Isla slept like a rock and woke like she’d been thrown.
No dreams.
No caverns.
No hoard.
Just eight solid hours of black.
Her alarm blared. She groped for her phone, blinked at the screen.
11:07 a.m.
“Shit,” she rasped, lurching upright.
Her head throbbed dully, but the sharp edge was gone. Her knee ached when she swung her legs out of bed; the bruise had bloomed into a glorious purple smear.
She shuffled to the bathroom, caught sight of herself in the mirror, and winced.
Hair Medusa-level.
Dark smudges under her eyes.
A faint, impossible glow under the skin of her thumb.
She held up her hand and squinted.
In daylight, the scar was almost invisible. Just a thin line of silvery skin where the cut had been.
When she focused—not with her eyes, but with that new, humming sense—she could feel it.
A filament.
A thread tying her to the scale, to the hoard, to the dragon in the coal room.
“Good morning to you too,” she muttered at her thumb.
It pulsed once, not in response—she told herself—not like a heartbeat syncing with her sarcasm.
Her phone had a small pile of notifications.
Three texts from Maya.
*1) how’s your brain 2) how’s your nonsense dragon 3) did he text you a goodnight fire emoji*
Isla snorted.
She thumbed a reply.
*1) concussed but functional 2) dramatic 3) he does not know what emojis are, thank God*
Maya: *teach him the peach. for science.*
Isla: *absolutely not.*
A voicemail from Claire.
Her stomach dipped.
She listened on speaker while pulling on clean jeans and the softest T-shirt she owned.
“Isla, it’s Claire. It’s, uh, eight a.m. I hope you got some rest. Security finished their initial reports. The police will want to talk to you again when you’re up for it—just to clarify timeline. Call me when you can. And… thank you for last night. I know it ended horribly, but… I was glad not to be alone in that gallery. Take care of your head.”
Guilt and warmth warred in her chest.
She owed Claire more than a bullshit fainting story.
She also couldn’t exactly explain that she’d smuggled a dragon into the Hammond via hoard-teleport and stolen the crown out from under her.
“Later,” she told her reflection. “One catastrophic confession at a time.”
She had one more unread message.
The number still wasn’t in her contacts, but she recognized the feel of it before she saw the text.
*You did not dream.*
She rolled her eyes even as heat prickled under her skin.
*You said you’d watch the walls, not me,* she wrote back.
A few seconds.
*Walls were quiet. You needed stillness.*
The simple certainty in the words tugged at her.
They felt… intimate.
Like someone putting a glass of water by your bed without asking.
She typed, then erased, then typed again.
*Thanks,* she sent finally.
The typing dots appeared.
Vanished.
Appeared again.
*You are welcome,* he wrote. *Come when you are able. The thing in the cracks is not sleeping.*
Her mouth went dry.
*Shower first,* she replied, because if she let herself spiral down that anxiety hole right this second, she’d drown.
She tossed the phone on the bed, cranked the shower to hot, and stood under the spray until her skin pruned and her thoughts stopped racing in circles and started racing in slightly more organized lines.
By the time she tugged on her cardigan and laced her sneakers, her head felt… clearer.
Not fine.
But functional.
Which would have to do.
***
The museum lobby smelled like old coffee and floor cleaner.
It always did, but today the scent was sharper, undercut with something else: tension.
Tim was at the security podium, talking quietly with Marcus and Jay.
When he saw Isla, he excused himself and met her halfway to the staff door.
“You’re upright,” he said. “That’s a good sign.”
“I bribed my nervous system with caffeine,” she said. “And my concussion doctor told me not to climb ladders, so I fully intend to climb into drama instead.”
He huffed a laugh.
“Rivera likes you,” he said. “She told me if I let you hit your head again, she’d staple my badge to my forehead.”
“Terrifying,” Isla said. “I like her.”
Tim sobered.
“You okay for real?” he asked, softer. “Head, knee, soul, etcetera?”
She thought of the Hammond’s glitching cameras. The cold presence in the cracks. The way her thumb had lit up like a warning flare.
“I’ll live,” she said. “Assuming we don’t anger any more ancient entities before lunch.”
“No promises,” he said. “Board moved the inventory up. Halpern’s been in medieval since nine, breathing down everyone’s necks. Jay’s buying us time with ‘technical issues’ in the case logs, but…”
He trailed off.
She winced.
“I’ll go smile and nod at Halpern,” she said. “Then coal room?”
“Coal room,” he confirmed. “He’s… calmer. But also… more.”
She nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “I felt that.”
Tim’s eyes flicked to her thumb.
“Just remember,” he said quietly, “you still get to say no. To him. To this. To any of it.”
She swallowed.
The reassurance warmed her and made her heart ache in equal measure.
“I know,” she said.
She wasn’t sure it was entirely true.
But she wanted it to be.
***
Halpern stood in the middle of the medieval wing like a general surveying a battlefield.
Clip board in hand.
Reading glasses on the end of his nose.
A small army of interns and assistants fanned out around him with tablets and checklists.
From the doorway, it looked almost normal.
Isla saw the hairline cracks.
The way his jaw clenched when he peered into certain cases.
The way his fingers lingered a fraction too long on the Schmiedler labels.
“Reyes,” he said when he spotted her. “Good. Concussion didn’t kill you.”
“Not yet,” she said. “I still have to get through accreditation reports.”
He snorted.
“Your devotion to bureaucracy is noted,” he said. “You up for light duty? No ladders, no heavy lifting, no wrestling griffon statues.”
“I can handle checklists,” she said. “What’s the damage?”
He sighed.
“So far,” he said, “nothing obvious. We’re matching physical objects to catalog entries, cross-referencing loan lists. Everything’s where it should be.”
Except, she thought, three little lies under glass.
Her stomach twisted.
“Good,” she said aloud.
“But the board is… on edge,” he went on. “Hammond’s break-in spooked them. I’ve gotten four emails this morning about ‘reputational risk’ and ‘donor confidence.’ If someone even sneezes too hard near a Schmiedler piece, they’ll want blood.”
She swallowed.
“That’s… understandable,” she said.
He glanced at her.
“You went over there last night,” he said. “Claire called me. Said you fainted.”
Heat crawled up her neck.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Mild concussion. I’ve had worse at family soccer games.”
He eyed her.
“You sure this isn’t your stubbornness manifesting as professional heroics?” he asked. “You’re allowed to sit this out.”
She thought of the coal room.
Of the hum of the hoard.
Of the crown.
“I’m in,” she said quietly. “As long as you need me.”
He studied her for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll be publishing something on this eventually. ‘The Schmiedler Affair: A Cautionary Tale.’ I’d rather your name be on it as co-author than as ‘the conservator who burned out and left.’”
A twist of hope and dread coiled together in her.
“You want to… publish?” she said. “On Schmiedler?”
“On acquisition ethics,” he said. “On how not to repeat the mistakes of the past. On how to clean up the messes our predecessors left without burning down the institution in the process.” His mouth twisted. “If we survive this.”
The double meaning landed hard.
If they survived this.
Dragon.
Cracks.
Board.
All of it.
“I’m in,” she said again, firmer.
He nodded once, brisk.
“Then start with case twelve,” he said, gesturing with his clipboard. “Make sure the reliquary counts match. Someone’s interned the same piece under three different numbers.”
She made a face.
“My favorite,” she said. “Cataloging errors.”
He snorted.
“Try not to pass out in the cases,” he said.
“I’ll do my best,” she replied.
She moved through the gallery with her tablet, checking numbers, counting objects, pretending her hands didn’t know the weight of some of them better than they should.
When she stood in front of the case with the fake chalice and fake reliquary, her breath caught.
From here, they passed.
Casual viewers wouldn’t notice.
But her new sense did.
Loudly.
She reached out, fingers hovering over the glass.
The hum of Cael’s reclaimed pieces in the coal room thrummed faintly in answer.
“Reyes?” Halpern called from across the room. “You with us?”
She dropped her hand.
“Yes,” she said. “Just… thinking about Schmiedler rolling in his grave.”
Halpern snorted.
“One can hope,” he said.
***
The coal room felt smaller every time she entered it.
Not physically.
Energetically.
Crowded.
Alive.
Cael sat at the center of his ring of reclaimed hoard, the crown resting on a folded tarp before him, the sword at his side, the chalice and reliquary close at hand, the necklace looped around his wrist like a gauntlet.
He looked up when she slipped inside.
The air seemed to tilt toward him.
“How’s your head?” he asked.
The question took her off guard.
“I’ve had worse,” she said automatically, then winced. “Sorry. Reflex.”
His mouth quirked.
“You say that when I ask about many hurts,” he said. “It does not make them less.”
“It keeps me from falling apart between tasks,” she said.
He tilted his head, considering.
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “falling apart is a task you have been… postponing too long.”
Something in her chest flinched.
“Don’t start,” she said. “Tim already gave me the ‘you’re allowed to say no’ speech.”
“As he should,” Cael said. “He is… inconveniently wise.”
Her lips twitched.
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” she said. “His head won’t fit through the door.”
Cael’s gaze slid over her face, down to her thumb.
“Show me,” he said.
She frowned.
“Show you what?” she asked.
“Your… mark,” he said. “The scar. It shone when the thing in the cracks reached for you. I want to see it in the light.”
Her stomach fluttered.
“Buy me dinner first,” she muttered.
He blinked.
“Food is a precondition for examining injuries?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
She sighed.
“Joke,” she said.
“I am still learning your jokes,” he said.
His tone held no irritation.
Just simple fact.
Something in her softened.
She stepped closer and held out her hand.
The room’s dim light brushed over the pale line on her thumb.
To her eyes, it was barely visible.
To her *other* senses, it sang.
Cael took her hand carefully, his fingers large and warm around hers.
He didn’t grip.
He cradled.
The calluses on his palm scraped lightly against her skin, a rasp that sent a ridiculous little thrill up her arm.
He bent his head, studying the scar.
The rune-scars along his ribs glowed faintly in response.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“I feel objectified,” she said weakly.
“Good,” he said absently. “You are an object of great power.”
She snorted.
“Flatterer,” she said.
He lifted her thumb closer to his face.
Before she could protest, he brushed his lips lightly over the scar.
Heat shot up her arm like lightning.
Every nerve in her body lit.
Her knees wobbled.
Her breath stuttered.
Her vision blurred for a second, overlaid with a flash of gold and fire.
“Hey,” she gasped.
He pulled back, eyes dark.
“Sorry,” he said, and she was startled by the genuine contrition in his tone. “I did not think— I wanted to taste the magic. I did not expect…”
He trailed off.
She yanked her hand back, cradling it against her chest.
“You can’t just—” She struggled for words. “That’s— that’s—”
He frowned. “Offensive?” he asked. “In your customs?”
Her heart hammered.
“Yes,” she blurted. “And… no. It’s… intimate.”
He blinked slowly.
“More intimate than when I held you through the cracks between worlds?” he asked.
Her face flamed.
“That’s different,” she said. “We were… stealing. And panicking. And half in your hoard. This is… small. Specific. On *purpose.*”
He absorbed that.
“Consent,” he said slowly. “You did not give it.”
She exhaled, some of the sharpness bleeding out of her anger.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t. But… I also didn’t say no. Because I didn’t know you were going to do it.”
He nodded once.
“I will not do it again without asking,” he said.
Her cheeks warmed.
“Good,” she said. “Okay.”
He hesitated.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked.
She realized with a jolt that it… didn’t.
Not like before.
A dull ache remained, but the burning had eased.
“It’s… quieter,” she admitted. “You did something.”
He shrugged, offhand.
“I soothed it,” he said. “A little. Dragons know something of binding wounds.”
Her chest squeezed.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
His eyes met hers.
“You are welcome,” he said.
Silence stretched.
Not uncomfortable.
Charged.
She became acutely aware of how close they were.
Of the way his body heat rolled off him in waves, warming the cool, coal-scented air.
Of the faint, scorched-metal scent that clung to him.
Of the crown humming a low, pleased note between them.
She cleared her throat.
“So,” she said too brightly. “How mad is my dragon?”
His brows drew together.
“Your… which?” he asked.
She winced.
“Freudian slip,” she muttered. “I meant: how mad is the average dragon when someone else steals their stuff?”
He huffed.
“Very,” he said. “If someone had done to me what the Hammond thief did before I woke… I would have eaten them.”
“Comforting,” she said. “Given that someone else is still out there, glitching cameras.”
He sobered.
“Yes,” he said. “We must find it. Before it finds more paths.”
She thought of the static on Claire’s monitor. The shadow in the noise.
“Claire said there was a temperature anomaly under their foundation last week,” she said. “Like yours. Smaller. I think… whatever this thing is, it’s waking up, too. Or at least… sniffing around.”
“It liked the taste of your magic,” he said slowly. “When you held the crown. It tried to follow it back.”
“Like you,” she said. “Using the hoard-tunnel.”
He grimaced.
“Yes,” he said. “But I have… a right. It does not.”
She almost laughed.
“A dragon talking about ‘rights’ is not something I expected this week,” she said.
He smiled grimly.
“Dragons invented hoard law,” he said. “Humans turned it into… capitalism.”
She snorted.
“You’d get along with my mother’s priest,” she said.
He tilted his head.
“Your mother,” he said. “You have not told her.”
Her stomach clenched.
“No,” she said. “She’d douse me in holy water and call an exorcist. My father would offer you a discount on nails.”
He frowned.
“Nails,” he repeated.
“He owns a hardware store,” she explained. “They sell… human hoard items. For building. Fixing. Hanging things.”
“Ah,” he said. “Iron. I like iron.”
Of course he did.
She hesitated.
“I should go see them,” she admitted. “Soon. They worry when I don’t show up for Sunday dinner.”
“Is today Sunday?” he asked.
She blinked.
“Yes,” she said. “You’ve been awake four days.”
He looked faintly startled.
“Time slips,” he said. “Down here. In there.” He nodded toward the crown.
“Welcome to hourly work,” she said.
His gaze sharpened.
“You should go,” he said. “See your family. Your sister of the mouth will be there?”
She smiled despite herself.
“Maya’s not blood,” she said. “But yes. Probably.”
He nodded once.
“Good,” he said. “She will make you laugh. You need it.”
Warmth unfurled in her chest.
“You… notice a lot,” she said.
“I have had three hundred years to practice watching,” he said. “You are… more interesting than stone.”
Her heart did a stupid swoop.
“Don’t tell the gargoyles,” she said.
He smiled.
She turned to go, then paused, hand on the door.
“Try not to steal anything while I’m gone,” she said. “Including security guards’ sandwiches.”
He looked offended.
“I am not a raccoon,” he said.
She arched a brow.
“Tim said you tried to eat Sam,” she reminded him.
“I threatened,” he corrected. “I did not… snack.”
Her lips twitched.
“Progress,” she said. “See you tonight.”
“Isla,” he said.
She glanced back.
“Be careful,” he said simply.
Her throat tightened.
“You too,” she said.
Then she fled before she could do something idiotic, like cross the room and kiss him.
***
Her parents’ house smelled like it always had: frying garlic, laundry detergent, the faint metallic tang of the hardware store below.
Her mother was at the stove when Isla let herself in the back door, wooden spoon in hand, rosary beads wrapped loosely around her wrist.
“¡Mija!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. “You didn’t say you were coming. Look at you, so skinny. Sit, sit.”
Isla let herself be shepherded into a chair at the scarred kitchen table.
“I texted Papá,” she said. “He said you had stew.”
Her mother clicked her tongue.
“Your father always forgets to tell me things,” she said. “Thank God for you.” She cupped Isla’s face briefly. “You look tired.”
“I hit my head,” Isla said.
Her mother froze.
“You what,” she demanded.
“Lightly,” Isla said quickly. “At work. I fainted. It’s fine. Doctor said mild concussion. I’m resting.”
Her mother made a sign of the cross over her.
“Dios mío,” she breathed. “You and those old things. I tell you, it is not good to spend all day with bones and curses.”
“Most of my objects are blessed, actually,” Isla said. “Lots of saints.”
Her mother sniffed.
“Saints get tired of being stared at,” she said. “They start to look back.”
Isla didn’t argue.
Not anymore.
Her father came up from the store a few minutes later, wiping his hands on a rag.
“Look who the saints dragged in,” he said, grinning. “My girl.”
He hugged her carefully, mindful of her head.
“How’s business?” she asked, inhaling the familiar scent of sawdust and metal on his shirt.
“People still need screws,” he said. “World ends, someone will want a hammer for it.”
Her chest tightened.
“You have no idea,” she murmured.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just… museum drama.”
Over stew and rice and her mother’s suspicious looks, she kept her answers vague.
Yes, the Hammond break-in was scary.
Yes, she was being careful.
Yes, she was sure she didn’t need to come home and work in the store instead.
Her mother crossed herself again when Isla mentioned fainting.
“You need to go to church,” she said. “Light a candle. Ask the Virgin to keep you safe from… whatever is waking down there.”
Isla’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.
“Waking,” she repeated carefully.
Her mother shrugged.
“The city is old,” she said. “We build and build, but the bones are still there. Your abuela used to say, ‘Don’t dig where the dead sleep. They don’t like roommates.’”
Her father chuckled.
“And then she married me,” he said. “Biggest ghost in the neighborhood.”
Her mother smacked his arm with the spoon.
Isla smiled tightly.
Her mind whirred.
“Did Abuela ever… say more?” she asked. “About… things under the city?”
Her mother gave her a sharp look.
“Why?” she asked. “Did your saints start talking?”
“Just curious,” Isla hedged.
Her mother watched her for a beat longer, then sighed.
“She told stories,” she said grudgingly. “About the old fort. San Bartolomé. Soldiers hearing roars at night. Priests saying it was the devil. Children saying it was a dragon.”
Her heart kicked.
“A dragon,” she echoed.
Her mother made a face.
“Stories,” she said. “For scaring children into staying away from the river. Your abuela liked drama.”
“Runs in the family,” her father said.
Isla’s thoughts spun.
If Abuela had heard stories… how far back did the knowledge go? How many people had sensed something under the city and turned it into folklore?
She wanted to dig.
To ask more.
To pull out her notebook and start a timeline of dragon rumors through the centuries.
Her concussion throbbed a warning.
Next right move, she reminded herself.
Right now, that was stew and family and letting herself be fussed over.
Later, she’d ask her father if Abuela’s stories had ever been written down.
Later.
She stayed until the streetlights came on, listening to her mother gossip about the church ladies and her father complain about kids buying hammers for TikTok “projects.”
When Maya texted *bring leftovers or I’ll fight your mom,* Isla packed a container and kissed her parents goodbye.
“Be careful, mija,” her mother said, hugging her tight. “Don’t bring work home with you.”
“Too late,” Isla muttered into her shoulder.
***
Maya’s apartment smelled like nail polish and Netflix.
She grabbed the Tupperware like a woman starved.
“Bless you,” she said. “How’s the concussion? Did hot dragon man visit your dreams?”
“No dreams,” Isla said, flopping onto the couch. “He texted.”
Maya’s eyes sparkled.
“You gave him your number,” she sing-songed.
“He stole it out of my head,” Isla corrected. “Boundaries are a work in progress.”
Maya stabbed a piece of potato with her fork.
“Baby steps,” she said. “So. Catch me up. How was your night of crime?”
Isla groaned.
“Awful. Terrifying. Weirdly exhilarating,” she admitted. “We stole the crown.”
Maya squealed, muffling it with her hand so the neighbors wouldn’t complain.
“You are living my Netflix queue,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
Isla did.
Skipping some details.
Tweaking others.
Keeping Cael’s lips on her thumb to herself.
By the time she was done, Maya’s eyes were huge.
“Okay,” she said. “Pros: you have a dragon crown. Cons: there is a glitch ghost trying to eat your soul. Also you’re lying to your boss and your new friend and possibly the entire museum ecosystem. How are you not chewing your nails off?”
“I am,” Isla said, wiggling her fingers. “On the inside.”
Maya considered her.
“You like him,” she said.
Isla blinked.
“Tim?” she stalled.
“Also Tim,” Maya said. “But I meant the dragon. Cael. You like him.”
She opened her mouth to deny it.
Closed it.
“I don’t know him,” she said instead. “He’s… intense. And stubborn. And infuriating. And he kissed my thumb without asking.”
Maya choked.
“Is that a euphemism?” she demanded.
“No,” Isla said. “Literal thumb.”
Maya cackled.
“That’s so much worse than if it was a metaphor,” she said. “What did that do to your poor little academic heart?”
Isla pressed her hand over said heart.
“Confused it,” she admitted. “A lot.”
Maya sobered.
“Look,” she said. “I tease because I love. But real talk? Power dynamics. Consent. Dude’s not just older, he’s, like, pre-Declaration-of-Independence older. He’s literally not human. You are. There’s magic junk binding you two together. You can’t rush into anything… intimate until you know where you actually stand with each other. Not just where the magic tug-of-war puts you.”
Isla exhaled slowly.
“I know,” she said. “He’s… trying. In his own… dragon way. But half the time, he doesn’t even know what he’s doing wrong until after he’s done it.”
“Then you keep telling him,” Maya said. “He either learns or you roast his ass. Preferably not literally. That’s his job.”
A laugh bubbled up.
It eased some of the tightness in her chest.
“You make it sound so simple,” Isla said.
“It’s not,” Maya said. “But neither is cataloging a hundred unlabeled relics. And you did that. This is just… emotional provenance.”
Isla groaned.
“Don’t turn my love life into a metadata problem,” she said.
“Love life,” Maya repeated, pouncing. “Interesting phrase choice.”
“Get out of your own apartment,” Isla said.
Maya cackled again.
Then sobered.
“Whatever happens,” she said, “I’m on your side. If Dragon Drama hurts you, I will figure out how to spray him with holy water from a Super Soaker.”
Warmth flooded Isla.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Maya said. “I also fully intend to ask him embarrassing questions about dragon anatomy if I ever meet him.”
Isla groaned.
“He will not know what to do with you,” she said.
“Perfect,” Maya said smugly.
***
By the time Isla crawled into her own bed that night, her head throbbed again.
Not like the stabbing post-concussion pain.
More like… overuse.
Too much thinking.
Too much feeling.
She lay in the dark, staring at the cracks in her ceiling.
“Next right move,” she whispered.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
She didn’t pick it up.
She didn’t have to.
*Sleep,* Cael’s voice brushed the inside of her mind, softer than a whisper.
She considered telling him off.
Telling him he didn’t get to just… slide into her skull whenever he felt like it.
She was too tired.
*No dreams,* she thought at him. *Doctor’s orders.*
A low, amused rumble answered.
*I will keep the thing in the cracks occupied,* he promised. *Rest, curator.*
She wanted to ask how.
She didn’t.
She let darkness take her.
Somewhere under the city, a dragon sat in a ring of gold and memory and watched the thin, invisible fissures under the foundations for anything that wasn’t his.
He was not used to guarding anything but his own.
Now, he guarded hers, too.
He didn’t know yet what that meant.
He would.
Soon.
***
End of Chapter Nine.
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