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  His logic sinks in little by little. This whole situation could seem weird from an outsider’s perspective. The back of my head is pounding something terrible. I massage it with little energy. “The president told me he saw all he needed to see in the Waxbyrne footage. He thinks I’m the best fit for Team Puerto Rico because of my speed and my bravery. You do make some valid points, though. I’m sorry I wasn’t smart enough to see things the way you do.”

  “You are smart, mija. And you’re the bravest person I know! You saved a Fire Drake. You stood up to the legendary Takeshi Endo, of all people.” Papi blows me a sweet kiss. “My heart is so full right now. I’m more proud of you than you’ll ever know.”

  I should be over the moon to hear he’s proud.

  But I can only focus on his disappointment for signing that contract.

  “What do you think I should do?” I ask.

  “Well, I suggest you keep your eyes open at all times. Be mindful of your actions and your words. Whatever’s going on, you’ll have to rely mostly, if not entirely, on yourself to grapple with it.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles again. “I think you can still have fun and enjoy the company of your teammates. You’ll be well protected from the Sire, too, so I won’t worry about that. I’m only worried about the president’s intentions.”

  “Speaking of the Sire,” I say, “you need to get out of that sanctuary.”

  Papi taps a few of the folders, his expression totally calm. “Our new bureau security detail arrived before I got back. Director Sandhar sent dozens of requests for more agents. Apparently, the bureau wants close to a battalion at each sanctuary worldwide.” He shuffles the folders from one side of his desk to another. “We’ll be staying here.”

  “But you can’t. The Sire and his Dragon Knights might strike there next.”

  “And when they come, they’ll be stopped.” Papi sounds much more okay with his potential death than my big mistake. “I can’t abandon these Pesadelos. We’re so close to a breakthrough with them all, but especially with Violet #43. She almost let me pat her nose yesterday before scurrying off. And we’ve been standing next to her without retaliation for a whole year now.”

  I cringe at the code name he’s given the dragon that tried to kill me. Only Bonded dragons share their true names with their riders. Un-Bonded dragons don’t communicate with humans at all, so they remain nameless. According to Papi, Violet #43 has been steadily improving, but he acts like she’s more than a work responsibility. She’s the reason he stayed in Brazil. It’s like he’s refusing to give up on trying to atone for what broke our family apart. Like he won’t rest until she’s no longer the dragon that almost took me away from him for good.

  Nothing I say will get him to leave that damn sanctuary.

  “Fine.… Just be careful, okay?” I say.

  “Always have been.”

  We discuss what to pack for Dubai, calculating the best times to call him with updates, and reliving my trip to Waxbyrne. Papi watches the surveillance footage again while still chatting with me. He asks me all sorts of questions about the Fire Drake’s behavior. He assures me the Fire Drake is a female, and that it’s a Bonded dragon being kept away from her rider. He doesn’t have any theories regarding their separation, though.

  “I’ll see if I can look into her case more,” he says. “Usually Bonded dragons who are separated from their riders experience grief similar to losing a loved one. It can drive them to behave in self-destructive ways. The same applies to their riders, which is why I believe Takeshi’s acting in complete disregard of the law. Each dragon species manifests this grief differently, but the Fire Drake managed to keep her composure until Takeshi’s arrival. Her behavior seems to suggest she’s in agreement with her current living arrangement.”

  “But why is she in a store? Why all the secrecy surrounding her rider’s identity, too?”

  The laptop screen goes black.

  A crackling, static noise erupts from the speakers.

  I sit up. Now the screen is stuck on that snowy image that usually means there’s no signal.

  Shay’s phone is also flashing static. No matter how many times she presses the screen, it won’t do anything other than flash the same thing.

  I try muting the sound on my laptop, but it doesn’t work. None of the keys do anything.

  Samira and I look at each other. “Magic,” we say together.

  The static is gone.

  Both the laptop and the phone show the same image again. There’s barely any light, but I can see an onyx-tiled ballroom. The floor has scratches and strange spots in strange shapes. Headless stone sculptures of naked men and women encircle the ballroom. Uneven cracks and grooves mar their necks, as if someone ripped each head off. The camera backs up from the center of the room. When the next image comes into frame, I wish the camera had focused on something else.

  There’s a white man tied to a wooden chair.

  Thick rope binds his arms, his ankles. It’s the color of stars. He wears a black suit and navy blue tie, but his honey hair is all ruffled and knotted. The man seems close to my father’s age. He’s shaking and crying. He doesn’t try to set himself free. It’s as if he’s already given up.

  The man stops shaking and crying. Now he’s a stiff, pale wisp of whatever he used to be.

  “You must remember one thing above all else …” A man’s voice comes from somewhere off camera. His accent is British, roughened by his harsh tone. “This is not your world.”

  My veins run dry. “It’s him.”

  The Sire walks toward the bound man. Stardust scales cover the back of the Sire’s head. His black leather trench coat looks heavy, but he’s gliding as if it weighs less than a feather. There’s the soft thud of his boots against the floor, the hissing intakes of breath, the growl rumbling past his lips. He stops once he reaches the back of the chair. The bound man starts shaking, but the Sire ignores his prisoner. With an otherworldly grace, he turns to the camera.

  The Sire smiles like he’s spilled the blood of all his enemies.

  “You are living on borrowed time.” He grabs the back of the chair, leaning forward, then runs a gloved finger over the man’s cheek. “Agent Michael Robinson has twenty-five years of service to the bureau. He’s the third-highest-ranking officer in England. A quarter of the prisoners currently shacking up at Ravensworth Penitentiary have been his catches. And until today, he’s been tasked with capturing me, like many who have failed before him.”

  I sink to the edge of the couch. To have the Sire as an assignment must make this man one of the best agents alive. Yet there he is, trapped.

  The Sire smiles no more. “You do not send a worm to catch a god. This is not your world. This world belongs to the gods of wing and flame.” He lets go of the man, the chair. “This message is for those who want to see Agent Robinson to safety.”

  The Sire waves to someone off camera, beckoning them forward.

  Takeshi Endo appears on-screen. He’s holding his claw dagger. He flanks Agent Robinson, and the Sire seizes his shoulder. His grip is tight, possessive.

  The Sire looks into the camera. “Where were you when Antonio Deluca took Hikaru’s life? Where were you when Takeshi mourned for this injustice?” He gives Takeshi’s shoulder a squeeze. “You once knew this boy as your hero for the wrong reasons. He believed the lie you fed him. The same lie you feed the world every two years. That dragons are playthings. That we are better suited as your entertainment.” The Sire shakes his head. “We are not your playthings. And this boy is now a true hero with a far greater cause. Are you not?”

  “Yes, Sire,” Takeshi replies. “Despite what the bureau would have you assume, I would never hurt a dragon. I will rescue those who have been deprived of their freedom.” He pauses, drawing a bit closer to the camera. “This world belongs to the gods of wing and flame.”

  What. The. Hell. Samira and I were wrong. This isn’t about catching Hikaru’s killer.

  He really has become a Dragon Knight.


  “Indeed.” A haughty Sire releases Takeshi’s shoulder. He steps around the chair. “I hereby order the immediate release of all dragons held in captivity around the world, including the Fire Drake at Waxbyrne. I call for the demise of the Blazewrath World Cup. The Department of Magical Investigations will cease its efforts to stop me. If you refuse to obey me …”

  In a blur of motion, the Sire lunges at Agent Robinson.

  His sharp teeth find the screaming man’s neck, then rip out his flesh.

  Samira and Shay scream out together.

  I don’t have any strength left to. The horrors eat me from within, hungrier and hungrier until I no longer know what’s left of me.

  Takeshi keeps his eyes straight ahead. He doesn’t watch as Agent Robinson’s head hangs forward, limp and lifeless. He doesn’t notice the Sire’s whole mouth dripping in crimson.

  A growl slips past the Sire’s red smile. “It will be the last thing you ever do.”

  The laptop turns itself off.

  So does Shay’s phone.

  The Sire is gone, Takeshi is gone, but their atrocity still clings to me.

  Samira holds me. “We’re all right, Lana. Do you hear me? Everything will be okay.”

  I nod because she wants me to, but I can only think of the man who was once a dragon, the boy who was once my favorite, and how they’re killing my dream together.

  Dragons had been scarce outside of Europe and Asia until the twentieth century. In 1968, Venezuela became the first Latin American country to produce a new dragon species, the mighty Furia Roja (see Chapter Seven: Dragons with Special Weapons). Other Latin American species appeared by the hundreds shortly after, most notably the Brazilian Pesadelo (see Chapter Thirteen: The World’s Most Dangerous Dragon). The IBF first invited Central and South American nations to compete in the Blazewrath World Cup held in 1971. As of 2014, Haiti remains the only Caribbean country with a dragon species, but since they have one living dragon, they cannot qualify for the Cup. Perhaps someday the Caribbean will be the home of many dragons, too.

  —Excerpt from Harleen Khurana’s A History of Blazewrath Around the World

  CHAPTER SIX

  MOM NEVER CAME HOME LAST NIGHT.

  Not even after the Sire’s video hit every single news outlet. Not even after I texted her to say Samira was sleeping over, then called to check if she got the text. Mr. and Mrs. Jones agreed after they heard my shaky voice on the phone. All Mom wrote back was, “OK.” She was either at the hospital or at Todd’s house taking care of him, like he’s the one she birthed.

  Samira and I are in the kitchen waiting for my Transport to Dubai. I eat the scrambled eggs and bacon she cooked, but my taste buds have been wrecked along with my dream. There’s no way the IBF will ignore the Sire’s threats. The last thing they’d want is more blood on their hands. Why bother hoping for an opportunity the Sire has burned into ruin? Not even Samira twirling around with a spatula in her Sailor Moon pajamas can put me in a good mood. Papi called me after the Sire’s message, but his reassurance that everything would be okay fell flat.

  The clock strikes 7:00 a.m.

  SWISH!

  President Turner and Manny Delgado are standing in my house’s foyer.

  “Good morning!” says President Turner, dressed in a burgundy suit and canary-yellow tie. It’s a stark contrast to Manny’s black button-down shirt and dad jeans. “You have a lovely home, Ms. Torres.” He looks at Samira. “Hello, there! We’ve not been properly introduced.”

  Samira finally stops twirling, but she’s still holding the spatula. “So nice to meet you, Mr. President. I’m Samira Jones,” she chirps. “Lana’s best friend.”

  “Your pajamas are delightful, Ms. Jones.” President Turner gives her a big thumbs-up.

  She curtsies like it’s no big deal she’s greeting the president of the IBF in her pajamas. God, I love my best friend. “Thank you kindly.”

  “Where’s the whiskey?” Manny asks me point-blank.

  I do my best to keep my voice steady. “There’s no whiskey here.”

  Manny pouts. “Beer? Club soda?”

  “Nope.”

  “No club soda? What kind of animals are you people?”

  “Manny!” A mortified President Turner elbows him, then loosens up again as he nods at me. “Well then, Ms. Torres. All set for Transport?”

  I gape at him. “We’re still going to play?”

  President Turner’s enthusiasm dies a little, as if he’s disappointed in me. “Why wouldn’t we? Are you set for Transport? Or do you need more time to get everything sorted?”

  I search for answers in Manny’s face, but he just yawns. “What about the Sire’s message?”

  President Turner’s cheeks drain of color. “The International Blazewrath Federation is cooperating with the Department of Magical Investigations in order to detain the Sire. Director Sandhar and his agents are highly capable of ensuring this threat’s capture,” he says. “Besides, twelve Dragon Knights were apprehended after last night’s broadcast.”

  It’s a good thing my knees aren’t weak. Otherwise, I would’ve collapsed from shock. “That hasn’t been on the news.”

  “Yes, it has.” Manny holds up his phone. “Right before we got here.”

  His tone isn’t dripping in sarcasm, so he’s probably telling the truth.

  “And the Sire?” I ask.

  President Turner frowns. “He and some of his Dragon Knights escaped from the run-down mansion in Surrey, England, where they were hiding. The Un-Bonded Hydra from the Athens attack wasn’t in attendance. It’s possible the Hydra is no longer among their company. No need to worry, though. The bureau has several leads that will direct the task force straight to them.” He attempts a warm smile. “I give you my word, Ms. Torres. The Sire will be stopped.”

  “Translation: Blazewrath is still on, nena,” says Manny. “You coming or not?”

  I’m dead silent. The bureau might have leads on the Sire, but what if they fail like Agent Robinson? What if I’m on the Blazewrath field while he’s broadcasting someone else’s murder?

  President Turner’s eyes are wide with panic as he steps closer to me. “This is your dream, isn’t it? You have to play in the Cup, Ms. Torres.”

  I back away from him. Sure, I signed a $7 million contract, but Papi’s warning is bursting in bright red clouds all around me. Maybe he’s right. Something is off about this whole thing.

  But I need that Blazewrath field.

  “You’re sure the bureau’s leads are accurate?” I ask President Turner.

  “Indeed. Don’t be surprised if we hear news of the Sire’s capture once we reach Dubai.”

  I look at Manny. He tells it like it is, so I ask him, “Do you think they’ll catch the Sire?”

  Manny doesn’t miss a beat. “The Sire won’t make it to tomorrow a free man.”

  Wow. Even Manny trusts Director Sandhar on this.

  Samira doesn’t speak, but she’s giving me her fiercest “You better not” expression. I have no choice but to trust her judgment. It’s definitely looking like the Sire will have spellbound handcuffs around his wrists sooner than he’s anticipating. So will Takeshi Endo.

  I tell President Turner, “I’m set for Transport, sir. Let me get my suitcase.”

  President Turner claps his hands. “Brilliant! Off you go, then!”

  He and Manny wait downstairs while Samira and I fetch the carry-on. When we come back, President Turner offers to hold it for me, but I reassure him I’m fine.

  Samira squeezes the life out of me. “Go win that Cup. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. And please don’t visit Todd. That would only make him happy.”

  She laughs. I tell her I’m transferring two thousand dollars into her savings account so she can buy her last Copper wand and whatever else she damn well wants. Before she can decline the money, I roll my carry-on over to the door. I take one last look at the place where I’ve lived for the past twelve years—the place I never
asked to move to—but where I grew to love Blazewrath more, locked away in my room with headphones on, scared that Mom would catch me. This is where she raised me without my father, never letting me see her break a sweat. She had no idea who her daughter was, but she fed me and clothed me and made sure I took all my vitamins.

  She’s not here to hug me goodbye, though.

  She’s not here to send me off down the path I’ve been sketching in my mind for years.

  A tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it off.

  Goodbye, Mom. I hope to see you soon.

  President Turner whips out his wand. Manny moves to his right while I settle on his left.

  White light engulfs me as I wave goodbye to Samira one last time.

  I’M NO LONGER STANDING ON WOODEN FLOORBOARDS.

  My Adidas land on something much softer, grainier, and less steady. I peek down at the ruddy richness beneath me. Naples sand is lighter, almost bleached, more like a prop instead of a natural part of the environment. I can’t remember the sand in Puerto Rico’s beaches. I’d spent most of my time in the mountains. But I do remember the heat, and the weather here reminds me of summertime on the island, sticky and humid and awesome for eating piraguas all day.

  “Welcome to Dubai! Specifically, to Pink Rock Desert.” President Turner aims his wand to what lies ahead of us. “And that over there is the Compound.”

  Sand dunes roll out for miles and miles. A boiling sun shines down on the deep ruddy richness. To my left, there’s an incline with a rock formation at the top.

  Right between the dunes is the Compound, which is a series of housing complexes for all sixteen teams. They look like steel bubbles splashed in white paint. The bubbles span from side to side in a horseshoe formation. They’re as big as four-story buildings. There are no gates near the Compound, but it does have a bazillion wizard security guards. Each wears sporty clothes, not the suits and dresses bureau agents are required to wear.

  None of them balks at President Turner’s Transport Charm. Similar to Waxbyrne, no one can Transport into or out of the Compound, but it seems the surrounding patches of sand are fine.