He moved quickly, but I managed to keep him in sight until he passed through a creaking gate that appeared out of the storm as if it, too, had been called. A low fence of rough wood spread to the left and the right, with both sides vanishing into the storm. The gate wasn’t any taller than my waist, and had been tied to the side so it didn’t close. It groaned and banged on the fence, but the rope holding it in place held.
I touched the fence. It seemed the correct thing to do, to show this place some reverence. “Hello,” I said, as if the cottage would talk to me the same way as Sal. But no one responded, so I stepped through.
It still snowed on the other side, but the wind diminished. To my left, a gigantic tree towered into the storm above. In the shadows between the trunk and the fence, a small herd of whitetail deer huddled—a few does, two or three yearlings, and the biggest buck I’d ever seen, with a good fifteen-point set of antlers. He snorted at my dog but continued to shelter in place.
The tree’s branches were full of critters—squirrels, songbirds, and up high, I could just make out a bald eagle.
To my right, in a small courtyard filled with a woodpile, sat a doghouse, a frozen pond, an old hand-operated water pump, and several other snow-covered objects. A raccoon family watched me from inside the doghouse, and a fox huddled behind the woodpile.
None of the animals seemed too concerned about me, or my dog. They knew they were safe here, with the tree and the seer.
Her name was Ellie Jones. Marcus Aurelius had found her first, and had led her to my lake because that water pump hadn’t worked. She’d needed to wash one of her photos.
I’d taken her to Lara’s, and I’d gotten her the first phone.
She liked muffins.
And she’d saved me from Dracula.
Then I’d done something dumb. Ellie had cried. She’d left her bike. And she’d kissed me.
She’d kissed me at Bjorn’s church, too.
“Ellie,” I whispered.
Marcus Aurelius looked over his shoulder again, then back at the cottage in front of both of us. Candlelight glowed in the window off to the side of the wooden door.
Marcus Aurelius ran up to the door. He pawed. He barked.
The door opened.
“There you are!” She wore only a nightgown and socks, and the candlelight behind her backlit her shape. She hugged my cold, wet dog. “I was so worried.” She sounded as if she was about to cry. “Did you find the kids? Are they okay?”
Marcus Aurelius backed away from her. He turned toward me, and barked again.
She looked up and shaded her eyes.
He ran back into the courtyard.
“Marcus Aurelius! Come!” she called. “The cottage is about to close up for the night.”
She stepped out into the snow.
“Ellie.” I was still by the tree, still in the shadows with the critters and out of the shaft of light flowing out of her door.
She touched her open lips. “Frank?” she called.
I stepped into the light. “There was an elf. The kids…” Why was I at a loss for words? “They’re okay, Ellie. They found us. Axlam’s okay. The elf said St. Martin’s gone and that I should come this way and…”
“Frank!” Ellie ran into the snow in her stocking feet and her nightgown. She pressed through the wind and the ice. And Ellie jumped into my snow-covered, near-frozen arms. “Oh, Frank.”
“I’m as cold as the blizzard,” I said, but I held on anyway. “You’ll freeze.” The cottage sheltered us from the worst of the storm, but the air—and my body—were still freezing cold.
“I don’t care. I don’t. I don’t care.” She kissed me like she had at the church—as if she believed our time together would go away all too soon. She hiccupped, and tears touched my cold neck. “You’re here,” she whispered.
Somewhere, in the grand tree, a sweet, small bell tinkled.
Ellie looked up. “The cottage is about to close.”
Marcus Aurelius, backlit by the candles, waited patiently just inside the door. That cottage sheltered my dog. The tree sheltered the life of the forest. And right now, the beautiful, shivering woman in my arms needed sheltering, too.
Like me, she’d been too long unmoored in her own storm.
“I remember everything,” I said.
Her hiccups turned to sobs. “Come inside,” she said. “Please.”
She wanted me with her. She wanted me to stay.
I pulled her tightly to my cold body and did the best I could to offer the shelter she needed—I carried the woman I loved toward her own blizzard of magic.
Epilogue
Dagrun Tyrsdottir leaned against the altar fashioned from both living and dead ash. Like Frank, the altar was more alive than dead, though it did have a root or two still in Hel’s domain.
Some things neither the World Tree nor her adopted son could avoid.
Her wrist, the one broken by Frank’s unholy “brother,” had fractured again, and throbbed under a layer of healing magic that was, at the moment, not doing its job.
There was a corruption here, one strong enough to trigger something in Frank. Something that she’d sensed as she’d been fighting the insect St. Martin’s magic. Her adopted son had subconsciously called out into the Realms—all the Realms, not just those accessible by Alfheim’s elves—for reinforcements.
Should she blame Salvation for training Frank’s mind for such calls? Or perhaps this was the sensitivity she and Arne had always felt in him. The second one, beyond his synesthetic ability to see magic.
He was not mundane, this they knew. Nor was he a jotunn. The jotnar were not the giants so claimed by the faulty readings of the ancient texts done by myopic mundanes. Nor were they like the elves. They were neither good nor evil, but they gave the gods pause.
Frank was something new.
She did her best to hold her wrist in such a way as to keep the sharp bursts of pain to a minimum. St. Martin’s magic had snatched her around the waist as well, and she was sure she had some sort of internal damage, and perhaps a broken rib or two.
He still breathed. Barely, but she had not yet opened his path to his chosen Land of the Dead.
She’d broken his leg in three places, and lacerated multiple internal organs. Several of her hits had been hard enough to cause skull fractures.
He had chosen of his own free will to be the avatar of a dark magic she had no choice but to contain. Not just for her friend’s safety, or the safety of her town. She had taken those hits for the world.
She would again. And again. If needed she would die trying to contain this magic, as her god aspect had so many times before.
The blizzard roared beyond the illusion of Frank’s sacred World Tree space, but the flutter of wings momentarily rose above the din. The air distorted as if the fluttering beats modeled the cold like clay, and the smaller of Lennart’s ravens appeared directly over St. Martin’s unconscious body. The bird flapped her darkly iridescent feathers and landed gently on Dagrun’s thigh.
“I’d pet you,” she said, “but that hand is damaged, and twisting would not be comfortable.”
The raven clucked and honked. It moved closer to her face in an attempt to read her expression, then hopped off her leg to gaze at St. Martin.
The bird looked over her shoulder as if asking why he still lived.
Dag shrugged, which she should not have done, but she held the wince so as not to show the bird her pain. “He is a mundane. We have laws.”
Now the bird shrugged.
“He’ll be dead soon enough,” Dag said.
More flutters, and the second raven appeared. It hopped onto her shoulder instead of her thigh, and picked at the altar.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said.
The bigger raven rubbed its head against her hair.
“I apologize for not visiting you more,” she said to the birds. “You were making friends with Lennart.”
The two birds honked. Dagrun closed her eyes. Without Frank, the blizz
ard’s deep freeze inched ever closer, and a chill crept into her bones.
The flutters happened again.
The woman now squatting on the other side of St. Martin wore black jeans and thick leather boots. Her white t-shirt all but gleamed under the golden light of Frank’s magical bubble, and her leather biker jacket looked both well-worn yet new and shiny.
She adjusted the black knit cap she wore over her two long, low braids.
The World Raven ran her finger across the illusionary floor next to St. Martin’s shoulder. She peered at her fingertip, frowned, then wiped her hand on his chest. “Dagrun, daughter of Tyr,” she said, as she examined her fingertip again. “Living life to the fullest, I see.” Another wipe, and she seemed satisfied.
“Always,” Dag responded. Tricksters were not evil per se; they were, though, demanding in their expectations of their targets, and Dag had best be careful with her choice of words.
Raven leaned over St. Martin. “Did he honestly think he was dealing with a genie?”
“Evidence points to yes,” Dag said. The idiotic fool.
Raven poked his shoulder. “You are one dumbass moron, you know that?”
St. Martin groaned.
Raven nodded toward Dag. “Your ex is a bag of dicks, by the way.”
Dag would have shrugged again but her long-ex Niklas der Nord wasn’t worth the pain. “On this we agree.”
Raven stood and her jacket rustled in much the same way as the birds’ feathers. “I can curse Nikky-boy, if you’d like. Something fun, like permanent jock itch. I’d do it for free just for the entertainment value.”
Dagrun laugh-coughed. “He’s been exiled.” So no matter how tempting Raven’s offer, he would no longer be a thorn in Alfheim’s side.
Raven kicked at some illusionary leaf litter. “Your friend,” she looked back toward Dag, “Axlam, correct? Now there’s some strong magic.” She pointed to accent her assertion. “Her soul cries out against her isolation.”
Dag leaned against the altar again, and didn’t respond. What should she say? The universality of Axlam’s pain could never be touched through its individual armor, so Dag offered what she could—her magic at runs, and her support as a friend.
Raven did not seem to agree. “That’s what happens when your roots are torn out and then hacked to pieces by some random colonizer.”
One should never argue with a trickster, especially a trickster stating the obvious. “You speak truth, Raven.” But that’s what war did, and elven magic could only do so much in response.
The two birds clucked and hopped to St. Martin to take over Raven’s carrion picking duties. She watched them rub beaks and coo at each other, then rubbed her own nose. “Do you know why I am here, Empress Dagrun?”
She was not Empress. That title was held by her stepmother. Dag had her own role in this universe.
A new, menacing grin slowly appeared on Raven’s lips. “Perhaps Frank should have named his dog after you instead of that long-dead Roman guy.” Her words held a bit of whimsy, and for a second, Dag wondered if some part of Raven had known the real Marcus Aurelius.
“You are a feathered bundle of contradictions, World Raven,” Dag said.
The grin turned to a smile, which quickly vanished. “Others heeded Frank’s call.” She looked around. “That isolation we spoke of has consequences.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “But mostly, I enjoy interfering more than the other spirits. Ah!” She pointed at the pews and snapped her fingers.
Two photographic plates appeared in her hands. She quickly unsleeved one, looked at it, then pushed it back into its sleeve. She did the same for the second. “Well, look at that.”
Dag did not dare ask. Showing interest only egged on a trickster and gave them the upper hand, and she was too tired to play a more complicated game.
Her wrist screamed, and her other wound, the one she pressed on with all her glamouring might, was beginning to make itself felt.
“These two,” Raven waved the plates at the two birds, “have decided to accept the names Huginn and Muninn, at least for the time being, as a tribute to your… injury.”
Raven knew the truth behind Dag’s glamour. She still wasn’t about to drop it, though. Not in front of the still-breathing St. Martin. “Thank you,” she said to the two birds.
They preened and clucked at Dag the way they would to a chick.
“Now you and I make a deal,” Raven said.
The moment of truth. No trickster would appear to an elder elf unless he or she wished a boon.
Raven kicked St. Martin. “Wake up, dumbass.”
He moaned. She kicked him again, and Huginn and Muninn returned to resting on Dag’s thighs.
St. Martin groaned. He tried to move, but screamed when he realized his leg wasn’t much of a leg anymore.
Raven tucked the plates into her pocket as she squatted next to his head. “Would you like me to save you? You and I can make a deal, little Renfield.”
He stared up at her wide-eyed.
“That’s right, you pathetic pile of dung. I’m the real deal.” Raven flicked the tip of his nose.
“The genie said—”
Raven sat back on her heels. “Genie! You cannot seriously be that stupid.”
“But…” St. Martin visibly tensed. His rage was cresting over his pain.
“Here’s the thing, ugly weasel boy—you are, as the kids say these days, the worst.” She flicked his nose again. “You come rolling into town all wrapped up in your petty rage over a slight on your French honor.” Raven slapped St. Martin. “Your ‘genie’ sent you here to test the magical waters of Alfheim, you moron. He doesn’t care if you drown.”
He wheezed out words Dag could not make out.
“What’s that? Not feeling so well? Did Dagrun the Wanderer kick the living mediocrity out of your pathetic ass? Poor boy.”
That “genie’s” magic had kicked Dagrun in the face. And the gut. She pulled her magicks tighter, to hold her wrist together.
And just about every place else.
Raven squeezed St. Martin’s chin. “You were incidental. Your target, as such targets usually are, is just a woman trying to live her life.”
“She killed my—”
Raven slapped him so hard his opposite cheek slammed against the ground. “Shut up.”
He groaned again and fell silent.
“I could force you into a servitude not unlike the purpose you serve right now, but I think you’d like it too much.” Raven rolled her eyes. “Or I could ignore you and concentrate on the bigger picture.”
She stood and wiped her hands on her pants as if slapping him had left slime on her palms. Gingerly, she stepped over his body.
She sat cross-legged next to Dagrun. “His so-called genie did you grave injury, Dagrun Gallows’ Burden.”
Dag leaned against the altar again. “I will heal.”
Raven elbowed her gently. “I bet you always say that.”
She did. “Good times, huh?” If good times meant wounds and watching mundanes die.
St. Martin’s head lolled to the side, and his breathing became erratic. He was about to expire.
“I don’t have the magic to save him,” Dag said.
Raven sniffed. She did, she just didn’t want to. Dag had no desire to argue about it.
One last exhale, and he stilled.
The pews vanished, as did the door and the church window, but the altar stayed. St. Martin’s corpse cooled in the snow, but the World Tree continued to shelter Dag and the trickster world spirit.
Raven pulled the two plates from her pocket. “Your friend traded the proof these plates hold for the extra strength she needed to make it to her pack.”
This, Dagrun knew. She’d sensed Axlam making the deal. There’d been something with Frank, as well. Something she could not remember.
Raven smoothed her hand over one of the sleeves. “Your friend made it, by the way.”
Dagrun exhaled for what felt like the
first time since St. Martin’s attack. “Thank all the gods.”
Her husband would find her the moment she sent away the trickster. She could go home. Rest. And figure out the best way to move forward. “What do you want?”
Raven clucked, and Huginn and Muninn took up pecking at St. Martin’s now-blue corpse. “I want what is mine by name.”
She wanted Raven’s Gaze. Dag shook her head. “The pub belongs to Bjorn Thorsson. It is not mine to give.”
Raven laughed.
Dag frowned.
The sly grin on Raven’s lips meant only one thing—she thought she had already won. “Your husband will find you shortly.” She leaned closer. “I like him more than your ex. He lives up to that whole aspect thing. Plus he’s one fine man.” Raven touched her ear. “It’s the notches. They’re battle-scar sexy.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Dag said.
Raven fiddled with the plates. “Frank told you about Las Vegas Wolf and his dire-pups.” Her words were not a question, but a statement.
“Yes,” Dag said.
“You know of the World Wolf. All wolves feel it, the World Wolf.”
“Yes.”
Raven pulled one of the plates from its sleeve. “There is a wolf,” she said. “One that is rage and hunger. One that, if it breaks its chains, will come for the world.”
The same wolf whose presence she’d felt in St. Martin’s “genie” magic.
“It is good to know that we are on the same page,” Raven said.
Dag slowly exhaled. “Why do you care, Raven?” She was too tired to be polite, and the altar had begun to fade. The blizzard’s chill touched her wounds and only added to the throbbing.
Raven straightened her knit hat. “Because the rest of the world is sick of suffering the side effects inflicted by your one worst wolf.”
Each time that wolf broke his bonds, the elves and their mundanes did not suffer side effects. They died.
Dag slowly took the plate with her non-damaged hand. The seer had gotten enough distance on St. Martin to reveal the full size and extent of the magic he channeled—and the shape of its source.
She hadn’t realized until St. Martin pulled Frank, Axlam, and her inside his shell. She’d thought it just another strong Wolf, like Las Vegas Wolf, who had found a way to smear out its magic.
Wolf Hunted Page 20
