This time, when he drags his hand through his hair, the movement seems almost despairing. “I get why you don’t trust me anymore, okay? I did everything wrong. But Jess, I cannot tell you what I felt that morning when I found out you asked Zig to kill you. And then, tonight…” By now his pupils are so large with emotion that his eyes look pitch black. “I know a lot of this is my fault, but I don’t know how to help you. I don’t know what to do!”
In the silence that follows his outburst, I realize several things at once. First, that I’ve been selfish. Second, that I’ve been wrong. And third, that being in love can be a far more destructive emotion than I ever suspected.
“I’m so sorry.” I catch his look. “Sor—– I mean, I didn’t mean to apologize again. I just want to…” The words come tumbling out all wrong, clumsy and awkward. “What I mean is…” I take a deep breath, ignoring the sudden, sharp pain in my ribs.
What I mean is that I never thought about what he must be feeling.
Not once. Not for a moment.
All this time I’ve been so caught up in my feelings for him that, despite all evidence to the contrary, I kept making him into someone he isn’t: a prince in a fairytale, a gorgeous, untouchable hero who wields his power over me without thought or conscience.
But Gunn isn’t a prince. He’s a real person: a pretty messed-up, pretty confused guy who’s made a lot of mistakes, just like I have, but who’s also shown me, over and over again, that he’s on my side. That he cares about me. That he loves me, even if it’s not in the way I’d have liked him to.
“I guess… ” I take a few seconds to figure out what I really want to say. “I guess I never knew I could hurt you.”
“Well, you can. Really badly.” The pain in his eyes makes me feel like crying again. “But that’s not why I’m leaving. I’m leaving because I’m worried you’ll hurt yourself, and that I’m just making everything worse.”
“You’re not making it worse. And I won’t hurt myself. I promise.”
“Jess, please. Just look at you.”
It's clear to me that I owe him an explanation, but I’m in too much pain to go into details right now. “I’m sorry about tonight, okay? I didn’t mean for this to happen. I remembered some things and… I just needed to get out. To clear my head. I promise I won’t do it again.”
I gingerly touch my tongue against my loose tooth. “It might’ve worked out fine too, but then I had to walk into Jonathan, of all people.” I shake my head, then wince as the movement sends pain shooting through my skull. “You were right. The guy really hates me now. And he looks terrible.”
“Oh, I know all about your meeting with Jonathan.”
“You do?”
“Obviously.” He gives me a strange look. “You realize I’ve got a security team watching you all the time, right?”
“Huh?”
“Seriously, Jess, what did you think? That the need for security disappeared once we left the Pendragon compound? If anything, you’re in more danger now than ever before.”
My head is too sore and fuzzy to make sense of what he’s saying. “So wait. Are you telling me you’ve got a team watching me all the time?”
He gives me the really? look.
“Even right now?”
“There’s a guy parked in a car out front, two in the backyard, a woman at the top of the stairs, one in the study’s window, and another one in the spare bedroom. And that’s just the primary home-based surveillance team.”
“No way.”
“We had a couple of incidents while you were resting. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
I put my good hand against my throbbing temple, trying to understand. “So what? You knew all along that I slipped out tonight?”
“Of course.”
“And you didn’t stop me?”
“You’re not a prisoner, Jess.”
“So why didn’t your security do something when Jonathan’s goons attacked me?”
“Their job isn’t to break up fistfights,” he says mildly, though I know him well enough to recognize the disapproval in his eyes. “They’re there to look out for snipers hiding on rooftops and to keep you safe from long-distance heavy artillery weaponry.”
Oh, God.
The idea of snipers and heavy whatever weapons is enough to make me sick.
“I can protect you from the outside world, Jess, but I can’t protect you from yourself. Not if you’re determined to get hurt. And I can’t stand by any longer and watch you destroy yourself. I just can’t.”
“I’m not trying to destroy myself.”
“Really?” He pulls his hand from mine. “You and I both know you could’ve stopped those guys with a single word, and instead you come home like this?” He flicks a critical glance over my body. “I didn’t teach you how to fight so you can attack people when you’re feeling frustrated, okay? Apart from the fact that you could’ve gotten really hurt, you almost killed that poor guy.”
“I did get really hurt,” I say, more than a little offended. “And he’s not some ‘poor guy’; he was really good, I’m lucky to have gotten off this lightly.” I carefully touch my weeping eye. The whole left side of my face feels bruised and swollen. “You totally misunderstood the situation too, you big idiot—–it wasn’t some kind of sick self-punishment, for God’s sake.” If my head didn’t hurt so much, I would’ve rolled my eyes. “My magic didn’t work, that’s all. I don’t know why; I tried and tried to reach inside me but there was nothing. No earthmagic, no firemagic, nothing.”
“Are you serious?”
“Duh.”
He goes completely still. “That’s why you haven’t Healed yourself.”
“Seriously, Gunn.” Now I do roll my eyes. Or rather, my eye. “Did you really think I’d do this to myself for kicks and giggles? And that I’d sit here, bleeding and in pain, if I could—–” But I don’t get to say anything else because he jumps from his chair, switches on the lights, and then he’s all over me, examining my face, my arms, my body.
“Jesus! Are you alright? Fuck. Does this hurt? Fuck! And this? Fuck, I think your finger’s broken! Oh no. No. Just look at you! What the… Oh fuck. Your ribs might be broken too. Let me look at that…”
I swat him away. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly worried.”
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me! Jesus, you could’ve fucking died. Fuck!”
“I don’t think swearing’s going to fix this,” I say drily, amused in spite of myself. “But if you’re finally willing to help, I’m probably going to need some medical attention soon.”
I hear him swear all the way out the door and up the stairs.
Then I rest my head on the kitchen table and finally allow myself to groan out loud.
By the time I’m all bandaged, splinted up, and stuffed to the gills with painkillers and antibiotics, it’s more than an hour later.
Despite all the pills I took, I’m in real discomfort and Gunn’s ‘doctor’ (one of the security guys: an ex-soldier and, according to him at least, an experienced field medic) has warned me that the pain’s probably going to get a lot worse over the next couple of days as I wean myself off the painkillers. I’ve got a broken finger, a possibly fractured jaw, two broken ribs, a badly damaged eye, including a torn eyelid, possible concussion, and what feels like roughly a million cuts and bruises.
But hey, you should see what the other guy looks like.
Now, an Earthkeeper as powerful as the Green Lord could probably Heal me pretty easily, but after a short debate we decided against asking for his help. Right now we don’t want anyone belonging to the Order to know my magic isn’t working. I’m in enough danger as it is; no sense in letting people know my superpowers have disappeared too.
At the moment I’m in bed, resting my head against Gunn, who’s half-sitting, half-lying next to me. There’s a guard outside the door, two stationed around the house and four outside somewhere. And that’s just one of the teams (there are seven altogether, apparen
tly). Before the painkillers kicked in, I felt stupid for not having noticed them sooner, but now I just feel pleasantly light-headed and floaty and peaceful.
Ingrid has gone to bed, angry about my sneaking out tonight and concerned about my lack of magic. Then again, she’s always either angry or concerned so I’m not too worried. She’ll get over it in time. She always does.
“Are you getting sleepy?”
With my head resting on his huge chest, Gunn’s voice sounds deeper and lower than usual. Or maybe it’s just the effect of the painkillers because his hard body next to mine is beginning to feel like a really comfy pillow. A warm, breathing, supremely wonderful pillow that I don’t want to let go of ever again.
“Gunn?” I snuggle closer.
“Hmm?”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so mean to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
Beneath my cheek, my pillow tenses. “Oh sweetheart. I should never have said those things; I was completely out of line. I thought you tried to hurt yourself on purpose tonight and I lost control. I’m sorry.”
“No. It was good. I liked it.”
“You’ve got enough to deal with. I shouldn’t have made any of this about me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I smile dreamily. “If you really decided not to pledge yourself to Black because you wanted to have a real relationship with me, then you should talk to me. Be honest about how you feel. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“I might not be your keeper, but I’m still a lot older than you. I should—–”
“Pfft.” I swat a hand against his chest. “Enough with all the shoulds. You’re not that old. Girls mature far faster than boys anyway.”
“You reckon?”
“It’s a fact.” I give a little giggle. “I can’t believe you thought I went on some crazy Fight Club rampage tonight. Seriously, guys are so weird.”
“I’ve been really worried about you, Jess. And you never talk to me anymore, so I didn’t know what to think.”
“I’m sorry.” I hug him closer, drifting into a sense of peace and belonging I haven’t felt in months. “You know, when I found out… what I was, I just felt so dirty. Like something horrible and evil. And you just seemed so pure and so beautiful and so perfect. I was ashamed, I think. Angry too, and completely freaked out, and in denial, and heaven knows what else. But mostly, I think, I was ashamed.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He runs his hand through my hair so slowly I can hardly keep my eyes open. “Don’t you know how special you are? How brave and worthy and treasured and important? And I’m not talking about the fact that you’re the last of your kind, or about what you mean to the Order of Keepers or even—–if the Seaprophets can be believed—–to the future of everyone on this planet.”
He takes my hand in his and presses it against his heart. “I’m talking about me. I’m talking about how much you mean to me.” His words, together with the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath my hand, break down my last barriers to leave my heart wide open.
“Gunn? It’s really true, isn’t it?”
“What’s true, sweetheart?”
“That I’m… a dragon.” I repeat the word a few times, wonderingly, for the first time accepting it as simple truth.
He doesn’t say anything, but he puts both his arms around me and starts rocking me from side to side.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“I’m not sure. But whatever happens, I’ll be there.”
Above our heads, the dragons on my ceiling are turning round and round, eating their own tails.
“Gunn?”
“Hmm?”
“I think the Order of Keepers might be really evil. I remembered what I’d seen in that first trance and it was…” My voice thickens as my eyes shoot full of tears.
“Ssshh. It’s okay. We don’t have to figure everything out right now. You’re injured and drugged and tired. Just try to relax.”
Against my ear I can hear him breathing, slow and rhymical, a comforting sound.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
He tightens his arms around me. “Fortunately, I have enough faith in you for both of us.”
“Promise me you’ll stay with me no matter what.”
“I promise.”
And perhaps it’s because of the gentle rocking, or the warmth of his body, or the soft, hazy drowsiness induced by the painkillers, but somehow his simple promise is enough to calm me down. I close my eyes, allow the sleep to pull me under. It’s enough.
His promise is enough.
For now, at least, his promise will have to be enough.
Epilogue
Unfortunately, the Order found it impossible to completely erase all traces of the existence of dragons from human history. Even centuries after we brought our discipline to the lives of these creatures, certain oral histories, repeated from parent to child for generation upon generation, stubbornly persisted, while a handful of written histories survived even the great purges we orchestrated so carefully.
The so-called Nowell Codex (circa 975-1025 AD), currently housed in the British Library, is one example of such a text. A history of the great hero Beowulf, it is one of the most famous and enduring tales ever told about our kind, and it cannot be denied that, in spite of our best efforts, the manuscript today carries enormous cultural significance worldwide. In this instance, however, the Order’s efforts have been focused not so much on denying the manuscript’s significance as in reclassifying it as a purely literary work. And successfully so: today it is seen as the most celebrated of the Anglo-Saxon epic sagas, written in alliterative lines by an anonymous poet, rather than as one of the few surviving written histories involving the trueborn.
Broadly summarized—–in the way it’s generally understood today—–the Nowell Codex tells the tale of the Geatish hero Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, a warrior of the Waegmunding clan. (The Geats, also known as the Goths, were a Germanic tribe who inhabited an area that falls within the borders of modern Sweden.) According to the tale, Beowulf comes to the aid of the king of the Danes, whose mead hall is under attack from a “demon” known as Grendel. Beowulf defeats Grendel in hand-to-hand combat, ripping off the demon’s arm, who then flees to the wilderness to die. While the king’s men are celebrating Grendel’s defeat, Grendel’s monstrous mother comes to avenge her son’s death and kills the king’s royal advisor. Afterward she flees to her lair, a cave underneath a lake, but Beowulf follows her there and kills her by using an ancient sword which he finds in the cave.
Beowulf leaves Dane-land a hero and sails back to Geatland, where he eventually becomes an honorable and heroic king. Decades later, when a dragon begins to terrorize his people, Beowulf steps in to defeat the dragon in a final battle, but he is mortally wounded in the process and is given a hero’s funeral.
Of course, all those familiar with the history of our Order will immediately see how in this version of the tale, historical truths have been twisted into fictional untruths. For even the short summary above should make it clear that the central figure of Beowulf could surely be none other than Gunrr, the first Black King, also known as the “Bear-wolf” of the Waegmunding clan.
So, if the legendary dragonslayer Beowulf is thus none other than the celebrated dragonkeeper Gunrr, the “Bear-Wolf”, it follows that the historical counterparts to the figures of Grendel, Grendel’s mother, and the dragon who caused Beowulf’s death must also have been very different from the way they are perceived today. In this regard, it is interesting to note how cleverly the Order has exploited the difficulties inherent in the translation of non-extant languages to obfuscate the historical truths underlying the legend.
The Old English saga, for example, never describes Grendel’s appearance directly, but in translation he is always depicted as a misshapen monster, mainly because he is called a ‘scaedungenga’ (direct translation; shadow walker) in the text. Similarly, he is also called ‘agleaca’ (translated as either ‘monster’ o
r ‘fighter’, depending on whether the word refers to Grendel or Beowulf), while Grendel’s mother is described as an ‘ides agleaca-wif’, which modern texts translate as ‘monster-wife’ or ‘monster-woman’—–despite the fact that the word ‘ides’ clearly translates as ‘lady’ in all other instances. (The fact that scholars have no difficulty with this contradiction, nor see any problem in using the same word to describe both the hero and the monster, is a testament to what a few simple Enthrallment spells cast over the right people may do.)
Within the Order, of course, it is well known that the Old English word ‘agleaca’ refers to those who carry the blood of the Ten in their veins, and the fact that Beowulf, Grendel and Grendel’s mother are all three referred to in this way is therefore highly significant. (Worryingly, modern scholars are starting to translate the word, far more accurately, as ‘supernatural’ or inhuman, which may suggest that another intervention may soon be needed.)
The word ‘scaedungenga’ is equally telling, as the term ‘shadow walker’ does not, of course, refer to a demon or monster, but was generally used to describe those trueborn sons who refused to join the Order by taking the Motherbreaker oath.
The text, in other words, clearly reveals—–to those who know what to look for—– that Grendel was a trueborn son, living rogue outside of the Order, and that his mother was a ward of the Black clan who escaped her keepers to hide in a secret cave under a lake. Our own records support such a reading, for The Book of Blood states that Herja, trueborn daughter of the Fourth, escaped the care of her keepers with the help of her son Grundl, who as a young man chose to forgo the Motherbreaker oath by living as an unpledged sorcerer.
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