Free Hip Deep in Dragons by Christina Westcott Page B

then my knees. It seeped into my boots, and soaked my socks. My feet slipped, threatening to twist my ankles with every step.
    Dragging through the water, the can seemed to grow heavier and harder to maneuver, forcing me to use both hands and shuffle sideways. My foot caught on a submerged branch—at least I hoped it was a branch and not a gator lurking in the mud. I splashed down in a clumsy face-plant, getting a mouthful of murky water. The can tumbled on top of me, dragging Robby down with it. He struggled to his feet, pulled me against him, and wrapped his arms around me until my spasm of coughing passed. A trickle of energy flowed out of his hands, seeping into all my empty places and shoring up my reservoir of strength. I wanted to tell him to stop, to save every erg of his power, but the warmth coiling through my body felt so amazing I only wanted to bask in its glow forever. Eventually, I looked up.
    “Better now, Laura?” He brushed his thumbs across my grimy cheeks.
    I coughed one last time, scanning around for the telltale sign of a gator gliding through the water, and then I picked up my side of the can. We resumed our floundering progress. At the narrow sandy strip boarding the hammock, we picked our way through the scattering of bones around the nest and put down the can.
    Lips thinning in distaste, Robby spun the cap off with a quick twist. He scrambled up the mound, tipped the container, and soaked the vegetation in gasoline. He slid back down and saturated the edge of the nest with the remaining liquid. The vapors from the gasoline rippled up, distorting the air and stinging my eyes.
    Robby tossed away the empty can. “The matches?”
    I dug into my pocket and pulled out the plastic bag that contained the matches. Droplets of brown water accumulated at the bottom. I hadn’t double-checked the seal. An iron weight settled in my stomach. “They’re wet.”
    “I can make a flame.” Robby’s fingers shed sparkles of light.
    “No, save your magic. Maybe I can get these to work. If not, I still have the flare gun.”
    I scrapped a match down the side of the box, but it left only the gummy red residue of a wet match head. A second failed to spark.
    In the corner of my vision, Robbie’s head snapped up, eyes wide as he scanned the sky.
    “Shakagwa Dun is returning. If you canna make a fire, I will. Then we must run.”
    “I have the flare gun. I can back off and use that, but let me try the matches one more time.”
    I dug down to the bottom of the box searching for one that might have escaped the water. Willing it to light, I scraped it against the striker. A tiny spark flared, and then blossomed into a flame. I tossed it onto the gasoline-soaked vegetation, and it caught with a whoosh of flames that sent me staggering back. A flash of heat washed across my face. I, once again, landed on my behind in the muck.
    As I climbed to my feet, a serpentine shadow rippled across the surface of the pond. With a terrifying grace, Shakagwa Dun hung in the air, hovering between us and the way to safety. Each backbeat of its wings drove a blast of noisome wind into my face. The dragon eased its bulk down, claws sinking into the muck. Its tail lashed, and sent up geysers of spray. A cloud of green vapor erupted from its mouth as it hissed. The sawgrass withered, and a rainbow sheen like dirty oil spread across the surface of the water.
    Robby forced me behind him, pushing me back until flames scorched my neck. We couldn’t retreat any further. The pond on our right deepened. We’d have to swim if we went that direction and I didn’t like those chances against the larger creature. The only escape lay back the way we’d come, but as if sensing that fact, Shakagwa Dun shifted, blocking our escape.
    Robby spun me to face him, gripping my shoulders. His eyes had dilated to obsidian orbs. “I can cast a spell that will distract it while you slip away. Go home and wait for me there. I’ll follow as soon as I am able,