Page 23 of Strange Familiars
Eventually, Harrisford gives a shout, and all four ropes slacken. He’s obviously been assigned as the lead student for this particular case.
The humans slowly let the dragon down, allowing it to descend, until finally it hits the ground with a judder. Carefully, Harrisford approaches the beast, inspecting a neat line of sutures beneath its wing.
Even though we have spells for healing, we still need to use sutures for severe lacerations. Just-healed skin remains fragile for days—stitching a wound closed allows it to heal without re-tearing. Plus, in a mobile place like beneath a wing, the tension on the skin is even greater, the risk of wound breakdown too high to leave the healing solely to magic.
Harrisford spends a long time poking and prodding at the wound and muttering to himself. Once he’s satisfied, he nods and signals to the others.
“She’s healing well,” he says to his assistants, then taps the dragon on the rump. “Take her back to the stables; then you’re free to go.” The nurses slip all but one of the ropes off the dragon, then begin leading her away.
Harrisford confers with his supervisor briefly. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but based on Harrisford’s expression I can guess thesubtext. When they break apart, the supervisor claps him on the back before walking away.
I check my strap and grimace. It was as I guessed: Harrisford got full marks for this case, which means he’s drawn even with me.
“Nice job, mate,” Danny says. “Keep doing what you’re doing, and that Ministry job is yours.” He slings an arm around Harrisford’s shoulders before ruffling up his hair. Harrisford bats him away, grinning. I exhale forcefully through my nose, my jaw clenching.
Harrisford isn’t getting that job. I am.
I haven’t quite hidden my irritation when Danny finally spots me. “All right, Gwendolynne?” he booms, flashing me a smile, dimples blooming in his round face.
“Hiya, Danny,” I say, trying to smooth away my scowl. Danny is a right idiot, but at least he’s always been kind. Not like Harrisford-fucking-Briggs.
As though he’d just noticed me, Harrisford finally looks up. Pointedly, he turns to face me and tugs off his gloves—first one, then the other. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, and I glare right back. All of the warm feelings I’d gleaned from watching the dragon have fully dissipated, and now I’m just annoyed.
Danny looks between me and Harrisford, the smile dying on his lips, before saying, “Well, see ya, then,” and speeding off.
“Late again, Chan?” Harrisford calls, tucking his gloves into a pocket of his coveralls. With the dexterity of someone who has done this many times before, he swipes a rope off the ground and begins to rapidly wind it.
My scowl deepens. I have a good excuse, but it’s not my place to tell Harrisford about Conall Peters’s grief. “You weren’t even done here, anyway.”
He looks up and cocks one eyebrow, still working on coiling the rope. “What if I was hoping to show off to you a little?”
I press my lips together and look away. I’m trying not to notice how the navy coveralls strain against his broad shoulders or how his hair is all sweaty and damp and plastered to his head. “I think I saw enough,” I mutter.Cocky bastard.
He doesn’t respond, just returns his attention to the rope. When I look at him again, he’s grinning.
“How are we getting to your place, anyway?” A breeze dances across my skin, ruffling my hair.
He tosses the coiled ropes into a large crate on my side of the fence and then climbs over right where I’m standing, forcing me to shuffle sideways. I sigh. Why do men like Harrisford always have to take up so much space?
Hefting the crate into his arms, Harrisford starts toward the building, which houses upward of a dozen of the world’s most dangerous monsters. From within its concrete confines, chains jangle, wings rustle, and there’s the occasional whooshing sound of fire.
“We’re going to fly,” he says, not looking at me.
Reflexively, I reach out and grab him by the arm, my fingers digging into hard muscle. “Fly?”
He stops, then jerks his chin at the building full of dragons, which is apparently our destination. “Yes, Chan. Fly.”
“Oh no,” I say, backing up and crossing my arms tight across my chest. There’s absolutely no way I’ll be entering that stable. Sure, dragon-riding is a common enough transport method—but not for me. I’m not even comfortable going tooneara dragon, let alone riding one. Watching from a distance, with a fence between us, is close enough, thank you. “No, no, no. Not that. Anything but—”
“We don’t have a choice.” Harrisford’s growing frustration isevident. “I don’t own a car, and since we’re planning to sneak into my father’s study, I can’t exactly borrow his.”
“Then we’ll catch the train!”
“The train!” He has the audacity to look horrified. “Listen, Chan.” He sets the crate down, rubs his face with both hands, then spreads them wide. “We can’t take a car. Trains are filthy and take too long. It’s either a dragon or my bike.”
I’ve seen Harrisford speeding out the gates on his motorbike before, trails of dust suspended in his wake. I try to picture myself perched behind him, my arms wrapped around his middle. My hands gripping his firm abs and my face pressed against his back.
A shudder rolls right through me.
