by Ruby Sirois
My heart soars across an infinite sky filled with power and possibility, in love with the universe and at one with it. I am a part of everything.
I feel myself in atoms and in red giants, in mitochondria and mammoths and black holes. I dream the future, I dream the past. It is all one, and I am it all. The air tastes of beauty and wildness, and the smell of aeons passing fills me.
Cries of wildcats long extinct flash in bright viridian in my vision, the cedar scent of primeval forests like suede across my skin. Warm starlight tastes like cardamom, the songs of blue whales like bright lemon and salt.
I dance in the cone of energy like a bird on the wing, updrafts of power sending me soaring on the currents flowing through the universe.
I am everything, everywhere. I am joy.
And then—in a moment, in an eternity, I sink back to the earth, back to my hemisphere, back to my body.
Returned to flesh, I am both refreshed and exhausted, content and hungry, fulfilled and incomplete. It is how I always feel after a ritual, both filled with and emptied out by power, all at once.
* * *
“What an interesting pendant,” says Annika, our high priestess.
She brushes her long, dark hair out of the way over one shoulder and picks Ragnarr’s disc up from where it lays nestled between my breasts. She examines it closely.
“Where did you get it?” I take a breath to tell a half-truth, but she cuts me off. “Hmm,” she says. “This looks like the mark of Ragnarr Thoringr.”
I’m too astonished to dissemble.
“Wha—how did you know that?”
“Is he the dragon we helped you call?”
I take a breath. Prepare to lie. But Annika’s deep blue eyes are piercing, and I am forced to relent.
“Ja.” Her eyes sharpen. “He gave it to me.” An eyebrow raises. I sigh, acquiescing.
“It’s a wish token.”
Annika’s brow darkens. “Oh, Emelie. Nej.”
She rubs the remaining thin crescent moon of silver on the disc with her thumb. Lets it drop back down with a look of distaste.
“And he has already granted you one wish?”
“Ja.” I don’t correct her on the amount. “But only,” I hasten to add, “because So Mote It Bee was in desperate need, just like I said before you all helped. That’s why I called him to begin with. You knew that already.”
“Emelie, this is bad. Of all the damned dragons you could have called, and you stumbled upon Ragnarr Thoringr. Do you know what this token entails? Didn’t he warn you of the danger?” Her eyes are full of alarm.
“Nej. He wouldn’t have, would he? No. Of course he wouldn’t. Ragnarr Thoringr abhors witches, will do anything to destroy any witch he comes across and will do it with glee. Merciful gods… Emelie, you are in grave danger.”
Annika’s voice carries a note of panic I’ve never heard from her before. It sends a thrum of unease through my core.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
The other five coven members have dropped their relaxed chatter over the post-ritual cakes and mead to listen. The room is suddenly dead silent.
“Emelie,” says Karl, the high priest. His voice rises on the last syllable. A half-eaten moon cookie lies in forgotten crumbles on his plate. “What have you done?”
I grasp Ragnarr’s disc protectively in one hand, as if I can hide it from their judging view.
“Nothing! I mean, it’s not all that bad—and what Annika said, that’s not true. He didn’t lie to me. Ragnarr told me everything. I know if I use too much power, there’s a risk of becoming a part of his hoard. He told me that at the beginning.”
“Emelie!” Rebecka cries, aghast. “What the hell have you done?”
Fan. I didn’t want to tell anyone, especially not like this. Me and my big mouth. I guess it’s all out now. Before I can say anything, Linnea opens her big stupid mouth.
“She’s dating him. The fucking asshole.”
“Lin!”
Everyone speaks at once.
“She’s what?”
“Dating him? A dragon? How—”
“Not Ragnarr Thoringr—”
I shoot daggers at Linnea.
“Emelie, you—”
“I know, I know,” I say, raising my hands in an attempt to calm everyone down. “Everyone thinks he’s dangerous.”
“And you don’t?” Annika’s voice is sharp, accusatory.
“Nej!” I set my jaw. Raise my chin. “No, I don’t. He’s never treated me badly. He’s been nothing but kind, nothing but loving.”
“Never—” Annika is incredulous. “Fy helvete, Emelie, this isn’t some motorcycle gang biker or ex-con we’re talking about. This isn’t some ass with a history of beating his ex-wife who you just started dating. This is an ancient dragon, one of the sons of Thor himself. If you didn’t know, that’s exponentially worse. And if he hasn’t burned you yet, believe me—he will.”
Scenes flash through my mind: the forest clearing. Ragnarr’s hand at the base of my spine. His warm breath in my ear. His words—beautiful. Häxan min. Come for me.
“I don’t believe that,” I say stubbornly. Even so, I’m defending myself and my own choices as much as I’m defending him.
“He’s never said anything to make you suspicious? He’s never said anything that made you feel uneasy or as if something weren’t quite right?”
I hate being forced into a corner.
“Nej,” I say.
It’s not exactly the truth, but I feel attacked, defensive, and it makes me double down.
“Really.” Annika’s voice is unbelieving. “You’ve never had any hint of an ulterior motive from him. From Ragnarr Thoringr.”
“Nej.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest protectively, as if she can see into my soul if I don’t cover it.
She raises an eyebrow at me. Shakes her head. Obviously my deception is unsuccessful, but I don’t relax my arms and I don’t back down.
“I can’t tell if you’re lying or if you’re really that stupid.” A sigh. “And I don’t know which I hope it is.”
“He said he wanted to possess me, Whimsy. What do you think that means?”
I crunch on one of a plate of coconut butter cookies. Toss the big black cat a treat. He catches it handily, gulping it down in two bites before answering.
“Have as to belonging to one; own.”
I make an exasperated noise. “I don’t mean the dictionary definition, smartypants.”
“He wants a trophy for his collection.”
I roll my eyes. “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It also means he wants to fu—”
“Whimsy!”
“Oh, don’t be a prude. It’s not like you haven’t already.”
“And how do you know that?” I give him a narrow look.
“I smell him on you.”
“Gross.”
“I have a nose. You have the smell,” he says archly, sniffing in my direction. “Who’s the gross one?”
“Stop sniffing me!”
“I would if you didn’t smell like that.”
“Now I almost wish you’d start talking about fish again.”
“Now that you mention it—”
“Seriously, Whimsy. He wants me in his hoard. And I don’t know what that means.”
“Do I look like an overgrown lizard? How would I know?”
“You look like a smug little jerk, does that count?” I put the treat back in its bag.
An ear flicks back in annoyance. “If you’re going to be like that, and not even any treats—”
“Fine, I’m sorry.” I toss another to him. “But I wish you’d help me with this.”
Cromfch. Cromfch. Gllp.
“I don’t get paid enough for this.”
“Seriously? You’re a cat. You don’t get paid at all—”
“Exactly.”
“—except in food, cat litter, room and board, catnip, treats,
scratching posts, pets, and the privilege of sleeping on my face half the night.”
“That’s my due as a cat. Not pay.”
“And need I mention the bouts of crazy I tolerate at three in the morning?”
“Bouts of crazy? Rude.” Whimsy licks his chops indignantly. “It’s not my fault all the ghosts are running around at that hour. Someone’s got to hunt them down, and I don’t see you doing it. News flash, I’m doing you a favor every night, you lazy witch.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute. I mean really, really lucky.”
He slits green-gold eyes in self-satisfaction.
“I am, aren’t I?”
20: Ragnarr
“So then she left, and I haven’t called her since,” Eiríkur says with a laugh.
We’re on our way to dinner out in Gamla Stan after a long day of business meetings. Cool evening breeze sweeps through the cobblestone street, lifting long strands of hair off my shoulders.
I make a face. “I’m glad I’m done with all that.”
“Are you? That’s too bad. You used to have a different one every other night.”
“Quality over quantity, my friend. You should try it sometime.”
Eiríkur scoffs. “Not likely, brother. I’m not the type.”
“Mm. You know what I think would be hilarious?”
I see it in front of me now, the most ridiculous idea possible, all in vivid Technicolor.
“What?”
“I think it would be hilarious if you met someone who you’re crazy for. You fall head over heels at the first sight of her. She’s perfect. Then it turns out that she wants nothing to do with you, because you’re such a fucking ass. She has zero patience for your shit. And unlike all your normal bimbos, she actually makes you work for it for a change. And then you end up a changed dragon just to win her over and make her happy. Oh, and by the way, she’s also a häxjävel.”
We collapse in a bout of laughter.
“That is hilarious,” Eiríkur says at last, swiping tears of mirth from his bright green eyes with the back of his hand. “How do you come up with this stuff? You really have some imagination.”
Eiríkur cocks his copper head, thinking.
“Although you forgot the part about the great tits. I think I really would do anything for a really great pair of tits.”
“How silly of me.”
“And a really nice, juicy, round ass.” He sketches an hourglass shape in the air with both hands. “Mm. That’s perfection.”
“Simple dragon, simple tastes.”
“I don’t think it’s so much to ask.”
“I think—”
“Ragnarr Thoringr!” A voice echoes harshly from the ancient buildings.
I turn on my heel in the middle of the narrow alleyway. A coven of six witches stand, tightly grouped, halfway down the medieval block. I scan their faces, recognizing one: Linnea.
They must be Emelie’s coven. I set my shoulders, face them head-on. Eiríkur backs me up. I feel him at my elbow, tensed and ready for a fight.
“What do you want?” I say warily. Their faces are dark. “For Emelie’s sake, I will not harm you, but tread carefully. I have no love of witches save one.”
“We need you to leave Emelie Odenberg be. Release her from your bargain.”
The speaker is statuesque, with long, dark hair and a commanding tone. Her eyes are deep blue, penetrating. Knowing.
I frown at her. There is something familiar about her, but I can’t place it.
“The deal is made and writ in silver. I will not release her from it until all stipulations are fulfilled.” I study her. “You should know that.”
“Your father is Thor. You may break the magic if you wish.”
“So you do know me. And you know what I can do.”
“Oh, we’ve heard all about you,” says a male witch. His fists ball up at his sides. His face is belligerent. “You’ve done quite enough. Don’t you think it’s time to leave Emelie alone?”
Never! Mine, screams my dragon. Mine!
“Nothing you could ever do will make me let her go, häxjävel,” I snarl. “She’s mine. Mine.”
“She’s our coven-sister, din ödla, not your plaything.”
You lizard.
I grit my teeth at the insult. He steps up to me. I’m aching to smash my fist through his skull.
“You need to get the fuck out of my way before you get hurt.”
“Careful, brother,” says Eiríkur from behind. He knows my temper all too well.
“Oh, so you’re threatening me now? And we’re supposed to believe that you’re not going to threaten Emelie the same way at some point? All you are is a bully and a monster. It’s not the Middle Ages anymore. You can’t go around doing stuff like that without consequences.”
Rip his throat out, urges my dragon. Feed him to the fire.
Eiríkur grips my arm. His fingers dig grooves into my jacket.
“Fucking häxjävel.”
I promised Emelie I’d try to make peace, but this is above and beyond. No one could expect me to put up with this. These fuckers are lucky I don’t incinerate them on the spot.
“You leave Emelie alone, din ödla,” says Linnea, “or we’ll take measures to make you leave her alone.”
I laugh. “Oh? Like what, you’ll wave a stick at me? Dance around naked at sunset? I’m so scared. Please, anything but that.” They have no idea who they’re dealing with.
“Fucking häxjävlar.”
“We know who you are. What you are. What you’ve done,” she says coldly. “So ja, something like that.”
“Good luck with that.” Mine, screams my dragon.
Burn them. Burn them all.
“Better than you have tried and failed.”
“Oh, I really don’t think we’ll need luck,” the male witch says.
He gives me a knowing smirk. I want to punch it off his fucking smug witch face. My fingers curl into fists. They buzz with the dragonfire that boils in my blood.
“Just walk away, häxjävel,” growls Eiríkur. “You mess with dragons, you’re going to get burned.”
The witch opens his mouth to retort, but another witch pulls at his sleeve and shakes her head. He scoffs, spits toward my feet. I lunge, but Eiríkur’s grip holds me firm. The coven retreats without another word.
Stymied, I watch them go.
I round on Eiríkur.
“Why’d you hold me back? I would have—”
“Not the place.” His face is grim.
“But I could have burned them to the—”
“Not. The. Place.”
A wordless scream of rage. I pull my fist back, throw my whole weight behind a wild punch.
Stone wall fragments under my fist.
One, two, three times.
Grit trickles down from the crumbling mortar, leaving a loose pile on the street that eddies in the evening breeze. I wiggle my fingers, rubbing the roughened knuckles with my other hand. My vision is singed with rage around the edges. My muscles tremble, and I resist the urge to do it a fourth time.
Every witch I’ve ever betrayed, every coven I’ve ever sold out burns to delightful ashes once more in my memory.
The dust blowing across the cobblestones looks like the cinders of those long-dead häxjävlar, and there’s nothing I’d like more than to wreak my revenge on another six.
21: Emelie
“You don’t listen to your coven, you don’t listen to Whimsy, you don’t listen to me.”
“Et tu, Brute?”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Emelie. You can’t not have seen this coming.” Mom glares at me over her cup of black coffee. “You think I’m happy about this? To be right about this?”
“Jodå,” I say, angrily picking the last sorry crust of my cinnamon bun to crumbs. “I do. I think you’re very happy to be right. You always, always are.”
“Believe me, honey, I couldn’t be less happy to be right.”
I scoff. I don’t be
lieve her one little bit.
“I don’t know why you always think the worst of me,” she says, indignant.
“I only want what’s best for you. For you to be happy. And this dragon, he’s not it.”
I raise my chin. She sees it. Heads me off.
“So this dragon, you think he’s in love with you?” Mom looks at me, incredulity clear on her face.
“Ja. Nej. I don’t know.” I sigh. “He definitely likes me—a lot—but he sure isn’t too crazy about other witches. I don’t know why.”
She gives a short laugh. “Oh, I’ve heard all about him from Linnea. She really can’t stand him, and I don’t blame her.”
It’s all I can do not to make an exasperated noise.
“He apologized for that. Ja, Ragnarr used to not like witches, but he promised me he’d try to get along with Lin and the rest of the coven, just for me. Because he cares about me, believe it or not.”
Mom gives me a sideways glance.
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what, Mom?”
I’m really getting annoyed.
“He threatened them on the street yesterday. The whole coven.”
My heart sinks. “What?”
“She told me all about it. They met him on the street, asked him to stay away from you. He refused, then threatened their lives. He’s a very ancient, dangerous dragon. He’s not one to be trifled with.”
She just won’t. Give. Up.
“Ragnarr wouldn’t hurt me,” I say. I’m so sick of having to tell people this over and over.
“I trust him completely.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom says.
Her eyes are full of pity. It makes me irrationally angry. My hands ball up into fists in my lap.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know. What.” I’m barely holding on to the threads of my temper.
Breathe. In. Out. In.
“Annika comes from a very long line of witches.”
Another subject change. I want to pull my hair out.
“Ja, she does. So what?”