“Of course,” Emory continued, “a dragon is not female in the same ways as a woman. They are singular creatures. They do not eat, but get their strength from sunlight. They do not mate or birth. One a generation, that is all. One dragon, one damsel. You were my destiny, Ama. I had to take you. I went to the dragon’s lair to find a damsel. I would leave with one.”
“You . . . improvised,” Ama said, remembering. She had lain bleeding on the stone floor of her lair, rose-tinted mirrors all around, her gems and jewels scattered into disaster. And here came Emory, loosening the buckle of his belt, freeing the horn of him, and entering the bloody tear he had ripped beneath her arm.
Then there was nothing. No more, no memory, until she opened new eyes to find herself in his arms, in his saddle, in his possession.
“I made you beautiful,” Emory said again, again.
“You keep saying that,” Ama answered. “But I did not ask for your beauty. I made beauty all on my own. I did not need you then.”
“You need me now,” Emory said. “I am your destiny, as much as you are mine. Now, enough of this. It matters not where you came from, or what I did to bring you here. All that matters is what we shall do. And that is this: We shall forget all this nonsense. The glassblower shall sweep up this mess of broken glass, and I shall deliver you to your girl, who will dress you for the wedding. And we shall meet at the altar, and be wed, and I shall be king, and you, queen, and you shall birth me a son, and you shall find all the beauty you have need of in my arms and in his eyes. For that is the way it has always been, and that is the way it shall always be, from the beginning of time to the end of it.”
The scent of Ama’s own sweet-spice tang, the rush of her blood, hot now, near to boiling, the knowledge of the truth of her—these things she would need to set aside to do as Emory commanded.
It was true, what Emory said: as long as there had been kings, there had been conquered dragons and damsels brought from their lair.
Not rescued, though. Stolen.
“I think,” Ama said, “that I do not wish to marry you. Or to be queen. I want none of it.”
“Girl,” Emory said, “it matters little what you want. Remember your Sorrow—or your Fury, if you’d rather—for if you give me trouble on this count, or any other, she shall be hunted until dead. I promise you that.”
“Grant me leave and promise not to hunt my Fury,” Ama said. “Do these things, and I shall go in peace.”
“You seem to be under some misguided impression that you have power here,” Emory said slowly, as if he spoke to a young child. “But you are wrong.”
Slowly, Ama knelt. And when she rose again, she clutched in her hand a sickle-sharp spire of glass. “I, too, have three weapons,” she said. “And glass is but one of them.”
“Enough,” Emory spat, and he lunged at her, fist connecting with her temple. Pain shot through Ama’s head, her vision went to stars, but she held her space and did not fall. Her hand clenched the glass, blood poured from her palm, but she did not waver.
“Strike me again,” Ama said. An invitation? A threat?
It mattered not. Emory lunged again, and this time, she was quicker, deftly sidestepping his fist, the spike-sharp tip of her weapon entering his chest just beneath his rib cage. She drew it upward like a filleting knife, opening Emory wide.
He stumbled back, his mouth in a surprised round O, hands reaching up to try to close himself like a jacket, but his life’s blood spilling, pouring, and he fell to the ground among the splintered remains of Ama’s self-portrait.
“One should not make a pet out of a wild beast,” Ama said. She mounted Emory, knelt over him, and, ignoring his batting, bloodied hands, she reached into his chest, pulled open his mortal wound, and extracted his still-beating heart.
It pulsed in her palm, and Ama bit into it like a ripe plum.
In the chapel, all the king’s men were gathered and waiting for the ceremony to begin.
In the kitchen, the cooks and scullery maids worked to arrange a fine feast for their king.
In the great hall, the musicians sat, instruments in hand.
In Ama’s room, Tillie waited for the return of her mistress.
And in her bed, surrounded by cats, the queen mother watched through her window as a great opaline dragon cut across the sky and disappeared, singular, into the night.
Acknowledgments
This book began on a rooftop in San Francisco, with a gift of words from a brilliant friend. I want to thank MaryLynn Reise for the generous loan of the rooftop (and the apartment beneath) and Martha Brockenbrough for the inspiration.
As a mother to two human children and seven nonhumans, my leaving town, even for the rooftops of San Francisco, is not possible without the assistance of Karen and Ted Negus, whose support enables me to sneak out of town to write. Thank you.
I’m endlessly grateful for the love and support of my siblings, my husband, and my children.
I’ll never tire of acknowledging my agent and friend, Rubin Pfeffer, who has been my steadfast partner since 2011, or my wonderful editor, Jordan Brown, whose enthusiasm and care for my writing buoys me every day; working with both of you is a pleasure and a privilege.
And finally, the team at Balzer + Bray has astounded me. I’m so grateful to Alessandra Balzer, Donna Bray, Tiara Kittrell, Michelle Taormina, Alison Donalty, Bethany Reis, Bess Braswell, Sabrina Abballe, Meg Beatie, Allison Brown, Kate Jackson, Suzanne Murphy, and the artists of Vault49 for helping Damsel manifest. Dragons are singular creatures, but authors are not, and I am deeply thankful for you all.
About the Author
Photo by Davis Arnold
ELANA K. ARNOLD is the author of critically acclaimed and award-winning young adult novels and children’s books, including What Girls Are Made Of, a National Book Award finalist. She lives in Southern California with her family and a menagerie of pets. Visit her online at www.elanakarnold.com.
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Infandous
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Bat and the End of Everything
Damsel