The woman looked him over with those unreadable black eyes of hers, then left without another word. Zaedicus waved his guards after her as well. Whatever punishment would be dealt, he couldn’t abide the embarrassment of having them witness it. The harder, the more untouchable he seemed to them, the greater their fear and the easier they were to control.
Once the door was shut behind him, Zaedicus raised the lit candle from its notch on the rim of the scrying basin and held it above his head, surveying the room. It was no bigger than a maintenance closet, with no windows, the walls and door obscured by thick, claret drapes.
He faced the back wall and, on his knees, placed the candle on the oak floor, illuminating the invocation stave and runes that were carved there. The candle cast the barest yellow glow as the high-wight drew a knife from within the luxurious folds of his robe.
“Nøkkviðr minn sár, rjóða minn knífr.” He drew the knife across his forearm, wetting the blade with the sluggish flow of dark blood. As he whispered the rest of the incantation, he held the cut over the invocation spell and squeezed it.
Only a moment after the first drop of blood touched the stave, the spell leapt to life; fire roared up from the ground, though he could not feel the heat of it. Slowly, a figure appeared, orange flames licking its calves and knees.
It was the figure of a man, perhaps a couple inches taller than six feet, built like a fighter, with the shadow of a great claymore strapped to his back. Zaedicus dared not look at his face, but remained on his knees instead, studying the strange, deep-red markings climbing the man’s arms—the wounds for which he was named.
When they had first met, Zaedicus had assumed they were tattoos. Now, he knew better.
The markings flared red, the magic that moved in the man’s veins flowing too fast and stumbling over itself, weaving angrily like a swarm of beetles. With a measured but crushing movement, the Wounded seized Zaedicus by the front of his robes and drew him up so their faces were level. His face was still cast in shadow, but Zaedicus could see the bridge of his nose furrow in unspeakable fury, like a wolf about to strike.
He said nothing, and after a moment, he released Zaedicus. The frenzied magic pooling in his scars faded slightly.
“You failed.”
“My lord, forgive me. I never expected such resistance.”
“You had every chance to prepare yourself. There is no excuse for such careless planning. Where. Is the girl. Now?”
“Forgive me, my lord,” the high wight mumbled again.
“Enough groveling. Tell me where she is, if not with you.”
“In a province called Maine, my lord. The Holloway thrall found her, brought her to the valkyrie Fengrave. She’s sent her to fetch someone from the coast.”
The figure folded his hands behind his back and began to pace in a tight circle, like a caged dog. “Who is this someone she and her thrall are to fetch?”
“I … am unsure. My scryer was not able to determine.” Zaedicus braced himself for the Wounded’s fit of rage.
But it didn’t come. The Wounded paused, thought for a moment, then turned fully toward Zaedicus, laughing.
He almost would have preferred the fit of rage.
“Take heart, elf. She will come back, and you will engage her here, where you have an advantage. And this time, you will be prepared.”
Chapter Seventeen
By the time Edie woke, the highway was long gone. They were coasting along a winding road lined with trees, with the occasional vacation home or random antique shop along the way. The top was down, and the wind whipped her face pleasantly. As she lifted her head, they passed a little white church with a sign out front that read RECREATION NOT WRECK CREATION.
Her puzzled laughter drew Cal’s attention, and she saw him grin. A few seconds down the road, they passed something called Three Chicks Farm. “Sounds like my kinda farm,” he said, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers.
Edie sat up a little straighter and reached for her phone to check the time. It’d had time to charge off the external battery she’d packed, but when she turned it on, all the notifications from last night came bombarding her at once, throwing her phone into a vibrating fit for almost a full 30 seconds.
She sighed. It was noonish. “Where are we?”
“A couple minutes from Bar Harbor. Guess we’ll see about where the inn is when we come up. Might have to ask someone.”
Edie snorted and pulled down the system tray of her phone, turning on her location services. “It’s fine, I can just look it up on my phone.” She shook it at him as the app loaded. “You should get yourself one of these.”
He didn’t respond, but he raised his brows like he was considering it. “Don’t know where in the Reachbarrow Inn we’re supposed to be meeting this Satara broad.”
Broad! Edie thought, biting back a howl of laughter.
“Can your phone tell us that?”
“It’s a Samsung, Cal, not Saruman.” She pointed as they approached an intersection. “Take a right.”
The town was a lot busier than she had envisioned or remembered. All along the main road were shops and cafes and inns, ending in a park and pier where some of the bigger houses and fancier restaurants stood overlooking the harbor. The town was definitely in season; pedestrians swarmed the sidewalk, and every place with outdoor seating seemed to be full. She and Cal were stuck at a crosswalk for almost a full five minutes as people crossed from both directions, relentlessly.
“I remember it being a lot quieter,” Edie said when they were finally able to turn. She watched as they passed a giant wooden statue of a lobster holding an ice cream cone—a terrifying effigy if ever she’d seen one.
“That was over ten years ago, kid. The whole world was a lot quieter.”
The Reachbarrow Inn was farther from the busy storefronts—south, according to Edie’s phone. It was only a matter of minutes before they pulled up to an old Tudor-style cottage with peaked roofs and an old wooden door that reminded Edie of the one in Astrid’s shop, with an iron knocker shaped like a bear’s head. Two chimneys rose from the scallop-tiled roof, fat at the bottoms and thinner at the tops. The windows were arched, and as she and Cal stepped out onto the newly-paved sidewalk, Edie noticed some sort of pattern frosted into the trim of each crystal pane. A worn brass placard next to the door read Reachbarrow Inn.
She tipped her head up, shielding her eyes from the sun as she studied the building. For a second, she swore she saw someone watching them from one of the second-floor windows. Cal must have noticed, too; he seemed tense. With a reluctant grumble, he motioned for Edie to lead the way.
Okay. No problem. You can do this, she thought. You’re just walking into a strange house in the middle of a strange state with a dead person you barely know. She had to admit it would be nice to get inside, though. She was sweltering in her leather jacket, black tank, and dark jeans.
She climbed the cement steps up to the walkway and stopped in front of the door. The inn looked so much like a private residence that she wondered if she should knock first—there was a knocker, after all. Ultimately, she tried the doorknob.
The inn was just as quaint inside as it was outside, filled with antique furniture and kitschy wall decorations. The floor was slanted, rough-cut cedar with heavy Victorian carpets here and there. A wreath of summer flowers with a crucifix in the center hung above a small check-in desk. Cal swiped a few root beer candies from a bowl on the edge of the concierge desk as Edie leaned over it, looking for any sign of life.
“Hello? We’re here to, um … check in?” She wasn’t sure if they would actually be staying there, but it was sure to get the innkeeper’s attention.
There was a rattling from somewhere deeper in the cottage, and eventually, a man emerged from a door in the corner Edie hadn’t even noticed was there, wedged in between a bookcase and a taxidermy elk. He was old but stood straight, and looked built and confident despite his ridiculous coke-bottle glasses—which made his eyes appea
r cartoonishly large—and mustard-yellow sweater vest. Three deep, angry scars marked his face from brow to chin, interrupting his well-trimmed gray beard at intervals.
He smiled warmly at Edie and adjusted his glasses. “Hello, ma’am. You checking in?”
“Yes … kind of.” Edie shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “A friend of ours is expecting us. Her name is Satara?”
The old man nodded and retrieved a spiral-bound ledger from under the desk somewhere. Edie thought he must not see much business if he didn’t even bother to keep digital records. Or maybe paper was just easier to get rid of for good. She shuddered.
“I don’t know why I got this out,” the man said with a good-natured snort. “I only have three rooms occupied. Not that hard to keep track of, even for an old dog like me.”
Cal shifted behind Edie. After their encounter on the road, she wondered just how literally he meant dog.
“May as well take your name down anyway.” He bent over the ledger, then looked up, glancing over Edie’s shoulder to one of the windows. He still hadn’t even acknowledged Cal’s existence. “Is it nice out?”
“It’s pretty nice, but I’m not big on the heat.” She pointed to the ledger. “Edith Holloway.”
The old man tensed up when she said her name, then his gaze went to Cal. “Oh….”
“Something the matter, Rin Tin Tin?” Cal asked, stepping forward and jabbing at the ledger with one discolored finger. “You gonna put the name down or what?” It almost sounded like a challenge.
“That’s … okay. Your friend is in the Acadia Room … second floor, last on the left.” Weird. The old man—though after Cal’s remark, she was sure he was some sort of wolf-person—addressed Edie. Weird. He seemed less concerned about the armed dead guy and almost scared of her.
Just what had her father done to make all these people so frightened of him?
She didn’t feel great about it. But for now, it seemed convenient—as horrible as that felt.
“Thanks,” she said as politely as she could, before she trotted over to the staircase. It was cozied up to a small sitting area comprised of two wooden chairs and a breakfast table stacked with books about birds. The stairs led to a dark hallway with the same rough-cut cedar floor and matching beams in the ceiling. It was a cozy, slanted hallway, with only one high window at the end of the hall to illuminate it. Edie got the distinct feeling of being transported to another place and time, somewhere so far away from present-day Maine, yet strangely familiar.
“There it is,” Cal mumbled as they approached the end of the hall. The last door on the left had a brass plaque on it that read Acadia Room. On the matching doorknob hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign.
Edie swallowed, glanced at Cal, and knocked.
“Who is it?” came a woman’s voice. It was a deep, rich voice, but quiet, muffled by thick cedar walls.
“Edith Holloway and, um, Cal. Astrid sent us.”
There was a moment’s pause, then: “Come in.”
Okay, you can do this.
Edie got anxious even meeting new human people. This not knowing who or what she’d find on the other side of the door, and whether or not they would want to kill her, was about ten times more stressful. Edie flexed her hand a moment before opening the door and stepping through.
The woman was standing on the far side of the bedroom, where the cedar walls slanted on either side of an intimate window seat. The bed to their right was nondescript save for the bear pelt sprawled across the foot of it, and besides a few rustic pieces of furniture, there wasn’t much else. The woman herself had her back turned to them, surrounded by a golden corona such that Edie couldn’t make out much about her besides her height and square, athletic frame.
“I admit, I expected someone older,” the woman said, her tone halting. “And taller.”
Taller? She must have been the one watching them from the window. Edie wasn’t sure what to say. She shrugged a shoulder. “Uh ... sorry to disappoint?”
The woman finally turned, her gaze—so dark it looked black from where Edie stood—fixing Edie with an unreadable stare. Her umber skin was the same shade as the smoky quartz bracelet she wore; faded white paint streaked her high cheekbones, round nose, and smooth brow, like she hadn’t repainted in several days. Her thick black hair was done in two elevated goddess braids, with both sides of her head close-shaven.
But what struck Edie most about her appearance was what she was wearing: smooth leather leggings, a maroon tunic; a thin, worn cream gambeson and a distressed copper breastplate and gorget necklace. Leather pauldrons lined with raven feathers were secured by straps across her chest, and she wore long vambraces to match. At the moment, she was barefoot, but Edie spotted a pair of iron-plated, knee-high boots by the door.
“You Satara?” Cal asked as he slowly shut the door behind them.
The woman nodded, looking him over. “You must be the revenant. Calcifer.”
“Cal’s fine,” he said, taking a pack of cigarettes and lighting one up without pretense.
Edie felt a strange shimmer of energy next to her, and glanced in his direction. To her eyes, nothing seemed to have changed, but now Satara was staring at him. Edie realized he must have deactivated his glamour. The shieldmaiden’s expression was equal parts curious and irritated—probably at his manners—but she said nothing.
Edie wasn’t sure what kind of pleasantries Norse warriors expected, but Satara didn’t seem overjoyed to meet them. She decided to get right to business. “Astrid said that you needed us, or had info or something.”
Satara considered her for a moment, brows drawn, before nodding. She sat in the window seat, hands on her knees. She offered neither Edie nor Cal a seat, so they both stood awkwardly. “Yes, she sent me a note by bird early this morning, saying you’d be coming. I must admit it came as a surprise, hearing that Richard Holloway’s daughter had emerged.”
Her tone wasn’t angry or anything, but her expression was far from impressed. Edie got the feeling Satara was wary of her, but she wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just that Satara hated Edie’s father. Everyone but Astrid seemed to have some kind of beef with Richard Holloway, and even Astrid hadn’t been singing his praises.
“The Aurora and Gloaming have been making defensive moves in the past couple of months, gathering up allies.” Satara fingered one of the frayed pillows beside her. “Astrid believes that this means some sort of conflict is on its way. It probably won’t result in anything more than a simple skirmish for now, but no doubt it’s part of something bigger. The Reach should be involved before we find ourselves even fewer in number.”
Edie shifted feet anxiously. “So, the Reach is in some kind of danger of disappearing completely.”
Satara drummed her fingers on her knees. “It has disappeared. The Reach used to be great, a yawning expanse between two extremes. Leadership began to dwindle hundreds of years ago.” She looked between them. “If we could harbor civilians, protect people? It would mean a solution to the strife and death that the Aurora-Gloaming conflict has caused. But we’re not powerful enough anymore.”
“Astrid needed help doing all that stuff,” Cal mumbled around his cigarette. “Your dad answered the call.”
Edie looked at him. “You’d think you’d be able to tell me more, then.”
“Who, me? He had me bashing heads, not printing out brochures.”
Satara waved a hand as if to dispel their tangent, though her gaze lingered on Cal as she spoke. “We need to bring our own allies together. I only have so much time to do what needs to be done. For some reason”—she looked to Edie again—“Astrid trusts you, and thinks you can help me. Apparently, if I present you, the sorceress I’m after may take my proposal a bit more seriously.”
Oh. Edie’s face burned with embarrassment. She was starting to see the problem. Satara wasn’t happy she was being undercut by someone who didn’t even know what was what, let alone how to handle it.
Satara sighed and looked away. “I
’ve been tracking her for over a week, preparing to make contact.”
Cal ashed his cigarette into one of the pockets of his cargo pants. “Hit us, jack.”
Satara seemed confused by the expression, and glanced at Edie.
“He means tell us.”
The shieldmaiden stood and folded her hands behind her. “First, I need to know you are who you say you are. Show me the shield.”
Chapter Eighteen
Satara tested the weight of Astrid’s spear in her hand, then turned to Cal and Edie, who were waiting on the sidewalk behind her. She smiled tightly. “Now there can be no doubt my battlemother sent you. It should be proof enough for the sorceress, too. And it will be good to have weapons in case we run into trouble.” After a pause, she continued, “So, you truly are who you say you are. I’m not sure if that should worry me.”
Cal crossed his arms and snorted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You two aren’t exactly experienced. I can already tell you lack discipline.” She twirled the spear like a baton, testing the balance.
“And I guess you’re a paragon of grace.” Edie tried to keep her tone light, but she still didn’t take kindly to being insulted. Even if those insults happened to be true.
“Excuse my arrogance,” Satara said flatly, then added, “I’m not too proud to admit I still have things to learn. But at the very least, I have training. You’re just not what I expected.”
Edie frowned deeply at the pavement. It was true that she was new to all this, but she was doing her best, and she hadn’t meant to overstep her boundaries. All this had been Astrid’s idea, anyway.
Cal seemed to sense her discomfort. He lit another cigarette as he climbed behind Ghost’s wheel. “Let’s get a move on, yeah? Tell us about this ally we’re supposed to be recruiting.”
With a mumble, Edie offered Satara the passenger seat, but she declined, saying she preferred to stay in the back where she could keep Astrid’s spear and shield close.
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