Nightwing Quotes

The NightWings are going to set their heads on fire,” Qibli agreed. “No, wait. They’re going to set the closest IceWing’s head on fire. Winter, I hope your skull is as thick as it looks.

How did you know they were there?" Glory asked. "Oh wait, I forgot, NightWings are all-knowing, all-seeing and all-brilliant, right?" "Don't forget al-wonderful and all-brilliant.

It was good to see her laugh. Even if it was at me.

The queen of the NightWings wants to see you.

The last cage in the hallway contained a NightWing. This was where Flame stopped and rapped on the bars with one claw. Not just any NightWing: Deathbringer.

I have to see Glory right now,” he said to Tsunami. “The NightWings are planning to attack tonight.” She gasped, and the trees around her all gasped at the same time. Tsunami turned to frown at the apparently empty branches. “I told you all you could go back to the village,” she said. “I don’t need a bodyguard. I can take care of myself.” Nobody answered. Tsunami sighed.

We are not leaving Deathbringer!” Glory grabbed Fatespeaker. “Point the way and I’ll go by myself. Starflight, get out of here. Get everyone off the island.” Deathbringer? Starflight opened and closed his mouth. He hadn’t realized that rescuing the NightWing assassin was even on Glory’s agenda, let alone that it was important enough to risk an erupting volcano for. But she’s right. He risked everything for us — for her.

Y'know, a lot of the time it's like you Batguys want me to hold onto the past because you can't get over it. Understand— I have. I have a new life now. One I like — one that fulfills me. It's not the same as the one I had before, but it's good. Maybe even better.

The corpse of a NightWing guard lay beneath the dirt in a hastily dug hollow,

We’ll be like the MudWings,” Clay said proudly. “We stick together. No matter what happens. We’re a team, and we look after one another. Which means the first thing we have to do is find Starflight. The NightWings can’t just take him away. He’s one of us, and we’ll search the whole world until we find him. It’s time for us to get our friend ba —” He stopped as a heavy thump shook the ground and wings flapped to a stop behind him. The others were staring over his shoulder. “That better not be who I think it is,” said Clay. “Found him!” Glory said gleefully. Clay turned around. Starflight stood, blinking, in the waving grass just outside the trees.

For the first time, I notice the lax skin at Mrs. Nightwing's jaw, the fine down that lies upon her cheek like the imprint of a childe's hand, and I wonder what it must be like watching yourself soften under the years, unable to stop it. what it's like measuring your days in perfecting girls' curtsies and drinking nightly glasses of sherry, trying to keep up with the world as it pulls you spinning into the furure, knowing you are always one step behind it.

You never know if you can fly unless you take the risk of falling.

Mrs. Nightwing glances at the box in my hands. She clears her throat."I understand you've decided against Mr. Middleton."... It's best to be sure, through and through," she says, keeping her eyes steadfastly on the girls running and playing on the lawn. "Else you could find yourself one day coming home to an empty house, save for a note: I've gone out. You could wait all night for him to return. Nights turn into weeks, to years. It's horrible, the waiting. You can scarcely bear it. And perhaps years later on holiday in Brighton, you see him, walking along the boardwalk as if out of some dream. No longer lost. Your heartbeat quickens. You must call out to him. Someone else calls first. A pretty young woman with a child. He stops and bends to lift the child into his arms. His child. He gives a furtive kiss to his young wife. He hands her a box of candy, which you know to be Chollier's chocolates. He and his family stroll on. Something in you falls away. You will never be as you were. What is left to you is the chance to become something new and unsure. But at least the waiting is over.

It’s because you’re half NightWing.

Morrowseer shook his head. “Some NightWings think so, but none of our scientists have been able to find any when they examine our tribe’s corpses. Nor have we had any success replicating RainWing venom shooting.” He scowled at the bird and abruptly ripped off one if its wings. “You may have this,” he said ungenerously, tossing it at Starflight. Starflight

Several RainWings stood by the water, in shades of blue and purple, holding NightWing spears.

Having lost our present and our future, we had of necessity to bend all our endeavors to the past, which no one could take from us if only we were vigilant enough.

Because trust earned by action is always better than words.

I AM,” Peril said. She thought MUSHROOMS AND MONGOOSES at the NightWing as loud as she could, and Moon started giggling.

If only Jason could have reached out to us. Any one of us. He could have saved himself. But you know what? Some people don't want to be saved. Because saving means changing. And changing is aways harder then staying the same. It takes courage to face yourself in the mirror and look beyond the reflection. To find the you that you should have ben. The you who got derailed by crul childhood events. Events that took your life's natural trajectory and twisted it. Changing it into something unmaginable... or even incredible...... giving you thecourage to embrace your birthright, you destiny, and finaly realize... that you ARE BATMAN.

We used to chase each other like this. Two kids flirting in a way only a handful of people on Earth could ever match. He with his acrobatics, and me with my ballet.

When he was rough, my body soared. When he was gentle, he slayed me.

She wants me to take what magic I have left and blot every memory of this evening from their minds. To make them forget so that they can carry on as before. There will always be Cecilys, Marthas, and Elizabeths of the world - those who cannot bear the burden of truth. They will drink their tea. Weigh their words. Wear hats against the sun. Squeeze their minds into corsets, lest some errant thought should escape and ruin the smooth illusion they hold of themselves and the world as they like it. It is a luxury, this forgetting. No one will come to take away the things I wish I had not seen, the things I wish I did not know. I shall have to live with them. I wrench away from her grip. "Why should I?" I do it anyways. Once I am certain the girls are asleep, I creep into their rooms, one by one, and lay my hands across their furrowed brows, which wear the trouble of all they've witnessed. I watch while those brows ease into smooth, blank canvases beneath my fingers. It is a form of healing, and I am surprised by how much it heals me to do it. When the girls awake, they will remember as strange dream of magic and blood and curious creatures and perhaps a teacher they knew whose name will not spring to their lips. They might strain to remember it for a moment, but then they will tell themselves it was only a dream best forgotten. I have done what Mrs. Nightwing said I should do. But I do not take all their memories from them. I leave them with one small token of the evening: doubt. A feeling that perhaps there is something more. It is nothing more than a seed. Whether it shall grow into something more useful, I cannot say.

We abandon our backboards along with our decorum, racing for the stairs and the promise of freedom, however temporary it may be. "Walk!" Mrs. Nightwing shouts. When we cannot seem to heed her advice, she bellows after us that we are savages not fit for marriage. She adds that we shall be the shame of the school and something else besides, but we are down the first flight of stairs, and her words cannot touch us.

Sometimes I actually stare at your eyes instead of your rack, baby. That’s how fucking much I love you.” —Piper Nightwings, Renegade Rider from Hell

ALL RIGHT, NIGHTWING, HERE’S A BLANK SCROLL. GO AHEAD AND TRY TO CONVINCE ME THAT YOU’RE A DRAGON WHO EVEN DESERVES TO LIVE, LET ALONE ONE I SHOULD WASTE MY TIME ON. I DO ENJOY BEING AMUSED.

He is a symbol. He is a legend. He is immortal. He is incorruptible. He is Batman. I am not him. When I die, he will live. Batman has no secret identity. He has no other. He is no one. He has only hosts--mere mortal men who don this suit, this symbol, to continue his crusade. He isn't a hero. He is a cure, a cure to the virus of the human condition. He is exactly like his enemies, and yet strikingly different. He is just as swift, strong, and smart as them, just as brutal, but in the other direction. He will never kill, and he will never die. He has no name. He is Batman.

We’ll be like the MudWings,” Clay said proudly. “We stick together. No matter what happens. We’re a team, and we look after one another. Which means the first thing we have to do is find Starflight. The NightWings can’t just take him away. He’s one of us, and we’ll search the whole world until we find him. It’s time for us to get our friend ba —” He stopped as a heavy thump shook the ground and wings flapped to a stop behind him. The others were staring over his shoulder. “That better not be who I think it is,” said Clay. “Found him!” Glory said gleefully.

Age is a scalpel, cutting out bits of what we are. Second after second. Day after day. Year after year

Huh. Redheads. What is it about redheads?

Batwoman: "What was it like growing up with him?" Nightwing: "When I was a kid, I idolized him. Hell... I wanted to be him. But the older I got, the more I realized that I didn't know him at all. How could I? Bruce Wayne is as much a mask as Batman. And I think the only thing behind those masks is pain. A pain he refuses to share with anyone." Batwoman: "So what was it like?" Nightwing: "Lonely.

You weren't the perfect father but that's okay because -- probably nobody's a perfect father. No family's perfect, either. I was lucky. I was privileged. Not because of the big house and the money, but because you gave me a lot of yourself. You taught me, you showed me, you encouraged me -- you never lied to me and you never demanded that I be anything I’m not. I didn’t imitate you because you insisted that I do so, but because I wanted to. Of all the men I knew, you were most worthy of imitation. Then I blamed you for letting me be who I was. Pretty dumb. You and Alfred gave me a home and you gave me what we don't mention. The L word. You were the best family I could have had. Thanks.

I don't know why you decided to wear that costume, but it makes you a symbol. Just as Robin was a symbol. Or Superman, or Nightwing, or the policeman who wears his uniform. And this isn't just a symbol of the law, it's a symbol of justice. When one policeman is killed, others take his place because justice can't be stopped.

You'll never know if you can fly unless you take the risk of falling.

visiting merchant RainWings or MudWings were sequestered from the NightWings instead of being invited to their parties and festivals.

He looked at the animus-touched bracelets on his wrists again, itching to use them against Darkstalker. He wanted to throw a lightning bolt into the NightWing’s grinning face.

nightwings regrouped. “What did you find?” asked Shadow.

like the way visiting merchant RainWings or MudWings were sequestered from the NightWings instead of being invited to their parties and festivals.

We’re trying to kill a NightWing dragonet!” Flame shouted. “Did you see where he went?” Wow, that was the wrong thing to say, Starflight thought.

THEY’RE HERE TO KILL OUR DRAGONETS!” shrieked the NightWing guard.

Wrong,” Snowfall snapped. “Objectively wrong. NightWings are NINE THOUSAND PERCENT evil.

I’m Ronan Nightwing, the designated representative of the Faerie Governing Council in the matter of the Hale family and the artifact.

Never stray from your own kind, Jessen,” my mother would say, “or you could end up like Princess Morga, a slave and outcast to be abhorred.” The problem was, I’d never been a very obedient daughter. Never the one to do exactly as I was told. And fairy tales have no meaning when the stars align and Fortune spins her wheel, weaving her own story for your heart.

I figured maybe I’d start by making friends with some other tribes first and gradually work my way back around to the NightWings, but you’re hardly a NightWing at all, so that’s OK, then.” Moon winced. “Hardly a NightWing at all” was essentially what she’d been hearing in the NightWings’ thoughts about her for months. It was a little brutal to hear someone just say it out loud.

NightWings will try to counter your sarcasm with more sarcasm, as though every conversation is a competition to see whose wit is more biting. No one ever stops to acknowledge that someone else was funny.

Earth fell,” said the Surgeon, “because the Will required us to atone for the sin our ancestors committed when they treated your ancestors like beasts. The quality of our poetry had nothing to do with it.

Is she safe to be around?” Winter asked harshly. “What do you think?” He tilted his head at Moon. “I AM,” Peril said. She thought MUSHROOMS AND MONGOOSES at the NightWing as loud as she could, and Moon started giggling.

I let myself feel everything. Just this once, I wanted it all. I let him push our passion to the cliff, let my body synchronize to his in perfect harmony. Just this once, I let more than my body fall over the edge. With him.

I often imagine what sort of position Nightwing might seek out were she not currently torturing us as headmistress of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. Dear Sirs, her letter might begin. I am writing to inquire about your advert for the position of Balloon Popper. I have a hatpin that will do the trick neatly and bring about the wails of small children everywhere. My former charges will attest to the fact that I rarely smile, never laugh, and can steal the joy from any room simply by entering and bestowing upon it my unique sense of utter gloom and despair. My references in this matter are impeccable. If you have not fallen into a state of deep melancholia simply by reading my letter, please respond to Mrs. Nightwing (I have a Christan name but no one ever has leave to use it) in care of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. If you cannot be troubled to find the address on your own, you are not trying your very best. Sincerely, Mrs. Nightwing.

Father’s eyes, like fragments of ice, studied Darkstalker’s every scale, and Darkstalker could feel the cold, congealing weight of Father’s resentment. “He looks every inch a NightWing,” Father growled. “Not a shred of me in him at all.” Suspicion,

I've been so many things, Bruce. Flying Grayson. Robin. Nightwing. Batman. Agent 37. All of them had one thing in common. They were all Dick Grayson. Helping my friends. Helping anyone who needs me. Beating the bad guys. That's who I am. Who you helped make me into.

Batman… and… Robin?” Nightwing leaped at him. His legs wrapped around the man’s torso and he spun, throwing him across the room. “It’s Nightwing, you moron,” he protested. “Nightwing and Batman. Robin was a little kid. Couldn’t have been more than four feet tall. Used

Do you have any other ideas for animus gifts?” he’d asked. “Only about eighty million!” she’d said. “Do you want to hear them all? Feel free to take notes in case your brain gets tired.” “Listen, NightWing, don’t you know you’re not supposed to talk to princes that way?

Oh, Snowfall realized. Because she’s listening to our thoughts. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR MY THOUGHTS, NIGHTWING! HERE’S ONE FOR YOU: I THINK YOUR ENTIRE TRIBE IS A BUNCH OF MALEVOLENT FIRE-SNORTING TOADS! Moon jumped slightly, gave Snowfall a wounded look, and followed Winter and Lynx off into the meadow.

Winter glanced over at Cirrus again and found him glaring at Moon and Kinkajou with an expression of searing hatred, so intense that Winter wanted to run across the clearing and fling up his wings to shield Moon from it. Cirrus had left the IceWings, but his loathing of NightWings clearly still ran deep.

This is Pyrrhia, where there are seven dragon tribes. There were seven queens. Then came a great war, a prophecy, a volcano … and after the War of SandWing Succession was over, a shift in the balance of power. Not everyone approves of the new SandWing queen. In fact, the only topic more controversial is the new queen of the NightWings. Can they hold on to their thrones? Should they? In the dungeon of the SandWing stronghold, two prisoners await … what? A trial? Imminent execution? They’re not exactly sure. They are NightWings, but they cannot go back to their tribe. They are in exile; they are too dangerous to be allowed to return. And yet: too complicated to be killed. (They hope.) So they wait, and scheme (well, one of them schemes. The other one is catching up on sleeping and eating). And they wonder what will happen to them. All they want is access to the most dangerous weapon of all: a chance to tell their own story. They are prisoners. But perhaps that is about to change.

Short version? An evil, black, flying chicken snatched me up in the middle of the night—” Rane muttered under his breath, “Nightwing raven.” She ignored him. “Brought me back to some other evil chickens.” “More nightwings.” “I killed them and came back.” She hesitated. “Some electric chickens ambushed me when I was almost back. Killed them, too.

It was as though our invaders had passed the word through the galaxies: SEE OLD EARTH NOW UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT.

And fairy tales have no meaning when the stars align and Fortune spins her wheel, weaving her own story for your heart.

Dick. I didn't fall. I jumped. I jumped because I knew you'd catch me.

I've finally got you back, Dick. If you think for a second I'm angry at you for this, even a little, then you've been gone far too long.

Where the bee sucks, there suck I. There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly.” 

One out of every five mammals on the face of the earth is a bat.

And he was the first crush I ever had that wasn't a scientist-- it's a different thing altogether. It made me a little peeved at myself, to be honest. Half the girls in Gotham City would have been happy just touching his jacket. I didn't want it to happen. But I'm human, all right? And for a while, we were better than kids with a crush. We were actually friends.

Aha, Qibli thought. That explains some things. She doesn’t have the same beaten-down yet insufferably smug aura of the other NightWings. Does she miss the rainforest? Or is she happy to finally be with other dragons? Was she lonely? Must have been alone a lot. Maybe she prefers it. Or maybe she’s not used to making friends. I could be her friend. Careful, Qibli. Figure her out first.

No? Then why do I feel like I’m under a spell, as if something is gripping me, and I’m helpless to free myself.” His voice dipped impossibly lower, more growl than words, his fingers lulling me.

For the guard with the scar over her heart: I’ve been watching you. You’re not like the other guards — the bowing, scraping, mindlessly loyal lizards who live for your queen. You have your own thoughts, don’t you? You’re smarter than the average SandWing. And I think I know your secret. Let’s talk about it. Third cell down, the one with two NightWings in it. I’m the one who doesn’t snore. I HAVE NO INTEREST IN DISCUSSING ANYTHING WITH A NIGHTWING PRISONER. WHOSE IDEA WAS IT TO LET YOU HAVE PAPER AND INK? You should be interested. You’re going to need allies for what you’re planning … and when I get out of here, I’m going to be a very useful ally indeed. AMUSING ASSUMPTIONS. MY QUEEN BELIEVES YOU’RE GOING TO BE IN HERE FOR A LONG, LONG TIME. True … but she also believes she’s going to be queen for a long, long time … doesn’t she. An interesting silence after my last note. Perhaps it would reassure you to know I set your notes on fire as soon as I’ve read them. You can tell me anything, my new, venomous-tailed friend. Believe me, Night-Wings are exceptionally skilled at keeping secrets. WE ARE NOT FRIENDS. I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT YOU, OTHER THAN WHAT IT SAYS IN YOUR PRISONER FILE. FIERCETEETH: TRAITOR. KIDNAPPER. RINGLEADER OF ASSASSINATION PLOT. TO BE HELD INDEFINITELY WITH FELLOW TRAITOR STRONGWINGS, ON BEHALF OF THE NIGHTWING QUEEN. OH, YES, CERTAINLY SOUNDS LIKE A DRAGON ANYONE CAN TRUST. She’s not my queen. You can’t be a traitor to someone who shouldn’t be ruling over you in the first place. Which might be a thought you’ve had lately yourself, isn’t it? I know some things about you, even without a file. Saguaro: Prison guard. Schemer. Connected to great secret plans. We’re not so different, you and I. Particularly when it comes to trustworthiness. Just think, if my alleged “assassination plot” had worked, the NightWings would have a different queen right now. Perhaps it would even be me. Well, if at first you don’t succeed … I could tell you my story, if you get me more paper to write on. Or you could stop by one midnight and listen to it instead. But I’ve noticed you don’t like spending too much time in the dungeon. Is it the tip-tap of little scorpion claws scrabbling everywhere? The stench rising from the holes in the floor? The gibbering mad SandWing a few cages down who never shuts up, all night long? (What is her story? Has she really been here since the rule of Queen Oasis?) Or is it that you can too easily picture yourself behind these bars … and you know how close you are to joining us? ALL RIGHT, NIGHTWING, HERE’S A BLANK SCROLL. GO AHEAD AND TRY TO CONVINCE ME THAT YOU’RE A DRAGON WHO EVEN DESERVES TO LIVE, LET ALONE ONE I SHOULD WASTE MY TIME ON. I DO ENJOY BEING AMUSED.

Now—” stretching up on tiptoe, to kiss me on the cheek—“let’s both be good, and truthful, and kind to each other, and let’s be happy together and have fun always.” xxii. SO I SPENT THE night—we ordered in, later, and then went back to bed. But though on some level it was all easy enough pretending everything was the same (because, in some way, hadn’t we both been pretending all along?) on another I felt nearly suffocated by the weight of everything unknown, and unsaid, pressing down between us, and later when she lay curled against me asleep I lay awake and stared out the window feeling completely alone.

You’re brilliant,” said Fox, tossing her wings wide and spinning on the balcony, letting the snow whirl around her. “And meanwhile, I’ll spread a rumor among the guards that something strange might be happening tomorrow night. If they see Arctic trying to escape with the NightWings, he won’t be able to change his mind and slither back. He’ll have to keep flying.” “Don’t let Queen Diamond find out, though,” Snowflake said.

We can destroy her easily. It wasn’t the biggest feeling the battling dragons were all having — that was fear. And now that fear was all anyone talked about: NightWings, hey, maybe they’re just like us! Maybe they’re scared of stuff, too! We can totally understand them! Snowfall seemed to be the only one who remembered those layers of doubt under everything else. At least, no one had ever dared to ask her, “Hey, did you happen to hear me thinking

Mightyclaws is working on it now,” Hope answered. She nodded at the dragonet crouched over a flat rock in the pavilion, drawing intently on a square piece of paper. Queen Glory sat beside him, her scales all gold and dark purple, watching quietly over his shoulder. Behind her, Deathbringer was eyeing the forest fiercely. Most NightWings had accepted earrings to free themselves from all of Darkstalker’s spells, even the ones that gave them extra powers.

trailed after them and Starflight reluctantly brought up the rear. He glanced back once and saw Fatespeaker huddled into her wings, a small drenched shape beside the vast bulk of Morrowseer. He hoped his friends would welcome her as the new NightWing when he was gone. I’m about to die, he thought, and I never got to tell Sunny I love her. I’m going to die without saving the world, without stopping the war … without ever doing one brave thing in my life.

What happened to your arm?" she asked me one night in the Gentleman Loser, the three of us drinking at a small table in a corner. Hang-gliding," I said, "accident." Hang-gliding over a wheatfield," said Bobby, "place called Kiev. Our Jack's just hanging there in the dark, under a Nightwing parafoil, with fifty kilos of radar jammed between his legs, and some Russian asshole accidentally burns his arm off with a laser." I don't remember how I changed the subject, but I did. I was still telling myself that it wasn't Rikki who getting to me, but what Bobby was doing with her. I'd known him for a long time, since the end of the war, and I knew he used women as counters in a game, Bobby Quine versus fortune, versus time and the night of cities. And Rikki had turned up just when he needed something to get him going, something to aim for. So he'd set her up as a symbol for everything he wanted and couldn't have, everything he'd had and couldn't keep. I didn't like having to listen to him tell me how much he loved her, and knowing he believed it only made it worse. He was a past master at the hard fall and the rapid recovery, and I'd seen it happen a dozen times before. He might as well have had next printed across his sunglasses in green Day-Glo capitals, ready to flash out at the first interesting face that flowed past the tables in the Gentleman Loser. I knew what he did to them. He turned them into emblems, sigils on the map of his hustler' s life, navigation beacons he could follow through a sea of bars and neon. What else did he have to steer by? He didn't love money, in and of itself , not enough to follow its lights. He wouldn't work for power over other people; he hated the responsibility it brings. He had some basic pride in his skill, but that was never enough to keep him pushing. So he made do with women. When Rikki showed up, he needed one in the worst way. He was fading fast, and smart money was already whispering that the edge was off his game. He needed that one big score, and soon, because he didn't know any other kind of life, and all his clocks were set for hustler's time, calibrated in risk and adrenaline and that supernal dawn calm that comes when every move's proved right and a sweet lump of someone else's credit clicks into your own account.

One thing Batman taught me. Don't fight when a nice "Later, dork" will do. Sigh. But then again, Batman has fought every friend and ally at least once...his and Superman's fights are their versions of getting a beer and talking about sports.

I see them now. My first thought is -- all of this for Damian? The son Batman never knew he had. Grandson to Ra's Al Ghul... and a kid no one can stand. And then I think... no... it's for Tim. For him, a thousand ninjas us just the start of what I would do.

eyes. She felt the changes shimmer across her scales. The hardest part was the extra horns IceWings had around their heads. She concentrated on making her ruff look like it was made of icicles and hoped that would do. She also couldn’t make her claws ridged like IceWing claws, and her tail wasn’t as whip-thin at the end as an IceWing’s would be. Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe there’s no way I’ll get away with it. But it was still pretty dark out . . . and she really, really wanted to know what a NightWing was doing out here. Well, she thought ruefully, if he figures me out, I guess I’ll just kill him. Somehow it didn’t sound as funny as she’d hoped. She leaped into the air and flew back to the spot where she’d seen the strange dragon. For a moment she was afraid she’d lost him, before she realized that he was lying down, his black scales half-hidden in the long shadows. Confidence, she told herself. It’s all about attitude. “Hey!” she barked, landing with a thump beside him. “Who are you, and what are you doing in our territory?” The NightWing leaped up in surprise and stared at her. He was a lot younger and smaller than Morrowseer, wiry and graceful in his movements even when he was startled. The silver scales sparkling under his wings caught the morning light like trapped stars. “Great moons. Where did you come from?” he asked. He looked up at the sky with a puzzled expression. “Where do you think?” she said. “And I’m asking the questions here. What are you doing in the Ice Kingdom?” “Technically this isn’t the Ice Kingdom yet,” he said. “Or didn’t you know that?” It isn’t? she thought. The map she’d memorized didn’t exactly have borders drawn on it, not that those would have helped her out here anyway.

There are other themes for poetry besides immersion in the Will, my friends. The love of person for person, the joy of defending one’s home, the wonder of standing naked beneath the fiery stars—” The invader laughed. “Can it be that Earth fell so swiftly because its only poets were poets of acquiescence to destiny?

Prince Arctic?” A silvery white dragon poked her head around the door, tapping three times lightly on the ice wall. Arctic couldn’t remember her name, which was the kind of faux pas his mother was always yelling at him about. He was a prince; it was his duty to have all the noble dragons memorized along with their ranks so he could treat them according to exactly where they fit in the hierarchy. It was stupid and frustrating and if his mother yelled at him about it one more time, he would seriously enchant something to freeze her mouth shut forever. Oooo. What a beautiful image. Queen Diamond with a chain of silver circles wound around her snout and frozen to her scales. He closed his eyes and imagined the blissful quiet. The dragon at his door shifted slightly, her claws making little scraping sounds to remind him she was there. What was she waiting for? Permission to give him a message? Or was she waiting for him to say her name — and if he didn’t, would she go scurrying back to the queen to report that he had failed again? Perhaps he should enchant a talisman to whisper in his ear whenever he needed to know something. Another tempting idea, but strictly against the rules of IceWing animus magic. Animus dragons are so rare; appreciate your gift and respect the limits the tribe has set. Never use your power frivolously. Never use it for yourself. This power is extremely dangerous. The tribe’s rules are there to protect you. Only the IceWings have figured out how to use animus magic safely. Save it all for your gifting ceremony. Use it only once in your life, to create a glorious gift to benefit the whole tribe, and then never again; that is the only way to be safe. Arctic shifted his shoulders, feeling stuck inside his scales. Rules, rules, and more rules: that was the IceWing way of life. Every direction he turned, every thought he had, was restricted by rules and limits and judgmental faces, particularly his mother’s. The rules about animus magic were just one more way to keep him trapped under her claws. “What is it?” he barked at the strange dragon. Annoyed face, try that. As if he were very busy and she’d interrupted him and that was why he was skipping the usual politic rituals. He was very busy, actually. The gifting ceremony was only three weeks away. It was bad enough that his mother had dragged him here, to their southernmost palace, near the ocean and the border with the Kingdom of Sand. She’d promised to leave him alone to work while she conducted whatever vital royal business required her presence. Everyone should know better than to disturb him right now. The messenger looked disappointed. Maybe he really was supposed to know who she was. “Your mother sent me to tell you that the NightWing delegation has arrived.” Aaarrrrgh. Not another boring diplomatic meeting.

She canted her wings and soared toward the top of it, where she could see a never-ending line of trees tossing violently in the wind. The hurricane made one more effort to throw her back into the sea, but she fought with her last reserves until she felt earth beneath her talons. She collapsed forward, clutching the wet soil for a moment, grateful to be alive. Keep going. They’re not safe yet. Clearsight pushed herself up and faced the trees. They were coming. The first two dragons she would meet in this strange new world. What would it be like to face unfamiliar tribes, completely different from the ones she knew? There wouldn’t be any NightWings like her here. No sand dragons, no sea dragons, no ice dragons. She’d glimpsed what these new dragons would look like, but she didn’t know anything yet about their tribes . . . or whether they would trust her. They stepped out of the trees, eyeing her with wary curiosity. Oh, they’re beautiful, she thought. One was dark forest green, the color of the trees all around them. His wings curved gracefully like long leaves on either side of him, and mahogany-brown underscales glinted from his chest. But it was the other who took Clearsight’s breath away. His scales were iridescent gold layered over metallic rose and blue, shimmering through the rain. He outshone even the RainWings she’d occasionally seen in the marketplace, and those were the most beautiful dragons in Pyrrhia. Not only that, but his wings were startlingly weird. There were four of them instead of two; a second pair at the back overlapped the front ones, tilting and dipping at slightly different angles from the first pair to give the dragon extra agility in the air. Like dragonflies, she realized, remembering the delicate insects darting across the ponds in the mountain meadows. Or butterflies, or beetles. She sat up and spread her front talons to show that she was harmless. “Hello,” she said in her very least threatening voice. The green one circled her slowly. The iridescent one sat down and gave her a small smile. She smiled back, although her heart was pounding. She knew she had to wait for them to make the first move. “Leefromichou?” said the green dragon finally, in a deep, calm voice. “Wayroot?” Take a breath. You knew it would be like this at first. “My name is Clearsight,” she said, touching her forehead. “I am from far over the sea.” She pointed at the churning ocean stretching way off to the east behind her. “Anyone speak Dragon?

HA,” Snowfall snorted. “I only have, like, seven non-magical weapons on me. We need THOUSANDS of weapons to drive these dragons away!” Lynx glanced down at her claws, as if she’d only just noticed that those were the only weapons she’d brought. “Really? Seven weapons?” “Yes, of course!” Snowfall said. She pointed to the spear on her back. “Spear.” Then to the knives in the sheaths at her wrists. “Knife, knife.” Then to the sheaths under her wings, the concealed pockets of her chain mail armor, and the pouch around her neck. “Knife, knife, throwing stars, poison.” She didn’t mention the other three hidden weapons, just in case Lynx was actually working for Crystal or the NightWings or had her own ulterior motives and was maybe planning to attack Snowfall as soon as she had her away from the castle unprotected. Well, ha ha, Snowfall had foiled her with those five guards! And the extra secret weaponry. And the totally being onto her!

The two strangers exchanged surprised glances. “The old language,” said the shimmering dragon, awkwardly and slowly, as if pulling the words from his memory bit by bit. “You do know it!” Clearsight said, hope darting through her veins. “Some little,” he said. “Much old.” He smiled again. The green dragon said something in their own language and nodded at the ocean. The other answered and they spoke for a few moments. If they had been a pair of NightWings, Clearsight would have guessed they were arguing, but their tone was so peaceful that she couldn’t really tell. “The old language” . . . I wonder if their continent and ours had more contact in the past. Maybe we will again in the future. I could teach them all Dragon, especially if some of them already know it. That way if any more Pyrrhians ever come this way, they could communicate. It was hard to imagine other dragons making the journey she’d just made, though. It was so far, and depended on finding those small islands in such a vast sea. But maybe she could help with that. Not soon, though. Not while I feel any temptation to wake Darkstalker. I can’t go back to Pyrrhia until I’ve forgotten him. So, probably never. “Whyer you here down?” the gold-pink dragon asked her. “There’s a really bad storm coming,” she said as clearly as she could. “Very bad.” He spread his wings and looked up, smiling into the raindrops. “See that,” he said with a shrug. “No.” She shook her head. “I see.” She pointed to her head. “I see the future. Tomorrow and tomorrow and the next day. I see all the days. This storm kills many dragons.” She waved her talons at the dripping forest around them. “Rips up many many trees.” Both dragons were frowning now. “Treeharm?” growled the green dragon. “Twigheartlots splinterfall?” “But you can save them,” Clearsight pressed on. The visions were crowding into her head; she was running out of time. She couldn’t be diplomatic and patient any longer. “We have to move everyone. All dragons, far far far inland, as far as they can fly, right now. And wait there until the storm is over.” She turned to the metallic dragon, her talons clasped together. “Please save them.” The moment teetered, two paths waveringly possible. Finally the shimmering dragon nodded. “Move all. We will do.” He said something in their language to the green dragon,

who nodded as well. The relief hit Clearsight so hard, she nearly had to lie down again. But the dragons beckoned her to follow them, and they all took off, flying cautiously through the storm-tossed treetops. Dragons appeared between the leaves as she swept through the forest with her two companions, all of them watching her with startled curiosity. Most of them were dark green and brown with leaf-shaped wings. That’s their name in Dragon, she realized from a new cascade of visions. LeafWings. But about a quarter of them were the other tribe, the one Clearsight didn’t have a name for yet, and those glittered like jewels on the branches: gold and blue and purple and orange and every color of the rainbow. She saw a tiny lavender dragonet clinging to a branch, and for a moment Clearsight was alarmed to see that she didn’t have any wings. Then she spotted little wingbuds on the dragonet’s back and remembered—or foresaw, or remembered foreseeing—that the glittering tribe grew their wings a few years after hatching. Growing up wingless . . . that must be so strange. Clearsight’s mind flashed to that other vision, the horrible one, where this dragonet had been one of the many bodies left in the hurricane wreckage. But instead, tomorrow the little dragon would wake up and chase butterflies in the sunlight, complaining that she wanted blackberries for breakfast. I saved her. I did something right. The green dragon called out in a booming voice like a bell tolling. Whatever he said, the dragons around them repeated it, passing it along. Clearsight could hear the echoes of other dragon voices rolling through the forest. She felt the drumming wingbeats behind her as both tribes rose into the air and followed them to safety. “You save us,” said the shimmering dragon, looping around to fly beside Clearsight. He smiled at her again. “You safe now, too.” Maybe I am, she thought. I stopped Darkstalker. I saved Fathom, and the NightWings, and my parents. And now I’ve found a new home, with new dragons to save. I can help them with my visions. I can do everything right this time. New futures exploded in her mind. She might marry this kind, funny dragon, whose name would turn out to be Sunstreak. Or she could end up with a dragon she’d meet in three days, while helping to clean up the forest, whose gentle green eyes were nothing like Darkstalker’s.

It’s almost time for us to swim,” Turtle said cheerfully. “You can worry about that instead.” He canted his wings and swooped down toward the river. Uneasily, Peril followed him. Don’t think about it. There’s nothing I can do about this NightWing right now anyway. I have to wait until he shows his face a bit closer to me, and then I can burn it off, and then everything will be fine. She flexed her talons, feeling the warm shift of her firescales, and then splashed down right behind Turtle. The river was cold and extremely wet and full of flappy slippery things. Peril did not like it ONE BIT. The flappy slippery things (she assumed most of them were fish) kept touching her and then not bursting into flames and that was so weird. Even the feeling of water all around her scales, pressing in on her, was extremely unsettling. She was also not particularly fond of how much faster than her Turtle could suddenly go. He powered forward in huge wingbeats, steering gracefully with the current, while she flopped around snorting water up her snout and generally feeling like a hippo. A hippo floated past, eyeing her with serene scorn. Fine. Not like a hippo. Like an ostrich suddenly plunked in the middle of an ocean, how about that.

Islam tells us that on the unappealable Day of Judgment, all who have perpetrated images of living things will reawaken with their works, and will be ordered to blow life into them, and they will fail, and they and their works will be cast into the fires of punishment. As a child, I knew that horror of the spectral duplication or multiplication of reality, but mine would come as I stood before large mirrors. As soon as it began to grow dark outside, the constant, infallible functioning of mirrors, the way they followed my every movement, their cosmic pantomime, would seem eerie to me. One of my insistent pleas to God and my guardian angel was that I not dream of mirrors; I recall clearly that I would keep one eye on them uneasily. I feared sometimes that they would begin to veer off from reality; other times, that I would see my face in them disfigured by strange misfortunes. I have learned that this horror is monstrously abroad in the world again. The story is quite simple, and terribly unpleasant. In 1927, I met a grave young woman, first by telephone (because Julia began as a voice without a name or face) and then on a corner at nightfall. Her eyes were alarmingly large, her hair jet black and straight, her figure severe. She was the granddaughter and greatgranddaughter of Federalists, as I was the grandson and great-grandson of Unitarians,* but that ancient discord between our lineages was, for us, a bond, a fuller possession of our homeland. She lived with her family in a big run-down high-ceiling'd house, in the resentment and savorlessness of genteel poverty. In the afternoons— only very rarely at night—we would go out walking through her neighbor-hood, which was Balvanera.* We would stroll along beside the high blank wall of the railway yard; once we walked down Sarmien to all the way to the cleared grounds of the Parque Centenario.*Between us there was neither love itself nor the fiction of love; I sensed in her an intensity that was utterly unlike the intensity of eroticism, and I feared it. In order to forge an intimacy with women, one often tells them about true or apocryphal things that happened in one's youth; I must have told her at some point about my horror of mirrors, and so in 1928 I must have planted the hallucination that was to flower in 1931. Now I have just learned that she has gone insane, and that in her room all the mirrors are covered, because she sees my reflection in them— usurping her own—and she trembles and cannot speak, and says that I am magically following her, watching her, stalking her. What dreadful bondage, the bondage of my face—or one of my former faces. Its odious fate makes me odious as well, but I don't care anymore.

Oh, my head!” Paige moans, but none of us cares. Not even the littlest bit. We’re all still waking up slowly, acclimating to the bright daytime after our late night--we didn’t get back from the hot springs till two in the morning--and we all feel a little bit delicate, as if we’re missing a protective layer of skin. Paige always wants the most attention, gets ratty if she isn’t the loudest in the group. Which is annoying right now, I think crossly, as she’s the tallest and the blondest--can’t that be enough for her? Clearly not. “Oww!” she tries again, but the three of us keep ignoring her.

I hissed a frustrated sound out my teeth. “I don’t need any man to protect me.” “No. You don’t need any man. You need me.

Even while I denied him, I wanted him more. “Kiss me.

Every touch of his, every kiss demanded that I yield…

His lips brushed a warm caress against the hollow of my neck. His grip tightened. We rocketed up into the sky, high above the towering buildings and cityscape. My heart soared even higher.

You wield sex as a weapon, striking whenever and whomever you please. But I won’t be your prey. There’s only one hunter here.” His grin sent a shiver down my spine. “I want something more from you, Sorcha Linden. More than your body.

The NightWings are still dangerous. We can’t take away their talons or teeth or fire. But one less weapon in a NightWing’s claws can’t hurt.

Would you like something to drink?” I asked softly, gesturing toward my bar across the room. “I could use one,” she said with a tilted smile. “How about you?” “I could use ten,” I answered.

The best happily-ever-afters are love stories.

Fate has a nasty sense of humor.” “Or a righteous sense of justice.

Maybe you are a goddess. A witch more like.” “Witches aren’t real.” “No? Then why do I feel like I’m under a spell, as if something is gripping me, and I’m helpless to free myself.

When he lifted a hand toward my face, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, wanting his touch in that moment more than I’d wanted anything.

He gripped my arms from behind, steadying me, his body a wall of tantalizing heat.” “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.” “Funny, because he just did.

My beast recognized her as his, wanted her now, yesterday, tomorrow. And always, Yes, the dragon knew, but the man refused to accept it. Like I had any choice. Fate gave her to me. A human. The daughter of the enemy.

I have the compelling need to press my lips to yours. To see if they taste as sweet as they look. I don’t want to, and yet” – he brushed the pad of his thumb along my lower lips, then the top – “I’ve never kissed a human woman.” My breath came shallow and quick. “I’ve never kissed a Morgon man.

That is you,” he said low and intimate against my ear. “That is the woman who fascinates me beyond reason. Who won’t leave my thoughts for a single moment. Who drowns my mind in beauty and sets my body, my soul, on fire.