Loki caught his balance and backhanded the air.
A light cracked right in front of Hel’s face.
Fenris withdrew.
Hel ducked Loki’s blast, skidded to the side and charged toward the front door of Festning.
Loki leaped on top of her.
He tangled the huge wolf’s legs. The two tumbled into the snow.
Hel roared, fangs bared, and battered Loki with her paws, knocking him off and pinning him to the ground. Loki kicked her, grabbing fistfuls of her mane—
Hel twisted her head and snapped her jaw shut on Loki’s right arm—biting down hard.
Loki screamed.
Marina moved.
She hefted the fire iron and raced toward the door, then out into the night.
Cold air hit her, and a chaos of thrashing, howling and snarling.
She brought the iron up, pelted toward them, reared back and swung it with all her strength.
She hit Hel across the face.
The clang echoed through the woods.
Hel spat out Loki’s arm.
Loki sprang up, snatched the iron out of Marina’s grasp and hit Hel again.
The iron flashed in the moonlight.
Hel yelped and dodged back, startled.
Loki swung around, hooked his arm around Marina’s waist and hurled her back into the house, leaping with her.
The two crashed onto the floor. Loki flipped over and kicked the door shut. It slammed.
“Festning!” Loki shouted.
And then—
The floor lurched. The walls tipped.
Marina’s stomach plunged.
Darkness swallowed them.
Roaring wind howled against the shutters.
Marina took fistfuls of the fur rug and buried her face in it, holding on as tight as she could. She felt Loki press up against her back—and he threw an arm across her, bracing her in place.
The whole house tilted one way, then another, and Marina suddenly felt as if it were…spinning.
Then, her gut suspended, and for an instant she and Loki lifted an inch off the floor. She scrabbled for the rug. Festning plummeted toward the ground.
“Easy, easy!” Loki cried.
The walls creaked. Branches slapped the outer walls and scraped the windows.
They slowed down. Marina and Loki fell back onto the floor.
The foundations thudded to the earth.
Silence fell.
And then filled with Marina’s panting, and Loki’s gasping.
Loki collapsed onto his back, pulling his arm off her, breathing hard. For several seconds, Marina couldn’t do anything but try to calm her spinning head. Finally, though, she caught her breath enough to speak.
“Was that your brother?” she tried, weakly pushing off the ground to try and sit up. Loki chuckled.
“Ah, yes,” he muttered. “My family: the circus.”
Marina regained her balance, pulling her left arm to herself, and planting her right hand on the rug…
Her palm met warm liquid.
“What—?” she yelped, jerking her hand up. She quickly rubbed her fingers together, trying to feel…
Her stomach turned over.
“Bestemor, we need some light!” she called, scrambling to sit up all the way. The next moment, every lamp and candle in the house blazed to life. The entryway lit up, and suddenly Marina could see…
Blood. All over her hand and all over her arm. All over the side of her dressing gown.
And Loki. Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his face white, his breathing labored. Three bright red lines stood out on his right cheek.
His right sleeve had been shredded.
And deep, torn, bloody puncture marks marred his skin.
“Oh, she bit you…She bit you,” Marina realized, edging toward his left side.
“Yes, I believe so,” he sighed, swallowing.
“We’ve got to…We’ve got to stop this bleeding,” Marina decided. “What…”
“Dearest!” Bestemor called, emerging above the doorway. “Get him up! Bring him into the kitchen! I will show you what to do!”
“Can you stand?” Marina asked him. He closed his eyes. Nodded.
With a deep, swift breath, he sat up, pulling his arm in close to him and then cradling it with his other hand. Hissing through his teeth, he climbed to his feet. Marina followed him, hanging back.
“Support him!” Bestemor barked. “You cannot have him falling and hitting his head!”
Marina jumped up to Loki’s left side and grabbed his arm. Together, they shuffled toward the kitchen door. Marina put her shoulder against it and pushed it open, hoping that it didn’t lead to the larder…
It didn’t.
The kitchen, fully alight, waited for them.
“Here, sit down,” Marina pulled out a bench for him. He thudded down onto it, groaning.
Bestemor’s face bloomed over the sink.
“Top left hand cupboard, bottom shelf. Little wooden box,” she said. Marina tugged the door of it open and found the box. Pulled it down. Flipped the lid.
The bottom of the box was lined with several layers of what looked like very thin, blunt silver needles.
“What are these?” Marina looked to Bestemor.
“They are Seamstresses,” Bestemor replied. “Take one out and lay it across the wound. It will slip through and create a single stitch that goes deep down as far as it needs to, to sew all they layers together.”
“I see, I see,” Marina said quickly, grabbed the box and hurried over to the table. She sat down to the bench next to Loki’s right, scooted closer, and dragged a flickering candle over so she could see what she was doing.
“All right, let me look,” she urged, holding out her hand. He didn’t move.
She looked up at him. He was already gazing back at her, his white brow twisted.
“I’m sure it hurts,” she said. “But you have to let me see it.”
He swallowed, then slowly lowered both his arms, laying his right one down on the table. Marina winced a little, studying his torn skin. She set her teeth.
“Be right back,” she said. She got up, hurried to the cupboard and got a towel, brought it back and eased it underneath his arm. She returned to the sink, rolled up her sleeves and lathered up her hands. She rinsed, then, and dried off, then filled up a bowl of water and tossed some clean rags into it, then came back and set it down. Quickly and carefully, she pulled the strips of soaked, torn sleeve away from the bleeding wounds and pushed them up toward his elbow. He helped tug a little, with the trembling fingers of his other hand. Then, she found the deepest, longest wound, which started up near the inside of his elbow and trailed down to mid forearm. She picked out one of the silver Seamstresses, scooted forward, bent closer and set the tiny thing against the very top edge of the bite.
She let go. The little piece laid there for a moment…
Then bit down into his skin and synched down.
Loki squeezed his eyes shut. Marina glanced up at him. Didn’t say anything. Picked up another one. Set it just next to the first one. It bit and synched as well. Loki’s breathing unsteadied. And his right thumb twitched. Twitched again. Marina looked down at it. Her brow knitted…
But there was nothing else for it. She only had two hands.
She forced her left elbow to unbend, and she set the side of her hand against his.
His slick, bloody fingers caught hers, and weakly curled around them. Squeezed. Marina bit back a pang—it hurt—but she had no right to complain. She gathered herself, and picked up another Seamstress, and set it next to the second. It stitched neatly. Loki’s throat made a soft choking noise. She studied his face again—but his eyes stayed shut. Marina picked up another.
“When I was little,” she began quietly, in a low, soothing voice. “I used to like climbing trees. My parents and I lived in New York City, but every summer we would take a trip upstate to my grandparents’ house, out in the country. I used to climb this h
uge oak tree in their backyard.” She set another Seamstress down, and another. Loki’s fingers tightened on hers. She took a tight breath, and kept talking. “One day, when I was up there—I think I was maybe ten years old—I tried to pull myself up on a branch, not knowing it was dead. Two branches broke and I fell, but luckily I landed in a big mulch pile. It was only a few seconds later, after I figured out that I wasn’t dead, that I realized my whole face was bleeding.” She steadily kept putting Seamstresses down as she talked, until she reached the end of that wound. Carefully, she tilted his arm to the side, to expose a shorter, but much deeper one. She reached for another Seamstress, and kept with her story. “My parents came running out. They’d seen me from the back window of the house. My mom scolded me for climbing the tree, told me she hoped I had learned my lesson. My dad got down and helped me up, and made sure I could still see out of both eyes. Then he decided that a smaller branch had lashed me across the face and cut me open. So they called the ambulance and I got in. The doctors put butterfly bandages on it and ice, and my dad rode along with me.” Marina finished with that bite, and started on the third and last one—a hunk of his flesh that had been torn back. She ignored the fact that the towel beneath their forearms was now drenched in blood. She picked up another Seamstress and set it down on his skin. “When we got to the hospital, they numbed my face, and the doctor started stitching up the cut. He said he had to make very small stitches with a very small needle, so he wouldn’t leave much of a scar. It didn’t hurt anymore, but it still felt very strange, and I was very scared. My dad sat beside me the entire time and held my hand. And he said, ‘Just look at me, Marina. Just look at me. I’m right here. Just concentrate on me, okay? Just concentrate on my voice. Everything’s okay. Everything’s okay now. You’re being so good. So brave. The doctor will fix you up and you’ll be good as new. In a few weeks you’ll never even see that anything happened.’” Marina set the last Seamstress down, and it sank its teeth in. Marina reached over and pulled the wooden water bowl closer, found one of the rags in it, squeezed it out, and started wiping the delicate skin all around the stitches. “‘Look over here at me,’ he said. ‘Stay still for the doctor. It’s okay to cry if you want to, sweetheart. You’re being so good. It’s almost done. Almost done.’”
Loki’s breathing had evened out. Marina concentrated on cleaning, dipping the rag into the water, squeezing it out, and wiping again.
“‘No shame in tears,’ he said. ‘You’ve been to battle—nothing to be embarrassed about. You can tell everybody that the tree came away with two broken arms.’”
Loki made a soft, choking snorting sound in response. She glanced up at him.
In the candlelight, his gray eyes were brilliant with tears. Twin drops of crystal water had already trailed down his cheeks. And he gazed at her steadily. As if he had been, constantly, for quite a while.
She met his eyes for a moment. Loki swallowed. But he didn’t look away. And a very, very small smile rested on his lips. Marina returned to her work.
She worked her way down his arm, then gingerly pulled her left hand out of his grasp. His fingers eased open, and she bathed his long, graceful hand.
“Bestemor,” Marina spoke up. “Bandages?”
“Same cupboard, dear,” came the answer. Marina carefully got up, hurried to that cupboard, dug through it, and found a spool of wide, white bandage. She brought it back and sat down.
“Lift up your arm a little, please,” she said. Loki did. She managed to pinch the end of the bandage with her bad hand—enough to start the wrap going up near his elbow. Then, slowly, she wrapped and wrapped his arm.
“Is it too tight?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, his voice watery. “It’s fine. Thank you.”
She looked up again. He still watched her. She turned back to the wrapping.
“So…” she murmured. “Your magic can’t do anything about this? Make it heal faster?”
“Nothing…can heal family wounds,” he replied. “Nothing but time. I’m told.”
She stopped. Lifted her eyes to his. He gulped, and another tear tumbled down. He took a breath.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” he murmured.
Marina said nothing—but she nodded slowly.
They gazed a moment longer, but neither said anything. And the soft crackle of the stove fire filled the quiet as Marina finished, and tied off his bandage.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marina gazed into the whispering flames, blinking slowly as their warmth washed over her, soaked into her. She sat in front of the hearth on the rug, cross-legged, wrapped in a fleece blanket. To her left, his head toward the mantel, Loki had stretched his lean length across the floor, facing the ceiling. Black furs draped over him up to his shoulders, and his head rested on a pillow from one of the chairs. He stared at the ceiling of the library, but his grey eyes had unfocused. A line tensed the skin between his eyebrows. He hadn’t stirred since she had covered him up.
Marina watched him. She couldn’t imagine what time it was—the chaos of the night had disoriented her—but even if dawn was nearing, she had a feeling they wouldn’t be traveling anywhere. Loki’s face hadn’t regained any color, and his hair had darkened even further, if that were possible. Absently, Marina glanced around the little room.
One of the armchair’s legs had broken off when the house had hurtled through the forest—the chair had fallen on its side, off to her right. A good number of the books had also burst from their places on the shelves, and now lay like strewn leaves, their pages sprawled open. She drew in a deep breath, but her ribs tightened, and she winced. Looked back at Loki.
The fire spat out a shower of sparks—the crack shocked through the room. Loki didn’t blink. Marina shifted, wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, and tilted her head to the side, studying the way the red embers deep inside the fire pulsed like a heartbeat. Her lips parted. And, very quietly, she spoke the words that surfaced in her mind.
“Silent is my garment when I tread the earth,” she murmured.
Or dwell in the towns or stir the waters.
Sometimes my trappings lift me up over
The habitations of heroes, and this high air,
And the might of the welkin bears me afar
Above mankind. Then my adornments
Resound in song and sing aloud
With clear melody—when I do not rest
On land or water, a moving spirit.”
She felt him turn his head and look at her. Cautiously, she met his bright eyes. His brow furrowed further, and he swallowed.
“I’ve heard this one,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “Erm…It’s some sort of waterfowl.”
The edge of Marina’s mouth quirked up, but she didn’t answer. Loki closed his eyes, heaved a quick sigh, then nodded once.
“I remember. It’s a swan.”
Marina allowed her smile to show, just a little. She tucked her blankets closer to her neck and turned back to the fire, her thoughts drifting off.
“I speak through my mouth with many voices,” Loki said into the silence, his voice low and deliberate. Marina straightened, then frowned at him. He attended to the ceiling again, and went on.
“Skillfully I sing with many beautiful notes
Loud and strong, with all kinds of tunes
I sing as I must, unhampered, unhindered,
I am the nighttime, songster of old
I bring joy to the folk who dwell in the towns
When I sing out with my sweet tones
They sit at home, silent. Tell me my name
Who brightly imitates the bards of the kings
And loudly foretells many welcome tidings.”
“Wait, what was that first part?” Marina asked, scooting a little closer to him. “I am…the nighttime. Songster of old…”
Loki gave her a look out of the corner of his eye, almost smiling as well.
“And it’s a pleasant sound,” she mused. “With differen
t tunes—so it’s not an owl.” She studied his profile in the flamelight, and took a guess. “A nightingale.”
He took a deeper breath, shut his eyes, and smirked.
“Your turn.”
Marina’s mouth opened—and she paused. Snorted lightly, suppressing a grin until it disappeared, adjusted her blankets, and strained her memory.
“All right, um…I…I saw a tree with bright branches
Stand high in a grove. The tree was happy,
The growing wood. Water and earth
Fed it well, till wise with time,
It met with a change: it was deeply hurt
Dumb with bonds, covered with wounds,
But adorned in front with dark ornaments
Now it clears the way for a treacherous foe
Through the might of its head. By storm they plunder
The hoard together.”
“That’s a battering ram,” Loki said, almost before she had finished. Marina bit her lip, an odd warmth traveling through her.
“Very good,” she muttered.
“My turn,” Loki decided, eyes still closed. And even as she watched, a tinge of auburn flushed through his black curls. Marina marveled as quiet surprise swelled in her chest, but she didn’t say anything, and hardly breathed as she waited, catching every move on his face.
“All right. Ahem…” he lightly cleared his throat.
“Me the wet ground, exceeding cold,
First brought forth from within itself.
Neither am I wrought of woolen fleece
Nor of hairs, with skill; I know it in my mind.
I have no winding wefts nor any warp in me;
Nor with strong rods does the thread resound for me,
Nor the whirring shuttle move across me,
Nor the weaver’s rods anywhere smite me.
Worms do not weave me with fatal wiles
Which fairly adorn the fine yellow web
Yet nevertheless, the wide world o’er
One will call me a joyful garment for heroes.” He opened his eyes partway, tilted his head just a little, and gave her a weary, but halfway-sly, glance.
“Say now truly, you cunning sage
Learned in language, what this garment may be.”
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