She’d changed her ensemble today, exchanging the jumpsuit for an emerald dress with flowing silk sleeves, her hair loose again. I imagined she’d tried to pick an outfit appropriate for the Busy Dragon Rider on the Go. Bummer she hadn’t added a pointed hat.

   “You are mine!” Sorcha said. “Under my control and within my sole power. You will bow to me and do my bidding.”

   “Girl takes her role as DM a little too seriously,” Catcher murmured. “Details at eleven.”

   I couldn’t take my eyes off the rise and fall of its wings, the rainbow of color that spilled across its scales with each rhythmic movement. It was graceful in its way.

   The dragon lifted into the air.

   YOU DID NOT CREATE ME.

   Sorcha’s smile was immense, her pleasure obvious. Her arrogance now physical. “Oh, I created you,” she said. “I brought together the disparate consciousness of all touched by my magic, and I created you.”

   YOU DID NOT CREATE, it said. I EXISTED. PAIN AND RAGE EXISTED. YOU BROUGHT ME INTO THIS FORM.

   “You’re here now!” Sorcha yelled impatiently, lifting her hands to the sky. “And I am in control. Come to me,” she ordered, and pointed at the street in front of her, like a human might order a stubborn dog to sit.

   There was magic behind the order—the buzz of magic that pulsed through the air, the stain of the darkness that surrounded it.

   The dragon swooped in front of her.

   Tremulously, just as a girl might have taken her first cautious step toward a quarter horse, Sorcha took a step forward, green silk undulating around her body with each flap of the dragon’s wings. It settled on the ground, heat and moisture rising from its wide nostrils.

   The dragon lowered its nose, its body only feet from hers, as if waiting for her command, her signal to move.

   The dragon opened its eyes . . . chartreuse and angry . . .

   And bit Sorcha in half.

   And then, with a gulp and chomp, it finished her off.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MIDNIGHT RUN

We stared in shock and silence for a full ten seconds, gazing at the spot where Sorcha, our feared enemy, had stood. Now our enemy was being crushed and crunched with horrible liquidy sounds while the dragon mawed on her remaining bits like a cow chewing its cud.

   “She was our enemy,” Mallory said. “But . . .”

   “But we would have incarcerated her,” Catcher said. “Not made her dragon kibble.”

   We all looked at Catcher. “I won’t apologize for wishing her dead, although I’m guessing ‘chewed up’ isn’t a very pleasant way to go.”

   We all looked back at the dragon, which coughed, then spat out one of Sorcha’s heels.

   “Why do I want to laugh?” Mallory asked.

   “Because this is horrible and uncomfortable and the best dark comedy ever written,” Catcher said.

   “Yeah,” Mallory said.

   But the comedy ended. Done with its snack, the dragon lifted its head, narrowed its reptilian eyes at us.

   It had been born of pain and anger and fear—of those bitter, cast-off emotions of human and supernatural Chicagoans. And it had no love for those who’d filled it with agony.

   ENEMIES, it said. PAIN. And then it lunged.

   • • •

   “Lead it back to the guns!” Ethan ordered, and we ran together down Pearson, then turned back to Michigan, leading the dragon back to the Guard units.

   The world began to bounce as the dragon found its feet, began hauling down Michigan Avenue after us. And then the shuddering stopped, replaced by the whipping wind of the dragon’s wings.

   It was airborne, with plenty of room to spread its wings on Michigan. And we made for a nice, wide target.

   “Split off!” Ethan yelled, when we were in sight of the barricade. “Take Mallory and head for the river. We’ll head toward the lake, try to draw him away from you. Get back to the House.”

   I nearly stopped running, nearly pulled Ethan to a stop to tell him not to be ridiculous, that I was his Sentinel and I’d guard him, and not the other way around.

   I love you, I told him.

   Forever, he said, a gleam in his eyes. Take care, Sentinel.

   I nodded, grabbed Mallory’s hand, and dragged her off Michigan, the dragon’s hot breath literally on our heels. We ran down a side street, pressed ourselves against the wall of a building while the sound of gunshots ricocheted off skyscrapers.

   But then I glanced at Mallory. Ethan, Catcher, and I were trained in combat. Mallory wasn’t, and she was still fighting exhaustion—and had just used magic to help Taylor. She was lagging behind me, so outrunning the dragon didn’t seem like a realistic option.

   I pulled her into an alley and behind a Dumpster. It could fly faster than we could run, so a foot chase wasn’t going to do either of us any good. But I didn’t think it was small enough to fly into an alley.

   We crouched on the ground behind the steel garbage box. The ground shuddered as the dragon moved, sending liquid sloshing and lifting a foul scent into the air.

   “This is not how I thought things would end,” Mallory said, her fingers digging into my knee. “Crouching in garbage on the run from a lizard.”

   “We’ll make it,” I whispered. We had to make it. I wasn’t going down like Sorcha, literally or figuratively. “We’ll wait it out, then find a way back to the House. Maybe you could conjure us up some wings.”

   “No problem,” she said, but covered her mouth with a hand as the dragon moved past the alley, its heavy movements sending showers of dirt and grime and brick dust raining over us.

   The footsteps grew quieter, but we waited until silence had fallen again. “I’m going to check,” I said, and stood up, pulling her clawed fingers off my leg, and peeked past the Dumpster.