Dragonbound(32)

“Did you even try?”
“If I say yes, can we go back?”
“You cast a spell before. You can do it again.”
“That one was a lot simpler, and it was an emergency. I don’t really know how I did it.”“Great. That’s exactly what you should tell my father if he ever asks about it. I’m sure he and everyone else who believed me about you will totally understand and there will be no hard feelings.”
“Hey, I didn’t ask you to lie to them. You told them what they wanted to hear. You said I was better than Celeste.”
“I told them you were the better St. George. That much at least wasn’t a lie.”
I laugh in disbelief. “Yeah, right. As if that could ever be even remotely true.”
Amelrik shakes his head. “Don’t say that, Virginia. You’re so much better than her, and you don’t even know it.”
“I’ve lived in her shadow my whole life. That’s what I know.”
“Your sister wouldn’t have had anything to do with me, even if it was the only way to get you back. She would never have done all this to save you, if the circumstances were reversed.”
“She . . .” Okay, she never would have teamed up with a dragon—not in a million years—and especially not the one she told me was so dangerous. “She wouldn’t have given up on me. Not that easily.”
“But she wouldn’t have come here. She couldn’t have, because I wouldn’t have brought her. Your sister is the worst kind of paladin, because she believes all dragons are evil and that it’s her job to murder every last one of us.”
“That’s not—”
“True? Yes, it is. She wants to hurt us as much as possible. That’s what she uses her magic for. And that’s not you.”
“I’m supposed to be like her. My whole life, that’s all anyone’s ever wanted from me.” Everyone except for Amelrik, that is.
“But what do you want? Maybe the reason you could never do magic before was because you’re not like the rest of them. You don’t want to hurt anybody, but that’s exactly what you would’ve had to do if you could cast the binding spell. Maybe you were scared of dragons, and maybe . . . maybe you still hate us, but that doesn’t mean you want to hurt us, either.”
“I don’t hate dragons.” Not anymore. And I don’t hate you.
“You have magic. We both know that much. And you’re a better person than your sister, or any other paladin I’ve ever met, and maybe it feels like being able to use magic means you have to be like them, but you don’t.”
“You think I would have rather gotten married to some random old man than be a paladin? That it was a choice?”
“No. Not at all. I don’t think you want either of those things, though. Magic isn’t about wanting it enough, and it never will be. But it is about knowing what you want.” 
Too bad I don’t know what that is. But I think I see his point. And the idea that I don’t have to be a paladin, that I don’t have to live up to Celeste, is, well, pretty freeing. “Okay, I’ll try the spell. For reals this time.”
“Right. For reals this time.” He doesn’t sound too happy about that.
I look into his eyes, trying to remember how it felt when I used my magic before. I think about the binding spell, imagining a dragon ring around his neck. But even just the thought of him suffering like that again makes my stomach clench, and I realize that isn’t going to work.
But he needs me to be able to do this. We both do. So instead I think about how I would never let Celeste or Torrin—or anyone—torture him again. I think about how much I want to punch his father in the face for never letting him go to the Feast of Eventide and for acting like he’s not good enough. I can’t punch any dragons, but I can learn to cast this spell and maybe keep him safe.
My hands tingle worse than if they’d fallen asleep, and a bright flash of red bursts from my palms. The smell of sulfur fills the air. And Amelrik’s right—this would have totally stunk up his room.
Not that I care, because I just cast the binding spell. A thrill runs down my spine. “I did it! Take that, um . . . world!”
Amelrik’s face looks pale. I thought he’d be happy, but maybe he just doesn’t like being bound again. He said it didn’t hurt the same way as the dragon ring, not that it didn’t hurt at all.
“I don’t think it worked,” he says.
“What?”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
“But I cast something.” I can still smell it. “Didn’t I? Don’t tell me that was just a really big spark.”
“The point of this was to practice. You don’t have to get it on your first try.”
“Maybe it did work, though. Go ahead. Try and change forms.”
“I don’t need to. I know it didn’t.”
“You said the whole point of this was so we could know for sure. This was my first binding spell—it could just be really weak and that’s why you don’t think it worked. And it might only last a little while, so we don’t have time to argue about it.”
“But I—”
“No.” I put my hands on my hips. “This is the first time I’ve ever even come close to casting this, and we are going to find out if I did it or not.”
“Okay.” He squeezes his eyes closed real quick, then opens them again. He starts to take his shirt off.
“Whoa. What are you doing? I said transform, not get naked.”
“I’m not. It’s just . . . my wings.”
Oh, right. I remember last time how they ripped through his clothes.
He pulls his shirt over his head, and despite how much time we’ve spent together, and despite how little clothing everyone else wears around here, this is the first time I’ve seen him without it.
This is the first time I’ve seen how muscular his arms are, or gotten a good look at the way his neck meets his shoulders, or at how his collarbone sticks out, creating a hollow space behind it.
Erg. It’s great that he actually got me to cast magic and all, but why couldn’t he have brought me out here to kiss me?
There’s the sound of flesh ripping and changing, though it’s not as loud or as involved as with the other dragons. His eyes turn yellow. Dark scales spread down his neck and along his sides, stopping just above his hips. Dark wings jut out from his back.
“It didn’t work,” he says, his voice a whisper.
I take a step closer to him.He practically stumbles backward to keep the distance between us, holding up a clawed hand to ward me off. “Don’t.”
“I won’t . . . I won’t touch you.”
His eyes search mine, like he doesn’t believe me, or like maybe he’s afraid to.
This is the boy whose bed I share. Who sleeps next to me, barely an arm’s length away. And now he’s terrified to let me anywhere near him.
I just want to look. I want to do it without fear or revulsion, to make up for the shock he saw on my face last time. Because I bet everyone else in the world who’s ever seen him like this had that same reaction, and I wish . . . I wish I’d been the exception. I wish I could take it back.
His eyes are so different—it’s hard to see him as the same person. If he’d kissed me while he was like this, would I have still melted inside? Would I have been able to go along with it, or would I have freaked out?
I remember how safe I felt when I woke up with his arm around me. But now I imagine it with scales, and what I feel is a twinge of horror.
Amelrik changes back into human form, wrapping his arms around himself and turning away from me. He puts his shirt back on, and I study the sharpness of his shoulder blades, thinking about how only moments ago he had wings.
26
IT’S LIKE YOU WANT ME TO MURDER YOU
I wake up early one morning—or maybe I should say I’m woken up—because someone is moving around the room, picking things up and setting them back down again, and generally making a lot of noise. I open my eyes just enough to see that it’s Amelrik, then decide to go back to sleep. And even though the lamps are lit, and even though I can’t actually tell what time it is, I’m pretty sure that it’s too early for either of us to be awake yet.
He must have noticed me stir, though, because as soon as I close my eyes, he practically jumps onto the bed. “Virginia?” He shakes my shoulder. “Hey, Virginia. Are you awake?”
I pretend to be asleep. I’m starting to suspect that he was making all that noise on purpose. You’d think that after living together for two weeks he’d know better than that. Virginia St. George does not get up early.
“Come on, Virginia. I know you’re not asleep.”
I keep my eyes closed. “If you know that, then why are you asking? It’s like you want me to murder you.”
“No, it’s like I want you to wake up and see the present I got you.”
“Present?” Why didn’t he lead with that? And did I say Virginia St. George doesn’t get up early? What I meant was, Virginia St. George doesn’t get up early without a good reason. I sit up and rub the crud out of my eyes. “My birthday was over a week ago.” Not that I’m complaining. 
“Yeah, I know, but this wasn’t out then.” He hands me a book.
My heart leaps when I see the title: Princess Mysteries #7—The Gentleman’s Curse. “Whoa! Where did you . . . How did you get this?”