Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  She smelled the blood and heard it pattering to the floor before she could focus enough to see it. It fell around her like rain, along with feathers and bits of flesh. She raised her trembling hands and saw that the purple burn in her veins had spread, nearly reaching her fingers now. Her wings seized violently around her for a few moments, exposed sinew twisting … then her entire body slumped to the ground.

  They were killing her. They were so heavy, and sick, and they were killing her. Astrid had died, and now she would die, too; she could already feel the cold seeping in.

  Clinging to her last shred of consciousness, she could feel bodies crouching next to her, warmer hands trying to lift her. Male voices—“Satara!” “Wolfbinder! Is she all right?” “Can you hear me, kid?”—and one stern female voice she vaguely recognized as Edie. “Whatever happened to Skuld, we need to do something for Satara now. We can’t do anything either way until she’s better.”

  “I agree.” This voice was clearer, like a pool of water. Göndul. “Keep her still.”

  If whoever was holding Satara held her tighter, it barely registered compared to the pain. She panted against the stones as the air around her became colder and colder. She was dying. She must be. The mists of Niflhel were already coming to swallow her.

  Then she managed to look up, and saw despite her darkening vision that Göndul had crouched before her. The Rider’s aura was as frigid and magical as a silent winter’s morning.

  With a few whispered words, the Rider reached out, touching one of Satara’s shoulders with the freezing head of her wand.

  Suddenly, the crystal ice water of Göndul’s voice was in her. It burst through her veins in less than a second, chasing the burning poison that seared her body. With a shock of cold and a gasp, she felt her wings go rigid, quaking with the force of the magic.

  And then, the ice receded, leaving a cool balm lingering where pain had been. Satara felt like she was floating, nearly delirious from the sudden relief. She was rejuvenated, body and soul, and almost smiled as her wings—fluffy once more—cradled her shoulders.

  “Rise, fledgling,” Göndul said softly, offering a hand to her.

  Satara didn’t hesitate to place her hand in the Rider’s, but as she rose, she noticed something new. A pattern across her skin. Where the poison had irritated her veins, she now had a matrix of scars, slightly lighter than the deep umber of the rest of her skin. They sliced up her arms like lightning, looking more faded than fresh scars should.

  She waited for grief to stab her heart. Already, this ordeal had changed her body. But she found, unexpectedly, that she hardly cared. She was alive and safe from eternal torment.

  Despite the best efforts of those who would see her shamed and broken, she had arrived at her trial.

  “Satara,” Göndul said, still holding her hand as if they were already sisters. “I am pleased that you were able to find your way to us. When Astrid was unwoven, we worried for your future. We all felt the disturbance.”

  “In the force?” came Adam’s murmur from somewhere behind her, followed by a sharp wheeze as someone elbowed him.

  Göndul either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. “You must complete a trial. When you have proven yourself, you will return here for our ritual and join our sisterhood.”

  Behind her, Hildr’s billowing form shifted. “If you fail, you will remain as you are.”

  “Your wings will rot once more,” Gunnr said, still scratching her wolf. “Your soul will journey to the Corpse Shore, and you will forever feast on decaying flesh in the hall of vipers.”

  Satara suppressed a grimace and bowed her head.

  The next voice was Skögul’s. “You will be allowed one champion from among our ranks to accompany you to Odin’s hunting grounds.”

  “There,” continued her twin, voice smooth and sharp, “you will feed Odin’s dogs.”

  “Great,” Cal said. “Where’s the Alpo?”

  Satara raised a hand to rub the center of her forehead. Of course it was too much to ask for her friends to be reverent for more than a few minutes at a time.

  From her throne, Gunnr sneered. “The Allfather’s hounds are ravenous and greedy. They must be fed with a glorious hunt.”

  “You will need to track a great beast and slay it,” Göndul said. “It will be a difficult task. And even then, the finding of the beast will be simple compared to the killing of it. Do you see, fledgling?”

  “I understand.”

  The Rider lowered her wand, chin lifting a bit. “Along with your chosen champion, you will be granted another boon. Odin’s hunting grounds are vast; you will need a guide to lead you through. Someone who knows them very well indeed.”

  She motioned to the entrance of the hall, and Satara turned away from the Riders, unable to quell her curiosity. When the double doors opened, her stomach leapt at the sight of him.

  He was tall, broad, and imposing, and the moment he entered the hall, Satara knew she was in the presence of a god. The dark iron helm that obscured his face was shaped like a skull with the face of a wolf and the antlers of a stag. He wore a fur overcoat, covering the majority of his armor, but the motif of snarling jaws and hungry eyes was carried through the pieces still visible, trimmed with fur and carved with glowing runes.

  What drew Satara’s eyes more, however, was his bottom half. Instead of boots on both feet, his armor was asymmetrical; his right leg was encased in thick, intricately molded iron, from his hip all the way down to his toes. Lively fire glowed within the details carved into the metal, almost as if she were looking at a forge and not someone’s leg. The armor extended so high up that it felt strange to call it a boot, but somehow, she knew that was what it was—all one piece, a part of him. She would be surprised if he actually had a leg of flesh under it at all.

  Göndul didn’t need to announce him. There was only one god who would wear such a boot.

  “Lord Vidarr.” The words left Marius almost on accident, it seemed, a reflex of shock. He bowed his head, fist over his heart, and Satara followed suit, as did most of the valkyir. As Vidarr strode closer, the rest of the party seemed to take the hint as well. Even Cal had the sense to avert his eyes.

  They parted to clear the god’s path to Satara, and he stopped in front of her, looking down. He must have been over seven feet tall. The scent of campfire, pine, and furs encircled him, mixed with the strange metallic smell of his magic. Her heart hammered against her rib cage.

  Slowly, he raised his hands and removed his helmet, shaking out chin-length dirty-blond hair. His eyes were the same fiery orange as the glow of his armor, glaring out from beneath a perpetually furrowed brow. She had to imagine his lips were set into a harsh line, but she couldn’t see them properly. Across his mouth, along the bridge of his nose and hugging his jaw, was a metal mask that reminded her of a grate or a cage. The sight of it chilled her.

  It took a few moments for Satara to find her voice. She had spoken with plenty of beings most would consider strange and powerful and had rarely been at a loss for words. A god, however … felt different. “You honor me with your presence, Wolfslayer,” she finally said. “You have my thanks for your guidance.”

  He said nothing, only looked at her, searching her face.

  She’d expected as much, but beside her, Cal bristled. Despite Satara’s internal begging and Vidarr’s intimidating air, the revenant grumbled, “What, you too fuckin’ good to talk to a mortal? Can’t even muster a ‘you’re welcome’?”

  Vidarr’s attention snapped to Cal, but again, he said nothing.

  “Cal,” Marius said through clenched teeth, eyes nearly glowing. “Vidarr is the god of vengeance. A vow of silence binds him until he kicks Fenrir’s jaws open and pierces his heart at Ragnarok. He can’t speak.” After a pause, the vivid added grumpily, “Even if you were worth speaking to.”

  To his credit, the revenant averted his eyes. He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor—an expression Satara had never seen on him.

&nb
sp; With a huff, Vidarr raised his hands over the group, and for a second, Satara thought he meant to attack them with a spell. Instead, as though someone had struck a smoldering log, orange sparks rained down on them. When they hit Satara’s skin, there was no heat—only a strange sense of awareness that she couldn’t quite explain, like someone had turned a radio dial in her brain.

  Vidarr scanned the party, lowering his hands. Then, after a few moments of silence, he began to move them, and a shiver went through Satara as his magic took hold. With every precise, complex hand signal, she found that words bloomed in her mind. A unique sign language.

  She could read the signs fluently, his spell translating them into a sentence structure she recognized. «With my father Odin’s blessing, your trial will be brief. What is your name?»

  “Satara,” she managed, trying to suppress the embarrassment of finding herself so breathless.

  «S-A-T-A-R-A. Choose your champion and we will begin.» The god’s eyes roved over each of the valkyir in the wings, sizing them up, as if he was trying to guess which she would pick.

  Satara, too, turned her attention to them, but she couldn’t help the pit of dread in her stomach. She was sure they were all more than capable in combat, and any of them would have insight for her, having gone through similar trials. But the thought of working with a stranger, in a situation that was more pressing even than life or death, made her nearly nauseous.

  She took a few steps toward the benches, scrutinizing her choices. Some looked stronger, others faster. But how they looked had little to do with how they acted, or how much help they would really be to an orphaned fledgling valkyrie. The longer she looked, the more anxious she was.

  With every second that passed, she became more certain of her true answer. It was just a matter of whether the Riders would accept it.

  There was only one way to find out. She ignored the gnawing in her gut, turning back to the Riders and the Silent God.

  “Have you made your decision?” Göndul asked.

  “I have.” Satara glanced around the room one more time before looking at her small party. “I choose Edith Holloway as my champion.”

  There was a moment of cold shock. Edie herself tensed, wide-eyed. The valkyir exchanged confused glances. Vidarr gazed at Satara, slowly tilting his head.

  Geirskögul broke the silence. “You choose … a mortal,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “One whose presence here is already unorthodox.”

  Göndul stopped her with a raised hand. “There is no rule that states the champion must be one of our own. The choice was hers.”

  “To bring a hellerune over your own sisters,” Hildr crooned. “How intriguing.”

  Satara stood a little straighter. “My friend has proven herself to me many times. She was there when my battlemother was obliterated. If you’re worried about balance, she won’t give me any advantage over bringing a valkyrie; she’s mortal, and the lord Wolfslayer will be there to watch us.”

  Göndul exchanged glances with Skögul, then Vidarr, almost as if they were communicating without speaking. Finally, she looked to Edie. “Do you accept, hellerune?”

  There was a pause. Then, Edie spread her palms, glancing from the Rider to Satara. “Well … yeah. Of course.”

  “Are you sure?” Marius cut in, looking at her sharply. “It’s Odin’s hunting ground. You have no idea what you might find there.”

  Cal grunted. “Sparky’s right. Could be only gods and valkyries even have a chance of surviving there.”

  Vidarr’s gaze lingered on Marius, then turned to Edie. «Keep your wits about you and you will live.»

  Edie nodded, clearly trying to swallow her own uncertainty. “As long as Satara is sure, I’m sure. Let’s go.”

  Basile, who hadn’t spoken since he’d been dismissed by the Riders, crossed his arms and glanced at Göndul. “Go on ahead. I have a few things I should fill these ladies in on anyway. Who knows, maybe we’ll be able to help each other.”

  “Perhaps,” the Rider mused, then addressed Satara. “When you return, the ritual will commence.” She bowed her head briefly. “Blessings to you, Satara.”

  Satara bowed back, then turned in time to see Vidarr draw a dagger. With it, he traced an oval in the air before him. A faint golden glow split the room where he had traced, and as the glow spread, Satara could make out the hazy image of a landscape on the other side. Trees and grass.

  The god stepped back and gestured for Satara to enter first. Her body buzzed with anxiety as well as anticipation. Only a few steps forward. Her entire existence would be defined by what happened in the realm beyond.

  She took a deep breath, held her spear tightly, and walked through.

  Chapter Thirty

  Vidarr’s hot metallic power washed over Satara as she stepped through the portal. Something about the god’s magic was antsy, and she found herself relieved when a cool breeze kissed her skin on the other side of the portal.

  At first, her vision was unfocused, almost like her brain couldn’t process what she was seeing; then, Edie and Vidarr came through the portal behind her, and things sharpened slowly.

  Odin’s hunting grounds were lush and rolling, a land of seemingly infinite space from the wooded hill where she stood. They had landed in a grove of golden trees, their trunks a shimmering alabaster, but she could see brushwood and tall grasses in the distance, as well as denser forest, an active river, and even what looked like tundra in the far northeastern mountains. Just on the western horizon, the smoke of what might be an encampment floated lazily into the sky.

  It seemed these hunting grounds were meant to be all-purpose; Satara had never seen so many varied terrains in one place before. After weeks in cities, it felt good to be somewhere green again. Her guts ached with the realization that she couldn’t return to Shipshaven—not for a while, at least. Perhaps her parents would come to celebrate her trial and welcome her home … but she wasn’t sure what she’d say to them.

  She only had a few moments, however, to take in the hunting grounds. Vidarr started down the hill without ceremony, and she and Edie had to trot to catch up to his long strides.

  In short order, he had crested another hill, planting his boot on a boulder as he loomed over whatever spread out before him. He glanced back at the two women, signed, «Your hunt,» and gestured downward.

  When Satara joined him, she found herself looking down into a hill pass, a stretch of golden grass with few trees. A tributary of the river ran down the center, the water white as it rushed over rocks, and alongside it, several figures were locked in pursuit. Six of these were men, humans, but the last—ahead of the pack by an appreciable margin—was a creature Satara had never heard of, let alone seen, before.

  It was enormous, at least the size of a draft horse, with silky sapphire fur. With the head of a hare, the body of a buck, and the tail of a fluffy dog, it was unlike any other beast. An intricate, spiraling rack of antlers crowned its head, and they seemed to glow and drip with little points of white light, like tiny stars. Satara had no idea what to call it besides a stag.

  Though it was strange looking, she felt an odd draw to it. Her heart ached at its unfamiliar, undefinable beauty, at how gracefully and effortlessly it bounded away from the party hunting it.

  This must be the great beast she’d been sent to kill. It was certainly game fit for a god.

  She turned to look up at Vidarr and noticed he had been watching her intently with those orange eyes. An embarrassing chill ran through her. He was her guide, and a god, but she was still a woman. Chills like these were reserved for her favorite romance novels.

  Wordlessly, he took his boot off the boulder and slid his helmet back on, gaze never wavering. Her turn.

  The trial had begun.

  Trying her hardest to ignore the Silent God’s stare, Satara motioned for Edie and turned back to the hill pass. Together, they watched as the stag turned sharply right and ran up the hill, disappearing into a dense wood near where the river diver
ged. The hunters gave chase for another minute or so, but as they reached the treeline, they stopped and doubled back to regroup.

  Edie brushed some windblown hair from her mouth and shaded her eyes against the noon sun. “Looks like they gave up. Maybe we should go talk to them? Y’know, as long as they’re not going to use us as target practice.”

  “They may have more information on the beast,” Satara agreed quietly, “depending on how long they’ve been hunting it.”

  Edie glanced back at Vidarr, as though in question, and Satara followed her gaze. But the god was stoic as ever, arms crossed.

  “Let’s go down there, then, I guess.” The necromancer turned and zipped up her leather jacket, shoving her hands into the pockets. “Maybe they’ll let us join them, even.”

  Satara wasn’t sure how that would affect her trial, but surely there was no harm in asking questions. Using her spear as a walking stick, she started down the hill, Edie at her side, Vidarr trailing behind. It was around a quarter mile before they reached the hunters, who were arguing among themselves as Satara approached.

  Now that she was closer, she could see that they were all white Norsemen, ages lingering around their prime, complexions tanned from being outdoors. They were draped in furs, and their weapons—spears and bows, mostly—were well kept, lovingly decorated, the fletching of their arrows colorful, their quivers embroidered. These were proud hunters. Hopefully, they were cooperative ones, too.

  As a few of them took notice of the approaching small party, she felt heavy gazes on her. One of the men wore an oversized bear pelt mantle. Probably the leader. When he turned, his eyes crawled up her body painfully slowly, and she knew they were about to have a problem.

  “Well met,” she said as she came to a stop before him, mustering a pleasant tone.