“She had terrible eyesight,” Rayna said, confident as ever, as Anders tried to hide his wince. “She couldn’t actually serve, it turned out. She lived a quiet life up in the mountains.”
“In dragon territory?” Sigrid’s frown was now a permanent furrow between her brows. “But all members of the Wolf Guard live at the Ulfar Barracks. You’re about my daughter’s age; I’m sure I’d remember your grandmother.”
“Did I say in the mountains?” Even Rayna was faltering now. “Lower down than dragon territory, obviously. More like foothills, really. Still! The most important thing isn’t who else successfully transformed, it’s whether I can, so I’ll just reach across here if you don’t mind, and—”
Sigrid clearly did mind, but Rayna was already reaching past her, fingers outstretched toward the Staff of Hadda. Anders silently urged her on. The sooner she touched it and turned into nothing at all, the sooner they could make their escape. Even if he was going to have to recite his own imaginary lineage first.
Rayna bit her lip, and wrapped her hand around the smooth wooden staff, gripping it tightly. As she did, Anders realized he was holding his breath, even though as far as he knew she was about as likely to transform into a cabbage as a wolf. He and Rayna had started out in an orphanage, then raised themselves after that on the streets of Holbard. They weren’t wolves waiting to happen.
Abruptly, Rayna screamed, her eyes popping wide open, back arching as she flung out her free arm, drawing gasps from the crowd. She staggered back a step, swinging the Staff of Hadda so the two members of the Wolf Guard behind her were forced to jump out of the way.
Stop, Anders urged her silently, wanting to sink down through the dais and into the ground, the hot flame of embarrassment taking over his body. This was Rayna, always selling the story, always so dramatic. But right now, the last thing they needed was more people looking at them.
Rayna screamed again, dropping the staff and doubling over to brace her hands against her knees. She turned her head to cast a desperate glance at Anders, and like a crashing wave of ice-cold water had hit him, the embarrassment was gone.
This was real—his sister was terrified. And this was nothing like any transformation he’d ever seen.
He stepped forward, reaching for her, but she screamed again, raw and hoarse, staggering forward to fall from the dais, crashing to the flagstones below.
The crowd jumped away as Rayna rolled onto her back, arms outflung. Her face darkened to a deep, unnatural burgundy, then shifted to shades of bright crimson, as if all her skin were bleeding at once. Hints of gold, bronze, and copper snaked in, glinting in the sun, racing down her neck to disappear beneath her clothes.
As Anders watched in horror, frozen to the spot, her arms and legs seemed to stretch impossibly long, and the arms of her coat stretched and split, the tearing noise of the fabric lost beneath the screams of the crowd.
The fabric shredded and vanished in seconds as Rayna’s body grew, doubling in size, then tripling, her neck lengthening, her mouth open in a hoarse, unending scream. Crimson, bronze, and copper wove together into glittering scales as they snaked across her skin, and a heartbeat later, Rayna was gone.
In her place lay a scorch dragon fifteen feet long, sprawled on its back, claws raking through the air as it roared over the sound of the crowd. It scrambled, rolling onto its side and clambering to its feet, wings spreading wide, tail lashing in a long arc.
This was impossible! Waves of heat washed over Anders, as if he were far too close to a fire—his skin stung, the lining of his throat burning as he dragged down air.
“Attack!” the Fyrstulf screamed beside him, jolting Anders from his horror.
The dragon’s tail swept toward him, catching him in the ribs and knocking him clean off his feet. Pain rippled through his body, and he couldn’t tell whether the heat—it was coming from the dragon, for certain—was burning him, or just blasting him. All he knew was that there was a dragon right above him, roaring so loudly the sound itself was like a living thing.
He scrambled desperately off the dais and fell backward just as the long snake of a tail smashed through the supports on the stage, reducing it to so much firewood.
He grabbed at a plank where it lay across his body, trying to shove it off him. Gasping for breath he sat up, pain shooting along his ribs. The Fyrstulf, Sigrid, lay beside him, dazed, a cut on her forehead bleeding.
The dragon’s tail thrashed about again, and he ducked, rolling onto his hands and knees. Where had it come from? What had happened to Rayna?
It was Rayna.
The people in the crowd were screaming, and the dragon was roaring again, but somehow that realization cut through Anders’s thoughts, stopping him in his tracks. However it had happened, that dragon was his sister.
All around him, the members of the Wolf Guard were transforming, their uniforms seeming to melt into their skin as they dropped to all fours, shaggy coats appearing where gray wool had been a moment before, teeth bared as they lifted their muzzles and snarled. Anders had never seen a wolf transform so close before, and their deep-throated growls were terrifying.
The ice wolf beside him reared onto its hind legs, then crashed back down to earth. As its front paws hit the cobblestones, two long spears of ice burst from the ground, sharp and jagged, flying straight at the dragon’s gleaming side. They were like huge, deadly icicles with razor-sharp points—Anders had never seen them outside a puppet show or a play, but he knew immediately what was happening.
Where they struck Rayna, her scales instantly turned gray with cold. She screamed, spreading her wings, and more wolves brought down their front paws on the ground, launching ice spears at her as Anders was forced to drop to his belly. He sensed them slicing through the air more than he saw them, like clean, cold arrows through the confusion of the heat.
The dragon brought her wings down in a great sweep, and with her tail thrashing and her claws grabbing at the air as though to lift herself, she somehow took off. The downdraught flattened Anders, and he scrambled for the shelter of the wreckage behind him as the ice spears flew, and the crowd screamed, and the wolves howled.
Then, beside him, he saw it—the Staff of Hadda. It was half buried in the wreckage of the dais, along with Anders. That smooth, worn pole had somehow triggered this dreadful transformation. He had to find a way to use it to transform Rayna back, but as he tried to make himself reach for it, he found himself yanking back his hand instead.
What would happen to him if he touched it?
Above him, the dragon—Rayna—screamed again, and he made himself grab for the staff.
Pain rushed through him, setting his arms and legs on fire, and the screams of the crowd grew unbearably loud, his ears filling with the high-pitched wall of noise, his nose suddenly filled with the scent of sweat, of wet woolen clothing, and the musk of wolf fur. He felt his shirt tearing, and as his senses overwhelmed him, he could only think of one thing—run!
He dug his fingertips—his claws (his what?!)—into the flagstones, scrambling free of the wreckage and pushing through the crowds, shoving a pair of knees aside and hurtling through a forest of legs. He suddenly broke free, tearing up a street, past the stationary wheels of a wagon and the legs of two rearing horses, past the houses and the wooden doorways that still showed their singe marks.
Finally he turned a corner to find an alleyway, a stack of crates at one end offering a place to hide. He scampered in behind them, his breath coming in quick, short pants, his tongue lolling out as he tried to slow his thoughts, force himself to calm.