Page 80 of The Artist and the Dragon

Bronwyn screamed. Malik couldn’t hear her. But the hooded man did. He stutter-stepped, turned her way, and then made to hurry onward.

Oh, no, you don’t.He wasn’t about to get away on her watch, especially not when the blaze he’d ignited might hurt the man she loved.

And damn it, she did love him, even when she tried not to. It was a foolish, damnable thing. The walls she’d built around herself were supposed to be impenetrable. There could be no weakness from loss to drive her to ruin. Yet, he’d managed to break through her barriers like a stubborn vine, forming little cracks in the grouting and working his way in, climbing over impossible barriers until he choked her wall completely with his greenery.

But he didn’t know yet. Not really.

If she didn’t stop this disaster, he never would.

“Stop right there!” She lunged at the hooded man, grabbing at his cloak—anything she could get her hands on.

The man tried to shoulder by. A stiff elbow knocked some of the air from her lungs and sent Bronwyn toppling, but she held tight. Fabric ripped, but not before unsteadying the man and half turning him around.

The cloak was torn away, and as Bronwyn steadied her footing, she found herself face to face with a man in a mask and his finest tails. The mask didn’t cover much without the hood; she could see plainly his wavy brown hair, his somewhat familiar green eyes…

He tilted his head. “Pity.” He pulled a hidden dagger from his coat and lunged for her.

Thinking quickly, Bronwyn threw the cloak she still held at the advancing man. He made to deflect it, but his arm got tangled up in its length.

“Get Wynnifred!” she yelled to anyone who might be listening, anyone who could help.

She wouldn’t run, but she needed help, desperately. A prop rack lingered nearby, and as the man struggled with the cloak, she grabbed a sword. It was wooden, but it would have to do. No sooner had she turned to face the man than there was a sickening thud on the stage.

With her heart in her throat, she hazarded a glance. A beast lay sprawled on the broken stage, one like Drystan could become, one that must be a dragon. Performers screamed and ran for the edges of the stage. A few flames still flickered on the ignited set piece, but many had gone out after the initial burst. Audience members climbed over one another to try and reach the exits. And above… Bronwyn whispered a little prayer to the Goddess as she saw Malik scrambling back onto the catwalk.

But her prayer was interrupted by the glint of metal in her periphery. The masked man stalked her way. If any of the fleeing performers noticed, they didn’t change course to come to her aid.

She was alone.

Bronwyn adjusted her stance and faced the man, gripping the wooden sword with both hands.

“A royalist after all,” the man tsked. “Should have known. He thought you might be different.”

“Who?”

The man ignored her question, lunging to strike at her side. She parried the blade with her own. She might not have any training, but her weapon was longer and light enough for her to swing with ease.

The man jabbed again, low, then high, the second strike slicing her sleeve and nearly her flesh. When he lashed out again, Bronwyn anticipated the move and struck the dagger with her sword. He feigned back, and when he did, his feet tangled in the discarded cloak.

“Fucking—” he muttered, kicking it away.

Seizing the moment of distraction, Bronwyn rushed forward, swung the wooden sword, and just barely missed taking the man’s head off as he leaned back. But the tip caught, scraped against his cheek, and sent the mask fluttering to the floor.

He turned back toward her with a snarl.

Bronwyn gaped. Now she knew why he looked so familiar. They’d met, several times, in fact. And his eye color … he shared it with his sister.

“Mr. Davies,” she said, hardly believing it.

“My sister will miss you,” snarled Elis Davies.

He attacked again, this time with such force and ferocity that Bronwyn had to use all her focus to dodge and block each blow. He’d been holding back before. He didn’t now. Each swipe and jab were aimed toward her face, her chest.

She deflected a blow, but not well enough. As the dagger slid off, the blade sliced a burning line across her forearm, and she cried out, tears leaping to her eyes.

Davies slashed again. Bronwyn was barely able to raise the wooden sword in time. The dagger struck, and by some stroke of luck, it lodged in the wood. He growled in frustration, teeth gnashing as he tried to rip it away, but the wood held. She should have dropped the sword. That’s what she would think later, but instead, she tried to push him away. It backfired.

He grabbed her wooden sword and shoved her back. Hard. Her head slammed against the wall. When had they gotten so far back? Stars danced in her vision, and her strength faltered. Mr. Davies took advantage and shoved the wooden sword hard against her chest, knocking the air from her lungs. Then it was sliding up, pressing her shoulders into the wall, and he was right in her face.

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