by Ruby Sirois
“Her ancestor bested him in a game of wits once. That ancestor won some kind of a protective amulet and a piece of Ragnarr Thoringr’s hoard.”
This is not what I expected.
“What?”
She raises her eyebrows in triumph. Goes in for the kill.
“Ragnarr Thoringr tried to hunt her down, but he was no match for this golden amulet, which had been made by Oden the All-Father himself. The dragon burned down her village, killed all her relatives. So she was very clever, and in the end defeated him in a game of wits even though he cheated and almost made her his slave. Ever since then he’s sworn revenge on all witches. The story has been passed down in their family for hundreds of years. I swear to you, every word of it is the truth.”
“But that doesn’t sound like—”
“That’s not enough for you?” Mom fixes me with a steely stare, hits me with what is clearly her trump card.
“The Inquisition.”
“Fucking hell, Mom.” I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“He sold us out to the Inquisition. Millions of witches. Murdered, burnt, over the centuries.”
I can only stare at her. Shake my head.
My heart starts to frost around the edges.
“Annika and Karl have been doing their research. How do you think Ragnarr Thoringr built his fortune? He’s one of the richest dragons—one of the richest beings, human or divine—on the planet. And that fortune was built on piles and piles of bones. Centuries’ worth of witches’ bones—tortured and burnt to ashes at the stake.”
The whole way home, my mind is whirling.
It isn’t true. It can’t be true. They must be mixing him up with someone else. Some other dragon. There’s lots of them around, right?
I’ve given everything to him. My body, my mind, my heart. My whole body. Damn near my soul, if this half-gold token around my neck is any indication.
No one has ever made me feel the way he does. No one has ever made me feel beautiful, wanted, desired like he does. No one has ever been able to calm the echo of Peter’s voice in my mind.
And now this.
Just my fucking luck.
“Whimsy!”
I slam the front door behind me. I jump at the noise it makes, louder than intended.
“Did you know, Whimsy?”
“Know what?”
Grouchy, he slits one green-gold eye open halfway in my direction. He’s been asleep.
I want to scream.
“What Ragnarr is.”
He raises his head, awake all at once. His eyes sharpen on my face.
“A sneak? A liar?”
“Ja.”
A meaningful pause on his part. A smug feline look.
“Oh, fy helvete. Whimsy, why didn’t you—”
“I did!” He’s as indignant as only a cat can be. “It was you who didn’t want to listen!”
“But I asked you—”
He jumps up, puffs up his tail, eyes fixed on me.
“You were too obsessed with him. You didn’t want to hear. I was right the whole time, wasn’t I? And now you pay the price. You see?”
“I could strangle you.” My fingers itch with it.
“Don’t skin the messenger.”
He stands sideways, puffs himself up to look bigger, holds his ground for a second—then scrambles up in a flash to his favorite spot high up on a cabinet, far out of reach. Licks his shoulder once—twice—three times—to regain his dignity. Looks coolly down at me.
* * *
I pace the short length of my hall. The blue-and-white striped rag rug which lines it is bunched up in one corner. I give it an angry kick to try and put it back where it belongs, but I nearly trip over my own feet instead.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I want to scream, to break things, to burn something. I want something other than my own soul to endure the pain I can’t escape. I can’t believe I’ve let this happen again. That I’ve fallen for someone like this again.
I’m so. Fucking. Stupid.
I want to cry. Laugh. Throw something. Eat something.
“Ragnarr!”
My voice is harsh. Shrill. I take a breath, try again. Grip his damnable token in both hands.
“Ragnarr?”
My palms are slick with sweat, and I nearly drop the smooth disc.
“Ragnarr! I need to talk to you!”
“I’m here.”
His voice comes from just over my shoulder. I feel the heat of him, and my body responds like it always does. Powerfully, instantly.
My response to him enrages me. Why now? Why does he have this effect on me?
“Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
He seems genuinely confused, but I know he knows, damn him. I want to tear at him with clawed fingers. Rip that beautiful face apart. Hurt him the way he’s hurt me. Wound him the way he’s wounded me.
“The Inquisition,” I grind out. “Your damned fortune. Witches—all those witches—burned.” My voice is strained. Unrecognizable.
“Tortured!”
I’m so angry I can’t complete a sentence.
“Because of you!”
His lips tighten.
“It is true, isn’t it! Dammit, tell me the truth, no more rhetorical answers and changing the subject. Tell me the truth, Ragnarr Thoringr! Fy helvetes fan! Just—tell—me!”
His lips tighten.
“I won’t lie to you, häxan.” His shoulders square, but his voice is soft. “It’s true.”
I reel back. Despite everything, I wasn’t expecting that.
“So you sold out millions of witches. Happily. Intentionally. Watched them burn to embers just for revenge.”
My vision is tinged red around the edges. My throat burns. I could happily rip his eyes out.
“Ja.”
No emotion at all. It only makes me angrier.
“Why!”
“You seem to think,” he says slowly, “that I have my pick of a thousand women.”
“First off, not an answer. Second off, no more non sequiturs, dammit! Give me a straight answer!”
“Dragons are selective. They mate only once, and they mate for life.”
“Oh my fucking hell, just give me a straight answer.”
A sigh, as if he’s the one suffering.
I almost have to laugh.
I would, if I weren’t so furious.
“I was in love once, a long time ago, and she betrayed me. Stole from me. She was a witch. I almost died of it, died of the loss of her and the treasure she stole from me. It was like losing a limb, and she left me to bleed out, alone and wounded and heartbroken. Ever since then, I swore vengeance, and I did just that—I took vengeance on every witch I met. I took trophies. I took pride in that. Until I met you.” His voice is low, steady, but full of restrained emotion.
I quaver, on a razor’s edge of indecision. I am livid, but there is a note of truth in his voice. I want to believe him. And I hate myself for it.
“How am I supposed to trust you?”
My voice is weaker than I intend. I dig my nails into my palms.
“I don’t know, häxan. If you don’t believe me, then I don’t know what more to say.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but thinks better of it.
“What?” I say, jumping on the moment. “Say what you were going to say.”
“They’re taking you from me.” His voice is low. Bitter. “Again.”
“‘Again?’ What’s that supposed to mean? And who says I was ever even yours?” I grab the token, wave it, indicating the crescent of silver along its edge.
His eyes flash with hurt. A stab of guilt in my gut, but I am too angry. I want to lash out. I want to taste blood, to feel shreds of his flesh under my fingernails.
“You never wanted me. All you wanted was revenge. Linnea was totally right. I should have figured, right from the start. Everyone warned me, but I wouldn’t listen.”
“That’s not
true, and you know it.”
“Do I? Do I, Ragnarr? How am I supposed to know anything? You won’t tell me anything!”
“You know everything you need to know. Everything that’s important. You know how I feel about you.”
“And yet, I don’t know what I want to know. What am I risking? What would really happen if I let you knot me, hoard me? Was everything you’ve ever told me a lie?”
“Emelie, that’s not fair. I’ve never lied to you.”
“Omission. Is. Lying.” I grind out the words.
“Why are you doing this?”
The hurt in his voice twists in my gut like a dagger. I can’t let it distract me.
“Stop answering my questions with questions! Why did you kill all those people?”
A pause.
“I didn’t kill all those people.”
Another pause, longer this time.
“Not personally, anyway.” Another pause.
“And not all of them.”
“Oh, so we’re playing the semantics game now?” I sigh dramatically. “You know exactly what I mean, Ragnarr, so don’t dance around the subject.”
“I was angry and hurt, Emelie. Just like you are now.”
“Ja, I am. But I’m not about to kill a bunch of dragons over it.”
“I have never said anything I did not mean to you, häxan.”
He takes a step toward me, but I jerk out of his reach.
“So why do I feel like this? Betrayed? Hurt? Like a fucking fool?”
“Why are you listening to other people—those fucking witches—explain my feelings for you?” His eyes flash blue fire. “When they clearly have an agenda against me?”
“Oh nej,” I sneer, “poor all-powerful dragon. Why won’t anyone think of the genocidal dragon?”
His face is full of pain.
“I just want you. To make you happy. Without those others ruining everything again.”
The sincerity in his voice almost breaks me.
Don’t let it get to you, Emelie. He lies.
He. Lies.
I steel myself.
“You just want someone gullible who doesn’t ask questions,” I say coldly.
I don’t want to believe it, but after everything I know now, it’s the raw, ugly truth.
Isn’t it?
“Once you ran out of air-headed models, big old fat Emelie was next on the list. What a perfect mark.”
He scoffs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Nej, I never do, do I? Because I don’t know the first thing about you. And that’s what it all comes down to!”
Ragnarr looms over me, takes my arms in his large hands. I try to shrug him off, but he’s not to be deterred.
“I’m not going to lose you too, to yet another coven of avaricious witches.” His voice drops lower. “I refuse to let that happen.”
His intensity is starting to frighten me, but I don’t let on. I raise my chin.
“And yet it seems you are.”
His fingers grip tighter.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You’re a distraction.”
“What?”
“If I hadn’t been distracted by you, maybe I could have caught the flood before it got so bad. I wouldn’t have to lie to Lin, or to my coven. I wouldn’t have to hide everything I’ve done to save So Mote It Bee.”
“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have it anymore.”
I tear myself out of his grip. “Right, out of the frying pan and into the fire. I’m so much better off now.”
“I don’t recall you being unhappy with our arrangement.”
I stiffen. “That’s low. I haven’t had sex in almost seven years. I’m only human.”
“So why are you so upset?”
“Why?” I grind out. “You must be as dumb as you are gorgeous. Because you’re a murderer. A sociopath. A profiteer. And I can’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”
“I may have left some things out, but you can trust me.”
Ragnarr’s voice is full of pain, but his mockery of an apology disgusts me.
“You can trust how I feel for you.”
“Can I?” My tone is glacial.
“Emelie—why are you doing this? You must know how I feel. Haven’t I shown you, over and over?”
“Buying me off is not the same as telling me how you feel. In fact, I’d say it’s the furthest thing from telling me your feelings that there is.”
“You’re wrong.”
“And you’re just a gorgeous, lying illusion. A bully. A beast. An animal. A monster. I can’t believe you’re even still here. Don’t you have cities of people to kill? Trophies to gloat over? Don’t you have another lonely, gullible witch to fuck and dump?”
He rears back as if struck. “Is that truly what you think of me?”
“And yet you don’t deny it.”
“Emelie—” He reaches a hand out to me.
I jerk back from his touch as if it will burn me.
“Just get out. I can’t stand to look at you for one more second. You disgust me.”
“Emelie—”
“Get. Out.” My voice sounds unrecognizable to my own ears.
Shrill. Harsh. Filled with pain.
“Din ödla. You monster. Get. Out!”
A noise.
I whirl, ready to throw something, but he’s already gone.
I’m alone. And I’ve won.
So why do I feel like crying?
22: Ragnarr
My footsteps echo against cold stone walls. But even they fall away as I drop my human shape, letting it metamorphose back into my dragon form. My grotto closes in around me, protective, safe—though it is no longer a comfort to me, but closes in like a cage.
The cold metal and glittering gems that make up the cave’s floor shift like loose gravel beneath my claws. But it may as well be dust for all I care.
I should have known better. And yet again I am a fool, taken in by the beauty of yet another fucking häxjävel.
Will I never learn? Why am I so easily lured by the sweetness of her scent, the pure light of her aura? Just as well to chain myself up. To slice off my own wings. To amputate my own claws.
It all amounts to the same thing.
My forepaw whips out, lightning-quick, scoring deep marks into the rough stone of my lair. I want to hurt something the way I hurt inside. The old rage bubbles up inside me. I want to fume, to burn. To kill.
If I cannot have her for my hoard, then none of what’s collected here is worth anything to me. It’s all just worthless trash. A pile of trinkets. And trinkets mean nothing to me anymore, not when I now know the value of genuine treasure.
Another slash of my forepaw and a pile of ancient weapons goes flying. A hail of gemstones rains across the cave in a rainbow storm. Clay amphorae filled with Roman coins chip and shatter under the onslaught.
I throw my head back and roar. The cacophony booms and rolls, growing until I am deafened by my own wrath. But it’s not enough. The pain and rage are too much, violently bubbling just under the surface like lava on the verge of erupting.
I want to hurt something, someone. Something needs to suffer to release the torrent of anger and despair from my heart.
Even if that something is me.
“Why didn’t you warn me? Tell me to back off?” My voice is little more than a harsh growl.
Eiríkur gives me a chary look.
“That’s not exactly my job.”
“But it was clear I was infatuated. With a häxjävel. You’re supposed to have my back with these things.”
“As I recall, I did that, and you didn’t want to listen to anything I had to say.”
“You should have beat it into me.”
“Oh, there’s lots of things I’d love to beat into you, as much good as that does any of us.”
I grab the first thing that comes to hand. Throw it.
Crystal shatters in an explosion of diamond
shards against the wall. Expensive brandy runs in rivulets down hand-painted antique wallpaper.
“Shall we cut it with the alcohol abuse?” says Eiríkur drily. “That brandy was fifty years old.”
I round on him, grab him by the throat.
“Do you ever take anything seriously?”
“Not if I can help it.”
I give him a disgusted shake, let him go. He rubs his throat with studied indifference, but his eyes, watchful, wary, never leave me.
“I wish you would be helpful for once. Say something helpful for once.”
“You’re better off without a witch, brother.”
“Not. Helpful.”
He sighs. “I don’t like witches any more than you do. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“Tell me I’m an idiot. Or that I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re Schrödinger’s idiot.”
“Tell me that moving on is the right thing. Tell me that I don’t need her. That I’m happier alone.”
“Ja, ja. All that.” He cocks his head. “But are you, though?”
“I thought you were supposed to be helpful right now?”
Eiríkur sighs. “Let’s go down to Amsterdam. Get you some women, get me some women. It’ll be like old times. Fun.”
At another time, some pre-Emelie time, that might be tempting. Fy fan, I wouldn’t have given it another thought then. But now?
“I just—can’t.”
“You’ve got it bad this time.”
His eyes are full of pity. I want to punch it out of them.
“Exactly why you should have been there for me at the start.”
“Not sure there’s anything I could have done. I’m a dragon, not a miracle worker.”
I give him a side-eye. We really are too much alike sometimes.
“We could always go cause a ruckus somewhere, set some buildings on fire, make some mayhem. Let’s blow off some steam that way if you prefer.”
I shake my head. Nothing sounds appealing.
“All I want is her. But that damned häxjävel coven of hers, all they do is get in the way.”
“What did you expect? They’re häxjävlar, that’s what they do—fuck things up. And you really can’t be surprised they found out what you are.” He raises a copper eyebrow at me. “Didn’t I say this would happen?”