Page 30 of The Dragon and the Dove

Let me out.

Let me play.

No fucking way.

Ripping the damn thing off, he shoved the cloak in his satchel and took off like a bullet, leaving the door to House Armand swinging on its hinges. The sooner he got out of here, the sooner he could breathe.

Tobias ran after him. ‘Hey! Wait for me!’

Saints, this kid. The jars of Lightfire in his satchel clinked as he turned, shooing his mini-me back into the house. ‘I’m heading to the blacksmith. I’ll be back late.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

What Theo needed was a break. A moment to contemplate the festering darkness that prodded him day and night, begging to be set free.

‘Anatoli doesn’t take kindly to strangers,’ he told his cousin. Especially the kind that would talk his ear off.

Tobias rolled back on his heels, pouting.

Theo sighed. ‘It’s cheesecake night in the dining room.’

‘All right, have fun. See you later!’ He was gone like a shot, the echo of his footsteps rattling after him.

Theo’s relief was short-lived. Ruined, as usual, by the gargoyle that flew down from the roof, making a circle around his head.

He looked up to where the Saint of Nightmares was standing on the roof, like an avenging angel.

This guy. Seriously.

Hale’s golden eyes pinpricked the falling dark.

That force inside Theo stirred again, an answering to the power in his midst.

Mine!

All mine!

Theo shoved it back down, pressed invisible hands against the door in his soul and did what he always did whenever he found himself alone with Ransom Hale.

He raised his middle finger.

The gargoyle followed him all the way down the street.

Anatoli Fischer, the Hollows’ blacksmith, was more tree than man. Tall as an oak and with arms as thick, he wore a sweat-stained vest three sizes too small and gold earrings big enough to swing from. He was bald and cranky and allergic to idle chit-chat, but he was also open to bribery and fairly good-natured after a couple of jars of whiskey.

He greeted Theo with a grunt, standing like a bouncer at the door of his forge.

‘Anatoli.’ Flashing his best grin, Theo fished out a bag of coin and a bottle of whiskey and held them up in offering.

He was welcomed like a king.

An hour later, Anatoli was drunk and Theo was pouring with sweat. Bent double over a furnace, he had the makings of the first true blade of Lightfire in his gloved hands. The heat was everywhere, in his lungs, his bones, the air so hot breathing was becoming a struggle.

His magic was wide awake too. Practically gripping the bones of his ribcage, trying to shove its way out. A moth drawn to all that irresistible Lightfire.

Ignoring his discomfort, Theo continued hammering, beating the metal compound into shape. He soon lost himself to the rhythm of his strikes, bringing the anvil down again and again, until his arm ached and his mind emptied.

You cannot ignore your gift, for ever.