Battle Ground, Indiana

Claire didn't make promises often. She didn't like the obligation that came along with them. In this instance, she knew she had to. How did she know? She couldn't have said. It wasn't the gold, though that was a perk. Instead, some unexplainable feeling drove her to it, just as it made her chase the dragon into her cornfield and rescue it.

When she gave him her word, Cyrus visibly relaxed. In fact, he flashed her a charming smile. It disarmed her more than she cared to admit. Men weren't supposed to make her jittery, not when she was dealing with the fallout created by Jake.

"Your reassurance, my lady, means a great deal. Now"—his brown eyes narrowed—"it is my turn to ask questions."

She sputtered, caught off guard. "What do you want to know?" Giving up on her oatmeal, she pushed the bowl away.

"A few things. First, out of curiosity, do you live here alone? It does not seem so."

"Oh, no, I don't." She relaxed her shoulders. "This is my parents' house, actually. They're away on vacation." Her parents went to Florida every year with their friends. "And you won't find me complaining. This is the first alone time I've had since moving back here." She failed to hide the bitterness in her voice. It wasn't easy living with her parents, especially after four years of college and freedom.

"I see," said Cyrus. "Perhaps you are luckier than you realize. My mother and father are no longer with me."

"Oh. I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"Your apology is unnecessary. We all lose the ones we love sooner or later." The depths of his eyes reflected sadness, but when he next spoke, his voice was back to its old self. "Earlier when I dressed, I looked at my wound." He shifted in his chair, sitting up straighter. "I find myself impressed with your work."

She choked and coughed, patting her chest. "Impressed? I did a sloppy job."

"Be that as it may, where I come from, females are not often healers."

"You mean doctors?"

He shook his head. "I mean healers, skilled in the art of setting a broken bone, or stitching a man together."

"Oh." She shrugged. "Well, here, women are plenty capable of doing as good a job as any man."

He held up his hands. "That is not what I meant. I simply find it impressive. Lucky for me, you possessed the knowledge necessary to keep me from dying." Cyrus was right, any other cornfield and he probably would have.

"Lucky for you, my dad is a surgeon, or at least, he was."

"A surgeon?" The word rolled off his tongue with difficulty.

"A healer," she clarified. "Before my grandpa died and left him the farm, Dad was a surgeon. Now whenever anything happens, he's the first person everyone calls." It was true, their phone was known to ring at all hours.

What she didn't say was how her grandpa's death was the best thing that had happened to their family. She'd been nine at the time, and she loved her gramps, but she never really knew her dad until he was forced to leave his position at Arnett Hospital and take over the family farm.

Cyrus smiled. It didn't reach his eyes, but it was kind. "I can tell by the way you speak, your father must be a great man."

She nodded. "Yes. Yes, he is."

"And it explains a great deal about your abilities." His warm gaze was filled with admiration, though she didn't feel deserving of such praise.

"I did what I had to do given the circumstances. You're making it sound like I'm a big deal. I'm not."

Cyrus shook his head. "I beg to differ. After all, you chased away my assailants."

"Uhm..." Her eyebrows pulled together. "What assailants?"

"The Vodar wraiths." Her arms erupted in goosebumps. "How is it that you singlehandedly defeated them? That's ultimately what I'd like to know."

"You mean, the...the somethings we talked about?" she whispered. Her eyes darted towards the windows.

"Yes, Claire, the somethings that have hunted me for weeks."

"I thought you defeated them. I thought that was why..."

Hadn't he said there was a possibility the somethings might return for the Stones, and that he would try to protect her if they did.

"After I was wounded, I lost consciousness and fell. That is when you found me, I presume. I assumed you chased them away to get to my body, or defeated them to save me."

She shook her head in disbelief. "I never defeated anything, Cyrus. How...how could I? I mean, the only thing I'm remotely capable of defeating are zombies in Call of Duty, and even then, I die every time."

He arched an eyebrow. "You do not look dead to me."

"Oh, never mind! Look, when I found your body in the cornfield, you were alone."

"What about when you saw me fall from the sky?"

"There was nothing there, I swear. Nothing that I could see." She watched a newly forming scowl pull at his lips. "You were alone."

It was hesitant, but he nodded turning his gaze away from her where it settled on the breakfast bar. Then he muttered to himself, "It simply makes no sense. Where could they have gone? Vodar wraiths are relentless. They would not simply give up. Not unless..."

"Cyrus?" His brown eyes returned to her face. "Uh, what exactly..." She swallowed. "What exactly is a Voda-thingy?"

"Vodar," he corrected.

"Vodar," she repeated. The strange word was heavy and harsh as it rolled off her tongue, as if it might cut her mouth on its way out. "What is it?"

"They are demon wraiths summoned from Undirfold. Assassins—dark hunters—who stop at nothing to kill their prey. One might consider them the harbingers of death, for they themselves embody death. They carry short swords infused with poison, and if stabbed, these weapons bring about a most painful end. Worst of all, they can never be killed, only temporarily banished. Once summoned, they will not rest until their work is done."

She opened and closed her mouth several times. The only sound that came out when she tried to speak was a squawk. At last she managed to stammer, "You...you're...you're only joking...right?"

"If only." He licked his lips and glanced at the windows again. Any less emotion and she wouldn't have believed him. But seeing his obvious fear, that made it ten times worse.

"Why are they after the Stones? The..." She wanted to say their name, but she couldn't stomach it. "The demon things, why do they want the Stones so badly?"

He closed his eyes and exhaled. "I think perhaps that is a story for another time. I must...rest." His tanned face was paper white. He gripped his injured side then winced.

She cursed under her breath. She'd been so caught up in the tale he'd spun that she forgot how injured he was. "Come on, let's get you to bed." Unyielding desire to care for him burned through her. It was a little strange, because she never felt this protective or nurturing towards anyone. She took his hand and led him from the kitchen. He didn't protest.

His skin was burning up, but she kept her lips pressed together. Telling him how bad his condition was, though she wanted to, was unnecessary. He clearly understood what was happening.

"You can sleep here," she said. They stood in the downstairs guest room suite. Its plush bed was covered with way too many throw pillows. Her mom loved throw pillows the way she loved books.

"Thank you, Claire." He dropped her hand and immediately began surveying the room, lifting objects to study them, looking out of the windows, displaying obvious paranoia. He opened and shut the closet doors then checked inside closed dresser drawers. Then he got on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. Did he expect to find one of the wraiths hiding there?

He popped back up. "No chamber pot?"

"No—what?" She must have given him the ugliest confused face she could muster, unintentionally of course.

"I need to relieve myself."

"Um...That's what the bathroom is for."

"Perhaps you misunderstand me. I do not need to bathe. I am quite clean. I washed up this morning in the basin I found within the barn."

"The water trough?" Her eyes widened, though she shouldn't have expected anything less. "That was the cows' drinking water, you dummy!"

"I see. I am sure the beasts did not mind."

She resisted the urge to laugh. Instead, she marched up to him, grabbed his arm, and led him to the small bathroom adjoining the room. Once there, she flipped on the light.

He immediately gasped. "There is magic here! I had wondered. How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That magic. The light. I heard no incant from your lips."

She shook her head. When she showed him, he began flipping the light switch on and off, smiling gleefully. "Incredible," he whispered. "We have no magic like this."

Cute as it was, she interrupted his surprise, pointing at the toilet. "There—that's the toilet."

His eyes followed the direction of her finger. "Splendid! I am not accustomed to seeing pit toilets in common households. This one is most elegant, like a throne of ivory."

"Are you kidding me?" Her nose flared, betraying the laughter she held in.

If he didn't know what a toilet was, he wasn't going to know how to use one. She stepped forward to instruct him. "Make sure you lift the lid and the seat when you need to take a pee, and close the lid when you're done." She flushed the toilet.

He gaped at her. "But, where does the water go?"

"Into the septic tank."

"Sep-sep-tic-tank?"

"Oh, good God!" She gave up, leaving him to do his business.

***

Claire found him later, fast asleep with an arm carelessly thrown over his face. His Sverak was beside him on the bed. Standing in the doorway, she watched him sleep for a few minutes. She still had her doubts about him, but he was growing on her. Innocence worked in his favor, adding to his undeniable charm. Her regard slid over his face. He was almost too handsome. Looks like his should have been illegal.

"'Where does the water go?'" she silently mouthed, mimicking him before rolling her eyes. Okay, his ignorance was pretty adorable. Once she'd hunted down more of her dad's old clothes, she left them at the foot of his bed. Then she closed his door, leaving it open a crack so that she could peek in on him.

She took note of the time. Her heart jolted. Reality came flooding back. Mail was delivered at 1:00 p.m. each afternoon. Now would be a perfect time to step out for some fresh air.

She strode from the house, breathing deeply. It wasn't terribly hot, but the humidity was rather oppressive. She went down the gravel drive to the mailbox. She faltered when she passed her car, and popped inside to grab her dead phone, slipping it into her pocket. She'd take care of the car later. She was too intent on what lay ahead. Any day now, a very important letter was due to arrive. The suspense was unbearable.

When she grabbed the stack of envelopes, she flipped through them. Today was the day, somehow she just knew it. Her self-addressed envelope was there, slipped into the pile. For a moment she stood, unbelieving, as it stared her in the face. "Finally," she breathed.

Dropping the rest of the mail on the dusty ground, she tore into it and pulled out the letter. Her hands trembled. The letterhead on the top bore the official White House logo. "Dear Ms. Evans," she skipped over the introduction. "Thank you for your application to the White House Public Service Leadership Program," blah, blah, blah. She quickly skimmed down the page to the next paragraph. "We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for this year's group of interns."

"No..." Her face fell. She read the words again, and again, expecting them to change. There must have been a mistake. Her application was stellar. Even her professors' letters of recommendation were flawless. She crumpled the letter in her fist and chucked it into the field. Then she cursed and raced to retrieve it, straightening it before grabbing the rest of the mail on the ground. Once more she read the crushing sentence of rejection. Angry tears welled up in her eyes. She brushed them away. All her plans, all her hopes, hinged on this one frigging piece of paper.

She glanced around her, unseeing, as her mind raced. The surrounding cornfields felt more like a prison now. She refused to allow this small town to trap her. What else could she do? She could try to make it the hard way, and she knew exactly what that entailed. She could move to the state capital, fight over some unpaid internship with a bunch of other candidates, and work nights in some grimy bar to make rent.

This news was devastating.

"I'll get through it," she whispered. She always managed. Somehow.

She read the remainder of the letter. The words were useless, encouraging her to apply to other, similar, internships. The White House opportunity was a one-shot internship for new graduates, and she'd blown it.

When she trudged back up the gravel drive, all the spring in her step was gone. She was in no mood to work that afternoon. Shannon's would have to survive without her. Plus, she wasn't going to leave Cyrus alone in her home. She sent a quick text to her best friend Leah, claiming to be sick.

For the remainder of the afternoon she was sullen. She tried to get her mind off of her disappointment by watching Netflix, Facebooking, and then reading. Nothing worked.

At last, she decided to get a start on the brunch dishes so that she could prep for dinner. When she went back in the kitchen, she noticed the small stack of gold still sitting on the breakfast bar. She plucked it up, studying the coins. Each one had a dragon-head moniker on one side with the word, Dreki. On the back was a tree. The dragon obviously represented the Drengr, but what about the tree? She stuffed the coins in her pocket and got to work, all the while her mind was lost in thought, wondering about Cyrus and his world.

She started loading the dishwasher when she heard a familiar sound and froze to listen. Tires crunching on gravel. She set a clean dish on the countertop. Who could possibly be dropping by without warning? It was dead-week. Like her parents, all the farm hands were on vacation.

Her mind went to Cyrus, fast asleep in the downstairs bedroom. Was it the sheriff? Had one of her neighbors spotted the falling dragon and reported it? How would she explain his presence in her house? This was the worst possible time for visitors. She walked to the living room and peered out the front window.

"Oh, shit." Her stomach did a flip, two flips in fact, and not the good kind, but the ones where you feel the blood drain from your face, and your palms get all sweaty. A white Ford Raptor came to a halt where she usually parked her Honda Civic. "Shit," she muttered again, wiping her wet hands on her apron. This wasn't happening, was it? Not now. She blinked several times in a panic. What the hell was Jake-the-ballbag doing in her flipping driveway? This wasn't going to end well.

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