When she grabbed the stack of envelopes, she flipped through them. Today was the day. For a moment she stood, unbelieving, when her self-addressed envelope stared her in the face. “Finally,” she breathed.
Dropping the rest of the mail carelessly on the dusty ground, she tore into the envelope and pulled out the letter. Her hands trembled. The letterhead on the top bore the official White House logo. “Dear Ms. Evans,” she skipped over the introduction. “Thank you for your application to the White House Public Service Leadership Program,” blah, blah, blah. She quickly skimmed down the page to the next paragraph. “We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for this year's group of interns.”
Her face fell, and so did the letter, right onto the ground. The words replayed in her mind several times. She was stunned. There must have been a mistake. Her application was stellar. Even her professors' letters of recommendation were flawless.
She bent down and picked up the letter, rereading the crushing sentence of her unacceptance. She wanted to cry. Angry tears welled up in her eyes. She aggressively brushed them away. All her plans, all her hopes, hinged on this one frigging piece of paper.
She glanced around her, unseeing, as her mind raced. The surrounding cornfields felt more like a prison now. She refused to allow this small town to trap her. What else could she do? She could try to make it the hard way, and she knew exactly what that entailed. She could move to the state capital, fight over some unpaid internship with a bunch of other candidates, and work nights in some grimy bar to make rent. This news was devastating.
At last she read the remainder of the letter. The words were useless, encouraging her to apply to other, similar, internships. The White House opportunity was a one-shot internship for new graduates, and she'd blown it.
When she trudged back up the lane, all the spring in her step was gone. She was in no mood to work that afternoon. Shannon's would have to survive without her. Plus, she wasn’t going to leave Cyrus alone in her home. She sent a quick text to her best friend Leah, claiming to be sick.
For the remainder of the afternoon she was sullen. She tried to get her mind off of her disappointment by watching television, Facebooking, and then reading. Nothing worked.
At last, she decided to get a start on the brunch dishes so that she could prep for dinner. When she went back in the kitchen, she noticed the small stack of gold still sitting on the breakfast bar. She plucked it up, studying the coins. Each coin had a dragon-head moniker on one side with the word, Dreki. On the back was a tree. The dragon obviously represented the Drengr, but what about the tree? She stuffed the coins in her pocket and got to work, all the while her mind was lost in thought, wondering about Cyrus and his world.
She started loading the dishwasher when she heard a familiar sound, that of tires crunching on gravel. She froze, dish in hand. Who could possibly be dropping by without warning? It was dead-week. Like her parents, all the farm hands were on vacation.
Her mind went to Cyrus, fast asleep in the downstairs bedroom. How would she explain his presence in her house? This was the worst possible time for visitors. She walked to the living room. There she peered out the front window and her stomach did a flip, two flips in fact, and not the good kind, but the ones where you feel the blood drain from your face, and your palms get all sweaty.
A white Ford Raptor came to a halt where she usually parked her Honda Civic. "Crap," she muttered, wiping her wet hands on her apron. This wasn’t happening, was it? Not now. She blinked several times in a panic. What the hell was Jake-the-ballbag doing in her driveway? This wasn’t going to end well…
5
Battle Ground, Indiana
Cyrus awoke with a start. His senses told him something was wrong. He lay motionless in bed, listening. His sensitive ears picked up raised voices. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was not the Vodar, at least not yet.
Instinct urged him to extend his hearing just a little farther, bidding him to say the words, but he dared not. No magic, not the smallest trace, could be spared from the process that was keeping him alive.
He rose from his slumber, wincing. His pain, like that of a hot knife twisting within him, was growing all the more unbearable. Even now, he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.
He dared not look at the wound. He need not see the poison spreading, for he felt it within him. The oily substance, which started as a small stream, was quickly turning into a roaring river. When it cut its way through his lifeblood and into his mind, he would die. His magic slowed its advance, but not for long.
Silently, he crept through the girl’s dwelling, stopping before the exterior door. There he listened. Two voices carried, one belonged to Claire, the other was male. Although he knew not why they argued, it was clear that she was upset.
“Screw you and your excuses, Jake. You said we would make things work between us. You promised me!”
“I tried, Claire. I swear I did. You can’t blame me for being lonely.”
“Bullshit! I’m the one who wanted to break things off when I visited during spring break, but you swore, you son of a bitch, you swore, we would make it work.”
“Claire Bear, I hate for you to be mad at—”
“Ugh! Don’t call me that. And I’m not mad, I’m furious.”
Enough was enough. Cyrus destroyed their privacy by letting himself out onto the porch. He felt oddly protective over Claire. He walked up beside her. If she was surprised to see him, she gave no sign. “Are you all right, my lady?” he quietly asked, giving her a sidelong glance.
Her face relaxed. “I—I’m fine.”
“Claire, who the fuck is this?” The man she called Jake looked back and forth between them, appraising him.
With an overly calm voice he replied, “My identity is not your concern. It is time for you to leave.”
“Leave? Who d’you think you are, tellin’ me what to do? It’s a free country, far as I’m concerned. This ain’t your house anyway.” Jake took several steps towards him.
He reciprocated until they stood face to face. This time he spoke through clenched teeth, pushing aside his pain, “I will not ask you again. Leave this place at once.” His gaze remained fixed on Jake’s, looking for any sign of movement within his dull eyes, movement that he would quickly anticipate.
In his line of work he dealt with his fair share of men like Jake—criminals mostly. They were always the same, get them worked up and they strike. This one was a steaming kettle.
They eyed each other for several seconds until Jake tried to bypass him. “Claire, tell this bastard to back the fuck off before he gets himself in trouble.” Jake puffed himself up as he spoke. “This is between me and you, not some—”
“Some what?”
“Nosy fucking bastard, that’s what.” Jake spat at the wooden beams beneath his feet.
Instinctively, his fingers reached for Justice before realizing he had left his Sverak inside. A careless mistake, but no matter. Before Jake could process his quick movements, he sent his fist through the air and slammed it into the side of the idiot’s face. He did not intend to put such force into the punch and was surprised, given his condition. The impact sent Jake stumbling heel backwards until the wretch lost his footing on the stairs and tumbled off the porch.
Ignoring Claire’s gasp, he walked to the edge of the porch and said, “If you return, you will be the one in trouble. Have I made myself clear?”
Jake’s eyes were like daggers. He cupped the side of his face, which was quickly swelling. Then he staggered to his feet and took off without a backwards glance, muttering profanities all the while, before climbing into the large metal wagon that needed no horse to pull it.
What inexplicable magic filled this world! He would have to ask Claire about this horseless carriage later. Dragonwall had no such wains.
He turned to her. Her mouth was agape, but she said nothing. A sudden flood of exhaustion inundated him. Without a word he quickly left, so as not to let her witness
his pain. He would nurse his wound alone and in silence.
Claire found him in his room sometime after dark. She knocked quietly to announce the evening meal. He was resting, but not sleeping. His mind was elsewhere, wandering over his better memories, over his beloved Leeana.
Gods he missed her. Not a day went by that he didn’t recall her silky black hair and dimpled smile, her calming personality and kind heart, and the way she made his happiness soar higher than his wings ever could. He especially longed for her now, when the pain was worse than any physical ailment he had ever experienced, save the feeling of her mind getting ripped from his.
They once held halves of the same consciousness. When she died, his existence was torn apart. The agony of losing part of one’s self was a form of torture he would never wish upon any living soul.
Sadly, he never thought such a thing would happen to him. No Drengr does. His kind were born to feel invincible, it was in their nature.
That made it more unbearable. His loss of Leeana, his rider, his mate, created a deep void that would never again be filled. How naïve he was to believe that becoming one of the king’s elite, a King’s Shield, would distract him. He was wrong, there would be no distraction from his lifelong mourning.
It was said that men should never shed tears, that it was a sign of weakness. Yet he was more dragon than man, and he had cried for many nights—for many years. The world was a darker place without her in it.
His stomach gave a loud grumble, bringing his mind back to the present. Claire still stood in the doorway, watching him intently. “Look, I wanted to thank you for—for chasing Jake off earlier.” She took a few steps towards him. “I know he can be a total douchebag. He never used to be. And I hope—”
“Does he abuse you often?”
“He—no! I mean, he’s never hit me or anything like that.”
“Well he might have, had I not stepped in. Many dealings have I had with men like him. Thank the gods I was here to help. Perhaps Asjaa smiles upon you.”
It was the truth. Asjaa did favor her. He knew it with certainty now. Naturally the girl had no notion of the secret he held. He wished he could tell her, but it would be too difficult to explain.
“Asjaa?” her head tilted slightly, freeing a lock of hair that fell across one eye.
“The Mother.”
Her understanding failed. The gods were different here, he knew enough about this place to know that. The unnecessary explanation had little to do with his point anyway, so he avoided it. “You should stay away from him from now on—away from this Jake—for your own safety.”
“I would be more than happy to.” She crossed her arms with resolve, and that ended the conversation.
Before sitting down to their evening meal, he again assessed the outer grounds of Claire’s dwelling, gazing through various windows to appease his worry. The Vodar would return, he simply did not know when. Justice was strapped to his side, and would remain so from now on.
They sat down to a spectacular meal. Claire’s skill in cookery was impressive. “What did you say this meat was?” he wondered aloud, forgetting his manners through a mouthful.
“Sirloin steak.”
He swallowed the succulent red flesh, washing it down with a gulp of fine red wine. “We do not have steaks in my world. What do they look like?”
Claire burst into laughter. She frequently chortled at his ignorance, not that she could be blamed. He would do the same had their positions been reversed.
“Steaks are not animals, silly. Sirloin steak is a cut of meat—from a cow.”
“Cow…” the word was vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had used it before. “We have chickens, goats, grazers, oxen, sheep, antelope, wild boar, pigs…” he tried to recall the wilder animals that were considered delicacies in Dragonwall. “We have no cows. What do they look like?”
“They look like—like Tilly and Joe in the stable. Remember? You washed up in their drinking water.”
“Oh!” He did remember. “They resemble our grazers, then. Only, ours are much larger in girth. And they have huge horns sprouting from their pates.” He did an imitation with his fingers, lifting them to his forehead and butting his head forward the way grazers did. She giggled long and loud, throwing a hand over her mouth. The sound of her mirth helped to ease his pain.
He continued despite this. “Their coats are that of shaggy fur, not like the hides of your beasts. Mostly they are dark brown, but I once saw a white one.” He omitted the part about his dear friend Reyr hunting it down in one fell swoop, and how they had consumed the beast in mere minutes afterward. He missed Reyr.
They fell quiet for a short time while they ate. In truth, he was so busy chewing that he had little ability to speak. Besides, he was in no mood for serious conversation. Perhaps Claire picked up on this, because rather than asking about his mission, she chose a lighter topic.
“Do you think—can we talk about Dragonwall?” She was timid at first, but her face displayed her hunger for knowledge. “My whole life has been spent wishing fantasy worlds like yours existed. I never imagined...that is to say...can you tell me about it?”
“Perhaps I can oblige your desires. What do you wish to know?”
Her eyes grew large and she smiled wider than he had yet seen. “I want to know everything! Anything. Magic, mostly. Like, how does it work? Can you teach me? Are there spells?” She spoke very rapidly. “Can anyone do magic? Or only people of—well, people like you. And what about wands and stuff, like in Harry Potter?”
“Harry, who?” He did not know this person. “I can tell you about magic, if you like.”
She vigorously nodded.
He started with the Magoi, telling her about the Society. They were the foundation of modern magic. “The Society oversees all magical training in Dragonwall. Those of the blood must be trained, or they become dangerous.”
A true explanation of magic would take far more time than they had, so he did his best to explain how it worked in a general sense. All magical acts were governed by words, powerful words, that when spoken correctly with proper intent, brought about the actions they stood for.
“And if you string these words together, then you have what we call an incant.”
She listened eagerly, holding onto everything he said. At last, her excitement was bubbling over. “Can you show me?” she breathed.
He sighed and shook his head. “I cannot. I am too weak.”
He did not miss the disappointment she displayed, though she pretended to understand. Nevertheless, she soon found more questions to ask. “Are there other creatures besides dragons—I mean the Drengr?”
“Aye. Humans and Drengr are the most common, but there are others. Sprites of the forests—we do not see much of them, nor much of the Dworgs—”
“You mean, dwarves?”
His brow furrowed. “No, I mean Dworgs.” She fell silent. “There are also Gobelins. They are the nastiest of course.”
“Goblins? Shut up!”
“Pardon me, my lady?” He was not used to being spoken to thus. Then again, he'd never heard a woman talk the way Claire talked.
“I mean—sorry—I didn’t actually mean for you to be quiet. I hope I didn't offend you. I was just surprised. All those creatures. Wow! I’ve only read about them in stories. But they’re real!”
“Aye. We have a great many more, but those are the most common. And it is pronounced Gobelin, not goblin.”
“Gobelin,” she repeated, making the ‘oh’ sound more dominant. Her head tilted to the side for a moment before she said, changing the subject, “What about castles? Does everyone live in a castle? Do you live in one?”
He chuckled at her curiosity. “Of course I live in a castle. I work for the king, so I live in the biggest one of them all. But no, not everyone lives in a castle.”
Her eyes danced. “I love castles. They are so…”
“Stifling?”
“I was going to say—”
“Crowded?�
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“No! Well maybe. You would know better than me. But I was going to say royal I suppose, or magical.”
He snorted. “You have never lived in one, then. If the constant presence of people does not get to you, the abundance of stench and stone will.”
After his admission, she wanted to know exactly what it was like living in a grand fortress. “Are there servants? What about jousts? Do the ladies walk around in beautiful gowns? And what about knights? Are there knights? Do they wear tokens of their maiden’s love when they fight for their honor?”
Her interesting questions bolstered his spirits. He was more than happy to talk of home, though thinking about Kastali Dun left his heart aching. Too many weeks had passed since beholding the tall turrets and battlements of the Great Keep.
“Oh, oh, what about the king and queen?!” She interrupted him while he was in the middle of an explanation about daily court rituals. Her eyes were wide. “What are they like?”
For a moment he paused, caught unawares by the mention of a queen. “King Talon has no queen. He has been unfortunate in that regard.” He was more than happy to tell Claire about Dragonwall’s ruler, and he spoke fondly of him. “Most who do not know the king personally, fear him. But such fear is needless, for he makes a great many sacrifices for his people.”
She seemed skeptical. “How can one person be trusted to make all of the decisions for their people? That kind of power is dangerous. Monarchies haven’t worked out well here in my world.”
Her declaration intrigued him, so they talked at length about Dragonwall’s government—late into the night—until his enervation could no longer be ignored.
With Claire, conversation was all too easy. He knew why. Yet, this was not yet the time to tell her. Such an admission would surely frighten her. Besides, she had been through enough as it was. Furthermore, although he trusted her now, for he had a small peek into her mind earlier that day, it was very unlikely that she fully trusted him. Better not to risk upset.
Talon the Black Page 4
