I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

“Nah.” Mallos peered over Ned’s shoulder at the red-eyed monstrosity glaring out of the book. He didn’t recognise the species, so most likely it had been drawn by some mortal who had never actually seen a real dragon before. That said, Mallos didn’t exactly make it his business to learn dragon classification either, so it could just be one he hadn’t come across before (or bothered to commit to memory). “Niber dragons are white to blend in with the snow, and they’re huge. Size of a house.”

His last encounter with a Niber dragon had been the one he’d accidentally set loose on Shaman. That thing had knocked him into an ice pond twice with its tail. Mallos was not a fan of Niber dragons.

The person who’d illustrated the book had clearly never seen the real King Arthur either. He’d been drawn taller than the other men, with a lighter shade of hair, blue eyes and a pink tinge on his cheeks. The only way Mallos could tell it was meant to be Arthur at all was because he was stood at a round table with a bunch of other Medieval-looking people who were clearly meant to be his knights. The dissimilarity between the image and the real thing made the former easier to look at. Mallos had had to take down the pictures of the real Arthur he’d had hanging up in his office and stash in them in a drawer while the wound was still fresh. He was about to remark that Arthur had tickled Welsh dragons, not Niber ones, when Ned asked about meeting him. An iron hand gripped Mallos’ heart and he took a second or two longer to answer than usual.

“My friend Arthur passed away.” He said it factually, but it didn’t feel much like a fact. Passed away sounded too peaceful, as if he’d gone in his sleep instead of being stabbed in the heart by his own brother. Mallos’ son. “But…” He crouched down next to Ned and wrapped his arms around him. “Sometimes at night, if you listen really carefully, you can still hear his voice on the wind. He likes to whisper advice to people while they’re sleeping, to help them make the right choices.”

The journey to the garage provided a welcome distraction. Mallos focused on the physicality of it: on keeping Ned firmly in position on his shoulders and making sure he ducked through doorways and under low ceilings. It was easier to think about the immediate practicality of Ned’s safety than anything else. They reached the garage, which was chock full of cars, in no time.

“Mustang it is.” Mallos agreed, weaving in between the Enzo and a Pagani Zonda and peering about. He shrugged at the question. “I have no idea what colour it is, but it has white stripes?”

He kept one eye on Ned as he moved around the cars, looking for the tell-tale Ford stripes on the bulky American muscle car. Mallos found the Mustang first, tucked in behind a large black Range Rover, and called Ned over. The ’stang was a classic: a ’67 Shelby GT 500 in the classic Ford blue with the white stripes down the bonnet. Mallos pulled the passenger door open, produced a child’s seat out of nowhere and attached it securely to the interior leather seat. He picked Ned up and strapped him in before closing the door and moving around to the driver’s side. The keys were already in the ignition. Beneath his fingers, the engine purred to life.

A ramp connected the underground garage to the outside world. Mallos slotted the gearstick into first gear and climbed gently up the ramp towards the garage door, which opened automatically on approach. They emerged into the bright sunlight of the long, gravel drive which led up to the front entrance of the house. Mallos held down the clutch while revving the engine high, before pulling up the handbreak and dumping the clutch. The wheels screeched as they spun spectacularly, kicking up smoke, before Mallos let the handbreak down to allow the car to tear off down the driveway. He wound the window down, keeping it in a low gear to maximise the noise, and only moved up into the correct gear when they joined the main road.

“They don’t make engines like this anymore.” Mallos remarked to Ned as he popped open the glovebox, extracted a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. “The new GT500 doesn’t have the power this one has.”

Keeping one hand on the wheel, he rested his other arm on the open window.

“Now,” he considered, “do we want to go into Madrid, where they have a better selection of ponies but terrible roads, or shall we go down to Toledo?”

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go