“Dragons aren’t real,” Mallory insisted, gaze narrowing at me. “It is absolutely not a dragon.”
“You can call it a fluffy bunny if that makes you feel better,” Catcher said. “But it’s not gonna change what we just saw.”
“Dragons aren’t real,” Mallory said again. “Also, batteries just about . . .” Her eyes rolled back.
Catcher caught her before she could hit the deck. “Empty,” he finished.
The dragon lifted, wings sending snow and ice and mud into the air, and went airborne, made it forty yards before touching down again, scrambling for another running start.
“Advantage,” Catcher said. “It’s not great at being a dragon.”
It tried again, this time made it to the top of the planetarium. The dome burst as the dragon settled atop it, talons grabbing at the steel structure between the panels. It had to work to stay balanced, and flapped its wings for support, their tips slamming against the dome and sending more glass shattering.
“Although that may not matter,” Catcher said.
“At least we know which form she picked,” I said. “Maybe we can use that—look through the Danzig, see if Portnoy left us some clue about taking it out.”
Jonah pulled up to the dock. Ethan jumped out first, took the rope Jonah offered him, tied up the boat. We all scrambled out of the boat, Mallory in Catcher’s arms, and ran back toward Solidarity Drive, the street that bisected the peninsula, toward the aquarium and Northerly Island.
We reached the street, found the Ombudsman’s van and a mess of people running away from the aquarium—probably the skeleton crew who’d stayed behind to care for the wildlife.
Luc, Lindsey, Juliet, and Red Guard members in their Midnight High School T-shirts were hustling people off the peninsula and into the city, including a limping Baumgartner, who’d given up any pretense of helping out.
“What the hell happened?” Jeff asked, running toward us.
“Simpson,” I said. “She got a wild hare and threw a fireball at Sorcha, which broke the concealment spell. Oh, and then Sorcha manifested the Egregore into a dragon.”
“You all right, Mal?” he asked, tilting his head at her.
“Sorcha’s been stealing her magic,” I said as Catcher handed her off to Jeff. “Get her into the van, and keep her there until we’re done.”
Jeff didn’t bother to answer, just nodded and ran back toward the van.
I looked at the sky, my watch, calculated we had half an hour before the sun rose and we were all fried to a crisp.
; “I honestly wouldn’t be surprised to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse right now,” Ethan said, gripping my hand with steel force.
There were two more pounding concussions. And one more minute of silence—the horrible silence of anticipation, the blissful silence of not yet knowing what monster awaited us.
The ground shook as it lifted off the hilltop, screaming furiously.
It moved on four legs, had a long and serpentine neck, was covered in gleaming black scales. Or I thought they were black. They were so dark it was hard to discern a color, but they gleamed in a shimmering rainbow of luminescence that shifted as the creature moved.
Its wings were thin and veined, mottled dark and red, with claws at the ends of the supporting bones. Its body ended in a long, whiplike tail, and steam rose from its length like it had ascended directly from the depths of hell. Its tongue, long and black, was forked like a swallow’s tail.
I stared at it, my brain trying to catch up with my eyes, trying to process what I was seeing.
Catcher got there faster than I did.
“Holy shit,” he said. “She made a dragon.”
• • •
There was no breathing of fire, at least as far as we could see. No medieval maidens in pointed caps, no armor-wearing knights. But the thing Sorcha created sure looked like a dragon.
We just stared at it, trying to comprehend what we were seeing.
“Get them!” Sorcha screamed.