Treasurekeeper

by Ripley Harper

  My next move isn’t too clever, but it’s born of desperation, and Gunn has taught me that desperation can be a powerful tool, sometimes, when there’s nothing else left. So instead of running away, I stop, turn towards him and pretend to go for his face.

  The guy steps back, the small, involuntary movement of someone who’s recently taken a hard punch to the throat, and I use the split second this gives me to dance around him and run into the open night.

  But he’s faster than I gave him credit for, and I soon hear the sound of his footsteps right behind me. Too close.

  Shit.

  I slow my pace, relax my shoulders.

  When his hand closes around my upper right arm, I’m ready for him and I spin around clockwise, raising my left shoulder to smash my elbow into his unprotected right side, as hard as I can. He bellows in pain, a low, angry sound, and releases my arm to block the follow-up punch before lashing out with a quick and nasty blow of his own that catches me right in the solar plexus.

  I fight the pain, gasping for air, and turn my back to him to take the next punch on the shoulder. He’s taller than me though, and his arms are longer, which means that his fist slams into my jaw with a sickening crunch.

  I literally see stars, blazing white spots against a dark background, and then my mind leaves my body in a swift, definite movement.

  I don’t black out.

  What I mean is that when he comes for me again, all rational, considered thoughts about attack and defense have disappeared from my mind, and I become something wilder and more vicious: an animal fighting for its own survival.

  Now, you must understand that I know how to hurt a man. I trained with Gunn for years, learning exactly what to do and how to do it, practicing the moves over and over until it became second nature, a kind of instinct. I know how to punch or to kick or to twist away in the same way that a gymnast knows how to tumble or a pitcher knows how to throw. It’s not something you think about, not when it’s real. On game day, it’s just something you do.

  I don’t know how much time passes.

  I punch, I smash, I scratch, I bite, I knee, I elbow, I yank, I twist, overcome by a red mist of fighting rage and aware only of the pounding in my chest, the thunder in my ears, the copper taste of blood in my mouth.

  Most people don’t realize that it’s possible to hurt someone who’s bigger and stronger than you, even if you don’t have a weapon. All you need is a bit of luck, the right kind of blow to the right kind of place, and the will to fight dirty. To go for the soft places on the human body, the important, vulnerable places, and to inflict pain without any inhibition or conscience.

  I get hit in the face, I get hit in the stomach, I get kicked in the head, I get kicked in the ribs. I get really, really hurt.

  But the fear has left me, and instead of pain I feel only the thrilling exhilaration of the fight, the lust to destroy my enemy, this man who wants to hurt me, just like everyone wants to hurt me, like they’ve always wanted to hurt me, or girls like me.

  I fight this man like I want to kill him. Because I do.

  I want to crush him. I want to smash him, to pull his body apart limb from limb, to pulverize him, to fucking destroy him, and I don’t care how hurt I get in the process.

  I don’t care if I die.

  By the time I realize he’s not moving anymore, I’m covered in blood and I can’t see out of my one eye. I don’t feel any real pain, but my ears are ringing and my body is shaking with adrenaline.

  The man who attacked me is lying in a pool of blood. He’s not moving.

  There is no sign of Jonathan or the other guy. There’s no sign of anyone.

  I stagger to my feet.

  I turn around and stumble back toward Ingrid’s house.

  Chapter 28

  Some believe Shielding to be nothing less than a core skill. They argue that without its protection, Black Keepers would not be able to keep the required distance from their Wards, and that this would not only make their work impossible but may also imperil the very existence of our Order.

  From Orations of Aelius (1st Century CE); translated from the original Latin by Sofia Rodriguez (1999)

  When I get to the house, Gunn is sitting alone in the kitchen.

  He doesn’t look up when I open the back door. All the lights are off, but in the dim half-light that seeps through from the hallway, I can see him staring at the kitchen table with a thunderous expression on his face.

  Great.

  I know I must look a mess: by now my entire body hurts like hell and I can barely see out of one eye. He’s probably going to freak when he sees me, and if I have to listen to one more of his endless, well-meaning lectures, I might just burst into tears.

  “I don’t feel too good,” I say as I limp past him, praying he won’t look up. “I’m going straight to bed. See you tomorrow.”

  He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say anything.

  I’m halfway out the door when he speaks. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  His voice sounds so different—–bitter as cigarette smoke, sharp as broken glass—– that I hesitate in the doorway, trying to suppress a stab of guilt.

  Sure, Gunn may be part of the evil Black clan, but he’s always been solidly opposed to their girl-torturing, forced-breeding methods, and he’s worked really hard to keep me safe. I mean, the guy’s been shot while trying to protect me, more than once actually, and stabbed and beaten and heaven knows what else—–a lot of his heroics took place while I was in my resting state so I probably don’t even know the half of it.

  I probably owe him an apology.

  “I’m sorry.” I talk to his huge back, hoping he won’t turn around. “I shouldn’t have gone out on my own tonight. It was careless, I know.”

  He rests his forehead on his steepled fingers, almost as if he’s praying, his shoulders slumped.

  The defeated pose is so unlike him that I find myself stammering out another apology. “So, um, yeah. I just needed to get out for a while. I wasn’t trying to make your job more difficult or anything.”

  “Because that’s all you are to me, right? A job.” When he finally lifts his head and sees my battered face, I’m surprised that he doesn’t even blink. “Do you have any idea what I’m feeling right now?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Try crushed. Try devastated. Try destroyed.”

  By now my eyes have adjusted to the dim light and I can see that he really means it. “I’m sorry. Really, I—–”

  “Stop. Saying. That.” He balls his hands into fists, takes a few deep breaths. “I’m not trying to tell you off, okay? I’m not being your teacher anymore; I’m fucking sick of that role.” Another deep breath. “This isn’t another lecture. I’m done with that.”

  “I really didn’t mean to make you worry. I’m sor—– I mean, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No. You won’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s over, Jess. You’ve won. I can’t stay in your life if you don’t want me here. So I’m leaving tonight, before I do something we’ll both regret.”

  My head hurts badly: there’s a sharp, stinging pressure behind my one eye and dull throbbing pain that radiates from a cut in my inner cheek straight to my brain. I really, really need to lie down.

  I remain standing. “You’re leaving me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Because I sneaked out tonight?”

  “Jesus Jess.” He slams a fist into his open hand, but it’s more a gesture of frustration than anger. “What have I ever done to make you think I’m that petty?”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  “Because I’m sick with worry about you. Sick. And I’m desperate. And I’m scared. And I’m going out of my fucking mind because I can see you’re suffering and I’m terrified you’ll do something really stupid. But you’ve shut me out so completely that there’s no way for me to help you.”

  “Oh.” I finally re
alize what’s going on.

  Poor Gunn.

  I limp toward the kitchen table and pull out a chair. This is more difficult than it sounds, by the way. By now the adrenalin must’ve left my system completely because absolutely everything is hurting. My jaw feels loose, my ribs are so sore it hurts to breathe, and I think I might have broken a finger.

  But I sit down, groaning only slightly, and do my best to give him a reassuring smile. “I’m not going to kill myself, okay? If tonight is anything to go by, my survival instinct is stronger than ever. You can relax: the last trueborn daughter won’t commit suicide on your watch.”

  He flinches away as if I’ve slapped him. “For fuck sake, Jess! What is wrong with you? Do you really think that’s what this is about?”

  I taste blood in my mouth. A cut must have opened again; I only hope I won’t lose a tooth. “Isn’t that what the Black clan is for?” I reach for the kitchen towel. “To keep girls like me alive?”

  Both alive and weak. Alive, so that they can bear children who will renew and strengthen our own bloodlines, but also weak, so that they can never transform into dragons to steal our power for themselves.

  I spit some blood into the towel and wipe my mouth. When I look up, Gunn’s eyes are blazing with anger.

  “Just how exactly does one become part of a clan?” he asks, his tone so sharp I’d have said it’s sarcastic if it was anyone but him. “Come on. You know this. I’m sure I told you this myself.”

  I make a vague gesture. “You pledge yourself to a Lord or Lady of a clan?”

  “Right. Well done. Very clever.”

  Wow, okay. So maybe Gunn isn’t above sarcasm after all.

  “And who exactly would the esteemed Lady of the Black Clan be?”

  “Ingrid?” I smile uncertainly, hoping to calm him down, but the effect is ruined when I have to spit out some more blood.

  “Yes,” he says when I put the kitchen towel aside, his eyes like flint. “So think about this for one second. Have you ever seen me swear any kind of oath to Ingrid?”

  “No.”

  “And have I ever given you the impression that I’m obeying her every word?” He raises his huge shoulders in frustration. “Do I look like someone who’s sworn blind loyalty to that woman?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So why the fuck would you think I’m part of the Black clan?”

  “Um… Because you’re my keeper?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No. I’m. Not.”

  “But… Of course you are.” I frown, confused, my head hurting too much for this weird conversation. “Everyone says so. And you yourself told me that your family has been keeping mine since—–”

  “Forget about my family. They’ve got nothing to do with me.” He takes a few deep breaths, obviously trying to control his temper. “Okay, look, it’s true. Because of the accident of my birth there will always be some… connection between us, I’m not denying that. But I had as much of a choice being born into my family as you had in being born into yours.” He starts to say something, then stops himself. After a few more attempts he swears before getting up from the table. “Zig was right. I should’ve left a long time ago. This isn’t helping either of us.”

  I put a hand out to stop him. I might not have the strength for this discussion right now, but it’s happening, and I suddenly know, with a deep certainty just as real as the pain I’m in, that if Gunn walks away now, I’ll never see him again. “So you’re not my keeper?”

  “Of course not.” He shakes off my hand. “How could you not know this?”

  “Because you never said—–”

  “Do you know what it means to be Black, Jess?”

  I sigh, the deep exhale hurting my lungs. “Not really, I guess.”

  “But you’ve heard about Shielding, right?”

  “Yeah…” I desperately try to think. “It’s the core magic of the Black clan, and it basically means you’re protected against most forms of keeper magic.”

  “Yes. It makes Black keepers immune to the shine too because it protects both their physical bodies and their emotions against the magic of their wards.”

  I think of the way Ingrid always stayed so cool and collected even while I was completely lost in my magic. Poor Gunn, on the other hand, had to stay away from me for months because he got so shine-sick after the trial.

  “I guess I did know that. I just never put two and two together, sorry.”

  He nods once, then turns and walks to the back door.

  “Gunn, wait.” I close my eyes briefly, trying to focus, but it just makes my head hurt even worse. “Just stop for a moment. Please.”

  When he hesitates, I give it everything I’ve got. I don’t want to screw this up just because I’m hurting and exhausted.

  “I’m sorry. Really. I’m starting to think I missed a lot of things I should have seen. Some of it might have been because of an Enthrallment spell, I don’t know. But I’ve also been in denial about a lot of things. My whole life, really.”

  “Okay,” he says, his face blank. “It’s good that you’re starting to realize this, I guess.” Then he turns away again.

  “Don’t go.”

  “I don’t have a choice. Goodbye Jess. I’m sorry I fucked it all up.”

  “Just tell me one thing before you leave.”

  He hesitates, one hand on the door handle.

  “Pledging to Black would have given you a lot of power right? So why didn’t you do it?”

  “Because it’s bullshit.” There’s no hesitation in his voice, no uncertainty. “All of it. Lies and deceptions and cold-blooded trickery. All that talk about bloodlines and warding and traditions and history is a load of bullshit and I refuse to have any further part in it.”

  His words soothe something newly raw and wounded deep inside me.

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because all there is, all there really is, is you. You. You’re the last of your kind left on earth, and you can decide exactly who you want to be. What you want to be.”

  “So why are you leaving me just when I’m starting to figure it all out?”

  A short silence. Then he bangs his head against the back door a few times before he turns and walks back to the kitchen table. He pulls out a chair. Sits down.

  “Because I can’t stay. I’m sorry. I just can’t handle it anymore.” He runs a hand through his hair, from front to back, the gesture so familiar I suddenly want to cry. “Oh, Jess, don’t you see? I’ve chosen not to be your keeper because when it comes to you, I’ve always just wanted to be me. This,” he waves a hand to indicate the space between us, “isn’t about old rituals and clans and magic, okay? It never was. It’s about you and me, and a meaningful and complicated relationship that’s been built over years…” he swallows visibly “… and which you’ve decided to throw away like it means nothing—–like it’s garbage—–simply because you’ve learned some new words to label it with.”

  It's incredibly hard to look at the raw hurt on his face. But he doesn’t avoid my eyes, doesn’t try to hide his emotions in any way.

  “I never knew you felt that way.”

  “How can you even say that?”

  “I guess I thought because you were my keeper—–”

  “I’m not your fucking keeper. I never was! You can’t rewrite our entire history just because you see things differently now, okay?”

  I’m astonished to see that his hands are trembling with emotion.

  “Remember me? I’m the guy who sat on the roof with you that night your mom died. And who taught you how to make pancakes, and how to drive a car, and how to download apps on your phone. And who bandaged up your hand after you got into that fight with Ty. And who taught you those self-defense lessons afterward because I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone ever hurting you—–”

  “Sofia said the things you taught me in those classes have been at the heart of Black lore for c
enturies.” I interrupt his tirade with something that’s been bothering me for months.

  He shrugs. “Some of it might be, I don’t know. I only taught you what I knew; the stuff that helped me in my life. I never even studied Black lore, Jess, and, until recently, neither did Ingrid. We both found it repulsive—–at least until your mom died and Ingrid went completely off the rails.”

  When he sees the skeptical expression on my face, he shakes his head. “Those classes… It was clear to me you needed someone after your mom died. You were so lost and so angry and so sad and you didn’t have anyone.” He closes his eyes briefly, as if he’s suddenly tired. “I know I missed a lot of your life, okay? Both Ingrid and your mother told me not to spend too much time with you, and in my heart I knew they were right. There’s just such a huge gap in life experience between fourteen and twenty… I knew you had to find your own way, make your own life, no matter how much I wanted to be part of it.”

  His wry little smile breaks my heart. Or maybe it’s just the pain in my ribs, it’s difficult to tell.

  “And then later, after your mom died, you got that crush on me and I didn’t want to complicate things any further. So I did my best to stay away, only helping you in a defined and structured way that we could both categorize as something apart from your normal life.” Another sad little smile. “And it worked! You got over the crush and got on with your life—–so it might have been the right move anyway. I don’t even know anymore.”

  I find his utter conviction that I got over my crush on him so surprising that I’m sure I must look startled. But luckily he’s too busy beating himself up about the past to notice.

  “Sometimes I feel as if I did everything wrong. Every single thing. Of course I should’ve told you the truth years ago. I know that. I knew it even at the time! But your mother swore me to silence and she was, just… formidable. And she loved you so much. I told myself that if she thought it was the right thing to do, well, who am I to argue? But I should’ve listened to my gut. And then later, after she died, I realized that a blood oath—–at least one sworn to your mother—–has real and lasting consequences, which are not so easily escaped. But I should have tried harder. I should have found the strength somehow. But then I got so shine-sick and that fucking Ingrid decided to drill you behind my back…”