Dreamwalker (Stormwalker #5)(50)

Emmett yelled something, but I couldn’t hear him. His mouth opened wider, his face reddened, and he glared at me as he pointed at the cocoon.

I finally understood—he wanted me to hit the cocoon with the lightning. I hesitated. I didn’t trust Emmett and had no idea what was going on behind the darkness. My heart was tearing out of my chest, Mick dying in front of me, and I had no idea how to help him.

Emmett drew another breath to shout. I still couldn’t hear him, but I could read his lips. “Do it!”

Forgive me, Mick, I whispered silently, then I let the lightning fly.

It struck the cocoon and broke it open. Fragments of obsidian exploded outward, cutting me and Emmett as they flew by. Tiny streaks of blood decorated Emmett’s face, and I felt the bite on mine.

The cocoon blew apart in a steady stream, shards of volcanic rock and glass flying out faster and faster until both Emmett and I had to dive to the ground, shielding ourselves from the deadly rain. My lightning continued to flare from my hands, digging a little furrow from my outstretched fingers to the trees.

Then, with one last crash of thunder, the storm died. Rain fell, the wind carried the clouds away, breaking them apart.

A tearing sound came from where the cocoon had been. I raised my head to see a dragon emerge from the mess, stumbling and dazed. His wings were whole again, but the fire had gone from his eyes.

He looked around, head turning on his long neck. His gaze rested on me and Emmett beside me, but there was no recognition there—not only of who we were but of what we were.

The dragon turned from us, eyes black and devoid of intelligence. It lifted itself on ungainly wings and soared upward, caught the wind, dipped once, then flapped away into the darkness.

A groan jerked my attention back to earth. A man sat in the circle of broken obsidian and apache’s tears, his arms around his knees. He was naked, his skin tanned but clear, no tatts marking him.

Mick raised his head, unruly black hair caught by the wind. His eyes were blue in the darkness, no hint of dragon in them.

“Janet,” he said in a rasping voice. “What did you do to me?”





Chapter Seventeen

I scrambled to my feet, mud plastered down my front, and ran to him. Mick was huddled in on himself, his body no different except for the lack of tattoos, but the fear in his eyes as he looked up at me was stark.

I put my hand on his back. His skin was ice-cold, and both of us flinched.

“You shouldn’t …” Mick began. “You can’t know …”

“That you’re a dragon? No, I didn’t know.” My heart was hammering, but my blood was sluggish with worry. “We need to get you inside, and warm. Emmett …”

I turned to tell Emmett to give his clothes to Mick, but Emmett was gone. I scanned the clearing, but no, the man had vanished.

“Coward!” I yelled into the air.

“What the hell did you do to me?” Mick repeated.

He was still on the ground, but he’d lifted his head, rage in his eyes. And betrayal, I realized. He thought he’d been wrong about me—that I was evil after all.

“I didn’t do this,” I said quickly. “I can’t handle magics like that. It was Emmett. He saved your life.”

Mick gave me an incredulous look. “By splitting me in two? Not life,” he snarled. “Living death.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” I balled my fists, tightening myself against my tears. “You were dying. Aine was killing you.”

“And how the hell do you know the name of one of the Dragon Council?”

I fell to my knees beside him, the wet ground soaking through my jeans. “Mick …”

He studied me with scrutiny no less intense than his dragon’s. “Tell me.”

“This isn’t real.” I swept my hand to take in the clearing, the rain pattering on the fire-stricken trees, the receding storm. “We’re dreaming this. I’m dreaming it. Drake might be too—I don’t know.”

Mick’s eyes fixed on me, solid blue, the color I loved. “This feels fucking real to me,” he said savagely.

“I don’t know what’s going on. This mage, Emmett Smith—he’s doing his best to kill us, and this is one way he’s trying.”

“Emmett Smith,” Mick said. “Never heard of him.”

“No, you haven’t. Not yet. We have to wake up.”

The last time I’d come out of the dreaming, it had taken Mick, Coyote, Cassandra, Colby, and the mirror to do it.

I remembered fire in my hand, the shard of mirror cutting my skin. Mick’s healing magic had helped me too.

The Mick of the future hadn’t remembered anything I’d done in my dream—nothing from his past—so maybe this was true un-reality. Once I woke up everything would be fine. Mick would be dragon again, and the world would be back to normal. Wouldn’t it?