Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  Just as quickly, she came to an abrupt but gentle stop—a stop that defied the laws of earthly physics, given her momentum a split second ago.

  As she looked out into an endless field of these little lights, she suddenly realized what they were. Stars.

  Seeing them felt like seeing family members she had never met. They were so unfamiliar as to be foreign, and yet she felt a deep kinship. They were the same.

  Most of the stars were fixed in position, still as sentinels. One of them, however, swayed slightly in the darkness. It became larger and larger until Satara realized it was walking closer, part of some massive form she couldn’t see.

  It was hard to tell with little depth perception, but after a few minutes, it seemed to be very near. She could smell pine and ozone and could hear a steady thump … thump … thump … as though someone was using a walking stick.

  She realized with a shock who was approaching, but whatever form she was in now did not allow her to react. She simply watched in awe as the form of a hooded man bearing a spear was outlined in stardust. Nebulas bloomed from his sole eye, filling the outline, and then—

  White light burst from his chest and enveloped Satara, washing out every sight or thought. Thousands of millions of voices flooded past her, rushing over her soul, most in languages she couldn’t understand. Even if she could have understood them, they were so numerous they’d be incomprehensible. Blinding images of impossible geometry and runes no human could ever conceive of burned themselves into her vision, leaving behind dark, blurry ghosts in their wake.

  The images and the voices came faster, faster, until she was sure she was on the brink of madness. Her consciousness expanded until it was long and stretched like a rope of taffy. She was a lattice of nine intersecting lines; she was nine spheres all colliding with each other at the same moment; she was stretching to the heavens, nine holes carved in her trunk, each pouring light and darkness into the others.

  Satara.

  This voice stood out over the others, the most beautiful voice she had ever heard. A woman’s voice, she thought. It had a sharp edge, glaring with magic and power, but the waxing, softer part of the sound felt like a caress against her cheek. And then … she was sure she felt an actual caress on her cheek, feverishly warm against her death-cold skin.

  Satara, the voice said again. You are a child of many mothers … just as all humans are. Now, you have one more.

  With a snap, her consciousness took a more condensed shape, and the light receded. When she looked at the field of stars now, she found she could reach out with her mind and touch every single one. There was a tether connecting her to all of them, a million vibrating threads linked in infinite space.

  Some of the threads vibrated differently, faster—she knew that these connected her to the valkyir. Some slower, less steadily, their presence hitching now and again—she knew that these threads connected her to every living thing. And some were still or stilling, their threads not as taut as the others—she knew that these were the dead things, still an inextricable part of the weave, but stagnant.

  The Web existed. Of course, she had known, but to see it herself … she could feel the very presence of Fate, the primordial connection of everything that had existed, did exist, and would exist.

  Except for Astrid.

  And, like a stone, grief dropped into her chest. Even here, perfectly at peace, given the absolute certain knowledge that the dead were still a part of the living, she could not forget this loss.

  She understood now, seeing the truth of the universe, how Astrid had been obliterated. Energy couldn’t be destroyed. But it could be severed from every other thing and cast adrift.

  The thought of that profound loneliness made her want to wail, and to her surprise, she found she could. She loosed a mournful scream into the void, her trillions of threads throbbing with sorrow.

  She had thought that Indriði had merely destroyed Astrid, expunged her from existence entirely. It was worse. She had unanchored her from existence, sent her careening off into Nothing. Connected to no one, living or dead, past or present.

  A lesser Norn would know that. It had been on purpose.

  Satara threw her head back and loosed another wail, staring into open space. Pain sliced her heart open, but still she stared. And the longer she did, the more clearly she could see … something above her.

  An incomprehensibly large shape, as dark as the void but velvety, its curves shimmering slightly. Some long, bent part of this object arced over her, a thousand miles overhead. A leg, gingerly stepping along the threads. She counted three … no, four others on this side…

  Light split her chest and engulfed her.

  The next thing she knew, she was in the Hall of the Riders again. Her consciousness was not squarely in her body. She sensed that she somehow existed outside of herself for the moment.

  Before her stood an unveiled valkyrie bursting with pale blue light. She wore a drape-neck gown made of what appeared to be tiny linked flecks of silver, as well as a gorget, tasset, and pauldrons. The highly polished armor lay stark against her luminous umber skin. Her eyes were aflame with ultraviolet light, and her braids fluttered in a phantom wind. Along her chest, down her exposed back, onto her hands, lightning scars blazed like bioluminescent markings.

  The scars Göndul’s healing had given her.

  As soon as Satara recognized herself in this valkyrie, her consciousness snapped back to her body. All the pain was gone, replaced with a profound strength. She spread her wings—sharper, longer, more responsive—and looked at the Riders. Waves of thoughts and emotions from every corner of the room ebbed and flowed over her—shared sensations from every valkyrie, including the Riders.

  “Satara?”

  She turned when she heard Edie’s voice. Her friends all stood looking up at her, and she realized she towered above them, nearly seven feet tall. With a bit of concentration, she could sense the emotions vibrating from each of them: Edie wavered between relief and concern, Cal was terrified, Marius was awed and proud, Adam was so overwhelmed he might shake out of his skin, Elle was excited…

  The only one she couldn’t feel was Basile. She looked at him and frowned, and he seemed to understand what she was asking. He replied with a resigned shrug.

  To her right, fiery magic collided with her new, wintry aura, and she turned again to face Vidarr—the only being here besides the Riders that she could still look up at. Son of Odin … she felt she could comprehend his existence so much more easily now. His smoldering gaze held hers. He didn’t even have to move his hands for her to sense his Well done.

  “Satara … you feel okay?” Edie ventured, grabbing her attention again.

  She wasn’t sure how to veil herself. She wasn’t certain she wanted to. The awareness she had gained seeing the Web was the only thing keeping the horror and sorrow over Astrid at bay—would that awareness go away if she took the form of a human again?

  “I feel … different,” she answered honestly. Even her voice had changed, silkier and more echoey. “I … went somewhere.” Instinctively, she knew she shouldn’t divulge anything more.

  Edie’s brows tilted uncertainly. “You collapsed. You don’t remember? You…” She hesitated. “Died.”

  Satara bowed her head. Perhaps she had died, in a way, but it didn’t feel like death. The threads connecting her to the dead were still and dull; her own threads weren’t anything like that. If anything, she felt more alive, vibrating at a faster frequency than the humans.

  Either way, something had certainly changed. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “That’s really you, right?” Cal asked, voice rougher than usual. “They didn’t pour some asshole’s soul into your body or something?”

  “My soul … doesn’t feel alone.” She chose her words carefully, watching the revenant’s reaction. He wouldn’t show it, but he was scared for her. “I feel more open. Something changed … but I’m still me. I have all my old memories.”

  El
le brought her hands to cup her own chin. “You went from, like, five-alarm-fire, Themyscira hot to, like … level eleven, actual living goddess, Queen-Serenity-eat-your-heart-out hot.” She looked at Adam. “Maybe I need to become a valkyrie.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that easy,” he mumbled, even as Mikey in the Genesis squealed his approval.

  “Satara.” She turned her head when Göndul addressed her. “A surprise has been prepared for you.”

  “A surprise?” She couldn’t hide the confusion in her voice.

  The Rider smiled. “Of course. A feast in your honor. It is only proper to mark such an important occasion.”

  “A feast? My thanks … sister.”

  “Do not thank me,” Göndul said, raising a hand. “Save your thanks for the people who arranged it.”

  Satara turned to her friends, but they all looked as clueless as she felt. A mixture of excitement and anxiety roiled through her gut. Could Göndul be suggesting what she thought—what she hoped, and yet what she dreaded?

  Vidarr took a few steps back and carved a portal. She could just barely see, on the other side, a familiar island. Mare Isle.

  Home.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Vidarr’s portal led to the docks of Mare Isle, and as Satara stepped onto the sun-bleached wooden planks, her heart soared.

  What she could see of the village looked just as she remembered. Fishing boats lined the shores, tied for the evening to jetties. Lobster cages were stacked nearby, and Satara could smell them from here—a reek she had never thought she’d miss.

  Though the paint was slightly more worn and cracked, the general store sat facing the shore, greeting visitors. Adjacent to it, with a dirt road separating them, was the post office. Trees encircled the area despite its closeness to the ocean, tall and dense enough that she could only catch glimpses of the rest of the village beyond and the very top of the distant lighthouse.

  She moved forward like a ghost, nearly hovering, forgetting that her friends would soon be behind her. The scent of pine surrounded her as she floated from the dock, down the dirt road, and through the trees. Her wings relaxed; her movements were silent save for the whisper of her gown over the gravel.

  The beating of her heart had been replaced by an electric thrumming that became more and more intense. She could feel everything, from the trees to the smallest bug. And it became all the more overwhelming when she finally stepped into the village proper.

  The center of the town was an open space, unpaved, with paths branching from it. The muddy season had come early because of the snow, but the townspeople had placed rough-sawn planks over the roads and the worst places of the square, just as they did every year. It was worth it to smell sunbaked dirt instead of pavement every summer. Along these wooden avenues, people bustled back and forth, some leading their animals or carts. Cats roamed freely from house to house, blessings from the goddess herself.

  With her gaze and her soul, Satara touched each person and building she recognized: the blacksmith’s forge, cold for the evening, and the blacksmith himself, helping two other men move a large table; the huntmaster and the herbalist leaving the bakery together with armloads of baskets; deeper into the village, partially obscured by trees, the footbridge, and the river, and the mill and its mossy wheel. In the center, in pride of place, the heart of Mare Isle: the temple, standing tall with its tiered roof, freshly painted and decorated with colorful designs.

  Satara blinked tears from her eyes as she watched the comings and goings. She could feel each of these people, their threads singing with excitement or stress or nervousness. Some had begun to notice her, striking as her new image was, but others were too busy to glance over at the trees.

  She recognized another one of these busy people. Rushing from the temple to the mead hall to the bakery in a hurried circuit was High Priestess Eniola, her cornrows piled on her head, her flowing purple-gray dress tied up around her knees to keep it clean. As she went, stopping people and inspecting their baskets and giving instructions, she was still putting on her amber necklace and earrings.

  Eniola was an anxious person, fussy at times. She was in her element here, managing everyone in a panic. The last time Satara had seen the high priestess, they had fought—about her education, her duty, her going to live with Astrid—but seeing her now, her heart swelled with fondness.

  Satara took a few steps forward, barely suppressing her magic. She wanted to let it flow from her like water, wanted the people—her people—to look at her and be proud. But she didn’t want to halt their preparations. The sight of her alone had already stopped a few people in their tracks, and they whispered to their companions, smiling and pointing.

  Eventually, enough people stopped that the high priestess paused to look back at the path. Her eyes widened.

  “Satara!” The name left Eniola’s lips in a joyful cry, and she leapt forward along the planks to meet her. She had been middle-aged the last time they’d met, and now she was a decade older, but still just as energetic. She stopped short of hugging Satara and clasped her hands to her chest. “You’re here at last!”

  Satara bowed her head, dipping in a curtsy that did little to change their new height difference. “High Priestess. I’m honored to be home.”

  Eniola stood on her tiptoes, and Satara bent so that she could cup her face. “Gorgeous,” she breathed. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  What else was there to say? For a few moments, Satara was speechless; then she straightened and squinted farther into the village, past the mill.

  “Where are my mother and father?”

  “Resting,” Eniola said, wringing her hands despite her grin. “At home. I told them to let us take care of everything today. It’s their daughter being honored, after all.”

  Satara stepped to the side. “Would you excuse me? I’m going to see them.”

  The high priestess’s grin faded slightly, and she glanced behind Satara. “Oh, but who is this?”

  She already knew to whom Eniola was referring, but she turned anyway, looking at her friends. With a frown, she counted faces. “Where is Lord Vidarr?” she asked Edie.

  “I asked him if he wouldn’t mind grabbing a few extra friends,” Edie replied with a sly smile. “I know some people who’ll want to be here for this.” Before Satara could ask who she meant, Edie came forward, extending her hand to Eniola. “Hi. Edie Holloway.”

  The high priestess glanced at her hand before shaking it. “Satara’s friends? Well, welcome to Mare Isle.” Her tone held a note of skepticism Edie was probably used to by now.

  “Thanks.” Cal put his hands on his hips, scanning the busy village. “You guys need help?”

  Eniola fixed him, then Edie, with a look. “We can do our own work, thank you very much.”

  “He’s offering freely,” Satara said, motioning. “Cal and Elle are both free revenants.”

  Elle was already rolling up the sleeves of her skater dress. “Yeah! Put us to work!” To Marius and Edie, she added, “I can bench like three hundred now. May as well put it to good use.”

  The high priestess still looked a little wary, but Satara squeezed her shoulder. “They’ve taken care of me,” she said softly; then, more firmly, “I’m going to see my mother and father.”

  She turned and left before Eniola could stop her. People parted as she walked through the center of the village, over the footbridge, and past the mill.

  At the top of a small hill, surrounded by trees, she could see her childhood home: a cottage within a small wilderness, its thatched roof covered in moss, its front door carved with a parade of wild horses. She could almost hear her mother and brother laughing in the side garden, could almost smell her father’s special venison stew.

  She walked up the hill, not bothering with the house. They wouldn’t be there. Instead, she took a narrow path nearly hidden between the trees. The farther she walked, the more clearly she could hear a drum and a faint voice—a voice she re
cognized.

  Her pace slowed a bit. Seeing the rest of the village had made her so eager to see her parents, but now, anxiety was setting in. It had been so long since they’d spoken to each other in person. She had been a child when she’d left; her entire adulthood had been spent away from them.

  She had changed.

  They didn’t know her anymore. There was only so much that could be conveyed through letters and postcards. They had no idea that she was learning to paint … that she devoured beautifully overwrought romance series, that her favorite action movie was Live Free or Die Hard, that peanut butter cup was her favorite ice cream, that she hated coffee and couldn’t have tea without cookies.

  She had never gotten to share with them her down-to-a-science system of watering her plants or doing dishes. They didn’t know that her best friends were a compassionate necromancer and an outrageous dead man; they didn’t know how many people she had killed since she’d left them; they didn’t know that she woke up screaming, some nights, dreaming of Darras.

  Then again, even if they knew, would they care? Last time she’d checked, they had cared about her being a warrior, serving the goddess—and here she was.

  What if they saw her like this and it still wasn’t enough?

  Worse, what if it was? What if their reunion only confirmed her fear that they would only be proud of their daughter if she was a valkyrie?

  Finally, the trees parted, revealing a wide-open field of emerald grass. Centuries ago, the area had been cleared of trees to give the people of Mare Isle space to create barrows. The burial mounds resembled rolling hills in an otherwise flat stretch of land, each surrounded by rune-marked stones.

  As she walked among them, the drum became louder, the words of the song clearer:

  “Deyr fé, deyja frændr,

  deyr sjalfr it sama,

  ek veit einn, at aldrei deyr:

  dómr um dauðan hvern.”

  Cattle die, kinsmen die,

  You yourself will also die,

  I know one thing that never dies: