— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline
21 | The Maypole
Pernilla had called it a country house, but to Schuyler it was more like a chateau, grand and baroque, with wings and gables and formal gardens that stretched in every direction. The main house was painted a restful shade of yellow, like a more elegant version of sunshine. The suite into which an almost gushing Pernilla had ushered them had thick silk drapes wrangled with stiff golden cords, and a satiny eiderdown on the bed that felt plump with goose feathers.
Everything was luxurious and almost magical, including their view of a fountain in which stone dolphins frolicked, and the lake beyond fringed with reeds and rustling stands of birch trees. In the distance stood a thickly wooded forest, part of the estate. Somewhere, deep among the trees, Lukas was busy with most of the staff, organizing the big Midsummer event scheduled for the next evening.
It was late on Sunday afternoon, but the only reason Schuyler knew that was by checking her watch. It still looked and felt like the middle of the day. She’d been driven here in a private car organized by Pernilla – in the same Audi, and with the same driver, in fact, that they’d had on Saturday night. Although both she and Jack were supposed to be in the car, Schuyler had arrived alone. Pernilla’s face dropped when she realized that the Audi only had one passenger.
“Your husband wouldn’t come?” she asked, her voice trembling, but Schuyler shook her head, taking Pernilla’s outstretched hand.
“He’s making his own way here a little later. Sorry about that. Some New York business – he had to stay to get it finished.”
This wasn’t entirely a lie. The “New York business” was Araminta Scott, who they could hardly stick in the front seat of the Audi and ask Pernilla to put up in one of the spare bedrooms. Jack had rented a car and was driving Ara up to Dalmarna separately. He would drop her off somewhere “safe” nearby, he told Schuyler, though he knew as little about this area as she did.
“Leksand,” Scott had said, easing an ice bag off her injured elbow. That was the place she wanted to stay – a village nearby, as far as Schuyler understood. And what choice did they have? Venators weren’t invisible, especially feisty ones with platinum-blonde cropped hair and major attitude written all over them. They couldn’t smuggle her in to the Regis’ house and hide her in an attic bedroom.
Pernilla was busy dealing – in a flustered and diffident way – with a battalion of caterers, and with the florists who arrived in three trucks, laden with elaborate structural arrangements. Schuyler wandered out of the house and aimlessly through the grounds. Teams of workers, sweating in the sun, were preparing for the midsummer celebration. Three men carried an ivy-decked maypole, fluttering with blue and yellow ribbons, through the garden, trying to avoid knocking the low manicured hedges.
The fluttering ribbons reminded Schuyler of her recent dream about Lily. At some point this evening, as soon as the time difference made sense, she’d call New York to check on them. She missed the excited, squeaky voices of the twins, their infectious laughs and confusing stories and foolish complaints. That was why she was here, ready to fight, Schuyler reminded herself. For her children and their future.
The air in the garden was still, the late afternoon heavy and humid. The sky seemed a vacant blue, blameless and serene. Schuyler walked towards the lake and sank onto a bench under a shady tree. Here it was hard to know what time it was, and whether she should be tired or awake. Jetlag was playing tricks with her – that and the endless sunshine. She needed to have her wits about her.
On the lake a much bigger maypole was being lifted out of a long boat and carried ashore. It took eight men to carry it, shouting to each other and clearly straining under the weight of it. She wasn’t sure why a second maypole was necessary, though clearly Lukas was all about excess, a determined display of wealth. Maybe Pernilla was as well, though to Schuyler she looked lost in the midst of all this wealth and space. She could imagine Pernilla in a pretty cottage, planting sweet peas and roses, reclining in a stripy deck chair with her pale blonde hair fanned out like pieces of faded straw. This house, with all its inherited pomp and status, wasn’t her at all. Pernilla was just 25-years-old, Schuyler reminded herself. Married to a man old enough to be her father. There was something both gross and depressing about it. Maybe even sinister – though she probably thought that because Lukas was so hard to like.
The men hauling the giant maypole disappeared into the forest, which Schuyler hadn’t expected. Why were they carrying it into the trees when the Midsummer party was taking place here in the garden? Then Schuyler remembered about the big party in the forest, the event that Lukas was overseeing. Not organizing, surely – that would be beneath him. But it was taking place on his land, and as the feudal lord he was no doubt eager to throw his weight around and have everyone bow and scrape to him.
It couldn’t be that deep in the forest, Schuyler decided: those poor men could never manage hauling the giant maypole for miles on end. How would they even maneuver it through that thick, dark stand of towering trees? Her curiosity got the better of her, and she stood up, dusting off her shorts. The maypole men might just lead her somewhere interesting. There had to be more to this placid beauty than met the eye.
But the worn path into the woods startled her: it disappeared almost immediately, and all she could see were rows of trees, their trunks silvery, their branches low and heavy. After ten minutes walking, the forest was so thick that the sun barely penetrated. It was much darker and cooler in here, Schuyler reflected, at first relieved to be out of the relentless bright sun. But there was also something sinister, almost eerie, about these woods. She felt as though she’d wandered into a fairytale, and the height of the trees, their needles soft underfoot, made her feel small and vulnerable. She was Little Red Riding Hood – no, she was Gretel, with no idea of where she was going. The breeze swished the highest branches but didn’t appear to reach ground level. The children would love playing here, she thought, hiding behind giant tree trunks, tumbling through the soft ferns and bracken of the undergrowth. But something felt off to her. Her senses tingled, alive to any movement. Even the birds stayed away.
Just as she was beginning to feel disoriented and worried that she was lost, Schuyler glimpsed the big maypole in the distance. It had been loaded into place, in a clearance or glade, devoid of any life. Sunlight filtered through the trees, so the maypole looked spotlit. All the men who’d carried it from the lake were gone now: Schuyler could neither see nor hear them anymore. She took slow steps towards the distant giant maypole, imagining the ribbons that would flutter from it tomorrow. With every step memories of her dream, vivid flashbacks, overwhelmed her. In the place of the maypole she saw Lily’s face, the ribbons snapping around her in a strong wind. So strange that she had that dream just before coming here, when the idea of a maypole dangling a profusion of ribbons wasn’t something her conscious mind had conjured up, or even knew anything about.
A footstep crunched in the bracken, and Schuyler crouched, her instincts taking over. Someone was close – too close. But all she could see was an endless stretch of trees, their gray bark flaking and ridged, looking ancient and still.
Schuyler felt in her pocket for the blade she always carried. It wasn’t a sword, but it would do if a Neph burst out of a hollow and launched at her. An attack by a Silver Blood: now, that would be a bigger problem. Jack would be furious to think she’d wandered so deep into the woods alone, so close to this alarming new fissure in the underworld. She could be surrounded right now. The quiet of the forest could be an elaborate hoax, a trap into which she’d been lured.
A footstep crackled again, more distant this time. All Schuyler’s senses were on high alert, her gaze fixed on the direction of the sound.
Then someone stepped into view, over a mossy branch and close enough for Schuyler to see in every detail. Looking at her, openly and brazenly across an open stretch of the ground, was Finn.
Schuyler’s breath cau
ght in her throat. Her sister! Here in the forest, dressed in white and looking almost surreally beautiful with her flowing fair hair and slim, elegant form. A pang in Schuyler’s gut made her want to cry out: she missed Finn. The old Finn. Why had it come to this, with them sworn enemies?
Her sister’s white dress was long and flimsy, almost see-through. Finn wore a garland of wildflowers in her hair, balanced there like a crown. The White Queen, Schuyler thought, her heart thumping with adrenalin and despair and rage. Finn was the White Queen, the new figurehead for the dark forces Satan was amassing and sending out into the world. It was sickening that someone so beautiful – inside and outside – would allow herself to be so corrupted, so used.
Finn might be her sister, but Schuyler could show her no mercy. In one swift movement she drew the knife from her pocket and flicked it open. A shaft of sunlight caught the blade and made it glint, just as Schuyler raised her arm, knife raised to fly through the air. Her aim had always been good, even when she in fear of her life, or – as she was now – heartsick at attacking a member of her own family.
“Ha ha ha ha!” Finn was still standing dead still, gazing at her, but Schuyler could hear a child’s voice laughing. It was nearby, sweet and clear as a bird call. It sounded just like Lily. Exactly like Lily, in all her innocent, exuberant joy.
Schuyler glanced to her left, where the laughter seemed to be drifting. But she could see nothing, and the laughter stopped abruptly. She looked back at Finn, confused and furious. But Finn was gone. All Schuyler could hear was the treetops rustling, speaking a secret language she couldn’t understand.
22 | The long white night
Axel had arranged another place for them to stay in Dalmarna, and this time it was more to Edon’s taste. He and Mina were staying in a black-painted cabin overlooking a massive lake, a wood pile out the back, and an upturned canoe on the meadow stretching down to the water. Inside there was a wood-burning stove, not necessary on a warm day like this one, and two small bedrooms were everything was wooden and basic and not pretentious in any way.
If only Ara was with him, and not Mina, Edon might allow himself a moment of happiness.
The town nearby was really a village and way too hippy-dippy and folksy for him – some people in peasant costumes, a maypole in the square flapping with ribbons, little girls looking like miniature plant pots because of the messy green wreaths on their heads. This was like a stage set for some summer outdoor theatre, and theatre had never been Edon’s thing. Hunting demons: that was his thing. Something about this picture-postcard setting was off, and he could sense it. Most of the Red Bloods here – maybe all of them – were oblivious to the dark currents pulsing through the forest and rising from the lake like a hazy summer mist.
But Edon’s senses were never wrong. Danger lurked here, maybe in those rolling hills swaddled in trees, maybe in the depths of the sparkling lake. Sun, in his experience, meant nothing. People thought you needed a thunderstorm or a dark night for something sinister to occur, but tonight’s long white night promised danger. Dark forces didn’t need darkness to emerge into the world. They just needed numbers.
Mina had unpacked her things in her usual efficient way, and was now banging cupboard doors, looking for cloths and god knows what else so she could polish her knives. They hadn’t spoken much since they arrived, but Edon knew she was was bracing for a fight, just as he was. He and Mina didn’t need to speak: like many wolves they fell easily into the pack mentality, the shared mind that helped them to hunt effectively. It wasn’t some gimmick like the Fallen’s, dreamwalking here, communicating telepathically with bondmates there. It was pure animal, ancient and sure.
Something had been lost between him and Mina, and that was their sexual chemistry. Edon was relieved that the sizzle that used to electrify their encounters was gone – on his part, anyway. The tension in the room now was focused on the hunt that was about to begin.
Wolves preferred to hunt as darkness was falling, but this time of year worked against that. Tomorrow was Midsummer, the longest night of the year. Kingsley had given them orders directly, and Axel had confirmed them. Tonight they should roam the forest that bordered the Regis’ property, getting the lay of the land, marking trees and landmarks as they saw fit to make tomorrow’s work. Don’t draw attention to themselves, try to avoid fights unless under direct threat.
If they could sniff out this “White Queen,” which was now the Venator code for Finn Chase, well and good – but only attack if necessary. Kingsley was convinced that keeping Finn alive would help draw out the demon forces they suspected of planning a Midsummer invasion. With Finn dead, they might retreat and regroup, and the chance to eradicate them would be missed.
“You know, I could see you living here,” Mina teased, shutting the door behind them and turning the key. “Cabin by the lake, your Venator girlfriend going feral swimming in the reeds and catching fish with her teeth. She kind of reminds me of an eel, you know. Slippery and smelly.”
Edon ignored her. He stood scanning the broad stretch of forest ahead of them, curving around the lake. The Regis’ estate was massive. They would need to be smart about how they approached this task. One night for recon wasn’t much. And the whole area would be crawling with revelers – a lot of them here from the city, young and stupid, planning to drink and carouse for the next 24 hours. They’d be getting in the way. People, in Edon’s experience, always got in the way.
They set off, ambling over the lush meadow that rimmed this part of the lake. Edon thought about the kid who’d given him the tip in the club, and how he’d ended up dead and almost disemboweled, swinging from the door. A Venator had killed him: the more he thought about it, the more Edon was convinced. A Venator who’d been following Edon and Mina, and knew exactly where they were going and why. But why kill the kid and not take on the wolves, if they were the real target? That kid was just a nobody, someone who knew the tiniest piece of information and that was all.
“What do you think that kid was doing on the stairwell?” he asked Mina. “Back at the club, I mean. We talked to him downstairs. Why did he follow us all the way to the roof?”
“Maybe he had something else to tell us,” Mina replied. “And someone stopped him just in time.”
“Venator?”
“Almost certainly. Shape of the wound. Probable weapon. Expertise and speed of the kill.” She sniffed the air. “Damn, it’s fragrant here. I feel like I’m in a perfume commercial. Fresh air, wild flowers, and a hint of … what’s that drink they’re always drinking here? Looks like vodka but tastes like a herb garden.”
“Aquavit,” Edon said, looking at the orderly row of wooden piers stretching from each property out into the lake. Lots of small boats tethered to moorings, lots of boats – small and large – out on the lake. Speedboats, sailboats, ferries. Kids near the shoreline rowing dinghies or floating on inner tubes. People on jet-skis, churning up waves, or whizzing around on waterskis. Tomorrow would be chaos, he thought, in the water and in the forest. And there was nothing a demon liked better than chaos.
Where the meadow ended, the forest began. A few steps in the temperature dropped; after fifteen minutes of walking the sun was barely peeking through the dense tree tops.
“This is north,” Mina told him, and marked a grizzled trunk with her claw-like nail. “The house is that way. The rave the Regis is all involved with – that’s this way.”
Edon turned to walk on, but Mina clutched his arm. He froze, thinking she’d seen something, or maybe scented something he hadn’t caught yet. But instead of speaking she smiled, and scratched his bare wrist with her thumb nail. Her nail was so sharp she almost drew blood. Edon suppressed a yelp.
“What are you doing?” he hissed at her.
“Marking my territory.” Mina feigned innocence. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”
“Cut it out.” Edon whacked her hand away. This was going to be a very long night. As far as he was concerned, the time for game
s was over.
23 | Leaving
Jack checked the map again and slid the rented Volvo into gear. He’d settled Ara into an attic room above an inn in Leksand, for which he’d had to pay five times the usual rate just to get her in: he suspected it was the bedroom of one of the innkeeper’s children, shunted out the way to make room for a very deep-pocketed paying guests.
Ara had promised to stay put until he contacted her again, on a cheap phone he’d bought at a gas station and handed to her. The forest and the grounds of the Regis’ country house were going to be crawling with local Venators, and Ara needed to lie low.
“Literally,” Jack had told her. “Please don’t even stand in the window. You have a distinctive look, you know.”
“Everyone has blonde hair here,” Ara said absently, picking at the Disney duvet cover. “But don’t freak out. I’ll just lie here, waiting for your call.”
Jack drove out of town and along a winding and picturesque country road, lined with red cottages with bursting flower gardens, the Swedish flag waving on flagpoles in practically every yard. Bicycles leaned against fences and trees. A farm stand was selling strawberries and new potatoes. Shame this wasn’t an actual summer vacation, he thought. Shame this beautiful spot was the place chosen to bust out of the underworld.
Nowhere beautiful in the world would be safe, though, once Lucifer’s army was on the march again. Better that none of the people here to celebrate Midsummer had any idea of the danger they were in. All it would cause was panic.
Jack’s phone, lying on the seat next to him, started buzzing and he pulled over onto the dusty shoulder to check. It was Mimi.
“Oh my god, Jack – I’m so relieved you picked up.” She sounded utterly distraught.
“What is it? Is Sy ill again?” Jack’s heart was pounding. His boy was still frail, even all this time after the sickness that nearly carried him away.
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