Lahat ng Kabanata ng Charlotte: Fated to the White Dragon: Kabanata 41 - Kabanata 50

Even though I've spent only two days here, it's like I've spent an entire lifetime. The days progressed slowly that I thought I'd aged twenty years more. Damon seemed relaxed though, despite everything that's happened. My grandparents, of course they apologised, smiled polite, but I can still feel that chill sittin’ between us. Like invisible walls no one dares cross. I hate it. But moping won’t find my necklace, will it? They don’t know a thing more than Melinda or me. So what’s left? Stick with Damon. Foolish as that sounds, he’s my best shot. I head downstairs into the kitchen and Damon's standing tall by the counter. Alone. Tom and Louise still avoid him, and I've given up trying to persuade them that he's a good guy. I can't believe I've got petty relatives who judge people based on appearance. It makes me feel sick. It makes me wonder what Melinda and Oliver would think. But anyways, screw that. I stare into the room, and Damon looks like he's trying to make breakfas

What’s even more unsettling isn’t that it’s not Alan… it’s that what's standing in front of me is a scrawny little boy, couldn’t be more than middle school age. With a voice as deep, and rough as Alan's! That hoarse growl rolls off his tongue delicately, and it shouldn’t even fit his tiny frame. It’s more disturbing ‘cause he’s… human. At least, I think he’s human. "Who’re you?" I get the words out, tryin’, but failing, to hide the tremble in my voice. He doesn’t answer. Rather, he just steps forward into the “sunlight” and lets those strange rays hit him. That's when I get a proper look at him. His skin's pale as porcelain, like if you poked him too hard he’d crack. Thin, aye, but there’s muscle under it, wiry and springy. His hair’s a messy halo of golden curls, cherub-like, but his eyes... There's no irises. Just two black pits ringed with blood-red veins that twitch faintly. Like the goat-man, Ogothr’s eyes, but sharper and with less malice in 'em. I swallow hard,

We’ve been on the road for what feels like forever. The hum of the engine’s been my only company for the past hour, and the bastard next to me hasn’t said a single bleedin' word since we left. Tom and Louise had bid us a gentle goodbye; although Tom looked like he was forcing himself to smile all through the conversation. Louise still looked as uncomfortable as ever, especially when her eyes met Damon's. We'd both left the building without glancing back at my grandparents. I didn't notice anything strange with Damon then. He seemed like his usual nonchalant self. Now, I cast him a side glance and he's got his hands glued to the wheel, with eyes fixed straight ahead, and jaw set like he’s carved from bloody marble. If there’s an Olympic sport for silent treatment, he’s going for gold. And it’s fucking killin' me! He's not given even an annoyed sigh, or one of those subtle digs he does so well when he’s in a mood. It's just silence. And this kind makes my skin itch and my bra

I clock the fella straight off. He's tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged, and there’s somethin' in his face that rattles a memory buried deep in my head. It’s there, right on the edge of recall, but it can't seem to surface. The man’s stood with the grey cockatoo perched boldly on his shoulder, its beady eyes flickin’ about like it’s sussin’ the whole room. He’s dressed in a white turtleneck snug under a long brown coat that brushes his knees, with a sleek black trousers pressed on his legs. There’s a softness to him, but it’s laced with a quiet warning you’d be daft to ignore. Gentle, yet he carries this menacing hum under the skin, same way thunder lurks behind a summer sky. Same feel as Damon. I open my mouth but the words trip over each other. “I–I’m… uh, I…” Before I can finish, Damon’s arm snakes across my shoulders, his palm resting there, firmly protective. Or possessive, I can’t tell. “Her name’s Charlotte,” he says, his voice is steady but it carries this lazy

I whip round to Damon, hissing out the words. “I thought you said you weren’t a Dreil.” He just lifts a shoulder, lazy as you like. “Well, I’m technically not one.” “Then why the nickname?” Mr. Black stays quiet, his long fingers idly stroking the cockatoo’s crest, eyes glimmering like he knows something I don’t. Damon doesn’t even move as he responds. “Uncle just likes takin’ the mick,” he says, cool and detached. “Ignore him.” “Ohh…” I mutter, turning back away, though my curiosity’s gnawing. “If you’re not a Dreil, then what exactly are you?” The air stills, thickening with this tense silence. But before either of them answers, my phone pings. I glance at it. It's a message from Evelyn. I let it go dark again. Now's not the time for stories. Mr. Black finally breaks the silence, his voice deep as it hums through the room. “His mother’s a Dreil. Her brother, too. So the blood runs in him, but that does not make him one.” “That still doesn’t explain what happened at m