Catalyst

Chapter Eleven

James had taken her up on her offer: he had curled himself around her. His arm was draped heavily over her shoulder and his nose was buried at the back of her neck. It would have been the same position as the morning before, minus the blood and towels and the possibility of death, except she was on her side now instead of her back.

They were... spooning.

Oh god, she was being spooned.

Her palms started to sweat and she took a minute to slow her breathing, which had begun to hitch and fluctuate. She could feel his leg half on top of hers. He was still on top of the thin comforter but the heat of him poured through the fabric to be absorbed by her skin. Her hand was right near his and she inched her fingers, one tiny movement at a time, until they were resting next to his, slightly under his palm. It was the most romantic thing she'd ever seen. It was pathetic—she realized that on some level—but she didn't care.

Phoebe closed her eyes and focused on how comfortable she was. How safe she felt. James was wrapped around her like they were...together. Truly together. In love. She could have been throwing this way out of perspective. Even she could tell that she might be reading too much into an instinctive sleeping position which, in the full-size bed, was bound to result in some touching or accidental cuddling in the middle of the night. But the breath on her hair in sweet, small gusts felt precious.

She could imagine hundreds, or even thousands of mornings like this; waking up next to him, belonging there. She didn't care that he was a dragon, although she could admit to herself that there was plenty about it she still didn't understand. She pictured herself sitting on the back porch of an overly grand house on an estate with fields and forest boundaries, drinking lemonade and calmly watching the sky, looking for his gold scales reflecting the sun. Getting a kiss when he arrived home. She wasn't above childish visions like these, tucked into his body as she was, snug and relaxed.

Her hand started to tingle and she wondered if her elbow was pressed too close to her body, or too forcefully on the bed. She had poor circulation when she slept, and would sometimes wake up with ice cold feet or hands, even though the rest of her was warm. She opened her eyes and looked at her claw.

Her claw?

She screamed; a high pitched shriek that was louder than she could remember her voice ever being. James jumped up and landed on the ground, crouched, his hands sharp with talons and his eyes scouring the room for any intruder.

"What? What is it?" he yelled, and then he followed her line of sight. Landing on her arm, which ended in a mass of green scales, tipped with black claws, small spines jutting out from her forearm. The blanket pooled around her hips as she sat up in the bed, staring at her arm, willing herself to recognize it. Or wake up.

That wasn't her arm. It didn't even feel like hers. It was like her body numbed at the elbow, and what was below had been cut off of another living thing and attached there in some kind of evil experiment.

She touched it with her left hand, which was still blissfully human and pink and hers, and was surprised that the scales were warm. They were smooth like polished stones. She tapped them with her human fingernails and was surprised by the clicking sounds they made.

"Phoebe?" James whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing her. "What did you do?" He reached for the dragon arm, which she was still trying to convince herself was actually some part of her body and not an apparition. When he held her arm in his hands she could barely feel the warmth of his skin. The scales acted like a thick, cool sweater. She felt everything through a distance.