Page 69 of Burdened Bonds
Either that or kissing. Or perhaps the dragon is determining if Pip’s tasty enough to eat. I take a step towards them, ready to intervene. But I’ve no need, Pip lowers his head and the dragon curls up again.
What the hell was that? I shake my head, wondering if I’m still caught in that dream. If I’m not really awake at all. But then Renzo nudges me to eat up as if nothing just happened at all, as if my pet pig didn’t just get flirty with a dragon the size of a castle.
When Renzo’s satisfied that I’ve eaten and drunk enough, he flops down on the ground beside me.
“You gonna fix her wing next?”
I peer over at the tattered thing. I know it’s going to be even more challenging to fix it than it was her leg. In fact, I’m not confident I have the skill (or the patience).
“I’m going to give it my best shot,” I tell him, taking another gulp of water.
“And then what? Are we gonna keep her?”
I spit out the water I’m drinking. “Keep her?” Not in a million years had that idea occurred to me. Keep a dragon? The dude is more insane than I realized.
“You already have a pig as a pet,” he points out. “That isn’t exactly conventional, is it?”
“Yes,” I screw the cap back on the bottle. “But Pip is small and portable and not that much trouble – usually. This dragon is not, given she’d even consent to come with us.”
“She would. She’s tame and probably trained. She belonged to someone.”
“Someone who kept her chained up!” I say, with a frown. “Someone who didn’t look after her properly. Someone who was whipping her,” I say, pointing to the lacerations on her sides I’m sure were caused by a whip and not the accident that caused her other injuries.
Renzo’s eyes travel over those whip lacerations.
“So you’re going to let her go?”
“I haven’t really thought that far ahead,” I say, rubbing atmy head. “But I don’t think it’s a case of ‘letting her’. She should be free.”
Renzo shakes his head, a grin hovering on his lips. “And they say I’m mad.”
“What’s mad about that?” I say defensively.
“A dragon roaming free! I mean, don’t get me wrong, little rabbit, I love it. But you always seemed the sensible type to me.”
I doubt a sensible woman would have gotten frisky with a known psychopath only hours before. Nope, I lost my senses long ago. I am probably as mentally deranged as he is.
“I’m going to let her go.”
“She’ll probably just fly back to her owner. That’s what abused things do – humans and creatures. It’s hard to break free.” I turn my head from the dragon to the assassin. How does he know that? Is he talking about himself? Or someone else in his life?
Sometimes it’s so easy to forget that this man has a taste for blood. When he talks to me like this, he can seem like anyone else – even if his thoughts are a little rambling.
Was he born with a taste for blood? Would he have been that way no matter what? Or did something happen to make him that way?
I think of the man I killed in the woods. Of the choices I’ve made. If I hadn’t had my aunt looking out for me – loving me – would I be a different person altogether?
I stand up, brushing the dirt off the seat of my pants and, with a deep inhale, walk back towards the dragon. As I approach, she stretches out her wing again, as if reminding me that I haven’t fixed it yet. The first rays of morning light are filtering down into this crevice and it catches on the fragile fabric of her wing, lighting it up in arainbow of glittering colors, so beautiful, it catches my breath.
“Yep, I’m going to deal with that wing next.” Although seeing it in the light makes me nervous about it. It’s so much more complex than I realized in the darkness and it’s kind of surprising that a creature so menacing and so large could possess something so fragile. However, if I don’t try, she can’t fly, and even with her fixed leg, I suspect she’d be trapped down here.
I take the broken wing in my hand, spread it out and examine the tissue. It reminds me of a butterfly’s wing or perhaps a moth’s – if butterflies and moths were the size of small buildings. I debate how I’m going to handle this and in the end the only idea that comes to me is to use the same technique my aunt taught me to darn socks. And, yeah, we darned a lot of socks. Hopefully, fixing this wing won’t be much different.
I close my eyes again and with my magic follow the pattern of the tissue, knitting new tissue and then finally binding it all together. It takes me more than an hour, the sun rising from behind the mountain and into the sky above us by the time I’m done. Then I tackle the broken bone and ligament in the wing. It’s snapped or cracked in several places and the process of fixing it is just as hard as it was with the leg. I’m shaking with exhaustion by the time I tackle the last part, Renzo hovering around me clearly distressed.
My magic is waning in my fingertips and I’m utterly exhausted, but I keep going until that very last fine bone is mended. Then I collapse on the floor in a panting heap.
“You okay, little rabbit?” Renzo asks, handing me the water bottle once again. I take it from him but my arms are shaking too hard and I don’t have the strength to lift it to myparched mouth. Renzo takes it back from me and pours water between my lips, most of it dribbling down my chin.
