Page 16 of The Artist and the Dragon

The footmen pulled the cloth away in a flutter of fabric.

The crowd gasped. Then applause broke out with murmurs of appreciation.

The painting was impressive, if wildly inaccurate. Drystan, or Tristram as he was formally known, stood like a proud conqueror, head held high, not a mark on him. He was posed with one boot on the body of a dark beast, which lay slain with its tongue lolling like a wolf killed during a hunt. There was no sign of Ceridwen, who’d stabbed Rhion, nullifying his magic and giving Drystan the opportunity to slay him, nor the enchanted dagger she’d used. There was no sign of Malik, though he’d been present, or anyone else for that matter. He’d wager the artist hadn’t even interviewed anyone present at the time, otherwise he might have captured the scene more accurately. After all, it was Drystan who’d been a beast when he’d slain the king, not the other way around.

But then, the people probably wouldn’t like the truth. They rarely did. This version of events was more palatable, easier to digest, and if the cheering around him was any indication, they were eating it up.

From the corner of his eye, Malik saw one person who did not clap. Bronwyn.

Instead, she looked perplexed, tilting her head to the side as if that would reveal a new side of the portrait she had not seen. Perhaps she had the same thoughts as him, that the truth they’d witnessed was too far from what people wanted to believe.

But then she pointed, her finger spearing toward the top of the frame, her exclamation swallowed by the crowd.

A tendril of gray smoke seeped from the frame, but it did not drift away; rather, it moved, spreading along the top edge and shaping itself into something like fingers.

A deathly chill barely had time to settle on his skin, then everything happened at once. A loud crack rang out. The applause faltered. Master Walrick, the chairman, and the footmen looked up.

Suddenly, the painting was falling, knocked forward by the spectral hand.

No, not a hand at all but a talon. The talon of a great, winged beast of smoke and nightmares.

Chapter 8

Bronwyn

TerrorgrippedBronwyn.Likethe last time the dragons struck, she found herself unable to move, frozen in horror as she watched tragedy unfold. Her warning had been too late, unheard.

Strong arms wrapped around her. For a moment, she thought it was Malik, and her traitorous heart leapt. But his scent was different, pine and something bitter instead of warmth and musk. The smell was strange but not unwelcome.

“Bronwyn!” Lord Griffith’s use of her name, the first time he’d ever said it, told her exactly who held her close and tried to turn her from the disaster.

It would be wise to take comfort in him. To cower in his arms. Distantly, she knew that, but when had she ever been wise about what sheshoulddo?

Instead, curiosity bade her twist in his arms, to look past his body trying to block her view. Many partygoers screamed and ducked as a dragon of smoke swooped low over the crowd before bursting apart into gray wisps and dissipating. A coppery tang in the air sent a fresh wave of prickles across Bronwyn’s skin.

Nearby, people rushed to lift the heavy painting from where it had fallen. Groans of pain and one particularly anguished cry said that not everyone had gotten out of its way.

Another threat against the crown. No words this time, but none were needed. The symbols were there for all to see, and they said so much more than any written message could.

A gentle hand on Bronwyn’s cheek turned her face away from the carnage. “We should get you out of here.”

Only then did she realize that she clung to Griffith, her fingers digging into the sleeve of his coat and the strong arm beneath. She started to nod when someone else called to her, his dark form filling her periphery.

“Are you all right?” Malik danced through the last of the people separating them and burst right into their little bubble. His companions from before were no longer with him.

Bronwyn dropped her hand from Lord Griffith’s arm. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Malik breathed heavily. Relief? She couldn’t say. His attention flitted past her, toward the accident, then back again. He’d need to go, to investigate and report to Drystan most likely, but something held him back.

“I’ll keep Miss Kinsley safe and see her home,” Lord Griffith said, ever the gentleman.

Malik’s jaw stiffened. “See that you do.” And he was off, moving toward the wreckage and the distraught Master Walrick, who wailed about the horror of it all while proclaiming his innocence.

People hurried about, most pressing toward the main exit. Only a few figures entered the room. Bronwyn recognized several of them—her entourage of guards, who’d waited outside, made their way toward her now, one calling her name and that of her companion. Little good they’d done when the disaster struck. A few other guards hurried toward Malik, though he always seemed to have much more authority over his than she did hers.

Her heart sank further. After this, Drystan may lock her inside after all. Not that she was hurt, but a little closer and she could have been. She glanced back over one shoulder. A man she didn’t know held a bloody rag to his brow. A woman sobbed. Others still clustered around, blocking her view of any other potential casualties. She’d yet to see the chairman who’d spoken.

“This way.” Lord Griffith wrapped an arm around her shoulders and urged her toward the advancing guards. When the entourage reached her, they all but plucked her from his grasp, hurrying her from the venue. Griffith followed. The street outside was bustling with crowds of those who’d fled.

---