Page 8 of Lightningborn

“Storm,” he whispered. “That’s what I’d call you, if you were mine.”

The dragon curled its claws into his sleeve, buried its nose farther into his arm, and went to sleep. Sitting in the cold mud with his back to a stone pipe, Remy listened to the wind and rain hammering around them, and wondered if he would wake up from this dream.

Something was tugging at his hand.

Remy groaned, raising an arm to shoo it away. Brutus probably, crawling into his hammock again to nose around for scraps.

“No,” he muttered. “Go ’way.”

The tugging came again, followed by a squeak that didn’t sound like a rat. More of a chirp, actually. That was weird. Had a bird gotten inside? Also, why was his hammock soaked?

Remy’s eyes flew open, and he jerked up, bashing the back of his head on the stone pipe. Grimacing, he slumped forward, rubbing at his skull, as everything from the night before came flooding back.

He turned his head, looked down, and met the gaze of the baby dragon.

“Okay,” he breathed as the hatchling gave a chirp and crawled into his lap again. “It wasn’t a dream.”

The dragon garbled something, turning in a circle and nosing his clothes. Now that the storm had moved on and the sun was shining again, Remy could see it clearly. The dragon’s scales were a deep cobalt blue, its horns shiny black. Bright silver markings like lightning strands crawled down its back and neck and crept over its wings, so it would look like a stormy sky when the wings were fully extended. Its white mane, now that it was dry, was fluffy and spiky at the same time, and its spade-tipped tail, like its sweeping wing tips, was tinged with purple.

It was an absolutely beautiful dragon. Even Remy, who had never seen one before, could tell that much. Certainly, whoever this dragon belonged to wanted it back.

Remy stared down at the dragon, still nosing around in his shirt. He already hated the thought of giving it up. But the longer he put it off, the harder it would be.

“All right, little…dragon,” he muttered, and the hatchling immediately looked up at him with glowing purple eyes. Remy set his jaw and tried to ignore its cuteness. “Don’t look at me like that,” he told it, averting his eyes from its gaze. “Come on, I need to see who you belong to.”

Gently, he hooked two fingers under the dragon’s right wing and lifted it away from the body. According to Bart, the tattoo would be bright, easily visible, in the membrane of the wing. But Remy didn’t see anything unusual, marking or otherwise. He lifted the wing higher, tilting it toward the light, to try to glimpse the dragon’s tattoo, but all he could see were scales and the veined, slightly rosy membrane of the wing.

“Huh, guess it’s on the other side,” he muttered, and the dragon cocked its head at the sound of his voice. “Sorry, dragon, I have to move your other wing now. Don’t bite me.”

He peeked under the left wing but couldn’t see any markings there, either. Thinking that maybe Bart was wrong about tattoo placement, Remy checked the dragon’s whole body: neck, back, head, underside, even its tail. The dragon made confused squeaking noises as he poked and prodded, even turning it on its back to look at its stomach, but it didn’t nip or try to bite him. When he was done, Remy sat back, gazing down at the creature still in his lap.

The dragon had no tattoo.

He had checked every possible place for one, and there was no ownership tattoo anywhere on the dragon’s body. Which meant—and Remy’s heart beat faster at the thought—could this be awilddragon?

Wild dragons, according to Bart, were like sky sirens and harbinger stags: myths that existed in old sailor tales. Every airship captain knew someone who claimed to have seen a glowing, ethereal stag bounding through the clouds in the distance or heard a faint melody drifting over the wind. And every sailor was terrified of Tendril, the great monster that lived in the Maelstrom itself. It was a myth, of course, but every so often, a story would emerge of a huge black tentacle reaching up through the clouds, curling around a ship, and dragging it back into the Maelstrom. Whenever a ship vanished or went missing out in the great unknown, the hushed whispers would say it was Tendril, claiming another vessel for its own.

Wild dragons were extinct; everyone knew this. But, like the harbinger stag and the sky sirens, sailors would boast that they had seen a glimpse of one, flying through the clouds or perched on a tiny piece of rock in the middle of the sky.

The dragon’s impatient chirp brought Remy out of his musings. Blinking, he gazed down at the creature, now tugging at his shirt in a more aggressive manner. It shoved its muzzle into the pocket that held the food package from the night before, and Remy winced at his own cluelessness.

“Oh, you’re hungry, aren’t you?” he muttered as the dragon continued to root around in his clothes. One sharp little claw caught on his skin, and he flinched. “Ouch! Okay, hang on, hang on.” He picked the dragon up, holding it at arm’s length, and it immediately stopped burrowing to gaze up at him expectantly. Its wings flared out, silvery lightning bolt markings almost seeming to glow in the dimness of the pipe. Remy’s breath caught again at how striking it was.

If this dragon had no tattoo, if it was really a wild hatchling, could he…keep it? No one would be looking for it. None of the dragon stables would notice one of their hatchlings was missing. No dragon bounty hunters would be called after him. The only problem would be keeping it hidden from the other residents of Cutthroat Wedge.

But if…if he could keep it hidden long enough, once it grew up a bit, Remy could finally leave the island and fly away to wherever he wished. Maybe he would even go as far as the capital, away from the Fringe and his tiny hovel, to a new life in the city.

Onceitgrew up a bit? Remy paused, realizing he had never thought whether this could be a male or female baby dragon. However, gazing into the dragon’s face, he suddenly knew. The hatchling was a male dragon, and his name was…

“Storm,” Remy whispered.

The dragon cocked his head, blinking, then opened his jaws and let out a strident squawk.

“Right, you’re still hungry,” Remy said. “Come on, let’s go back inside, and I’ll get you something to eat.”

The pigeon kabob he’d tucked away was cold, and grease had congealed over the meat, turning it into a slimy mess. Remy unwrapped the slightly unappetizing lump and offered it to the dragon. He didn’t know what dragons ate, if Storm would want cooked, extremely greasy meat, but the dragon snatched up the bird and started bolting it down, bones and all, narrow jaws working frantically as he chewed.

As Remy sat back and watched the hatchling tear through the meat chunks, Brutus poked his head out of the wall, nose twitching. Smelling the meat, the rat crept toward the carcass, only to have Storm immediately cover it with a claw and emit a tiny growl, causing the rat to squeak and puff up with indignation.

---