I didn’t pay her too much attention—that was taken up with watching the velvet-tongued healer as he worked over Cyrene.

‘‘Nope.’’

‘‘We saw them attacking István and Pál,’’ Drake said, nodding toward us. ‘‘The one kneeling bit István.’’

‘‘Hard,’’ István muttered, having taken off his shirt to wrap around the arm in question.

‘‘Really?’’ Jim’s eyebrows rose as it looked back at me. ‘‘Nice job, May! I couldn’t have done better myself.’’

‘‘Nice—Jim, are you insane?’’ Aisling asked, ruffling the fur on the top of its head.

‘‘Naw. But you guys are confused. May and Cyrene weren’t attacking anyone. May just wanted to get Cy out of the garden, but I told them about Drake being a gadget freak, so they decided to go out through Kostich’s yard. That’s where we were nailed . . . or rather, I was. Fires of Abaddon, his arcane traps are downright nasty! He owes me a whole bunch of fur.’’

‘‘Will she be all right?’’ I asked the man who was evidently named Gabriel.

He nodded without looking at me, his eyes on Cyrene’s face as his fingers manipulated her neck. ‘‘She has a superficial cut to the scalp, but you were correct that her neck was broken.’’

My stomach lurched at his words. Cyrene might be immortal, but there was still such a thing as brain damage. If she didn’t get sufficient oxygen and blood to her brain, she would be left in a coma . . . a permanent coma.

‘‘It is a good thing she is a . . .’’ He glanced at me, his eyes questioning.

‘‘Naiad,’’ I answered.

‘‘Ah. That would explain much. Elemental beings do not cope well with injuries to the head. Their center is in their heart, is it not?’’

Cy certainly thought with her heart more than her head, but I wasn’t about to admit that to the stranger . . . A thought struck me. I looked more closely at him. Like the other men present, he was dressed in evening clothes of a black jacket and pants, but unlike the others he had a gorgeous silvery vest heavily embroidered with fantastical creatures. His skin was a warm brown, like a very dark tan, but his high cheekbones and narrowed nose pointed to mixed ancestry. The shoulder-length dark brown dreadlocks hinted at some African blood, while the narrow mustache and goatee simply drew the eye to his mouth, which seemed to hold an unholy fascination for me. But there was something else, something exotic about him that I found it hard to pinpoint. . . . ‘‘You’re a dragon,’’ I said suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle sliding together.

‘‘I am,’’ he said, nodding acknowledgment.

‘‘Gabriel is not just a dragon,’’ the nasty man who stepped on my arm said in a deep voice heavy with an Australian accent. ‘‘He is the dragon. The silver wyvern.’’