Time stopped. Malcolm lay in the sand, unable to tear his eyes from the cloud of glittering ruby droplets above. He blinked. Hot blood spattered his cheek, and something inside of him cracked. The mother dragon was dead.

Slater sauntered over to the she-dragon’s body. He picked his way around the blood-soaked patches of sand, lip curled in disgust, one hand smoothing down his hair. “BENTLEY! Get your snivelling, heroic arse back here, right now!”

Bentley was still busy running away to sea, thirty feet out. Slater’s shout hit him like a bullet. He stumbled in the waves, negotiated a clumsy turn and wobbled his way back to shore.

“Get it!” ordered Slater. He pointed to the egg.

“But, but,” Bentley stuttered, horror written across his chalk white face. For all his posturing in the shacks, the carnage in front of him looked to be a step too far. “But it’s...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s bad luck to touch a dragon’s egg, Slate.”

“It certainly was for this one.” Slater grinned. His foot thudded against the dragon’s flesh. He paused. “What was that noise?”

“You kicking the – ”

“Not that, you pratt.” Slater waved an arm to where Malcolm still lay sprawled. “I heard something. It came from over there.” The boys stared, open-mouthed.

Malcolm swallowed. If that pair had another one of those killing goblets in their bag, he was done for. He didn’t even have a skill to fight them with. He had mana… Or did he? Would the dragon’s magic still work if she was dead?

Shit. They were heading his way. The least he could do was meet them on his feet, try to get a punch or two in before he exploded to smithereens. If his fist happened to have a dose of magical power behind it, then all the better. He dragged himself onto his knees.

“RUN!” yelled Bentley. The two boys turned and charged away over the sand, bag thrown to one side, dragon forgotten.

Malcolm sat back on his heels and stared after them. What the? They were stark staring terrified of him! What the hell had Mal suddenly triggered that would make those two lowlifes turn tail and run for the hills? He patted his face. It felt normal enough. He felt around his shoulders, half expecting to find wings, like that lad who triggered Fly by night… But he could only fly in the dark. His girlfriend was married with two kids before he got the hang of a hover.

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No, stop. He was getting all ahead of himself again. His hands trembled with excitement. What had he triggered? He flicked down his scroll and something moved at the edge of his vision. He turned around.

Nothing. He’d triggered nothing. As Declan was all too fond of telling him, this had nothing to do with him. It had everything to do with the dirty great dragon not twenty feet behind.

It was bigger than the she dragon but with the same golden belly. The rest of it was covered nose to tail in scales so black they swallowed the light. It stood motionless in the sand, eyes fixed on the fallen female.

Malcolm held his breath. He lifted one knee and tried a tiny, silent shuffle. Instantly, the dragon’s head jerked his way, huge nostrils flaring. Fiery amber eyes pinned him in place like a moth. The dragon lifted one foot. Glittering black claws flexed his way. Malcolm was about to become a scorch mark on the sand, unless… He needed to make it immediately and irrevocably clear that he’d had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of the dragon’s mate.

He cupped his hands around his mouth. “IT WASN’T ME!”

Could the dragon hear him over its own snorting? Did dragons even understand humans? He was sure he’d read somewhere that they did, but he’d never asked. Why had he never asked? It was a fundamental. His legs shook – that’d be the shock setting in. He pointed frantically to the she-dragon’s body. “I didn’t kill her! It wasn’t me!”

The dragon shrieked. In Malcolm’s fear-addled brain, it sounded a lot like “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

Every muscle in Mal’s body screamed at him to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction to the killing machine in front of him. He stayed where he was. If he ran, the dragon would see him as prey. Creatures of magical purity, even the ones that are just about to eat you – in fact, particularly the ones that are just about to eat you – must be treated with the utmost respect at all times.

Malcolm pulled himself up straight. He lowered his head, deferring to the dragon’s greater power, yet making sure to keep eyes on it all the same. Respectful doesn’t mean stupid.

The dragon prowled towards him, forked tongue flickering, hunting mode activated.

He managed to run three steps before his leg gave way in the knee-deep sand. He bit down on his lip. The slightest sign of weakness would send the dragon into a frenzy of blood lust. He scooted back on his bottom, kicking up showers of sand. The dragon kept coming. It reared over him, blocking out the sun. A clawed foot slammed into Malcolm’s chest. His back hit the sand. The dragon’s snout loomed over his face, its breath searing.

“I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.” Mal was crying now, the same words falling from his mouth over and over again. “She was beautiful.” He pointed to the female. “She is beautiful. I would never have hurt her. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.” He tasted blood. Snot trickled down the back of his throat. The dragon’s head moved nearer, mouth gaping. The forked tongue flickered out as if to sample a taste of the puny human dish in front of him. A bird screamed in the sky. Without a thought in his head, Malcolm grabbed the dragon’s tongue with both hands and pulled.