by S. W. Clarke
I eyed it with disinterest. “Looks like a misshapen drink coaster.”
“Now you’re screwing with me. Look at it with proper eyes, Tara.” He held it out for me to take.
When I took it, I straightened. Turned it over in my hand. “Is this a dragon scale?”
“Aye, off a full-grown dragon.”
I stared at Ferris. “Did you kill it?”
“You think I’d kill a dragon?” He pointed to the back scratcher. “After you saw that?”
“No, I …”
“He was a slain dragon, shedding his scales as anything biological does in the decomposition process. That scale is three hundred years old and it’s still as hard as adamantium. See for yourself.”
I tapped it, tried to break it between my hands. Not even a little bend. “The perfect armor,” I murmured.
“You do realize those scales aren’t just armor?” He caught my eye. “A dragon can ruffle them out just a little bit and roll over you. If you don’t die from being rolled on, you’ll certainly die by a thousand cuts.”
I sucked in air, holding the scale with a little more reverence.
“And”—Ferris tapped the workbench—“those human tales of jumping on a dragon’s back to slay it are baloney. A dragon will simply lift its scales and shed the unwanted rider off its back.”
“Huh.” I really didn’t know nearly as much about dragons as I’d thought. The hubris I’d had to think I could raise a baby dragon to maturity … “Percy can do that?”
“All dragons can do that,” he said, low and certain.
I set the scale down between us, crossed my arms on the bench. “Ferris, tell me about the matriarch. Can she be trusted?”
Ferris sat back. “Tara, you’re asking me if you can trust a thousand-year-old dragon. Want to know the first rule of dragons?”
I nodded slowly.
“They’re killers. There’s never been a dragon alive that hasn’t killed, and that matriarch? She’s what you’d call a bloodletter.”
↔
As I sat in Ferris’s workshop, he told me about the matriarch he’d been watching for three hundred and fifty years, ever since he and the ninjas had been stablehands in the Unseelie Court. The largest of the dragons—Yaroz—had birthed the other three during her captivity in the court, though not willingly. She had become increasingly rebellious over the course of twenty years, seeking freedom.
And it was freedom she got. On a day when the prince chose to ride her, she’d had other plans. She threw him from her back at a thousand feet up, and though these elves were immortal, nobody survived a fall like that.
“Splat he went,” Ferris said with irreverence that made me smile. “And good riddance to him. He’d beat the dragons as therapy for his own shortcomings.”
“What happened to her?” I asked. “After she threw the prince.”
“Yaroz disappeared from the Unseelie Court for a time. That is, until she returned a year later with two more children, what you’d call a flight of dragons. The three of them burned down the stables until all that remained were her three formerly captive children standing in the ashes.”
“Because dragons are impervious to fire,” I murmured.
“That they are,” Ferris said. “And then she took off, never to be seen in the court again. But over the years I heard stories.”
“Of what?”
“Deaths here and there. She particularly hated elves, as you can imagine. Burned them to cinders. Of course, before the gods left the world had a balance to it, an order. A dragon might kill an elf, but no more. The gods wouldn’t allow it. Good thing, too—a dragon matriarch might be the most cunning creature alive.”
The next question was an obvious one for me. “How would you defeat a matriarch?”
Ferris took a long sip of his drink, tapped the rim. “They’re like armored tanks, but their scales are even tougher. How would you defeat an armored tank, Tara?”
“Well, I’ve never thought about it. But I suppose I would try to get inside the tank and take out the driver.”
He nodded slowly. “Very good. When dragons fight, they tend to ruffle their scales. It helps them move faster, be more aerodynamic. It’s the hide underneath the scales that’s most vulnerable.”
I tucked that knowledge away; the GoneGods knew I might need it someday.
“And now that the gods are gone,” I said, “what keeps a dragon matriarch in check?”
“Now you’ve touched on the crux of it, Tara. It’s why I’ve been keeping closer tabs on her these past few years.”
“What’re you saying, Ferris?”
“I’m saying she’s her own queen now. She could remain peaceful as she has for the past five years, or she could inhabit her old anger.”
I lowered my chin. “Ferris, you mean to say you let me send Percy off to the questionable embrace of a matriarch who might decide to become murderous again?”
His bushy eyebrows went up. “Conclusions can be nasty things, especially when jumped to.” He paused. “No, Tara—I wouldn’t have allowed you to give Percy over to her if I thought she was planning such things. I suspect she might want a peaceful coexistence.”
My whole body felt like a live wire. “And why would you suspect that? You’ve just called her a bloodletter, for GoneGods’ sake.”
“I have reason to believe she’s teaching her children to be dragons in this new world,” he said. “And has been since the gods left and all—”
I waved a hand through the air. “The denizens of the heavens and hells were cast down to Earth, I know. How can you be sure she’s raising them right?”
Ferris seemed annoyed I’d interrupted him. “What is ‘right,’ Tara?”
“Like a mother. A real mother.”
“That’s subjective to time and place and species.”
I pointed at my chest. “Fine. Like I’d raise him. She could be turning those dragons into …”
He waited a moment, and when I couldn’t find the word, he offered, “Killers?”
I made a face. “Even if dragons are killers, Percy isn’t without a heart. I know him.”
“Humans are killers,” Ferris said. “Every day your species kills how many millions of chickens? But you’d say you still have a heart.”
I swallowed.
“What you’re really afraid of, Tara,” Ferris went on, “is that he won’t have the kind of conscience you want him to have.”
He wasn’t wrong. But this was also getting away from the point.
I fixed him with a stern eye. “If there’s anything I should know about that matriarch, I want you to tell me.”
“That’s precisely the thing, Tara. The matriarch may very well have a different set of morals. A different sort of conscience. You know Star Wars?”
My head jerked back. “Non sequitur much?”
He flapped an impatient hand. “Well, do you?”
“Of course.”
“The rebels are the heroes, right?”
I nodded.
He pointed a finger at me. “Or an insurgent band of fanatics, from a different perspective. And how do you think Others feel in this GoneGod World, surrounded by humans? Driven from their heavens and hells?”
“I suppose they all have their own feelings …”
“And they’re entitled to those feelings, Tara Drake. When everything’s been taken from you and you feel like you have nothing else, fanaticism isn’t such a far-fetched idea.”
I straightened. “Fanatics kill. They blow things up. They commit evils.”
Ferris didn’t sigh, maybe out of politeness. But I could see in the way his eyes drifted away and his shoulders slumped that I’d missed—or maybe avoided—his point.
My watch vibrated. When I glanced down, I saw I’d missed a call from Aubert the cop. And the battery on my watch was at 2%.
I pushed away from the table, stood to a crouch. I crossed toward the passenger seat of the van, began rifling through my duffel.
; “What are you looking for?” Ferris called. A second later, he appeared by my side.
“My phone. I need to return a call.”
Ferris pointed into my bag. “What’s that?”
I paused, my neck heating. “Oh. It’s uh … nothing. Just a memento.”
Ferris reached in, oh so gently lifted out the mason jar and stared into it. “That’s a dragon shell, if I’m not mistaken.”
I resisted swiping it back and tucking it away. “It’s Percy’s.”
Ferris met my eyes overtop the jar. “Well why didn’t you tell me you had this from the start? GoneGodDamn.”
Chapter 15
I pointed at the jar. “There’s no way you can shape that without cracking it to pieces.”
Ferris only smiled. “Oh Tara, how little faith ye have in the wonders of gnomish technology.”
I’d found my phone, and I held it tight in my hand. I needed to get back to Aubert, but I also felt deeply uncomfortable about the present situation. “Ferris …”
Ferris gestured to the jar. “Listen, how’s this serving you at all except as the equivalent of a placenta sitting on the mantel? It’s useless in this jar.”
I tilted my head. “And you can make it into some sort of dog whistle.”
“Dragon whistle. No dog would be able to pick up on this frequency. Only a dragon—only your dragon.”
“How’s that possible?”
“It’s the magical resonance of his egg, and how his tiny scales rubbed up against the surface as he grew—”
I raised a hand, feeling queasy. I’d never been a fan of eggs or what they contained. “Actually, never mind. I’ve got a call to make, but before I do, I need you to promise me something.”
“Tell me, and we’ll see about promises.”
“Even if the whistle turns out to be a bust, leave me a little bit of the shell intact. Don’t use it all.”
A wistful expression came over him.
“What’s that face?” I asked.
He shook his head, pushed around me toward his workbench. He set the jar atop the surface. “Nothing. Just sappy things you wouldn’t want to hear. Go do your business and let me focus on mine.”
So I did. I opened the back door of the van, stepped out into the late afternoon. Began pacing through the parking lot of the coffee shop as I called Aubert back.
She picked up on the second ring. “Tara?”
“What’s the news on our ex-vamp?”
“I’ve got a lead.” A certain hesitance entered her voice. “But you’re not gonna like it.”
“Go on, then.”
“Listen, I would do this if I could, but I’m the one who arrested this ogre originally. And it’s not exactly aboveboard police work. So it’s you or no one.”
“Ogre?” I said. “I’m not looking for an ogre—”
“He’s your ex-vamp’s direct boss,” Aubert cut in. “He knows exactly what Peter’s up to and where he is.”
Well, that was juicy. That brought me one step closer to Valdis.
“What do I have to do?” I asked.
“Just remember,” she said, “it’s you or no one.”
“What is it?”
↔
Six hours and a couple errands in the Mystery Mobile later, I stood at the entrance to a nondescript, low-slung building in the middle of the city. I held a large notepad easel under one arm and kept my other hand on the strap of an oversized, heavy purse.
For the first time that night, I saw my reflection. The bun at the nape of my neck, the center part of my hair, the mushy-peas green cardigan I’d buttoned up to the collar. The long, puritan skirt down to my ankles.
All obtained from the local TJ Maxx with a grumbling gnomish inventor in tow. These weren’t even the worst parts of what was to come.
When I pressed through the doors of the community center, it didn’t take more than a few seconds to orient myself. The place smelled like the inside of a school, and it had the paper signs on the walls to cement my opinion of it.
In front of me, someone had taped a sheet of paper to the wall, and written:
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE MORTAL CLASS
Beneath it, an arrow pointed left.
So I went left, and arrived at a door with a second piece of paper bearing the same handwriting.
I took a deep breath like I used to when I prepared for the trapezes. Stretched my head from side to side. I was a performer. I rode a dragon. I could core an apple with a whip from ten paces, GoneGodDamn it.
I could do this.
When I came into the room, ten Others sat on beige folding chairs in the large space. Square fluorescent lighting poured over them, illuminating their mortal bodies in ways not even an encantado could shape-change her way out of.
What does it mean to be mortal? It means suffering the indignities of fluorescent lightning.
None of the Others in this court-mandated therapy program so much as glanced back at me. I took a quick sweep of those present, spotted a wendingo, two pixies, a goblin, someone who looked just like a regular human—but was likely an ex-vampire or an ex-werewolf or some other kind of ex—two satyrs, one minotaur, and what looked like a woman with tentacles for the lower half of her body.
And there at the center, his back to me, sat an ogre.
Jackpot.
I started forward, came around the group to stand at the far, open edge of the circle of chairs. When I stopped to face them, only the wendingo and the goblin actually bothered to look up.
Actually, the wendingo sat with his massive, furry hands in his lap and shone bright eyes onto me. Meanwhile, the goblin stared like I’d just stepped in front of his favorite television show.
The ogre kept his arms folded across his chest, gazed at an indeterminate spot past me.
I flicked my easel open, set it down hoping the scrape of wood over tile would get everyone’s attention.
It didn’t.
I set my purse down by the easel, clapped my hands. It was time to be Tara Drake, LCSW. “Evening, everyone.”
The pixies jolted when I clapped, eyes like dinner plates on me. One of them had a tic, his little leg jerking over and over at the edge of the chair.
Druggies, maybe? Well, they had to have done something wrong; this class was mandatory, after all, as a result of crime. Sort of like when you got a driving ticket and had to take a driver’s education class, except for Others who hadn’t fully integrated into the GoneGod World.
And somehow Aubert had managed to sneak me in as the teacher.
“Good evening,” the wendingo said in a low, radio DJ voice.
At least someone was eager.
“I’m Tara Drake,” I said, “and I’ll be leading this evening’s course on what it means to be mortal.”
At this, the goblin started out of his seat. With a curse, he turned and made his way out of the room, the door closing hard behind him.
I raised a brow, to which the wendingo offered, “Wrong room. You know goblins aren’t so good with English.”
“Oh.” I nodded like I did. “Sure.”
Before silence could overtake us, I grabbed a permanent marker out of my big purse, popped the cap, and began writing on my enormous notepad.
What does it mean to be mortal?
When I turned back around, I tapped the paper with my marker. “This here is the question of this session. It’s why you all are here. Now before we dive into philosophy, how about we go around and introduce ourselves? Tell me your name and your species.”
I pulled up my own beige folding chair, took a seat. Crossed my legs, leaned forward with one elbow on my knee and my chin on my fist. Nodded at the first pixie in his chair.
We went around one at a time, each Other introducing themselves. Some had absolutely Other-esque names—like the pixie who was called G’lixy—while others had presumably renamed themselves to fit in in the GoneGod World.
One person who looked just like a human explained he was an ex-werehyena. No more fur,
no more claws, no more magic. Just a regular old Joe. Actually, his name was Joe.
When we got to my ogre, he made a noise in the back of his throat. Rubbed a hand over his bald head, and for the first time I noticed he was missing an ear. Then he said, “Ogre.”
With all attention on him, I had time to evaluate my plan. I needed to slip a tracking device onto him, courtesy of my cop friend. Problem was, he wasn’t carrying any bags with him, which meant I’d need to tuck it into his clothing.
Except all he wore was a pocketless t-shirt and a pair of form-fitting jeans. Which didn’t exactly make my job easy.
I leaned forward. “And what did you say your name was?”
For the first time, his eyes met mine. Dark and lidded and full of a strange kind of malice—like the potential for violence was written all over him. It made my stomach twist tight, and that very rarely happened with people anymore.
I had no doubt he was Scarred.
“Grunt,” he said in a low baritone. His lungs must have been caverns in that barrel chest.
My eyebrows went up before I could contain myself. “Your name’s Grunt? Like the noise you just made?” With a name like that, he might as well have walked straight out of a Grimm Brothers story. I wondered where his big, ogreish club was hidden.
Evidently he picked up on my mockery; his eyes narrowed, then returned to their former focus elsewhere. He was done talking.
GoneGodDamnit, I cursed inwardly. Tonight I’d confirmed my suspicion I wasn’t cut out for social work.
We kept on around the circle until everyone had introduced themselves. The eager wendingo was named Marcus. “After Marcus Aurelius,” he explained. “I read Meditations a few years ago, and the absolute poeticism of his writing still comes through after all these centuries. A wonder, isn’t it, that he was a stoic in a time when I was just a baby wendingo, newly born into this world and wholly unaware still that over a millennia from now I would read his book and—”
I gave him a close-lipped smile, raised a hand. “I’d love to hear more, Marcus, after we finish introductions.” Fixed my attention on the Other next to him. “And your name?”
