Free A Shade of Dragon by Bella Forrest Page A

nose.
    “Hey, sweetie,” Dad called from the kitchen, where he was doing the dishes. Zada contributed almost nothing to the maintenance of the house—Dad, when I’d mentioned this months ago, had commented that it was a trade-off for her free spirit. “Are you still here?”
    “Yes,” I answered. Sage had cleared out to visit his biological father elsewhere in the state; I had no idea where Zada was. The house was silent, save the clatter of pots and pans. I put my head down into my hands and cringed with embarrassment, leaning against the wall. At least no one else was here to see my shame.
    I’d dressed myself in a knit tank dress with a handkerchief hem, the color of ferns in deep spring, paired with dark hosiery, leather combat boots, and the wool-lined, distressed denim jacket. I’d put curls in my hair and even broken out the old mascara wand. There was a hint of perfume on my neck. I looked damn cute, and I never did things like this for boys. And he wasn’t even coming. He wasn’t coming, and I was going to have to admit to Dad—oh, my God, and to Michelle and Andrew and their entire party—that he had bailed on me. That maybe he was just some jerk after all: gorgeous and intellectual, a hint wild, and easily bored.
    “It doesn’t look like my friend could make it,” I called to Dad as casually as I could manage. “I’m going to go on and head out with the Mercedes, if that’s all right with you. I’m probably just going to make an appearance”— so that nobody talks about me, I added bitterly—“and then come back home, all right?”
    “Sounds good, baby,” Dad called. There was a crash. “I’m fine! You go on. Nothing broke. Have a good time! Drive carefully.”
    I hurried toward the garage door, snatching his keys off the ring as I went. My expression set into an aloof smile. I was going out to a party with the other teenaged children of country clubbers and cocktail partiers, friends of the O’Hara family with whom I had been forced to play since infancy. In essence, they were mostly monsters, and when you were playing with monsters, your mask could be your most valuable weapon.
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    T he Ballinger family lake house was a luxurious yet rustic haven, filled with warm light. On the hillside blazed three floors, totaling eight bedrooms, encompassing everything from a state-of-the-art, fully-stocked kitchen to a billiards table to a home theater to a rope swing. Michelle Ballinger’s summers had wanted for nothing, and her winters had been picturesque and intense.
    Before even parking, I could tell you that the fireplace would be roaring and everyone inside would be smashed on alcoholic holiday beverages. Adventurous couples would go sledding, or skiing, or maybe even out in the canoe. Another snow had fallen after sunset, papering the mountainside in a crisp layer of white.
    As I climbed from the Mercedes, I surveyed the land. The lake house was secluded, the Ballingers having complete ownership of the lake on which they sat and several acres of the surrounding wood. It was twenty minutes outside of Beggar’s Hole, and the only sound for miles around would be the party itself. From a great enough distance, even that sound would die, and it would be nothing but the wolves and the owls.
    I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and promised myself that I would only be in there for half an hour. Then I advanced on the brightly lit front porch. Several Lawry Hill students had already flocked there to smoke, and huddled together, puffing away. I only recognized a handful of faces. “Hey, Nell,” someone called to me.
    “Hey,” I called back, readying my aloof smile. I slid through the crowd and entered the Ballinger lake house.
    It was too large to ever appear packed, and Michelle’s friends, although not necessarily elitist, were certainly exclusive by their own standards, meaning that only several clusters of party-goers stood inside, drinking and murmuring to one another. I targeted a