Jul-96

Chapter 10

July 1996

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"Rotund and slower in flight than the Vipertooth or the Longhorn, the Ironbelly is nevertheless extremely dangerous, capable of crushing dwellings on which it lands. – Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Dragons: Ukrainian Ironbelly.

* * *

Charlie was so accustomed to hearing the random, faint roar of a dragon somewhere off in the distance that he no longer gave them any heed. Tuned the little exclamations peppered throughout the day and night out, for the most part. But the deafening bellow from just outside his front door that rattled the windows of keeper hut number eight did the job of jolting him awake from a midsummer pre-dawn doze.

He leaped out of his cot, reflexively shoving his feet into boots, and lunged to the tiny window of his back bedroom, confirming his sense that the roar came from the other side of the building when he found nothing. Snatching his wand off the bedside table on the way out, he scrambled down the narrow walkway hard on the heels of Sasha – who'd just darted out of his own room a second before – into the main room of the hut.

Just as they skidded to the largest window, another roar rent the air, sending a chill of fear down his spine that had nothing to do with the fact he was wearing nothing but boots and underpants. A very serious problem now stared them down from less than a hundred feet away: there, in the meadow, stood an enormous and evidently pissed-off Ironbelly.

"Queenie's out and about early today," Sasha quipped, his flippant tone belying his anxiety.

As if responding to her name, the ancient matriarch – the oldest dragon on the reservation at fifty-two years – sent a blast of fire at the hut. Both men dove to the floor just before the window burst under the pressure of the fiery onslaught. Shards of hot glass rained down on them while tongues of flame licked through the open gap. The wood of the sill caught fire.

"Think she's gone a bit off, don't you?" Charlie yelled as the crackle of another burst of fire broke over the hut. By the time it was past, the roof of the hut was ablaze. He and Sasha both crawled gingerly over the glass-strewn floor, ignoring the little cuts received in the process. They pressed themselves into the relative safety of the cold stone hearth, crouching.

"Time to summon some reinforcements?" he yelled. It was, for the most part, a rhetorical question, despite the legendary I-can-handle-anything attitude he mostly shared with the race of men who called themselves keepers. No one – not even a Ridgebit Reservation keeper – was cocky enough to imagine he could take on a dragon on a rampage on his own.

Both men grasped the little tubular amulet they each wore round their necks and murmured the necessary alert spell. Bewitched with a complex Protean Charm, the amulets worn by every keeper on the rez would respond by instantly heating up and vibrating, then conveying the identity and location of the alarm. It was a fail-safe distress call of last resort – and the other keepers receiving the message would understand lives were on the line.

After a third blast of fire bathed the hut, the room began rapidly filling with heat and smoke. "We've got to get out of here," Charlie yelled, stating the obvious.

Sasha nodded, coughing a little. "Maybe head for Norbert's old stable," he suggested.

Another roar made Charlie reconsider attempting to return to his room for clothes before they left. Nor was the front door a viable option as long as one wanted to remain, well, viable. The ground shook as the next roar was accompanied by a violent tail-thrashing.

"Make a run for it?" Charlie asked, steeling himself for the twenty-yard dash that would follow climbing through the window above the sink – the only rear exit that would come close to large enough to admit them. A flat expanse of dewy, sweet grass separated their hut from the little paddock they'd built to house Norbert as he'd grown. Constructed exclusively of stone, it would offer some protection – he hoped. They'd be moving targets along the way, but...

"Don't be stupid!" Sasha growled. He threw his arm around Charlie and in the next instant Apparated them both to the far side of the shelter. It irked Charlie a little that he'd taken such a liberty without giving him a breath of warning – Charlie still hadn't gotten very comfortable with Apparition, especially under duress – but wisely realized now was not the moment to quibble.

From this relatively safer vantage point, they peeked around the corner, trying to determine what had provoked such ire from the dragon. Charlie searched for signs of obvious injury or disease but found none – except for the fact she seemed hell-bent on destroying an innocent, defenseless keepers' hut. He noted her metallic grey scales were a bit dull with age – but that was nothing new, and her scarlet eyes still shone brightly. Her movements were a bit stiff, maybe even a little tentative, but again, this was to be expected from a behemoth of her years. He doubted such behavior had anything to do with the fast-approaching mating season – both genders could become quite tetchy as the annual rut approached, but the old dame hadn't produced a viable clutch in nearly a decade, according to reservation records.

And why is she here, of all places? Her current lair lay about halfway between their hut and the next closest one, which lay out of sight beyond a small crest to the east – she was, for all intents and purposes, their neighbor. He was aware that the Ukrainian keeper who lived in nine hut, Fedir Shevchenko, had been keeping a proprietary eye on her lately, even going so far as to deliver a few sheep to her lair when he'd noticed she hadn't hunted the rez herd in a while.

Suddenly, two men on brooms winked into existence in the sky above. Boian and Flaviu Vaduva, Romanian brothers descended from a long and proud line of keepers, were the first to respond to the distress call, having Apparated on the fly. It was an impressive trick passed down through their family, but one they hadn't managed to teach anyone else despite repeated, genuine efforts. They flew in a high, wide circle, surveying the situation.

Looking for us, Charlie realized. At almost the same instant, Sasha sent a flare of sparks into the air directly above them, alerting their fellow keepers of their whereabouts. Flaviu – the eldest brother – darted quickly down to meet them while his younger brother continued to circle.

"What'd you do to rile Queenie?" he barked.

"Nothing!" Charlie insisted. "She woke us up!"

"Fedir swears she's grown as docile as a pussycat in her old age," Sasha snorted. "Perhaps she's in search of some cream?"

Flaviu grimaced, chagrined they'd be working to subdue her with no obvious explanation of her bizarre behavior. "So... what, then?"

"Redirect?" Charlie suggested. "Maybe we can lure her back to her lair with food, and she can sleep whatever this is off?"

Another roar rent the air, and the three men started when the ground shook in protest as she thumped her tail against it. Queenie let loose another blast of fire, and the hut was completely engulfed in flames.

"She doesn't look hungry or tired to me," Sasha added dryly. "She looks insane."

Flaviu nodded reluctantly. "Fedir's gonna be pissed," he grumbled.

"Draconis Deliritas? Or just garden-variety senility?" Charlie wondered aloud. The former was considered a contagious disease, the most recent outbreak of which was thought to have been contained by the latest Tibetan quarantine. He couldn't imagine how Queenie could have gotten exposed to Mad Dragon Disease, but if she'd been infected, it would be very bad news for the entire reservation, indeed. They certainly couldn't risk its spread.

Flaviu shrugged. "Either way, she'll have to be put down."

Charlie swallowed the urge to argue the point and nodded reluctantly along with Sasha. He understood the logic of the decision – if her madness was due to disease, they could not allow it to spread, and if her faculties were compromised from age, they could not risk her hurting any of the others or, even worse, flying off in a demented rage and exposing them all to Muggle discovery. Still, he hated the thought of ending the life of such a majestic beast for any reason.

"What've you got?" Flaviu asked.

"Nothing but our wands," Sasha grumbled. He hadn't managed to dress or rescue any other equipment from their hut before evacuating, either.

"You're bleeding," Flaviu added as if just noticing. "Go next door to nine hut, get yourselves bandaged up and dressed. The rest of us'll take care of this mess."

"It's not that bad," Charlie assured him, regarding the smattering of little glass cuts all over his body and discovering a myriad of little trickles of blood issuing forth.

"Fuck you," Sasha growled at the same time, taking Flaviu's suggestion as a personal insult.

More keepers began arriving, Apparating with brooms in hand. Several of the most senior keepers had weapons strapped to their bodies – Goblin-made daggers and blades of varying lengths glinted in the pre-dawn light. No one was entirely clear about whether it was the alloy itself or the magic imbued within that made the weapons singularly effective against dragon hide: they only knew Goblin steel alone could pierce the scales. The weapons were dear beyond imagining – it would be years before Charlie saved enough wages for one of his own, if he ever managed it.

Every keeper now assembling understood that to do battle with a dragon was to absolutely risk one's life. Dragons had precious few chinks in their bodily armor, and combined with their cunning, strength, and other various natural defenses, they made formidable opponents. No random mislocated wound or single, uncoordinated spell could bring a dragon down. Avada kedavra was off the table as the danger of the spell ricocheting off the dragon's hide was too risky. Not to mention death by A. K. was agonizing, and no keeper worth his salt would inflict unnecessary pain on the creatures he was sworn to protect (poachers, of course, were another matter entirely). No, the most common method of culling a member of the herd was to Stun it, followed by a quick beheading employing the magical blades at hand: swift, as painless as they could manage, and respectful of the creature's innate dignity.

Ghenadie arrived and immediately took to the air. In a booming voice that had been magically modified, he instructed everyone else to do the same, enabling each keeper to be heard over the cacophony of the dragon's roars and tumultuous fire now blazing. Coordinated communication would be key over the next few moments.

Now that the entire retinue of keepers on the rez had shown up, the Head Keeper ordered half of them onto their brooms, the others to remain on the ground. They all fanned out as quickly as they could, encircling the dragon, trying their best to avoid attracting her direct attention. Those in the air performed a complex swarming maneuver, confusing her while keeping her gaze up and away from those on the ground.

Offering a final glance at his home for the past five years now engulfed in flames, Charlie dearly wished he'd managed to rescue his broom before it had been rendered into kindling. He was far more confident in the air than on the ground and felt he would be more useful to his colleagues there in this situation, for certain.

"We'll need everyone's focused effort at exactly the same time on a beast this size, boys," Ghenadie commanded from his position high above the scene. "On my mark! One! Two!"

But Ghenadie never got to three. Enraged by the sudden onslaught of annoying little creatures, Queenie turned her back on the blazing hut and demolished it with one sweep of her massive tail. Fiery missiles ranging in size from pebbles to boulders flew through the air like an explosion. Panicked spells shot through the air like fireworks, Shield Charms and Reductos and more flashed, collided, blasted and ricocheted, resulting in a tornadic swirl of magic, terror, debris and screams.

Time played an odd trick on his vision, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. A meteoric chunk of stone hit Costel Barbu square in the back, knocking him from his broom before Charlie could manage to scream a warning or cast a Shield. Charlie ran through smoke and burning wreckage to the spot he saw Costel fall, hoping against hope he'd not find what he expected. But Costel's mangled body lay still on the ground amidst the rubble, his lifeless eyes staring upward in empty shock. There was nothing left to do but mark the spot so they could collect the body for burial later.

Just as he cast the locating spell, he heard somebody bellow his name – "Charlie!" – and spun around, searching for the source. Was someone else hurt? He scanned the ground, finding nothing but the scattered, burning remains of his home. Then he looked up through the haze to find a human on a broom barreling down toward him.

"Charlie, hop on!" Boian shouted, bearing down on him at a furious pace, leaning over the side of his broom with an outstretched hand.

Charlie grabbed his friend's arm and leaped up at the same time, swinging round and landing astride the broom behind him. Boian shot upwards toward safety, affording Charlie an elevated view of the chaos. Everyone still in the air was attempting to collect whoever was left on the ground, men shouting names and directions to each other. From this perspective, Charlie realized that by virtue of having been stationed on the far side of Queenie from his hut, he'd been shielded by her very body from the worst of the destruction. The others, however...

Charlie saw a huge piece of stone sprouting legs beneath it and recognized the boots. Sorin! Sorin Albescu's partner, Bashkim Osmani, lay several meters away, impaled by a still-burning piece of timber. Sadly, disturbingly, Charlie's first thought was, At least they died together.

He scanned the destruction, searching for Sasha. They'd both been on the lee side of the dragon, but he hadn't seen him since the hut-chaos erupted. Before his eyes, several pairs of keepers winked out of sight as men Apparated those left incapacitated away to safety. Then a streak of bare flesh caught his gaze, and he watched in horror as Sasha bolted across a clearing toward Queenie.

"Sasha!" Charlie screamed. What the hell is he doing?

Boian called to his partner – the Italian, Romolo Miele. "Fetch the Russian!" he ordered, pointing at the man dashing suicidally toward the dragon, rather than away from it. Romolo immediately dived down, calling Sasha's name in an attempt to get his attention. But Sasha waved him off and kept running, maintaining his course.

Queenie lifted onto her back legs and trumpeted her rage. Just below her lay another body – and suddenly Charlie realized Sasha's intent.

"NO!"

A split second before Queenie slammed back down on all fours with an earth-rattling crash that would have crushed them both into human pulp, Sasha fell on the body and winked them both out of sight. Empty-handed, Romolo spun in midair away from the dragon, narrowly avoiding her blazing breath.

Charlie filled his lungs with smoky air and roared in relief and frustration.

"Regroup at 300 meters!"

Charlie recognized Ghenadie's voice. Immediately, Boian obeyed, zooming toward Ghenadie, who was hovering above the scene, surveying the disaster. Seconds later, thirteen men on seven brooms huddled in midair – all that was left of the twenty-two that had answered the summons. Everyone looked at each other, knowing the same truth: it was unlikely the group of them was sufficient to take the giant Ironbelly down with Stunners. Nor could they wait for the possibility of reinforcements – those who had Apparated the injured away were likely providing critical medical attention.

"We've got to keep her on the ground," Ghenadie informed them unnecessarily. "Looks like the fight's going to be hot and close, boys. Who'll take the first stab?"

"I will," Charlie said without hesitation. It had been his summons that had drawn them all here, led to at least three deaths and uncounted other injuries. He owed it to them all to end the battle as quickly as he could.

Ghenadie nodded once in acceptance. Without a word, Skender passed Charlie a blade. The lethal thing glinted in the rising sun, cold and grey as the Ironbelly's scales. Its weight was perfectly balanced in Charlie's grip, and he felt a surprisingly calm confidence settle upon him.

I'm ready. I can do this.

While the rest of the group organized themselves back into the swarm formation to distract her, Boian and Charlie circled around behind the dragon. The pairs of men on brooms flew maddeningly quickly around her head, confusing her with their shouts and dive-bombing motion. Queenie bellowed in annoyance, her head jerking from side to side as she tried in vain to focus on just one broom, and took several steps backward.

"Ready, Charlie?" Boian asked.

"Ready," he replied, his voice even and steady.

Boian accelerated through the air, aiming straight for the back of the dragon's head, crouched low and tight against the broom. Charlie shifted his weight up from his seat onto the balls of his feet, balancing by lightly bracing his hands against Boian's back.

"Now!" Boian yelled. At the same time, in the last second before colliding with the dragon's head, he veered slightly to the right.

Charlie launched himself off the broom. The momentum carried him forward, and he crashed into the back of Queenie's head, high on her neck. Clinging to her, he saw Boian shoot up and away to safety.

They couldn't have timed it more perfectly, nor could he have stuck the landing any better: it was as if every probability vector had been magically aligned. But if he delayed from his purpose for even a second, it would offer her time to shake him off, and he would surely be dead. Then another man would have to risk his life attempting the same maneuver. His thighs tightly gripping her thick neck, her smooth scales hot against his skin, Charlie lifted the gleaming dagger into the air. With both hands gripping the hilt, he brought it down with every ounce of strength he could muster.

The trick with time happened again, and Charlie felt every second pass with crystalline clarity. He felt the Goblin-steel blade's point puncture hide, then bone, then sink into soft brain tissue. Mid-roar, the dragon's cry slid off-key, became a little garbled, then caught in her throat altogether. The muscles of her neck rippled as the news of the end traveled down it, on a mission to inform the rest of her body.

Forgive me, he silently begged her spirit.

She listed sideways, and his perception of time finally caught up with its actual flow. Shouts and a few triumphant cheers rang through the normally peaceful valley. Then her front legs buckled, and Charlie was nearly dislodged when she fell to her elbows – a plunge of several meters. The shouts grew less celebratory, more urgent.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Boian swing around back toward him once more. Queenie's body gave up its resistance of gravity and began picking up speed along its sideways rush to meet earth once more. Charlie held on until the last millisecond, waiting for Boian to get close enough, then leaped from the foundering dragon anyway, praying the fall wouldn't snap his neck. Hurtling through the air, the ground rushing up to meet him, he felt arms wrap around his waist. Then everything around him went into a dizzying spin, and he thought how strange it was to learn that death felt sort of like Apparating.

Just my luck.

In the next instant, the world-spinning around him stopped. He connected with the ground and tumbled along the soft grass for a few meters – painful, yes, but this collision with earth was far less injurious than he'd expected. He heard a piece of wood snap – A broom? – and a moment after he'd stopped his own forward motion along the ground, another body collided with his from behind. The two of them lay still for several moments, getting their bearings, catching their breaths, allowing the full import of what had just happened to sink in.

Charlie twisted his head around to find Boian grinning back at him. "That was a spot of fun, eh?" the man chuckled.

Charlie squinted at the brightness. Sky was up, ground was below – at least he had that bit of normalcy to cling to. Boian snatched me out of the air? Then Apparated on the fly? Reappearing somewhere safe at ground level to cushion the fall? "Thanks," he rasped, his voice hurting his throat, amazed once again by Boian's Apparating talents. "I owe you."

"You know it doesn't work like that," Boian replied.

Charlie nodded. That was the keepers' way, after all. Keepers didn't owe each other favors – they earned each other's loyalty by risking their lives for each other when it mattered. Bullshit like life debts didn't really apply here on the rez. How could they, when death was a daily occupational hazard and rescue was such a common occurrence? No one would ever be able to keep track of the balance sheet if they did.

The two men helped right each other. From this vantage point, Charlie recognized Boian had brought them to the little meadow before keeper hut number nine. Nine hut was significantly larger than eight, built far more recently and with several extra rooms to house visiting researchers as well as the usual pair of keepers. Up until a little while ago, it had been home to Fedir and Costel.

A low moan emanated from the hut, piercing the quiet of the valley.

Without a word, both men jogged toward the hut, steeling themselves for whatever horrific sight might await them on the other side of the door, ready to offer whatever help they had to give.

It took a few moments for Charlie's eyes to adjust from the brightness of the morning outside to the dimness of the hut within. But he recognized the low, soothing voice long before he could make out its owner. Sasha's shadowy shape hovered over a man laid out on the emergency cot, murmuring spells and dabbing salve onto his leg. From the smell, Charlie knew fire was primarily responsible for the injury.

"How can we help?" Charlie whispered as he approached.

Sasha looked up and met his searching gaze. Neither man gave voice to the relief they felt to see the other alive and whole: their eyes said it all. Then the patient groaned again, redirecting their attention to the more urgent need. Charlie recognized the lone Croatian keeper on the rez, Goran Kovač, lying on the cot.

"He'll be fine," Sasha reassured him, returning to his work on Goran's leg. It was a charred and bloody mess, but Charlie ultimately agreed with Sasha's assertion – especially considering Goran was in Sasha's exceptionally capable hands.

Boian sauntered back into the room from the hallway that led to the dorms – in truth, Charlie never noticed he'd left – with shirts and trousers draped over his arms. "Stop prancing about like a couple of fags, you two, and put some clothes on," he teased, tossing them at Charlie.

Like usual, Charlie let the homophobic slur slide. He caught the items of clothing out of the air, then stared at the faded blue denim of the shirt, the still-bright red stars lovingly embroidered along the placket. He handed them back without looking at Boian. "Not Costel's things. They belong to his mother now."

Boian took them back solemnly, his smile gone. "You're sure?"

Charlie nodded. "With my own eyes, I saw him."

The three men bowed their heads respectfully and observed a moment of silence, commemorating their fallen comrade. By Charlie's count, at least three new graves would be added to the memorial garden at the visitor's center: Costel Barbu, Sorin Albescu, Bakshim Osmani. Good and honorable men, all.

Boian turned on his heels and headed back toward the dorms to return Costel's things to his room. His effects would be sent on to his kin – his body would not. Tradition dictated that keepers were buried on the reservation, a protocol borne out of necessity and as a favor to the bereaved, for the remains of keepers were commonly left in such a state as would likely upset the family.

Charlie followed Boian down the hall as far as Fedir's dorm. As he fished clothing for himself and Sasha out of Fedir's trunk, he swallowed a lump that had begun forming in his throat, praying he wasn't donning another dead man's clothes. What about Fedir? he wondered, not knowing if Costel's partner survived the melee or not. He seemed to have a soft spot in his heart for old Queenie. If Fedir lived and didn't know already, he'd soon have a whole new agony of loss to deal with. Poor bastard.

When he returned to the front room, dressed in Fedir's trousers with the too-long legs bunched up at his ankles, he laid some more clothes for Sasha on the dining table. His patient, Goran, had either succumbed to a sleeping draught or passed out – his head lolled on the cot's little pillow as Sasha continued to treat the wounds. Charlie rummaged through a few storage closets before he found the spare brooms – in that moment, the thought of the loss of his broom, amongst all his other worldly possessions, hit him with a heavy pang. Then Boian rejoined them in the common room.

"Go back and see what you can do to help the others," Sasha directed them. "If you find Dănuţ, let him know about Goran and where we are."

Much later that night – or perhaps it was very early the next morning – Charlie sank low into the conjured cushions of a transfigured sofa, staring out into the night from the window of keeper hut number nine, self-medicating his aching body and grieving mind with moroz-vodka¹. The icy sensation spread through his body and dulled the pain, both physical and emotional. All told, it had not been his best day.

He and Boian had obeyed Sasha's order and joined the other keepers at their work, borrowing spare brooms from the hut's cache. Boian had Apparated on the fly, as was his way, but Charlie had taken the longer, more scenic direct flight toward the column of black smoke, in no hurry to lay eyes on the charred and smoldering remnants of his home or the bloody mess that awaited them.

By the time he got there, the butchery of Queenie was well underway. Great slabs of meat were being hewed from the carcass, then transported to the icehouse on the nearest summit. Like dragons themselves, the meat was resistant to most charms (like those inducing cold stasis) and so had to be preserved without the aid of magic. Fresh meat had many medicinal properties – including speeding the healing of cuts and contusions – but dried meat had a reputation as a virtual panacea (his own Aunt Muriel swore by her broth made of dried dragon meat, a cup of which she'd taken every day of her adult life). Smoking and salting operations of Queenie's flesh would be ongoing over the next few weeks.

Meat was not the only thing to be harvested from Queenie. While blood was collected only from healthy living individuals (usually adolescents), her hide would be carefully skinned from her body, scraped and prepared, then shipped off in rolls to tanners who specialized in crafting magical clothing and accessories. Most of her organs would be preserved, as well as the bones dried, and claws, teeth, spines, and horns collected, all to be ground into potion ingredients. The gastroliths in her stomach were prized by rune makers, and the spherical, crystalline lenses of her eyes would be smoothed and polished into the divination orbs preferred by the most discerning of scriers.

It was hard and necessary work, but Charlie found it gory and depressing. He understood that a keeper's duties called for regular culling to maintain the health of the herd. If not for the practice of harvesting the older, weaker individuals, the herd as a whole would suffer. And as the popularity and profitability of poaching attested, demand for dragon-derived materials would have long since exterminated the species; the keepers' carefully managed harvest methods were far more conservative and humane, and the profits fed back into preservation and study of the amazing creatures themselves.

Knowing all this did little to make the duty any more palatable for Charlie. He hated the sticky, slippery mess of it, the foul smell, constantly fighting off the urge to retch. His hands would be stained with Queenie's blood now for a week – she'd linger under his fingernails for longer, probably.

There was far too much death, blood, and destruction in his brain, and he downed several more long pulls from the bottle, willing the bewitched alcohol to anesthetize it all. Poor Fedir was thoroughly rat-arsed in his room at the moment, having finally found a modicum of peace near the bottom of a bottle of moroz – at least enough to afford him a few hours of sleep. As those keepers still on their feet had begun to butcher the dead beast, harvesting every part of Queenie just as they would've done with any other dragon whether it had died of natural causes or was culled for the good of the herd (which, in a roundabout way, he reckoned, she was), Ghenadie had broken the news of Costel's death to his partner of more than a decade. While the rest of them worked to collect all the precious magical ingredients, they'd listened to echoes of human howls and blasts of explosive spells in the distance – Fedir venting his grief and rage on a Carpathian summit.

There were a few small spots of good news: Costel, Sorin, and Bashkim had been the only casualties. The three others who'd been injured all faced good prognoses – aside from the usual accumulation of new scar tissue, no one would be out of commission for more than a week or so, most likely. Goran was spending the night on the emergency cot here in nine hut and would likely be ready to transport back to his own hut tomorrow. His partner, Dănuţ Lupei, was sleeping nearby in one of the rooms usually reserved for visiting scholars.

A quiet shadow shifted in the periphery of his vision. Sasha coming to check on his patient, Charlie thought. He watched as the man he loved glided silently into the room, leaned over Goran's body on the cot, and checked his condition. Charlie felt little shimmers of healing magic lap against him as Sasha cast the spells silently.

"You saved his life," Charlie whispered. Nevertheless, the sound of his voice practically boomed in the profound silence of the mountain night. And I wanted to wring your neck for risking yourself to do it. But he wisely kept this thought to himself.

Sasha's head jerked up, startled. "And you saved many more by your bravery," he replied.

Charlie blew out a noisy, dismissive breath, the moroz causing it to fog in the spring-warm night air. He wondered who'd told Sasha he was the one who brought Queenie down.

"You should sleep," Sasha said as he left the cot and approached him, his massive, Samson-esque body paradoxically catlike in its grace and silence.

"Wish I could," Charlie replied. He shifted slightly on the sofa to make room, and Sasha joined him there. Charlie theorized – not for the first time – that Sasha somehow exuded medicinal magic. His mere presence always calmed Charlie, soothed his hurts and eased his worries. Yours is a truly amazing gift, my love.

"Tomorrow will be busy, and morning will come soon," Sasha said just before he took a swig of the proffered bottle of moroz.

"Funerals at dawn," Charlie said, relaying the pertinent information while tiredly running his hands through his hair.

The dead keepers' bodies would be interred in the memorial garden at the visitors' center as the sun rose over the mountains, eulogized by their Head Keeper and mourned solely by their fellows. Only after they were safely in the ground would Ghenadie send out the owls to the respective families, informing them of the sad news. The delay was necessary, preventing any family members from crashing the ceremony. Keepers don't leave pretty corpses, Charlie thought ruefully. There's precious little left of Sorin as it is – none of it recognizable.

Charlie took a deep, fortifying breath. "Afterward, I get to go sift through the ashes of our hut to see if anything useful survived the fire."

Sasha snorted and voiced Charlie's own doubts: "There will be nothing left. Why bother?"

Charlie shrugged. "Ghenadie's orders. Maybe he thinks it'll give me a sense of closure."

Sasha hushed his chuckle so as not to disturb Goran. "Ghenadie's taken to employing psychology, now?"

Charlie chuckled as well. The idea was preposterous.

An anxiousness bordering on dread hung between them for several silent moments.

"Did he say what was to become of us?" Sasha finally asked.

"We stay here, at least for now," Charlie informed him. "I think he wants us to keep an eye on Fedir." After several more moments, he let the axe fall, adding, "Might last until he finds a new partner for him."

Nothing illuminated the interior of the hut but starlight. Even so, Charlie could feel the penetrating look Sasha gave him. Charlie knew without being told exactly what Sasha was thinking and feeling – he was feeling the same sense of desolation at the prospect.

Merlin knows how long before we'll be alone together again.

1- moroz = "frost" in Russian (I hope).

Author's note: I took some liberties with and expounded upon JKR's list of magical uses for dragon products.