No Earthly Treason

by Genevra Black

  © 2019 Genevra Black

  All Rights Reserved

  LIFE-IN-DEATH Press, August 2019

  GenevraBlack.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, institutions, families, alcoholic zombies, or giant fish men is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The River Ván was uncharacteristically calm, its surface like a black mirror that parted gracefully for Sárr’s rowboat. Though gray clouds peered over horizon as always, there was no rain, no thunder. The miserable howl of the wolf was a drone—part of the landscape, now.

  But the river was silent. Waiting.

  As he worked his long oar through the water, the Wounded leaned over the side and caught sight of his own face: pale, thinner than it had been. He had only just fully recovered from the damned vivid’s magic. Shame simmered in his eyes.

  But let Marius Eirikson have his small victory. Sárr’s goal had never been to defeat him.

  He slashed the oar across the water, disrupting his reflection and pulling away, back into the boat.

  As the rowboat drifted closer to the cave, he found himself surrounded by ebony rocks jutting from the river, some as tall as thirty feet. They shone like they were made of glass, as if they had grown from the water itself, as if the entire vista was all one smooth piece. The mouth of a cave, slanted and craggy, called to him from beyond the inky sentinels.

  He maneuvered the little boat through the breach, slipping in silently. And as darkness covered him, sucking every bit of light from the entryway through which he’d just come, he had only one, warm thought: Home.

  After a few moments, the tight passage opened into a much larger cavern, and the Wounded hurried his rowing, wedging the bow of his rowboat onto the rocky shore, as he had many times. He stepped out, sabatons scraping against the stone as he tugged the boat further ashore. Darkness filled the cavern and obscured his vision, but he didn’t need to see to find his way.

  He stepped up to the enormous stone slab of the kinsblood seal and stretched out a hand, stroking its runed surface. He took a deep breath, and when he called to the blood in his veins, his markings—the wounds for which he was named—began to glow, sizzling in a frenzy. Red mist fluttered just above the surface of his skin, smelling heavily of copper.

  There were only a handful of beings in the Nine Worlds for which this door would open … and he was one.

  The crimson-flecked mist seemed to take on a life of its own. It oozed, weightless, from his markings and filled the grooves in the stone.

  A pause. Then the runes glowed a vibrant gold, and the circular door rolled aside.

  For a moment, the wolf’s droning cry was cut off. The massive beast strained forward against his loathsome chains, snuffling at the new scents coming in through the open door. When he recognized Sárr’s, he grunted lowly and sat back again. Though he had ceased howling, a breathy, faint whine still issued from the back of his throat.

  The Wounded stopped in front of the wolf, looking into his red eyes. The aqueducts in the floor around them were overflowing, fuller with slaver than usual. The wolf panted, jowls slicked with saliva.

  In pain.

  Sárr had to spread his arms wide, but he put a hand on either side of the wolf’s enormous head, bringing it in close and resting his forehead against the muzzle. He breathed in the wolf’s musky smell, knotting his fingers in his fur. The wolf responded in kind, nudging the crook of Sárr’s neck and closing his eyes. Home.

  After a moment, Sárr pulled away and walked hastily to the wolf’s side to survey the manacles. Even one of the outsized links of the wolf’s long, long chain was as tall as Sárr himself. He’d tried many times to move them, but they would only give a few inches. As he brushed his hand along the bindings, he noticed that constant straining against them had rubbed away some of the wolf’s pelt. It cut into the wolf’s skin, and dark, sickly blood matted the fur around each laceration.

  Sárr’s heart ached. He had never seen such a thing, in all the time he had spent by the wolf’s side. “You’re bleeding.”

  The wolf could only respond with a deep yowl. An enchantment had stolen his voice long ago, so he could only cry wordlessly. The Wounded longed to hear him speak.

  Soon.

  He brushed the fur of the wolf’s huge ear, speaking softly, trying to bring him comfort. “Your sons are doing well. They had their first taste of Midgardian battle, and they fought gloriously.”

  The wolf grunted and exhaled a hot breath.

  “They’ve returned to their hunt for now. But I look forward to calling upon them again.”

  As he continued to stroke the wolf’s fur, the hair on the back of his own neck began to stand up. Every muscle slowly tensed. Someone had joined them from the depths of the river.

  He didn’t have to wonder who. His body knew before his mind, and his mind knew without having to look.

  “I confess,” the Wounded murmured as he dropped his hand and turned to look into the shadows, “I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

  A great, black shape stood there, perhaps ten or eleven feet tall, wavering as though on unsteady feet. The wolf raised his head a bit, watching the shape closely, his whimpers quieting.

  You did not find me. I found you, said The Shape. The voice, soft, with no discernible age or gender, surrounded Sárr.

  “Of course.” Sárr bowed his head, gritting his teeth.

  You have been avoiding me, said The Shape.

  “I couldn’t avoid you if I tried.”

  A pause. The New Gloaming lives. The culling was successful, and now you can build.

  Sárr said nothing. The Shape wasn’t offeri
ng congratulations, or a compliment; The Shape was reminding him of his debt.

  The hellerune fled.

  Sárr clenched his fists. “A certain Auroran vivid intervened on her behalf. But she never raised her own hand in defense. I won’t believe she has as much power as you say she does. She wept.”

  She has all of your stolen power —The Shape seemed to look him over, and just that one look caused Sárr’s markings and irises to flare and spark with white energy, so painful he nearly doubled over— and more. Whether you collect her or not makes no difference to me, in the end. But you waste your resources on chasing her.

  The Shape’s next sentence began before the previous one had ended completely, two voices working in unison: If you truly find yourself incapable of capturing her, kill her.

  Sárr’s eyes widened, bleached magic still clouding his vision. “But she’s mine. You promised her to me!”

  The moth uses its tiny frame to escape the clumsy hands of children, but it is not immune to the pin.

  She is your prize. If you want her alive, take her alive. Otherwise, snuff her out. Soon.

  Remember: above all else, the Reach stays dead.

  Above power, above haste, the Reach stays dead.

  Put your desires aside for the twilight.

  Sárr suppressed a snarl. “The Reach is nothing. It’s the Aurora that have the power to stand against me … and not for long.”

  Ah. The Shape seemed almost amused, though Sárr couldn’t tell if it was at his expense or not. The traitor.

  “Yes, the Auroran. They will help us take it down from the inside.”

  And how, little one, can you trust that your friend will keep their word? said The Shape.

  “I don’t have to trust,” Sárr whispered. “The traitor’s only alternative was unthinkable. There was no chance our demands would be refused.”

  The Shape seemed satisfied.

  Nothing more was said as the darkness engulfing the amphitheater fluttered and thinned. The Shape sank back into the depths of the river.

  Color returned to Sárr’s face. He was alone with the wolf again.

  Sárr turned to him and stroked the fur of his neck, bitter, cursing softly. The Shape was impossible to read, and almost as hard to please. But Sárr held out. Looking at the wolf’s raw wounds, he found new resolve.

  What they’d been promised was worth the work and ruin.

  Above all, it was justice.

  Chapter Two

  Edie was in the clearing again.

  Over the past two months, she’d visited this place so often that she already knew how the dream would play out—the same way it did every time.

  She sat up, brushed off her velvet cloak, and stood shakily. Silence stifled her eardrums for a moment, but it didn’t last for long. Hoping to expedite the nightmare, she breached the circle of trees and started in the direction she thought she heard the murmuring river. She was sure now that it was a river and not whispers, after being here so many times. A couple of nights, she had almost been able to reach it.

  Behind her, a familiar noise: the howl of a wolf. The same howl she heard every time. The beast was waiting, stalking the forest. She wasn’t as slow or confused as she’d been the first dozen times, but it would find her eventually. She resisted the urge to follow the howl, to find the wolf, focusing on slowly picking her way through the tightly-packed trees.

  The river was getting louder. The further she went, the more heavily the snow fell, like the forest itself was trying to prevent her from finding her way.

  It was too cold. It was too white. She couldn’t see anything. How was she supposed to reach this stupid river if she couldn’t see where she was going?

  Suddenly, something horrible was screeching in her ear. Her eardrums clutched, and a shock went through her.

  She woke up. Light was pouring in from the window across from her bed.

  Edie groaned, pulling her brocade comforter over her head and trying to conserve the warmth she had trapped under the covers. Why was it so freaking cold in her room anyway? It was supposed to be early July.

  She got up the courage to poke her hand out of her comforter, and groped around for her phone, pulling it under the covers with her when she finally found it. Ten o’clock in the morning. Fuck. She was supposed to have been up hours ago … but it turned out it was kind of hard to keep any kind of schedule when you were completely unemployed. She’d lost her job at the garage, of course, a while ago, and it was pretty safe to assume she was no longer welcome at Nocturnem.

  Edie sighed and finally left the comfort of her blanket hovel. At least in her sleeping nightmares, she knew what was going to happen. In this waking one, she never knew what was coming next.

  She reached automatically for her bottle of pain relievers, but stopped short, instead reaching down to rub her ankle. Two and a half months ago, she’d faced off against Hati and Sköll, two demigod wolves who, according to legends, were supposed to devour the sun and moon at the apocalypse. They’d settled for trying to devour her foot instead. Thankfully, Cal had run them over with a hijacked ambulance, but the bite had still been deep enough to need stitches.

  This morning, though, she felt fine—completely normal. And the scar was even fading a little, thanks to the bloodmending she’d quickly learned to utilize. It had been really, really gross, but holding the hospital’s soiled linens had made her heal faster, so she’d done what she needed to do.

  It was the exhaustion that was getting to her; a bone-deep exhaustion since she had brought Mercy back from the brink of death. But there was no medicine for that. As she dragged herself up out of bed, she wondered how her father had dealt with things like this. Then she wondered if she really wanted to know.

  Edie looked down at her wrist, at the rune that was now tattooed there: a stout diamond shape, about two inches across. Satara had called it ingwaz.

  The beginning.

  Apart from her whole worldview shattering, her body would never be the same, either.

  Clattering from the kitchen pulled her attention away from her wrist. Mercy. She rushed out of her bedroom so fast she almost knocked her guitar stand down.

  Edie’s vision tunneled when she looked into the kitchen and saw her roommate struggling to reach something on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. Mercy’s bubblegum-pink hair was tied back, and one ergonomic crutch lay on floor.

  Neither she nor Mercy was tall enough to reach the highest shelf, so they usually just hopped up onto the counter to get things down or put them away—but, of course, with one arm and her entire lower body in orthopedic casts after the battle, that had been impossible for Mercy. Now that her casts were off, she was testing the boundaries—and the strength of Edie’s heart.

  “I’ll get it!” Edie darted forward and scooped up Mercy’s fallen crutch, returning it to her.

  Mercy shook her head. “I can get it.”

  “No—”

  “I can make my own tea, Edie.” Mercy’s tone was grumpy, and she blushed in embarrassment, but backed off nonetheless. “I’m not a total baby.”

  Edie stretched to reach the tea tin, and glanced skeptically over her shoulder. “Baby? Are you even hearing yourself? Let me take care of you. It’s the least I can do.”

  That, at least, coaxed a laugh from Mercy. “Technically, the least you could do is nothing.”

  “Ha, yeah, I’ll take a page from Drake’s book,” Edie mumbled, rolling her eyes.

  After the battle that had left Mercy disabled, everyone had agreed she would probably be safer at her boyfriend Drake’s after she got out of the hospital. Unfortunately, Drake had strongly disagreed, and after only two weeks of Mercy living with him, he’d bailed and kicked her out. Edie couldn’t imagine abandoning someone when they were as vulnerable as Mercy was—both physically and emotionally. Edie wasn’t the only one suffering nightmares.

  From the bathroom at the end of the hall, there came a throaty gurgle and some splashing. Mercy looked at Edie and s
miled fondly, her dark brown gaze soft. Fiskbein was still making the best of his home in their bathtub, and he and Mercy had become close friends, despite his … well, despite him being him.

  Thankfully, Fisk was awfully protective of Mercy now that she was home, and considering no one could be sure if or when they were all going to be hunted out by the New Gloaming, that was pretty useful. Or, it had been.

  Lately, he hadn’t had the strength to leave the bathtub for very long. He was resilient, but even he was getting sick without enough space and proper salt.

  “Well,” Mercy said, adjusting her crutches, “if you’re content to mother-hen me, I’m going to go check on our roommate.”

  Edie grabbed a mug and the kettle, then filled the latter up with tap water. “I won’t have to mother-hen you for very long. You’ll have better range of motion soon.”

  This was especially true considering the weird medicine Cal had been bringing Mercy. Her specialists were baffled that she was recovering so quickly.

  Mercy thumped quietly down the hallway, leaving Edie to her thoughts. The way Mercy had become hurt—what the Wounded had done to her, for no reason other than he thought it was fun—made Edie’s blood boil every time she thought of it. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get to kill that asshole, but she fully intended to hurt him—bad—next time they saw each other.

  The bathroom door clicked shut, bringing Edie back to reality. She hadn’t even gone pee or showered or brushed her teeth yet, but she was used to the bathroom being occupied now, and if she didn’t make sure Mercy and Fisk were taken care of first, it would bug her for the rest of the day.