, too, for the big game, with plenty
of heat to make muscles responsive and no wind to deflect the ball
from its long, arching course. Kind, as well, to the wearers of pretty,
light dresses, with whom the stands were liberally sprinkled,
mothers, sisters, cousins and aunts of the important-looking
graduates. Dark-blue pennants and pennants of maroon and white
drooped against their staffs save when a moment of frenzy set them
swirling above the sloping stands.
The game was three innings old, and the black score-board
behind the back-stop held six big round naughts. Those three
innings had not been devoid of interest, however, even if neither
team had tallied. Nervousness and over-anxiety had filled at least
two of them with breathless moments. In the first and second
Farview had placed men on bases; in the second Hillman’s had got
Pat Browne as far as third. There had been errors by both sides, and
more than one case of poor judgment. Nate Beedle, pitching for the
home team, and Luders, for the visitors, had been in hot water much
of the time. Yet each had survived, and now, at the beginning of the
fourth inning, with Farview coming to bat, the game was still to be
won or lost.
Laurie had been through some bad moments. For the first two
innings he and Nate had not worked together very smoothly. They
had had a half-hour of practice before an early dinner, during which
Nate had coached the new catcher and Laurie had mastered signals.
Later, Cas Bennett had given Laurie the “dope” on the Farview
batters. He was still giving it between innings, for Laurie’s mind was
in no condition to memorize. By the beginning of the third inning ten
Farview players had come to the plate, and at least ten times Nate
had refused Laurie’s signal. Of course Laurie had known that Nate
was right and that he was wrong, but it had all been mighty
confusing and disconcerting. Added to that was the continuing dread
of throwing badly to second. He could peg the ball to first unerringly
enough, or to third, but the long heave across the width of the
diamond terrorized him. Once when he should have thrown to Lew
Cooper that fear of misfortune held his hand, and Hillman’s had
groaned as a Farview runner slid unchallenged to the bag. Save for
that occasion a throw to second had not been called for, and the test
was still ahead of him. For the rest, Laurie had done well enough. He
had dropped the delivery more times than he cared to recall, but had
escaped without penalty. Once the ball had got past him entirely and
bounded against the back-stop, but, fortunately, the bases had been
empty. During the first of the third he and Nate had come to
understand each other better, and constant reiteration by Cas had
finally impressed Laurie with the foibles of the enemy batsmen. Now,
at the beginning of the fourth, he breathed easier and found himself
sustained by a measure of confidence. His throw to second, before
the first of the enemy stepped into the box, was straight, hard, and
knee-high.
Farview began with a scratch hit to the left field that took an
unexpected bound away from Frank Brattle’s ready glove. Followed
a screaming two-bagger that placed the first runner on third. Only a
smart throw-in by Lee Murdock prevented a tally then and there. The
tally came later, however, and a second followed close behind it.
Nate passed a batter and filled the bases. Then a pretty sacrifice fly
to short right moved the runners up, and Farview cheered her first
score. Nate struck out the subsequent batter. Then came a rolling
grounder to Cooper and Lew scraped it up and, with all the time in
the world, threw low to first. By the time Tom Pope had turned
around about three times looking for the ball that he had stopped but
not caught, the runner on third had scored, the batsman was safe,
and the chap from second was half-way between third and the plate.
Tom shot the ball home; Laurie got it, held it, and swung downward.
There was an instant’s confusion of dust and sound, and the umpire
swung his mask upward and out.
Two runs for Farview.
Farview clung to that lead until the sixth, but could not add to it. In
her half of the fourth Hillman’s got Captain Dave as far as second,
but Murdock’s fly to left made the third out. In the fifth the opposing
pitcher struck out Laurie and Nate and kindly allowed Cooper to pop
a fly to third baseman.
In the sixth things began to happen, all at once and on all sides.
Farview started the trouble by hitting through short-stop for a base.
Nate pitched ten deliveries before the next batsman at last fouled out
to first baseman. Then came an attempted sacrifice. The batsman
laid down the ball scarcely two feet from the plate, and the runner on
first was off. Laurie dashed his mask aside, scooped up the trickling
sphere, stepped forward, and sped it to second. The throw was
perfect, and Pope got the runner. Hillman’s applauded delightedly,
and from the Blue’s bench came the approving voice of the coach,
“Good work, Turner!” Laurie, accepting his mask from a Farview
batsman, reflected that maybe nothing was nearly as bad as you
pictured it beforehand, and remembered with surprise that in making
the throw he had not consciously thought a thing about it; hadn’t
hoped he would make it or feared that he wouldn’t; had simply
picked up the ball and plugged it across the diamond! Exit the
bugaboo!
With two down, however, Farview refused to yield the inning.
Instead, she poked a hit across second base and another past third
and so added another tally. That seemed to distress Nate Beedle
unnecessarily, and he proceeded to pass the next batsman. And
after that, with two gone and two strikes and one ball on the
succeeding aspirant, he pitched three more balls in succession and
passed him, too! Very suddenly the bases were full, and the game
seemed about to go glimmering. And at that moment George
Pemberton and the scrub catcher strode off around the first base
stand, and if the visiting crowd hadn’t been making such a ridiculous
noise the thud of ball against mitten might have been heard from
back there.
Nate was, in baseball parlance, “as high as a kite.” His first effort
against the new batsman was a ball that Laurie only stopped by
leaping two feet from the ground. Laurie walked half-way to the
pitcher’s box, amid the exultant howls of a joyous foe, shook the ball
in Nate’s face, and savagely told him to take his time. Laurie was
angry just then. Nate was snappy and told Laurie to “go on back and
quit beefing! I’ll get him!” Laurie signaled for a high ball; the batter
“ate up” low ones. Nate hesitated, shook his head. Laurie called for
one close in then. Nate wound up and stepped forward. The result
was a wide one that made the score two balls and no strikes. On the
bench Mr. Mulford was watching with sharp eyes. Nate followed with
a fast ball that was struck at too late. Laurie’s heart retreated down
his throat again. Once more he signaled a high one. This time Nate
made no demur, but the ball failed to go over. A substitute detached
himself from the group on the bench and sped around the stand.
Laurie, holding the ball, glanced toward the coach. He got the
expected sign. Nate, too, saw, and began to pull at his glove.
Captain Dave joined him at the mound. Nate looked gloomy and
mutinous. Then George Pemberton came into sight, paused an
instant at the bench, and strode toward the box.
Hillman’s cheered and Farview jeered. Nate went to the bench
with hanging head. As he tossed the ball to the relief pitcher Laurie
saw Mr. Mulford pull Nate to a seat beside him and put a big arm
over the sorrowful one’s shoulders. Then George Pemberton was
pitching his warm-up balls, and Laurie was devoutly hoping that they
weren’t samples of what he would offer later. They were, but Laurie
didn’t know it then, for, with three balls and but one strike on him, the
over-eager Farview third baseman struck at George’s first offering
and got it. The bases emptied, and red legs streaked for the plate.
But far out in deep center field Lee Murdock cast one last look over
his shoulder, turned, and pulled down the fly, and Hillman’s let loose
with a sound that was half a groan of relief and half a yell of joy!
With the score 3 to 0 against her, Hillman’s pulled up even in the
last of the sixth. Craig Jones worked a pass; Tom Pope sacrificed
him neatly to second; and Captain Dave, functioning perfectly at last
in the rôle of clean-up batter, hit for two bases, and both Cooper and
Jones scored. Pat Browne was safe on a fielder’s choice, Dave
going out at third. Brattle hit safely, and Murdock was passed. The
bags were all occupied, and the home team’s cohorts roared
exultantly and waved blue banners in air. And Laurie came to bat.
I’d like immensely to tell how Laurie knocked a home run or even a
single, but truth compels me to state that he did nothing of the sort.
He swung twice at good ones and missed them, and ended by
swinging a third time at a very poor one. It remained for Pemberton
to deliver the hit and, perhaps because he was a proverbially poor
batter and wasn’t feared one bit by Mr. Luders, he selected the
second delivery and jabbed it straight at the young gentleman’s
head. Luders put up a defensive hand. The ball tipped it and
bounded toward second. Three players ran for it. By the time short-
stop had got it, Pemberton was galloping up to first, and Pat Browne
had slid in a cloud of dust across the plate. A moment later Brattle
was caught off second, and the trouble was over for the time.
The seventh began with the score 3 to 3, but it wouldn’t have
remained there long if George Pemberton had been allowed to pitch
the inning through. George was even wilder than he had indicated.
He couldn’t find the plate at all. Four successive balls put a Farview
batter on first. One strike, a foul back of the plate that Laurie missed
by inches only, and four more balls put another runner on bases.
Laurie begged, counseled, threatened. George nodded agreeably
and still sent them in anywhere but at the expected spot. When he
had pitched one strike and two balls to the third man up, Coach
Mulford gave the “high sign” and George, not at all regretfully, it
seemed, dropped the ball and gave way to Orville Croft.
Somehow Croft came through unpunished. There were no more
passes, for Croft put the ball over the base nicely, but there were so
many near-hits that Laurie’s heart was in his mouth almost every
minute. If the Hillman’s fielders hadn’t worked like a set of young
professionals in that inning awful things would certainly have befallen
the Blue. The infield showed real ball playing, and thrice what
seemed a safe hit was spoiled. Farview got the first of her runners to
third, but he finally died there when Captain Dave dived to the base-
line and scooped up a ball that was on its way to deep left.
For Hillman’s the last of the seventh made good its reputation. It
was the lucky seventh, and no mistake about it. Luck put Cooper on
first when Luders slanted a slow curve against his ribs, and luck
decreed that the red-legged short-stop should drop the ball a minute
later when Cooper took advantage of Jones’s slam to third. Perhaps
luck had something to do with the pass handed to Pope, too, but it
certainly didn’t altogether govern Captain Dave’s second long hit that
sent in Cooper and Jones and put Hillman’s in a veritable seventh
heaven—I almost wrote “inning”—of delight!
That hit ended Luders’s usefulness. He issued another pass, got
himself into a hole with Frank Brattle, and was derricked, a sandy-
haired youth named Clay succeeding him. Clay disposed of Brattle
very neatly, Murdock flied out to short-stop, and again Laurie failed
to deliver the hit that was, he felt certain, somewhere inside him.
Laurie brought the lucky seventh to a close by knocking a weak
grounder to first baseman.
Hillman’s visioned victory and was joyous and noisy when the
eighth began, but after the first Farview batsman had lined out
Croft’s first offering for two bases the joy paled and the noise
noticeably subsided. And when the next red-legged batter had hit for
a single it began to dawn on the Hillman’s supporters that possibly
the old adage to the effect that he who laughs last laughs best might
be true. Hillman’s pitching staff was exhausted, and if Croft went the
way of Beedle and Pemberton—and he gave every indication of
doing so—the only way the Blue would get the game would be as a
gift from Farview! The Maroon and White took to Croft as a duck
takes to water. He didn’t have much except a couple of slow curves.
His fast one wasn’t exceptionally fast, and it generally failed to locate
the plate. Those slow curves pleased the Farview batsmen
immensely. Even the tail-end of their list found no trouble in hitting
them. Laurie, watching the man on first as a cat watches a mouse,
saw more than a runner who might steal second; he saw a victory
fading into defeat.
 Croft worked two strikes on the next man, and then again came
the dread sound of wood against leather. This time, though, the ball
arched high and Cooper, racing back, got under it, and there was
one down. The runner on third had no chance to score, or thought
so. Then, when Captain Dave had talked briefly but earnestly to
Croft, that youth promptly issued one more base on balls, and the
sacks were filled, and defeat loomed large on the horizon. One
down, the bases full, and Croft going the way of the others! Laurie’s
gaze wondered to the bench and Coach Mulford. And then, since to
have looked at the bench at all without seeing it would have been
impossible, he glimpsed the round, anxious, earnest countenance of
Kewpie Proudtree. Laurie’s heart jumped out of place for possibly
the twentieth time that afternoon, and he called to Captain Dave.
The game was held up while captain and catcher conferred.
Finally Dave hurried across and hailed the coach. Another
conference followed, while Farview clamored for the contest to go
on. Then Mr. Mulford waved his hand at Croft, and Kewpie, very
much surprised but apparently not at all overwhelmed, walked into
the diamond, pulling on his glove.
There was a moment of silent amazement. Then Farview went
delirious with delighted amusement. The Farview stand almost
rocked with the laughter that emanated from it, laughter that came as
a relief to strained nerves and was indulged in freely. Hillman’s,
recovering from its first instant of amazement, cheered valiantly, and,
cheering, took hope. After all, it might well be that the chubby
Proudtree would prove no worse than Croft. It was even possible
that he might be an improvement on that youth. Meanwhile Farview
laughed until tears came and Laurie and Kewpie met midway of
mound and plate.
“Go slow, Kewpie,” said Laurie, “and follow the signals. Take all
the time you can; hear? Waiting may worry them. Keep your nerve,
son, no matter what happens. Just pretend that you’re pitching to me
in practice.”
“Sure,” agreed Kewpie complacently. “Don’t worry about me, Nod.
Let’s go!”
 One down and three on, a hit meaning two runs! It was a tough
situation that Kewpie faced. But Kewpie seemed totally unworried.
Laurie saw and marveled. His own heart was thumping inside him
like a small sledge-hammer. He wondered if Kewpie was faking that
unconcern and would presently go to pieces like the others, letting in
an avalanche of runs!
But Kewpie was right. Laurie needn’t have worried about him.
Kewpie was magnificent, if a boy of Kewpie’s size and proportions
can ever be magnificent! He was as slow as cold molasses, yes, and
his delivery elicited more amusement from the enemy, but he struck
out with apparent ease the first batsman who faced him, caused the
next man to foul out to Captain Dave, and fanned the third!
When that last of the enemy waved through empty air and then
cast his bat from him venomously, Hillman’s loved Kewpie Proudtree
with a deep and fervid passion. Hillman’s said so. Hillman’s rose
from stand and greensward and cheered his name to the blue
afternoon sky and howled and yelled and went crazy generally. And
Kewpie moved smilingly back to the bench to submit to the hugs of
his companions.
There was no scoring for the Blue in the last of the eighth, for Clay
was master of the situation.
Then Farview started her half of the ninth with desperation written
large on every countenance. Kewpie, the unhurried, returned to his
job. He disposed of the Farview pitcher with four deliveries and then
faced the head of the list. That he would survive that inning without
misadventure was too much to hope for. The misadventure came
when the Farview center fielder slammed a ball into left field and got
two bases. Kewpie looked, or so Laurie though, a little surprised and
a little grieved, but he didn’t allow his emotions to affect his pitching.
He fooled the next man twice with his out-drop and finally finished
him with a slow ball that the batter struck at too soon. Hillman’s
shouted, waved, and prepared to go home.
But the end was not yet. Up came the Farview captain, and he
made it plain to Laurie at once that he wasn’t to be caught with
trifles. He demanded good ones. If he didn’t get them he wouldn’t
swing. He didn’t say all this in words, of course, but he looked it and
showed it by calmly watching Kewpie’s first offering drop by him, a
scant inch beyond the outer corner of the plate. In the end, he had
his way. There was something that suited him, and he accepted it
and drove it down third base line, scoring the man on second and
placing himself on third when the throw went to the plate. Those who
had wandered toward the exits reconsidered and stayed their steps.
With a runner on third the score might yet be tied.
The Farview right fielder had not yet made a hit, but that to
Laurie’s thinking made him the more dangerous, and Laurie worked
very carefully. Kewpie answered the first signal with a straight one
over the center of the plate, and it went for a strike. The next was
also over the center, but too high. Then again Kewpie failed. One
and two now. The runner on third was dashing up and down the
path, and the coachers were yipping like mad. Kewpie, however
remained surprisingly calm. To show how calm he was he sent in a
drop that scored a second strike for him, and the blue pennants
waved triumphantly. Laurie called for the same thing again, but this
time the batter did not offer at it; the score was two and three, and
Laurie’s heart sank. The next must be good. He placed his hands out
and called imploringly:
“Right into the old mitt, Kewpie! Make it good!”
And Kewpie made it good, and, since it was good, unmistakably
good, the Farview youth swung against it with all his might.
But he hit under it, and the ball went up and up in the sunlight
almost straight above the plate. Cries arose from all sides, a
confusing bedlam of warning, entreaty, command. Laurie dashed his
mask behind him, stared upward into the blue, saw the gray sphere
poised overhead, turned and stepped back, looked again, again
retreated. He was under it now—almost. One step further toward the
back-stop—
Then Nemesis took a hand, or sought to. Laurie’s backward
placed foot found the discarded mask. He strove to retain his
balance but could not and fell backward to the ground. The mask
described a curve and landed yards away. Laurie’s feet flew
heavenward. His hands were stretched wide. Then his startled gaze
saw a new danger. Right above him was the ball, falling straight for
his face. Nothing save pure instinct, the instinct that causes one to
fend off a blow, brought his hands up before him. It was, however,
not so much instinct as baseball training that brought them there
palms upward. And, beyond any doubt, it was training that caused
his fingers to close convulsively about the round object that landed
with a loud smack in the hollow of his old brown mitten!

The Graduation Ball was over, and as the twins walked homeward
with Polly and Mae twelve o’clock struck from the tower of the
Congregational Church across the park. There was a big round
moon riding high in the heavens, and the June night was warm and
scented. Mae was to spend the night with Polly, and so the four kept
together across Walnut Street and past the Starling house where, on
the second floor, one lighted window proclaimed the presence of
Bob. Even as Ned proposed a discreet hail, the light behind the
shade went out.
“It was a lovely dance, wasn’t it?” asked Polly. Laurie, beside her,
assented. “It’s been a perfectly gorgeous day,” added Polly. “All of it.
It was such fun this morning at Miss Comfort’s. And that Mr. Goupil is
a darling duck, isn’t he? And, oh, won’t it be perfectly corking next
fall, Laurie, when we have the boat for our own? Think of the good
times we can have! It was wonderful of Miss Comfort to think of it.”
“Bet you anything,” chuckled Laurie, “she’ll wish herself back
there. Dare say she won’t be able to sleep on shore again after a
summer on the rolling deep!”
Polly laughed. “She’s a dear, isn’t she? And, Laurie, didn’t
everything turn out beautifully this spring? Think how we ‘reclaimed’
Kewpie and—”
“Heard Kewpie’s latest? He told Ned and me before supper that he
might not be able to play football next fall because he didn’t want to
risk hurting his pitching arm! He’s a rare bird, that Kewpie!”
 “Oh, he must play football! But he will, of course. Wasn’t he
splendid this afternoon? And—and weren’t you splendid, too? I just
shrieked and shrieked when you made that perfectly wonderful catch
and saved the game!”
“I didn’t save the game,” answered Laurie. “I dare say that fellow
would have struck out in another minute. Anyhow, Kewpie says he
would have!”
“But Kewpie doesn’t know, and if he had made a hit it would have
tied the score at least. Anyhow, your catch was absolutely
marvelous. Every one says so.”
A short silence followed. Then Laurie said resolutely: “Look here, I
guess you might as well know the truth about that, Polly. I didn’t
really make that catch.”
“Why, what do you mean? I saw you make it!”
“Yes, I know, but—well you see, I didn’t intend to do it. I saw that
ball coming down straight for the end of my nose, and I just put my
hands up to ward it off. Of course every one thinks I’m a regular
wonder, but I’m not. It was just an accident. I—I haven’t told any one
but Ned—and you.”
“That doesn’t spoil it a bit,” declared Polly. “You did catch the ball,
didn’t you? And if you’d just been trying to keep it from hitting you
you wouldn’t have really caught it, would you?”
“That’s what Ned said,” mused Laurie. “Hanged if I know!”
“Ned’s perfectly right,” responded Polly emphatically.
“Of course I am,” said Ned as he and Mae joined them before the
door of the little shop. “But what is it this time?”
“Never mind,” said Polly. “You can ask Laurie.”
“He probably won’t tell me,” said Ned gloomily. “He hates to say
I’m right about anything. Gee, Polly, it seems funny to think that I
won’t see this place again for three months.”
“It’s horrid,” answered Polly, and Mae murmured agreement. “Still,
I suppose three months won’t seem awfully long. And you will write,
won’t you?”
“Certainly will,” asserted Ned. “And don’t you forget to. But we’ll
see you both in the morning. We don’t get away until eleven twenty-
two. Thanks for coming to the dance.”
“Thanks for asking us,” said Polly, her hand on the door. “Good
night. Good night, Laurie. We’ve had a lovely time.”
“Same here,” said Laurie as he tugged at Ned’s sleeve.
Ned joined him at the edge of the sidewalk, and they took their
caps off and bowed in the manner of Mr. Goupil.

“Beneath yon moon’s effulgent light—”

“We, Nid and Nod, wish you Good Night!”

Transcriber’s Notes:
Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate, so the page number of the
illustration may not match the page number in the List of
Illustrations.
Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been
preserved.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NID AND NOD
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