PAPER STARS: An Ordinary Magic Story(16)

“Dragon?” I really needed to find out if it had a name. “Do you know where the demon is?”

The pig lifted its head from where it was propped on Spud’s back.

“Demon?” I repeated. “Bathin? He was just here. We told him to go find Ryder?”

“I don’t think it understands you,” Myra said.

“Dragons understand human speech.” I said. “He’s called Black Heart?” I tried.

The pig jumped to its feet and trotted over to me. It sat in front of me, head tipped up.

And while it was still cute, there was fire in those piggy eyes, and smoke in that piggy snout. The space around it had gone wobbly like a fun house mirror.

“Find Black Heart and the man with him. The man is Ryder Bailey. Bring them here. Now.”

The pig stood. For a moment, just the flash of a splintered second, there was a dragon in my living room. It was huge and black with wings of fire and claws of steel. And then it disappeared.

The scent of burned coal and sandalwood filled the air.

“Wow,” Myra said. “You have a dragon.”

I exhaled a shaky breath. “I really need to read up on the care and feeding.”

Spud hadn’t missed out on the commotion. He was on his feet and at my side, stiff-eared, stiff-tailed, staring into the space the dragon had just vacated.

He growled, then barked.

The room went wobbly again, and I reached over for Myra at the same time she reached for me.

The pig appeared. It snorted out a satisfied plume of smoke that curled around its head and then drifted toward the ceiling.

Next to the pig, stood Bathin. Bathin did not look happy. As a matter of fact, he looked a little shaken.

I did not care. Because Bathin had his shoulder propped under Ryder’s arm, his hand holding him firmly around the waist.

“You sent the dragon after me?” Bathin asked. “The dragon? Do you know how much noise it makes in the…you know what? Never mind. If you ever do that again, Delaney Reed, I will make you pay.”

“I’ve already paid. Myra’s paid too. Hold up your end of the bargain next time, Bathin.”

I wasn’t listening to his threats anyway.

Ryder was unconscious. “Bring him to the bedroom.” I rushed over and touched Ryder’s face. Cold. Touched his neck, pressed for a pulse.

There. Strong and steady. Some of the fear in my stomach unclenched. I could breathe again, could think again. “Move it, Bathin. Now. That way.”

Bathin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

In the distance I was aware of Myra talking to Jean, was aware of Spud barking like crazy and rubbing on the dragon while the dragon stared at the demon like he was something it would enjoy eating.

In the distance I could hear someone singing about silver bells. But everything in me was tuned into Ryder, all my senses, all my focus.

He was alive.

Unconscious. Blood, sticky and thick, streaked from the hairline above his left eyebrow down his cheek.

He was bundled in snow gear: heavy coat and gloves, layered shirts beneath, snow pants and heavy boots.

His clothes were damp, either from when he’d been lying out in the snow when we were on the phone, or maybe before that, when he helped the mom and kids.

Bathin laid him on the bed, gently enough it surprised me.

“He’s too cold,” the demon said almost as if he were talking to himself. “Has a lump on the side of his head, but that wound’s not serious. Get him warm and he’ll be fine.”

“You get a medical certificate from Hells R Us?” I pushed at his shoulder so I could move around him and get in the bed to take care of Ryder. It was like pushing a steel building. He was built like a concrete mixer.

He’d once told me he could take any form he wanted. It only made sense he’d chosen more muscles than a barbarian under that white button-down shirt.

“I’ve seen a lot of people on death’s doorstep,” he said. “I do my best wheeling and dealing in their time of desperation and need. When they have nothing left to lose.”

He stood back, crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s not going to die.”

I was listening, but working fast to get Ryder’s boots unlaced, pulled off. His socks were dry–that was good. I took them off anyway, then his snow pants and the thermals he wore beneath them.

I rubbed my palms over his thighs, warm, muscular and strong with a long bruise spreading down his left hip. Then I stroked down his legs to his thick, firm calves, ankles, and checked his toes, cupping my hands over them briefly.

No frostbite. No breaks. No wounds.

He started shivering, which was a good sign. I dragged all the blankets and the down comforter over him, then scrambled off the bed to dig out two more blankets from the top shelf of his closet.

Myra was suddenly next to the bed, a warm washcloth in her hand and a First Aid kit open on the bedside table.

She gave me the cloth and I cleaned the blood off his face, felt for the bump Bathin had told me about. Left side, but the bleeding had stopped.

Taking off his coat and shirts revealed more of his skin, and it took everything I had not to just strip and curl up beside him.

I wanted to be close to his heartbeat, drown in the scent of him, be captured in his heat.

I wanted to touch him, wrap around him, make him understand he was undeniably mine.