by Angel Lawson
“Did you really think I would choose you over her?” Ethan asks him. Then lower, to me, “Get it off my neck.”
I grasp at the twine at the nape of his neck, fumbling at the knot. It loosens as Anders lunges at us, and I stagger backward, the necklace in my hand. Not a rune but an orb, smooth like glass, and gold.
“No!” Anders shouts, flailing in our direction, hand outstretched to the ring with the amber stone.
Ethan shoves me out of the way, hard. I fall to the ground and the stone tumbles from my palm. I roll toward it. Fingers I know aren’t Ethan’s grab at my ankle, but they let go with a curse and the screech of a bird. I gasp for air and look at Mimir. She screams words I almost understand, a ball of fire in one bare hand and the disembodied eye in the other.
Crawling across the rocky floor, my fingers questing for the amber ring, I’m almost there when the men collide, tumbling over my legs. I scramble away, the stone tight in my hand.
JUMP! Ethan’s voice ricochets in my skull.
I glance at the well, deep and endless. Anders lunges at me again, and Ethan throws himself between us, slashing out with the knife, adding another scratch to the ones Faye left on the madman’s face.
The raven strikes down again, driving Anders back, but knocking the knife from Ethan’s hand. It clatters across the rocks, and both men race to grab it, but Anders is nearer, and he slashes out in a wide arc, and then it’s red with blood and Ethan swears, gripping his left arm.
Anders swings again, off balance and wild, and Ethan throws a punch, a clumsy hit, but enough to knock the other man down. I grab Ethan as he stumbles, and drag him, my left hand fisted in his shirt, the other gripping the stone gem, away from the knife’s reach, backward, toward the well. The ring of blue fire leaps high, closing around me and the boy who holds me impossibly close, and the crows that fly above the flames.
“JUMP!” Mimir, hands working the blaze into a frenzy, yells with a force that makes me stagger sideways. Without hesitation, Ethan spins, his arms tight around my ribs, and leaps toward the waterfall. Together, we fall.
27.
Encircle
We fall.
My arms tighten around Memory. Her face is mashed into my chest, her hair flying up, tangling around my neck. Her scream is in protest and anger, the deep revulsion that this is not a dream. She’s not afraid, though. Fear is facing the unknown, and she’s dreamed this vicious plunge already.
“Hang on,” I say to the girl in my arms, and I don’t just mean to me. I mean to the stone and its strange power guiding our way. She needs to hold on to her mind, to everything in this moment, because if we can just keep it together we can get through this. But most of all I need her to hold on to me. Once we get to the end, I know I’ll lose her.
Seconds pass, or maybe minutes. Hours.
I count to measure time: Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Stop when I realize I don’t dare get to zero.
Memory’s hair whips across my eyes, and I bury my face in her neck, trying to ignore the dark and the things that brush past my body.
Are we really going this fast, or is gravity getting stronger? The thought flickers in my head, but it’s not mine.
The dark fades into a soft glow. We’re coming through somewhere, but the light isn’t from below, it’s from the amber stone in Memory’s hand, burning brighter with each second we fall.
Something glances off my head again. We aren’t falling unaided. Three crows swirl above us, wings working hard, a black silk parachute half-furled. One tiny magpie darts in and out, steering under the vast wingspan of a huge raven. We are held in their grip by invisible cords, marionettes without strings. The third flaps into me again, tangling in Memory’s hair.
I throw my injured left arm up over my head, cinching my right even tighter around the waist of the girl with me. She gasps, grips me so hard the air rushes from my chest.
I can’t see! a voice sobs, but claws wrap my wrist, dig into the skin, and the crow steadies, spreads its wings, and our descent slows. We float into fog, a barrier that envelops us in cold, swallowing our air, thick and unyielding. The talons on my arm lock hard, drawing more blood.
Memory screams, but the noise is choked off in the mist. I can’t breathe either, there’s no air in this cloud that traps us. She begins to writhe as she suffocates, twisting, knocking the last of my air from my ribcage.
“Perth, Ansuz, Kaunan, Mannaz, Tyr! Perth, Ansuz, Kaunan, Mannaz, Tyr!” the tiny bird shrieks, a litany of names like a password. “Perth, Ans—”
It works, the fog retreats, curls out of my nose and mouth like smoke in reverse, and we slide through. I gulp at the air as we pick up speed again.
Memory still struggles, legs flailing against mine.
“It’s getting hot!” she cries. “The stone is going to burn me!”
It’s a ring, the crow on my arm says. Turn it away from your skin.
“I’ll drop it!”
I shift, bring the crow around to hold Memory’s shoulders, and catch one leg with the free hand, pulling it up to wrap my hips. She gets what I’m doing and coils around me. She has one arm tight on my neck, bringing the other between us.
The jewel shines so bright I have to look to the side in order to see it, and it is hot, a light bulb burning white.
I take from her palm, slide it on her finger.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, face so close I can feel her lashes on my cheek. I fold her fingers down into a fist, raise her knuckles to my lips, but she pulls it away, mouth on mine, hard, urgent. I kiss her back, just as desperate.
Ugh, really guys? the raven complains. Then he warns, We’re here.
*
We glide down, plunge through a shimmery surface that looks like water but leaves us dry. We tumble to the ground with a thud. I land on my knees, hard, and Memory rolls off me in a heap.
“Holy mother,” I say, gripping my bloody arm. It hurts, muscles knotting tight around the slash.
Faye bounces to the ground, jumps up, shakes black feathers from her hair. They melt into the dark stone at our feet. Julian lands on solid legs, arms stretched for balance, a perfect dismount from the sky. His eyes are fierce as he takes in the surroundings.
The bird on my wrist keeps her shape. She’s light, barely any weight on her bones. Memory reaches out with a finger, smoothes the feathers down the bird’s back. Its left eye is gone, empty socket covered with torn skin. She side-steps up my forearm, avoiding the gash that’s crusting over and oozing. I set her on my shoulder and stand, taking Memory’s hand.
“You okay?” I ask her, though she seems fine. My voice carries strangely over the terrain, echoing, but hollow. We’re in the center of a huge circle of standing stones that rise around like skyscrapers.
“Yeah,” she says. “You?”
“Yeah.” I flex my arm. The muscles are still intact, but working them makes the wound open again.
“You’re hurt!”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “It’s not deep. Just stings.”
She tears the sleeve the rest of the way off my shirt, wraps it around my arm. It soaks through immediately.
“That way,” Faye calls, pointing toward two stones that support another on top, like table legs. I don’t bother asking how she knows. The monoliths are etched with rune letters, deep cuts into the rock, jagged lines that run over the surface in ropes and spirals. A ring of fog edges the circle like a fence. She dashes off, dragging Julian by the hand. He reaches back for his sister, and she tugs me along, one line of people, like we’re still in Anders’ chains.
“This isn’t real,” Memory says, like she’s got a secret, like Faye. “This is a dream.”
At the base of every stone sits a dais, and over each, a huge window, or mirror, shimmering with the same water-but-not surface we broke through to get here. The nearest reflects a sea, waves churning with a storm. The one to the right shows some grassland, and a grazing animal with twisted horns.
“They�
��re portals,” Julian says. “Like the one we just came through.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I’ve been through them,” Memory whispers. “In my dreams.”
“You were a crow,” Julian says, like he has just solved the biggest riddle ever.
With a thousand lifetimes of memories, the bird on my shoulder mutters in my head. Memory stares at it, and Faye nods in agreement.
We come to the largest, where a throne sits, carved of solid black rock with blue striations, etched with runes. Two stone ravens perch on the back, and a marble wolf crouches on either side.
“Just like in the Hrafnafodr poem,” Faye says. “I wonder which one is Hungry and which is Greedy?”
“They both look pretty fierce.” Julian turns around, scans the clearing in the mist. “So where is he?”
Memory points at the mirror above the throne. “Look. Miriam is in there.”
We all turn as one and peer through the stone. The blood runs down my left wrist, across my palm and drips from my ring finger to the floor.
*
Mary’s mouth moves, her face contorted with an anger I’ve never seen. There is no sound—it’s like watching a silent movie, but with actors in real living color. Anders rushes at her, the letter opener in his hand. Before he reaches her she slaps fire across his eyes, but he runs forward, blind, slashing with the knife.
The crow whimpers on my shoulder, jabbing her claws into my arm.
In the glass, Mimir steps back, but she’s against the cave wall, with no room to retreat. The man lunges again, but as he nears, a thick fog rolls down the stones and up from the floor, coalescing into the figure of an armored man in a blue cloak. He is cut deep with muscle and age, like a gnarled oak, one eye socket an empty tree knot. I’ve seen him before.
He catches Anders by the neck, hurling him to ground, cracking the stone beneath him. Our professor blinks twice, and then his mouth splits open with a silent scream. The muscles of his neck become rigid and hard.
Odin bends over him, and with a heavy fist, reaches into Anders mouth and yanks, pulling away a lit shadow that resists, then separates from the body, to hang limp in the god’s hand, like an empty skin.
The cloaked man turns, and releases the husk of light into the waterfall at the center of the cave. He nods once to Mary, who kneels, and presses her hand over the corpse’s eyes, closing them.
I don’t realize I am holding my breath until I hear Julian inhale. Tears track through the dried blood on Faye’s face.
“It’s okay,” Memory whispers to me and the bird. “She’s okay.”
*
The time between the other side of the portal and this one is short, almost nonexistent. One second the god is in the prism glass and the next it is filled with fog, and a huge presence looms behind us. He’s here, walking from the center of the stones, and we’re in the company of a god and no one seems to know what to do.
Memory threads her fingers into mine.
“Do we bow? Or genuflect, or something?” Julian whispers.
“If you like,” he says. His voice is quiet but deep, and resonates in my sternum, like thunder or a subwoofer sound system. “But it is not necessary. This is your home, too.”
His cloak flows over some kind of armor, layers of metal and leather, etched with rows upon rows of runes. Faye squeaks. My heart goes into overdrive. I’m in the presence of a god. Ethan Tyrell; orphan, delinquent, felon.
“Welcome, children,” he says. The air around him is crystalline, a mirage. He stops in front of us, looks us up and down, takes off the battered helmet that shields his face.
“You’re the guy from the library,” Julian says with a gasp. “Waiting on the steps. You had a blue raincoat, and an old Stetson.”
I look closer. One golden eye stares back. “You were at the luau.”
“And at Sonja’s house, walking by,” Memory whispers. Faye nods.
He points toward me. I’m rooted to the spot, gawking at the hand that looks like it’s been carved of marble. Memory tugs on my hand, but when I can’t move, she takes the crow from my shoulder, places her on Odin’s wrist.
He slides his fingers under Sonja’s wings, coaxing them to extend, and then he twists his hands, molding her into shape, easing a girl out of the crow.
Sonja looks around, wild and shaking. Blood trickles from her wrists, her ankles, and the gruesome empty eye socket in her terrified face. Faye whimpers. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, and press my fist into my stomach to keep it from heaving.
“Muninn,” Odin says. He extends a hand, palm up, grooved like ax marks on stone.
Memory doesn’t let go of me. She turns her other hand over, where the amber orb sits cupped by her fingers, anchored by the weird setting. He examines it a long time, tugs on the hat brim that hides his left eye. Then he plucks the stone from the silver, and rolls the yellow gem in his palms. “Daughter, come here.”
The god steps forward when Sonja doesn’t budge, and works his hands over her face. She cries out, but when he moves away, her features are whole, fresh scar tissue knitting together around a left eye with an amber iris, a perfect match to his right. She blinks, touches her face. Memory wraps her arms around her when she staggers, but Sonja takes a deep breath. “Where is my mother?” Sonja asks.
“She is not of my blood, and does not cross into this realm,” he says. “Mimir is born of earth, and the well of knowledge.”
“We are your blood? Your children?” Julian shakes his head. “But I look exactly like my dad—”
“I am your first father, a thousand generations ago.”
“The tree, the family tree in Miriam’s dining room! She kept track of all the descendants.” Faye says, and turns to Sonja. “We’re on it?”
She nods. “She hid you all. Your name is behind the china cabinet. Ethan’s is under the baseboard. She hid everyone, except me.” Her voice is bitter and cracks at the end.
“It would have been hard for her to hide you, daughter.” Odin smiles a little from his gray beard.
“But the first crow. Kaunan. It died without children,” Faye protests. “It was in the book. Tyrsdotter raised the stone, because Kaunan didn’t have anyone to do it for her. So how is Sonja one of your children? How did her blood pass through—”
“Shut up, Faye,” I say, as Sonja’s head raises, stares at the god who has stepped to his throne.
“But—” The tiny girl huffs. Julian nudges her.
“You’re my FATHER?” Sonja shrieks. Her voice shifts, becomes a crow’s squawk, and with a puff of feathers that drift and disappear, a crow flaps in her place, wings frantic and awkward.
This is not happening. My father is a businessman from Oslo. He sent child support every month and presents on my birthday and Christmas and when I was little I pretended he was Santa Claus, and the voice trails off into a wail.
Memory holds out her wrist and the crow lands, still muttering. “This is a lot to take in all at once,” she says to Odin.
“It’s been many years, since you were here with me. I’ve been waiting,” he replies.
“Why did you wait?” Julian asks. “Why now? Why us?”
“In order to right the wrong properly, all five of you needed to be there. We needed Sonja.”
“But couldn’t you have just—” Memory’s brother persists.
“Waved a magic wand? Some things, like conception, are best left to fate, and the good graces of the lady involved. Mimir has only just recently forgiven me for—”
Oh. My. God! The crow’s wings extend. Memory winces as its talons bite into her skin.
“But why not out there? In the real world? Why not just kill Anders there?” I ask. “You were right there, too, at the college.”
“He couldn’t,” Faye said. “That was Yvengvr’s punishment, wasn’t it? Immortality on earth. You had to wait until he wasn’t there to kill him.”
“It all came together quite nicely, didn’t it?” The god’s
smile is frightening. “Mimir was most insistent that I not leave my wayward son to walk the earth any more, and now I have you all back in one piece. Together, as the collective you were created to be.”
“You know we aren’t really birds,” Julian says. “Right?”
“You’re just as noisy,” the god says.
“What happened to Anders?” I ask.
“His soul will rest in his mother’s golden fields, victorious in death.”
“That was a victory?” Julian points at the mirror.
“He died fighting for what he wanted,” I say.
Odin nods once. Silence settles into the stones. The crow on Memory’s wrist stares at the god from one brown eye, and then turns her head, watching from the golden one.
“So now what?” Faye asks.
“Now my crows have come home to roost,” the god says. “I’ve missed you.”
“We’re staying here?” her voice is small, and quiet.
“Why would you not?” His smile is sincere. “This is your home.”
I catch the look between Memory and Julian. Under the wonderment, worry lines Faye’s face. They have families and futures, not just a tie to some ancient kingdom and bloodline. “We have homes,” Memory says.
I don’t.
Julian steps forward. “We appreciate your generosity but I’m not sure we can just come back here. We have college...”
“That is not your purpose. You were created to serve me,” Odin says, gently, as if to a child. “Now, come. Gather round me.”
“Don’t we get a choice?” Faye asks, looking around, like there might be an exit sign she could bolt to.
“No.” The finality of his voice reverberates over the stones. “There is no release from your function. You belong to me.”
“We’re not pets,” Julian protests.
“I’ll stay,” I say, stepping away from Memory. “Let them go. I can be your eyes. Your messenger. I’ll fight for you.”
Memory’s fingers grasp the back of my shirt. “Ethan, no.”
“Memory, you have a home. A future. I don’t.”
