The Ever After

by Amanda Hocking

  “Maybe she was powerful enough or small enough to slide by?” Dagny shrugged.

  “Or maybe they let her in,” Bryn suggested.

  After that, Dagny changed the subject, saying she’d already talked about them too much, and we finished off the bowl of berries while talking about the woollies. Both Bryn and Dagny were surprisingly interested in hearing all about the baby elk I’d nursed after the eclipse.

  We were all exhausted—especially me and Bryn—so we tucked in early, and I slept for fourteen hours straight.

  Dagny woke me up the next day and told me that Elof had gotten the results from my and Bryn’s familial blood test. I got up, got ready, and the three of us headed down to the Mimirin.

  When we got to the lab, Elof took Bryn back to his office. It was a small room attached to the back of the lab. I sat on a stool at one of the islands, and Dagny grabbed a stack of papers and started reading through them, highlighting numbers and dates for Elof’s research.

  “Why did he take her back alone?” I asked her after Elof had closed the office door. “Does that mean it’s bad news?”

  “He likes to give everyone their results in private,” she explained. “It can be very emotional for some, whether they get the confirmation they wanted or not.”

  “I guess he did tell me my original blood test results alone,” I remembered.

  “You are something,” he’d told me then, when I’d asked what I was. “You had significant markers for Omte, meaning that one of your parents was almost certainly from the Omte tribe.”

  “What about my other parent?” I had asked.

  “They’re not a troll,” he’d said.

  “Okay, can you spit it out and tell me what it is that I actually am?” I’d asked in exasperation.

  “That’s the thing,” Elof had told me finally. “We don’t know.”

  Bryn was in the office with Elof for nearly a half hour, and by then I had moved to pacing around the lab, to Dagny’s chagrin. When Bryn finally came out, her expression was unreadable—the stoic blank mask she wore when she was working as a guard—and her eyes downcast.

  I started to the office, but Elof followed her out and held up his hand to stop me.

  “Aren’t we going to talk?” I asked.

  “Yes, we are,” Elof said with a smile. “But I thought it’d be better if we walked and talked.” He headed toward the lab door and motioned for me to follow him. “Come.”

  23

  Olfactory

  The bench seat in the back of the rickshaw did little to absorb the bumps and dips of the dirt roads, but I didn’t have much room to complain since a driver was literally pulling the small, hooded cart across town. He looked Omte, based on his hulking frame and the ease with which he jogged while hauling me and Elof away from the Mimirin.

  We were heading to the farming borough on the outskirts of Merellä, and while it was still within the sprawling city walls, it was an awfully long way to walk, especially for someone like Elof. Like many of the Vittra who had short stature, he sometimes needed accommodations.

  Elof had once explained it to me this way: two types of dwarfism were found in the Vittra—hobgoblins, who had a series of comorbid conditions such as slimy skin, a benign but unpleasant form of acne, and exaggerated features, and little trolls, similar to Vittra trolls in almost all ways except for their height. Both conditions were often accompanied by assets—like superior strength for some—and negatives—like chronic hip pain.

  Elof stood thirty-six inches tall, and by the time he turned thirty, he’d started using a cane when he walked long distances. Rickshaws were usually parked around the Mimirin, available for anyone to ride for a nominal fee, and they made the whole city much more accessible for hobgoblins and little trolls.

  “Why are we going all the way out here to talk?” I asked Elof as we rolled past the woolly elk meadows, the big beasts grazing on the grassy fields. We were far enough away from downtown that we could speak without being overwhelmed by noise.

  “I wanted to show you something, and we needed to talk, so I thought we’d hit two animals with one stone,” Elof reasoned.

  “Can you tell me now what the results are, or do we need to wait until we get to our mystery destination?” I asked.

  Elof had told the driver where to go when he paid him, but I hadn’t been close enough to overhear. I’d asked on the way down from the lab where we were going, but Elof had vaguely answered with “outside.”

  “I suppose I can tell you now if you’d like.” He sat back in the seat and folded his hands on his lap as he looked over at me. “Bryn has no Omte blood.”

  “So … she’s not my sister?” I asked, and it wasn’t until then that I realized how much I was hoping that she was my sister, that I had a real connection to somebody I cared about.

  That I had a connection.

  “No, she is not,” Elof said sadly.

  My heart sank, and I swallowed back tears. “That’s good for her. I mean, she really loves her dad.”

  “She has no Kanin blood either,” he said, and I looked sharply at him.

  “What?” I shook my head. “Iver Aven was born a Kanin Markis. Bryn told me how her father came from a high-ranking Kanin family.”

  “Iver may very well have, but I didn’t have a sample from him available,” Elof said. “What I did have is a sample from Bryn that predominantly has markers for Skojare and some for the Trylle. And I have a sample from you that is half-Omte and half-unidentified.”

  “Indu said my mother is álfar, and that would be the unidentified half, so Indu is mostly Omte then,” I said, my words rapid and uncertain. “He identifies as Älvolk, but that’s—that’s a cult, not a tribe, not a race, so he’s Omte.” My mind raced with the implications of Elof’s words. “So Bryn’s mom must’ve had an affair with another man.”

  He waited a beat, the wheels crunching loudly on the gravel, and the air sweetening as we passed the Sommar plum orchard, and then he carefully replied, “That is one possibility.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Indu and the Älvolk live in Áibmoráigi, in northern Sweden,” he said. “It’s within a day’s journey of Isarna, and although the memory of the exact location of Áibmoráigi is blocked from my mind, it’s safe to assume that Isarna is the closest troll community to the Älvolk.

  “As you know, Isarna is an unusual place,” he continued. “A single island city belonging to two kingdoms—the Trylle and the Skojare. Given the proximity, I imagine that there are many Älvolk who had children with the Isarnans.”

  “You think Indu is Bryn’s father,” I realized.

  “I would say it’s likely that Indu is Trylle and Skojare, as opposed to being fully Omte, which is what he’d need to be in order for you to be half-Omte, half-álfar,” Elof said. “I did only see him briefly in Sweden—that I can recall, at least—and I did not see much of a resemblance to you, or the Omte either.”

  “He’s not my father,” I said breathlessly, and as a wave of relief washed over me, I couldn’t help but smile. “Noomi’s not my sister. I’m not an Indudottir.” I laughed to myself.

  “I’m happy to see you’re taking it so well,” he said.

  “Yeah, I really am.” I laughed again. “I know that in a way, I’m worse off. I went from thinking I know who my dad is to having no clue once again. But all that I feel is a weight lifted off my shoulders, knowing that the kidnapping baby-crazy jerk isn’t my father.” I breathed in deeply.

  And then I looked over at him. “So is Senka my mother?”

  “I think that one álfar parent would explain the unusual nature of your blood, but I can’t say for certain if it’s your mother or father, let alone someone I’ve only heard about from you.”

  “Why did Indu claim he was my father?” I asked.

  “Maybe he was mistaken, or perhaps he was lying. Or perhaps he was lied to himself,” Elof said.

  As we grew closer to the city wall, the scenery began to chang
e. The elk meadow had given way to orchards and fields of sugar beets, but they appeared to be coming to an end a short distance in front of us. The lush gardens were replaced by squat dirt mounds, staggered around in circular patterns.

  I sat up straighter, trying to get a better look, and I realized there were doors in the mound, slender and curved. And then I saw them—the tall and sinewy Ögonen, with their semi-transparent ochre skin leaving all their organs visible; they were trollian and otherworldly all at once. There were half a dozen of them, their heads just visible over the top of the dirt.

  “Is this where the Ögonen live?” I asked Elof quietly. “Is this where we’re going?”

  “It is, and it is,” he answered.

  I looked over at him. “Is it safe?”

  His brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I don’t know,” I said quickly, remembering Dagny’s fears that the Ögonen could read her mind. “I only meant, are we allowed there?”

  “Of course. I’d never take you somewhere you weren’t wanted,” he said. “At least not without warning you first.”

  The rickshaw stopped in front of the Ögonen neighborhood, and Elof asked the driver to wait and assured him that we wouldn’t be too long. He got out of the cart first, and I took a moment to steel myself before following him.

  The last time I’d interacted with them hadn’t exactly been pleasant. When I’d snuck down into the Catacombs of Fables, one of the Ögonen guarding it had given me a horrific vision of being chased by giant spiders. Admittedly, I’d been going somewhere I wasn’t allowed to go, but their guarding technique of invading my mind and implanting realistic, terrifying visions had been very unnerving.

  I had no idea if they could read minds, but it seemed plausible enough, and I wasn’t exactly comfortable with them reading mine.

  I didn’t know if I could do anything to shield my thoughts, but I had to try something. In my head, I started spelling everything, hoping a cloud of benign thoughts would mask anything.

  The paths between the mound houses were exceptionally narrow, maybe two feet wide, and I had to walk behind Elof. Nearby, seven Ögonen—

  O-G-O-N-E-N-

  —walking single file. They kept walking straight ahead but their trollian eyes followed us, unblinking, unwavering—

  U-N-S-E-T-T-L-I-N-G

  “Why are we here?” I asked Elof again.

  “They have a special garden. The Ögonen believe it to be sacred land, but they’ve allowed us to come and have a look if we promise not to touch.”

  “Are we looking at anything in particular?” I asked.

  “Indeed.”

  I was about to ask for info, but we’d rounded another home, and a small, circular patch of overgrown plants sat at the center of the Ögonen neighborhood. It looked like nothing but wild, untended weeds, with the sickly-sweet smell of lilies and potent—

  C-O-P-P-E-R

  —and I was back in the häxdoktor’s office, my arms held with straps. The air was thick and my father—

  No, not my father. My kidnapper. Indu.

  Indu argued with Lemak, “Nej-li, it does not.”

  “I can help you,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure that I could. “Please let me go. I will help you.”

  Indu looked over at me, as if he’d forgotten I was there, and he gave me a wispy, sour smile. “Oh, my child, you are already doing all you can.” His smile fell away the instant he turned back to the häxdoktor. “You need to finish this. It’s time to open the lock.”

  “I can help you in other ways.” My voice trembled as I pleaded with him, talking fast, hoping anything would stick. “I have other skills. I can read six languages: Swedish, Inuit, French, Norse, Tryllic, and English. I can lift five times my body weight. I can—”

  Indu looked sharply at me, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. Suddenly animated with a fresh intensity, he rushed to my bedside and I flinched, pulling as far away from him as I could. Behind, over his shoulder, a wilting sorgblomma sat in a beaker, its golden yellow petals turning brown and shriveling.

  “You can read Tryllic?” Indu asked, close enough that I could smell the death on his breath.

  “Ulla?” Elof asked, sounding concerned, and he put his hand on my arm to get my attention.

  I blinked, the bright, lush plant coming back into focus in front of me. “The Älvolk already had the sorgblomma. When we were there.”

  “I thought they might,” Elof said. “That’s why I brought you here.”

  I looked over at him in confusion. “Why?”

  “The sense of smell is closely linked with memory, and the sorgblomma has a very unique scent,” he explained.

  “Yeah, it definitely does,” I said under my breath. “So you want me to … just try to remember?”

  He nodded. “Go ahead.”

  I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose—

  —the häxdoktor’s room again, but this time the straps were off. Indu wasn’t there, it was only me and Lemak, with a row of wilting sorgblomma in the glass beakers, more of them now, their dead petals littering the apothecary table.

  “These are what he wants you to work on today,” Lemak said, handing me a narrow tube of paper.

  Slowly, I unrolled the scroll, and I saw the jagged letters—

  —a screaming shot of pain exploded in my skull and down my spine. I clamped my hands to my ears as tightly as I could.

  24

  Walls

  Once the pain passed and I had caught my breath, I tried again. I breathed in the scent of the flowers, the memory resurfaced—Lemak handed me the scrolls but when I tried to remember it, the pain came back again, only worse this time.

  My brain felt like it was going to explode, and I pressed my hands to my head, as if I could hold it in. I collapsed to my knees and painfully began to retch. Once I stopped, I wiped my mouth with the back of my arm, and sat back on my heels, gasping for breath.

  Elof’s hand was on my shoulder and his voice low in my ear. “Ulla, are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said through gritted teeth. “I just … I can’t remember. There’s a wall of pain I can’t get through surrounding the memory.”

  “Perhaps this isn’t the best place to work through it,” Elof said, and I finally looked up to see the Ögonen were standing all around us, watching us with their big brown eyes.

  Elof offered me his hand, and helped steady me as I got to my feet. He stayed at my side, his arm around me, and my steps were still unsteady as we hurried through the narrow roads.

  “Take us back downtown, please,” Elof told the driver as I climbed up into the rickshaw. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, go as quickly as you safely can.”

  I was grateful that we didn’t have to make the long walk on foot. The driver jogged onward, and a breeze cooled my face. Tangles of hair stuck to the sweat on my skin, so I slid the scrunchie off my wrist and pulled my hair up into a topknot. The pain in my head had lessened to a dull throbbing, but my body felt weak and tired.

  “I apologize for bringing you there,” Elof said quietly. “I thought you would have a reaction to the flower, but I never suspected that it would be something like that.”

  “How’d you know I’d have a reaction?” I asked him.

  “Because I had one,” he replied. “When we returned, I went to get a sample of the sorgblomma to discern why the Älvolk had wanted it so badly. As soon as I smelled it, I remembered the dungeons we’d been held in, only for a moment. I was in a dark cell with Pan, and you were returning—Noomi and Tuva had you by each arm, and you were only semiconscious, your feet dragging along the ground. And the scent of the sorgblomma was coming from you.”

  “But you didn’t have any pain with the memory?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “None. But the memory didn’t last very long.” He leaned in, lowering his voice a little. “It seems that the Älvolk put special protections around your particular memory. I think you may have
found what they wanted to hide the most.”

  “Great.” I sighed. “Do you have any ideas on how I can get through the wall of excruciating pain that surrounds it?”

  “Not at the moment, no,” he said sadly. “But I’ve been looking into different forms of memory recovery. I’m hopeful that I’ll have an answer for you soon.”

  Elof had the rickshaw drop me at my apartment. Even though I was feeling well enough by then that I probably could’ve made the walk from the Mimirin, Elof preferred to err on the side of caution. I gave him money for the rickshaw, and Elof initially declined until I told him to add it to the driver’s tip.

  As I was walking up the steps to my apartment, I heard Bryn’s voice, and I looked up to see her on the roof. The signal-amplifying dish was pointed to the sky, and her cell phone was pressed to her ear. She was speaking in a low voice, so I couldn’t make out many words—just a terse “Ridley, I know what I’m doing.”

  I didn’t want to eavesdrop, so I ducked into the apartment. Dagny was in the kitchen, warming up leftover sweet tomato soup and making fig jam and goat cheese sandwiches on the griddle.

  “I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, but I made extra just in case,” Dagny said, and then she looked back at me. “You look all sweaty and pale. What happened?”

  I sat down at the table and, while she cooked, told her about my experiences with Elof in the Ögonen garden. My stomach started rumbling by the time I finished, and she set a gooey, melted sandwich and a cup of soup in front of me.

  “Thank you, this smells delicious,” I said.

  “Is Bryn still up on the roof?” She glanced toward the ceiling. “Should I yell up at her and let her know the food’s done?”

  I shrugged. “She’s talking to her boyfriend and it sounded tense.”

  “He probably doesn’t want her to go,” Dagny said. “I thought it was a little abrupt when she brought it up, but she is a woman on a mission.”

  “Go where?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “To Fulaträsk,” she replied. “Bryn says she knows a baby there, and she wants to find out who her dad is.”