Page 157 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
“What a simpleton you are,” Lydia said. “Draca are toys. Chattel.”
I lost interest in her and turned my attention to Wickham. The pistol was smoking in his hand. His shoulders rose and fell while he stared at the dead woman.
“You are a murderer,” I said. “You shot Mr. Rabb. You killed Denny. Did he discover you were spying for the French? That you were poisoning draca?”
“Denny would have betrayed me.” Wickham’s voice was shaking. He barked a false laugh. “He was a lickspittle for the colonel.”
I was facing the rabid dog again. Except this time, I was not afraid.
I tested Lydia’s black tether to the drake. It was repulsive, like sinking my fingers into a rope of offal, and strong, wound from many different filaments. Or it would have seemed strong not long ago. The music of Miss Darcy’s power still sang inside me.
I snapped one filament to see what would happen. Lydia shouted, and filthy power exploded. It skittered off me like dry leaves off a stone wall. It changed course, reaching outward.
I broke the rest of the tether, and the drake’s mind came free, brilliant and aware. I shielded her from the blackness around her, then opened my mind.
Our thoughts merged. She did not have language like a wyvern, but her feelings transcended words. Gratitude. Awe. Curiosity.
And an offer. Would I bind?
No, I thought.You should go. But will you do one thing first?
I could see Wickham with both our visions. I fixed him in my mind as he seemed to draca senses—the blustering posture that hid his fear, the bloom of heat that revealed his lies.
Kill him for me, I thought.
Her awareness pulled me inward. Human senses faded.
Instincts honed through centuries of hunt considered attacking with flame but rejected it. The man was too close to those I cared for.
Wings grasped air, and I soared upward. The clouds in the sky astonished my human mind—their shapes were exquisite, every wisp a story of wind and drafts.
The clouds vanished as I finished the third sweep of my wings and dived.
Wickham was turning to follow my flight, one arm sluggishly rising to point. I fell to kill him, claws outstretched.
A writhing shape reared into my path.
The collision was hard as rock, not soft like human flesh. A powerful coil trapped one of my wings. My bones snapped in a blaze of pain. Venom splashed my skin and burrowed into my mind.
The scene became a nightmare kaleidoscope. Spear-point legs struck at me. My scrabbling claw found a gap between armored segments and slashed.
Thunder. I screamed as the world vanished in white.
Vision returned in juddering stabs, tear-blurred through human eyes. Waves of pain reverberated between my temples. The gluey acid of vomit burned my tongue.
Lord Wellington’s face, surrounded by cloudy sky, came into fuzzy focus. His hands pressed my shoulders. Held me down while I struggled.
“Mrs. Darcy!” he said. “Can you hear me?”
“What happened?” I croaked. I was so confused. Why was he in the sky? Oh. My head was in his lap.
“A monstrous crawler came. The drake fought it and is dead, shot by Mr. Wickham. You had a fit when it was shot.”
A tremendous scuffle was nearby. I turned my head and saw Mr. Darcy struggling to reach me, pinned down by three men.
“I am not hurt,” I said. He stopped his fight, panting.
I was not sure that was honest. My mind was shredded. I touched my face, and my fingers came away tipped with blood. My nose was bleeding. I fumbled for my handkerchief.
