I try not to notice how the slight movement makes the muscles in his forearms twitch, or the way it stretches his T-shirt tight over his broad shoulders.
“That ‘friend’ of Jess’s has been filling her head with all kinds of nonsense again. This time I believe he’s trying to convince her—”
“This has nothing to do with Daniel.”
“It’s got everything to do with him. Really, little one, you need to be a wiser about choosing your friends. As if his family issues aren’t bad enough, the—”
I finally lose my patience with her. “Daniel doesn’t even know about this!” I snap. “I’m the one who thinks I might have superpowers, okay? I’m the crazy one, not Daniel.”
I watch Gunn’s entire body tensing across the table. There’s a short, uncomfortable silence and then Ingrid puts her Bloody Mary to her lips and drains the glass in one big gulp.
“Why do you think you’ve got superpowers?” Gunn asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, pushing away from the table. “Just leave it, okay?”
But before I can get up, he leans over and grabs my hand. “Please. Tell me.”
Gunn never touches me, so his hand on mine gives me a full-body shock. I look down, too shy to make eye contact. “Something weird happened on Saturday, that’s all. I’m probably just being stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, sweetheart. Just tell me what happened.”
Damn. I can’t resist him when he’s like this, and he knows it. (It’s the “sweetheart”, I’m afraid. Gets me every time.)
So I take a deep breath and quickly tell my story, careful to leave out the more sociopathic bits, and all the while acutely conscious of his warm hand on mine, his large body so close, his dark blue eyes watching me.
Gunn listens patiently, and even though Ingrid pretends to be making herself a cup of nettle tea, I know she’s listening too. When I’m finished nobody says anything.
“Oh God. You think I’m crazy.”
“No.” Gunn gives my hand a little pat then leans back, running one hand through his thick blond hair from front to back, the way he always does when he’s thinking. “Of course not.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“I’m not sure. But we’ll figure this out together, okay? There’s no need to panic.”
Chapter 2
And thus “the Bear-wolf” of the Waemunding clan became the first Black King, not so much (as the famous epic “Beowulf” would have it) because of his bravery or his skill with the sword, but because of the peculiar sexual attraction he held for those trueborn daughters whose inherent bloodmagic would otherwise have proved too powerful for any keeper to resist. For not only were the males of the Waemunding line immune to the poisonous charms of those sirens, but they also exuded such a powerful allure that even Lilith’s heirs would flock to them, as helplessly drawn to their blistering sexuality as tender moths to open flames.
From Beyond the Legend: Dragonslayers in History
(1969), by Lady Sarah Jane Shawcross.
The first time I saw Gunn was about three-and-a-half years ago, after my mom had become so sick that we had to move back to the States so Ingrid could look after her. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment: an icy winter’s afternoon, a couple of days after we’d first arrived.
At the time I was feeling lost and alone and completely miserable. After two years spent in the endless open spaces of the Namib desert, our new town seemed brutally cold and suffocating; it’s too-clean streets, neatly laid out in a grid, making me feel as if I were trapped in a prison with invisible walls. Our new home seemed horrible too. I remember wandering through Ingrid’s house in a haze of unhappiness, thinking how it looked like a haunted house from a kids’ cartoon, complete with turrets and towers on the outside and all kinds of repulsive monsters on the inside: winged lions on the brass doorknobs, long-tailed lizards woven into the oriental carpets, golden beasts embroidered on the curtains…
Outside the window, something caught my eye.
A man was getting out of a car, right in front of the house. I stepped closer, drew the curtain slightly away.
The young man—he was too old to be called a boy—was tall and lean and he moved with exceptional grace, like a dancer or a gymnast. I watched as he walked around the car to open the passenger door for the woman inside, and I gasped as a ray of sunlight caught his hair in a way that made it seem as if he was shining from within: lit up and glowing and perfect.
I remember being intrigued by the scene below me, and perhaps a little disapproving. After all, I thought huffily, women are perfectly capable of getting out of cars by themselves, even with skirts as tight as hers was, and heels as high—
But then he turned around and all rational thought left my mind.
Thing is, Gunn is one of those people who would’ve been madly attractive if his features had been just a little more regular. If his lips were a little fuller and his nose a little shorter and his face a little less angular, he could have been just another one of those guys who struts around in a haze of testosterone and self-confidence in every town in the world, winking at waitresses and charming check-out girls and making moms giggle. But his lips are just that little bit too cruel, and his nose is just that fraction too long, and his face is just that little bit too angular. Which means that instead of being merely good-looking, he turned out to be beautiful. Threateningly, seriously beautiful.
Most people find it difficult to look directly at Gunn for any amount of time, which, when you think about it, means that his spectacular appearance is almost a kind of disability. But when I stood there on that first day, paralyzed by his beauty, I was in no state to reflect on the alienating effects of physical perfection. All I could think about then was that the world was, suddenly, far more complicated than it had been before, and that I was, just as suddenly, far too tall and too thin for a girl of fourteen—a freak with knobby knees, and a flat chest, and limp hair, and spotty skin.
I looked at him and I felt my tongue grow thick in my mouth. My body began to tingle, sharply, the way it does when exposed to heat or cold. I felt as if I’d been slapped, shaken, woken up.
I stepped away from the window. Pressed my hands to my face.
Memory works in funny ways though, because even though I remember that moment at the window so clearly—my heart racing, my fingers cool and clumsy against my warm cheeks—I have absolutely no recollection of the first time we spoke to each other, or exactly how I came to trust him so much. Granted, it was a strange time in my life and I was dealing with a lot. (The kids at my new school were startlingly mean to me. I got my first period and braces for my teeth. My teachers told me I was really far behind academically. I began to realize that my mom was not going to get better.) Even so, I find it strange that I remember so little about our first meetings. It’s like the one moment there was this glittering golden god outside the window, the next he was Ingrid’s glamorous young grand-nephew, who studied in the city but drove home every weekend to keep an eye on his great-aunt, and then, all of a sudden, he was… Gunn.
It took a long time before I could talk to him without blushing, and to this day I don’t always manage it. But by now I also know him well enough to know that his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped Viking sex god looks are just about the least interesting thing about him. You see, Gunn is kind. And serious. And smart. And he’s soft-spoken, and he knows how to listen, and he’s passionate about science, and he loves animals, and he cares about injustice, and he’s sweet and odd and unique in about a million fascinating, unexpected ways. All of which breaks my heart when I think about it because, if I had less self-respect, I might’ve allowed myself to really love him, despite knowing perfectly well that he will never, ever love me back.
How do I know this? How can I be sure?
Unfortunately, because he told me so—very clearly and in plain English—a couple of years ago when I confessed my feelings to him in a horrifical
ly embarrassing moment that, to this day, I cannot think about without flinching. The humiliation of that night has been burned into my memory like a scar, but the upshot is that I know exactly where I stand: he cares for me like the kid sister he never had, and that’s that. Nothing more, nothing less.
I accepted his lack of romantic interest in me a long time ago and I’ve made a huge and conscious effort to get over him—a process that’s been immensely complicated by the fact that, for years now, he’s been teaching me self-defense classes every weekend (after a certain unfortunate incident at school that I don’t like remembering and never talk about now).
But anyway. I’ve tried to get over my stupid crush. Really hard. Which is why it’s so annoying to find myself whistling in the car on my way to school, grinning like an idiot, thrilled to the bone that Gunn has offered to stay in town until we’ve figured out what really happened to me on Saturday night.
I arrive a few minutes early, but as I park my car, I see that all my friends are already here. As usual, they’re hanging out on the small patch of grass behind the senior parking lot.
There’s a chorus of “Yo’s” and “’Sup’s” as I sit down next to Daniel.
“What happened to you yesterday?” he asks. “You ignored all my texts and when I called, it kept going to voicemail.”
“Sorry.” I avoid his eyes. “I wasn’t feeling so good. But I’m fine now.”
He gives me a disbelieving look. “Seriously? You were feeling so bad you couldn’t even check your phone?” When I don’t react, he shrugs it off. “So, did you hear what happened at the party?”
“You mean the fire?” I try my best to sound casual.
Maggie leans over. “Are you guys talking about the fire? Oh my gosh, I thought Cayden was just dreamy, the way he acted so quickly and so calmly.” She giggles, her eyes taking on that familiar, unfocused look. “If you think about it, he’s, like, totally a hero now.”
“Really?” Henry gives his twin sister a disgusted look. “Cayden Hunt? That’s a new low, Maggie, even for you. The guy’s a fucking Alpha, for God’s sake.”
“There’s no need to swear, okay? And if you keep on taking the Lord’s name in vain, I’m going to tell Dad.”
“Oh, grow up.”
Daniel pulls me away. “Whatever. I didn’t want to talk about the fire; that was like the most boring part of the whole night. You shouldn’t have left so early, you missed all the fun.”
“Why, what happened?”
He grins. “Jonathan made out with Amanda in front of everybody.”
“Amanda Roberts?”
“Yup.”
“Get. Out.”
“It was awesome.” Daniel gleefully rubs his hands together. “None of the Elite girls knew what to do. They couldn’t figure how to suck up to Jonathan without pissing Chloe off.”
“What did she do?”
“Chloe? She just acted like it wasn’t happening.”
“That must have stung.”
“But wait—” Daniel widens his eyes dramatically “—it gets better. So, after a while that weird kid Jeffrey Black sits down next to Chloe and starts talking to her. Which was pretty awkward already, but then—oh man, it was brutal, like watching a train smash—he tried to kiss her.”
“No! What did she do?”
“She slapped him so hard he fell off the couch.”
“That poor weird kid,” Maggie chips in. “He obviously hasn’t got a clue. I don’t think she should have done that.”
“Chloe has a right to defend herself against any man who forces himself on her, no matter how weird they might be.” Eve pulls herself away from Henry for long enough to comment on her favorite topic. “A woman’s right to consent is absolute—she has no obligation to make allowances for men who have not mastered the social code.”
“Simmer down, Third Wave,” Maggie says, rolling her eyes. (A few years back Eve described herself as a “Third-wave feminist” in an English presentation, and she’s been called “Third Wave” ever since.)
“Eve has a right to express her opinion, Maggie,” Henry says, defending his girlfriend as always.
Maggie makes a gagging motion. “If either of you two lovebirds uses the words ‘she has a right’ ever again, I’m going to find myself some new friends.”
“I will not be intimidated by your silencing techniques,” Eve huffs.
“Be intimidated by this!” Maggie says, half-diving, half-rolling onto Henry and Third Wave’s laps. There are shrieks, mild swearing, some screams, laughter.
It all feels so normal and so familiar that I decide to test the waters.
“You guys,” I begin, a bit hesitantly, “have any of you ever suspected you might have… unexplained powers?”
“Of course,” Third Wave says immediately. “All women do. But because we’ve internalized the patriarchy’s dominant narrative—” The collective groan is so loud she stops herself. “Too much?”
“You’re never too much for me, Eve.” Henry leans over to kiss her.
“Hey, I’m serious!” I try again. “Have you ever felt that, I don’t know, you might have, like, superpowers?”
“What are we talking about here?” Maggie asks. “Are you referring to extraordinary abilities in the sense that, say, an Olympic athlete has extraordinary abilities? Or are we talking superpowers of the Marvel Universe variety?”
“The Marvel variety,” I admit, pulling a face.
“Even the laziest google search in the world—”
“I’m not talking about the internet. Anything’s possible on the internet. I’m talking about real life. Something you’ve heard of, or maybe experienced yourself. Like, maybe you’ve heard about someone who can…” I feel myself blushing “… put out fires with their mind?”
There’s an awkward pause.
“What’s this about, Jess?” Daniel asks.
“You’re going to laugh.”
“Just spit it out.”
And so I do. I’m about halfway through my story when I notice that Maggie has stopped making eye contact. Then I see Daniel smiling. And then, after another minute or so, Henry and Eve burst out laughing.
“You guys are the worst,” I tell them crossly. “This isn’t a joke, okay?”
“Why didn’t you tell her?” Maggie glares at Daniel.
“I couldn’t get hold of her!”
“What are you talking about?”
Maggie leans over. “Did you eat any of the party snacks on Saturday?”
“Maybe?” I shrug, trying to remember.
“Did you have a chocolate brownie?”
“Why?”
“Those were ‘special’ brownies.” She wriggles her eyebrows at me.
“No!”
“Afraid so.” She tries to look sympathetic, but she can’t suppress a giggle and soon they all burst out laughing.
Oh. My. God.
My first thought is one of sheer relief—I’m not crazy!—but my feelings soon change to blushing, horrified, toe-curling embarrassment. “No. No! This is so mortifying. I even told Ingrid and Gunn about it.”
“What did they say?”
“What do you think? They were totally freaked out.”
“Do we know who brought the brownies to the party?” Maggie tactfully tries to change the subject. “Because it was pretty irresponsible.”
“Oh please.” Henry rolls his eyes at his sister. “It was a joke, okay?”
“Drug-induced psychosis is not a joke, Henry!”
“Who’s talking about psychosis? Some people got a little high, so what? It’s legal in Canada, for Pete’s sake, so how dangerous can it be?”
“Nobody’s admitted doing it yet,” Daniel says quickly, trying to prevent another argument between the twins. “But my guess is that it was one of the Alphas. Maybe Jonathan or Ty.”
“Typical,” I grumble. Then I drop my face into my hands. “Ingrid and Gunn must have been so worried about me!”
“You really though
t you had superpowers?”
“Dude. I thought I’d killed that fire with my mind.”
“Hmm. You do look a bit like Pyro, maybe, if I narrow my eyes and turn my head to the side.”
My friends are all squinting at me, heads bent and laughing, when the bell goes.
Later, when I tell Ingrid and Gunn what really happened, I expect them to be upset about my accidental drug use—they’re totally obsessed with physical health and mental “wellness” and the “sanctity of the body” and all that stuff. But Ingrid just sniffs, and Gunn laughs and ruffles my hair, a preoccupied expression on his face.
I go to bed feeling much better than I did this morning. Realizing that you’re not a crazy psychopath is very reassuring, even if it does mean you don’t get to be a superhero.
There’s just one little problem.
As I lie in my bed, staring at the snake-monsters on my ceiling, I think back to the night of the party over and over again, obsessively. And no matter how hard I try, I simply cannot recall eating any of the chocolate brownies.
Chapter 3
Take heed! The Horror, that old Deceiver, was a liar from the start and abode not in the truth.
For no greater deception could there be than to conceal, beneath the glow of youthful flesh, the visage of true evil.
Be not deceived by its appearance! Trust not in its false shell and do not pity its supposed innocence.
For when the Horror is entered into this world, the lie is made flesh while the truth hides in shadows.
The Old Words: Verse 2:11-14.
It’s about a week later, Tuesday morning, third lesson: American History. This is one of my favorite subjects, mostly because I really like the teacher, Miss Anderson.
“Psst! Applehead!”
Oh no. Not this again. I pretend not to hear, even though the voice is coming from right behind me.
“Psst! Applehead!”
The whisper is so loud the whole class turns to look. Fortunately, Miss Anderson, who’s usually a little distracted because she doubles as our school counselor, is too engrossed to look up from her computer screen.
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