Page 97 of Sincerely, Secretary of Doom

The cathedral doors squeaked. Luc could hear the human trailing in behind him.

A dark breeze flitted through the lobby. Wax candles shook upon their shelves, and loose papers took off in flight. The fox tail dissolved, the fur splitting away.

Luc rose again. He took one last look at Mor Trisencor.

Five left.

He turned back to Violet.

“Haley Whitefield,” he said, and she stiffened. “You are never going to tell him that I came in here and did this,” he commanded.

She didn’t respond, but her attention said enough.

Luc released a heavy breath. He pulled up his sleeves and took hold of Violet’s head with his bare palm, leaning around to whisper against her opposite ear. She gasped as he told her a secret.

The nine tailed fox dropped the human and headed for the door. The cool night rushed over him as he stepped outside, and he pulled up the hood of his scent-concealing jacket.

“You’re cruel.” Violet’s small voice followed him.

Luc looked out at the moonlight and breathed in a deep lungful of human realm air.

“I know,” he said.

He walked into the shadows of the night. This time, he did not come back.

46

Mor Trisencor and the Dragons

Time was frozen beneath the Jade Ocean. Mor wasn’t sure how long he’d spent underwater with the dragons, swimming and listening to them sing. They gave him wise council, and he told them stories of the Shadow Army and of the North and of the human realm. He told them what had become of him since he’d left the village. But after a while, the oldest dragon shook his head as though Mor was being absurd.

“Why are you here, Mor?” the old dragon asked.

Mor glanced at him strangely. “I’m here to tell you what happened to me.”

The creature’s deep blue scales shimmered in the muted sunlight as he leaned in to look Mor in the eyes. The dragon’s eyes were as large as Mor’s hands. The old dragon was a vicious creature, but his gaze had always been soft.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the dragon said. “We gave you the dragons’ gift so you could face this life on your own. But why do you keep coming back?”

Mor looked around at the dragons—his first family—and something sank to the pit of his stomach. “I think he beat me,” he admitted. The realization came flooding in all at once; brief recollections of a recent fight, and memories of a lifelong rivalry. “The nine tailed fox defeated me, once and for all. I suppose this is where I wanted to come when I passed on.”

The dragon nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. “But you’re not dead, Mor. You’re simply dreaming.”

“What?” Mor blinked at the great creature. The rest of the dragons nodded as if to say that the old dragon told no lies.

“Wake up, Mor,” the dragon said. “You’re not finished.”

A slow beeping sound filled Mor’s ears. His eyes peeled open, and he saw a face before him he didn’t expect; a human with large glasses and a sloppy bun of hair atop her head. At first, he couldn’t remember the human female’s name. But it came back to him when he imagined visiting Violet’s house.

“Zorah.” His throat strained to make the noise.

She said nothing. She stared with round eyes that looked even bigger in her glasses. Then she ran out of the room, her white medical coat flapping all the way.

Mor blinked and looked around, finding white walls, white machines, white bed linens. It was a lot of white. Then he heard Cress.

There seemed to be a verbal dispute going on outside. Mor tilted his ear to hear the Prince of the North arguing with a human doctor. For a moment, Mor just listened, a funny smile finding him. But a thought trickled in—a face.

He sat up in his bed. Tubes ripped from his flesh; machines beeped. He tore off his covers and marched from the room. Half a dozen doctors were stationed in a line just outside his door, seemingly to try and keep Cress at bay. Mor looked past them down the hall but saw only Dranian sprawled over a row of chairs, snoring in his sleep. No one else was around.

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