Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  The reputation of each one dead.

  Those words had been echoing in her head for weeks now. How funny that her mother had been thinking the same thing.

  She emerged from behind one of the barrows and finally saw them.

  Her mother was standing before another mound, tapping on a hand drum, the breeze tangling her rose-colored gown around her bare ankles. Locs fell down her back, over a foot longer than when Satara had last seen them, and her skin took on a faint silver lining under the overcast sky. Father was nearby, sitting in the grass and gazing up at her as she sang. He wore a tunic to match her gown, and his smile was so bright, they didn’t really need the sun anyway.

  An unexpected sob escaped Satara’s throat. She broke into a run. “Mama! Papa!”

  Her mother turned and dropped the drum in time to open her arms, welcoming the creature of death without hesitation. The valkyrie sagged into her mother’s arms, palms pressed to her back, reaching to brush the ends of her locs. She smelled the same, like strawberries and honey. Her heartbeat sounded the same.

  Tears flowed, boiling hot against Satara’s grave-cold cheeks. She pressed her face into her mother’s shoulder, drying them on her gown. Not a moment later, her father’s warmth joined the embrace, and the smell of sweetgrass washed over her, mingling with the strawberries and honey. He always kept a braid of it on his belt or in his vest pocket…

  There was no telling how long they stayed like that, huddled, weeping together; time washed away in a wave of bliss. It was as if, in this place, in this long moment, Darras’s death, Astrid, the last decade apart hadn’t happened at all.

  When Satara finally pulled away—slightly—she was surprised to find herself eye to eye with her mother, looking up at her father. She glanced down to find that she was wearing her old armor. The life had returned to her skin, though Göndul’s scar was still there. Her braids were their standard length.

  Quickly, she unveiled herself again. The valkyrie was what her parents wanted to see. A gentle bloom of white light and she towered over them again.

  “Satara,” was all her mother could say, face twisted with emotion.

  “Mama.” She looked at her father, her hand still shaking in his. “Papa.” Then she gazed behind them, at the barrow. “Darras.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the threads that extended from her bright star. Two of them, quite close, sang with joy; the third was still, but at the end, she could feel a star almost as bright as hers. Perhaps it was simply wishful thinking, but she thought she felt a little swell of … something coming from that point of light.

  When she opened her eyes again, she eased back a step. “Eniola said she told you to rest.”

  Her mother quirked a brow. “She can tell me anything she wants, but I’m grown.”

  Satara felt a smile tugging her lips as she nodded at her father. “At least he was sitting down.”

  “I was enjoying the view,” he said. Her mother reached up to rub his bald head, then kissed his bearded face.

  “I was told there was going to be a feast,” Satara ventured. “Is that what everyone is setting up for? For me?”

  “Of course.” Her mother tipped her head. “And why shouldn’t they? It’s not every day a girl from our village becomes a valkyrie.”

  She noted a change in Mama’s face, felt her joyous vibration mellow slightly, but she wasn’t sure how to read it. “I’m thankful.”

  Beside them, her father chuckled and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, his attention was caught by something behind Satara, and his brows drew as he looked narrowly at the treeline.

  Satara turned, too, and was surprised to see Vidarr emerging from the woods. With long strides, he reached the family in only a handful of seconds, then stood awkwardly about ten feet away.

  Mama curtsied to him, and Papa bowed in time, so Satara followed suit. "It's an honor to host you on our island, Wolfbinder," Mama said, "even if for a little while."

  Vidarr bowed stiffly back and signed to Satara, «I have summoned your guests, and the preparations are nearly complete. The sun will set soon.»

  Mama squeezed Satara's hand. "Our loved ones await."

  She took one look back at the barrow, then turned and focused ahead. "They certainly do."

  The sun was low in the sky by the time Satara and her parents entered the field. It was one she had played in plenty of times as a child, but it looked different now.

  Trees that had been saplings when she'd left towered above her. The villagers had set up several long tables heavy with food and drink, and in the center of it all was a large bonfire waiting to be lit. Gentle music, flute and drums, wafted through the air even as people cheered at Satara's arrival.

  From where she stood, she was sure she could see the whole population of the village. As she scanned it, she recognized more familiar faces. Some faces were new; some of the old faces she searched for were missing. People who had been children when she'd left now had children of their own, chasing each other around the field.

  Thinking of how much she’d missed made her heart ache. But she'd known she wasn't wanted here. They had sent her away.

  She searched for Edie and Cal, and when she found them, she felt her brows jump up. Standing there with Edie, Cal, Adam, Elle, and Marius were none other than Mercy, Fisk, and Sissel.

  Her hand slipped from her mother's, and she went quickly to them. "I didn't expect you to come!"

  Mercy released her grip on one of her crutches briefly to wave, grinning ear-to-ear. "We wouldn't miss this! Wow, look at you! You look ... different!"

  “You mean all edgy and dead and hot?” Elle asked, eyes glinting with mischief.

  "You look like Albedo from Overlord.” Sissel’s voice was muffled by bread she’d snagged from the table behind her. "Also, hi!"

  "Oh." Adam peered up to consider Satara again. "I guess she kind of does."

  Satara huffed a laugh. For all their sakes, she’d pretend to know what they were talking about.

  She was eye level with Fisk, now, as he swaggered up and thumped his fist against his chest. "Daughter of Freyja, this vættr would present you with an offering."

  "That really isn't necessary, Fisk," she said, unable to suppress a smile.

  Fisk hesitated and looked back at Mercy, who was already grimacing apologetically. "Maybe you can show her la—"

  But it seemed the sea spirit's excitement wouldn't keep. He turned quickly and produced something that had been leaning on a chair behind them: a large scroll tied with red ribbon.

  Satara untied it carefully and opened it. It took a few moments for her to realize it was a watercolor, created with materials pilfered from her own collection, and another few moments to realize that she was looking at a gruesome, bloody battle scene. Standing above the carnage was a very poor rendering of what she assumed was supposed to be her.

  "Wow ... Fisk ... I don't know what to say."

  He bared his teeth, chuffing happily, then came closer to point at something on the canvas. "See the warriors violating their opponents' corpses?"

  "Yes, I do. Wow." She rolled it up quickly and handed it back to him. "Why don't you keep it safe at home for me?"

  "Not to worry, my dear friend. I will frame it properly and hang it in your room." He put his fist to his chest again and went back to Mercy, who still wore that apologetic grimace.

  She patted his arm but spoke to Satara. "Matilda's sorry she couldn't make it, but something came up with the safe house committee that she had to deal with. She said to send her congratulations!"

  “Tch.” Cal crossed his arms. “Probably just busy with her twiggy boytoy.”

  “I understand.” There was still a face missing, however. “Where is Basile?”

  “He stayed behind,” Edie said. “He and the Riders were still discussing the whole Skuld thing.”

  Satara sensed her mother and father approaching before she heard them, and turned slightly to welcome them into the conversation.
She was surprised to feel her mother's hand slip back into hers the second they were close enough.

  "Mama, Papa, these are my friends." She nodded to each. "Mercy, Fiskbein, Sissel, Adam, Elle, Marius, Cal, and Edie." When the Genesis protested with a squeal, she added quickly, "And … Mikey inhabits this guitar. Friends, my parents, Galib and Amat.”

  "Hello." Her mother looked them over assessingly, never a woman of many words.

  Papa said what she was probably thinking: "What a motley crew!"

  Cal shrugged. “Eh, I prefer Bon Jovi.”

  "You're certainly welcome on Mare Isle," Mama said. "Satara’s friends are ours." She glanced over one shoulder, then let go of Satara's hand to gesture to the table behind the group. "Please, sit. The sun is about to set; I think Eniola is going to give her speech soon."

  Satara turned slightly to run her gaze over the tables. In the center was the elders' table, but directly on the right was a table reserved for her family, and next to that, one big enough to accommodate her friends. Both were draped with tablecloths bearing her family's coat of arms, the chairs tied with ribbons in their colors: blue, red, and silver.

  Before she could ask where she should sit, her mother led her around the table, sitting her rather firmly in the largest high-backed chair. "You sit in the middle. Galib, you sit on the left."

  "As you wish, wife." Papa chuckled and sank down with an exaggerated groan, reaching over to pat Satara's forearm. "Your old man has only gotten older."

  Satara tried to smile despite the painful twinge in her heart. Mama sat at her right side, smoothing out her gown, and the others settled a table over, chatting among themselves.

  She wished she was with them, but ... they looked so happy without her. The pit of fear and insecurity that had started to bloom in her stomach the moment she'd stepped onto the island was only getting worse. Was this a trend, that everyone could take or leave her? Would it get worse now that she wasn't human—an outsider?

  She sat in silence, watching the horizon as the sun crawled slowly down the sky and the clouds bled peach. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. She had reunited with her family and was surrounded by friends. Why, then, did she feel so alone?

  It wasn't long before the villagers who had been milling and playing in the field took their seats. All the elders had sat, with Eniola seated among them. The high priestess scanned the crowd before giving a decisive, satisfied nod and standing.

  "Evening, everyone!" she called out, her voice filling the field. If nothing else, she could project. “Tonight we celebrate the investiture of our beloved Satara. A blessed valkyrie sits among us!”

  Applause rippled through the crowd, along with shouts and whistles.

  Once they settled down, she continued: “Like day into night, Satara’s transformation is not an end or a beginning; it is simply one transition in a cycle. As she takes on his new phase of her life, let us hope that her conviction impassions us to serve Lady Freyja with even more fervor.”

  Again, the crowd erupted in agreement, and Satara shivered as the praise washed over her. What a strange feeling.

  As the last rays of light disappeared under the horizon and the sky turned to steel, High Priestess Eniola raised her hands. “Her trials were many, but she met them all with readiness and love in her heart. Let that be a reminder to us, friends, as we face our own trials, as we carry out our own cycles. Our pride in Satara will strengthen us, too. We transition, too.”

  As the heavens darkened, tiny lights began to appear in the trees around her—not electric lights, but a trivial illusion spell—as if the branches bore all the stars in the night sky. They were enough to light the feasting area and the field, where the villagers would soon be making merry.

  "Now—eat, dance, and be well. In honor of our daughter and our protector, and of the Lady herself, make the night your own!" With a gesture, Eniola struck up the small band, and cheerful flute and drum filled the air.

  Several people left their tables behind to dance at once, arm in arm, smiling, eyes shining. Satara watched as Mercy and Fisk left, too; then Edie crept out of her seat, gazing around the field in wonder, and Marius stood to linger by her; finally, Elle dragged her father from his seat. She could vaguely hear them quarreling as they left: "Elle, I haven't eaten in like a day and a half." "I wanna dance!" "Can't you dance with people your own age? That's what teenagers do, right?" "I'm twenty-two!"

  Under the table, Mama slipped a hand over hers, making Satara jump. Her touch was so immensely warm against the valkyrie's icy skin. "Are you going to dance with your friends, my love?"

  Satara hesitated. Looking around, she spotted Vidarr, who was being circled by a chain of dancing children. She mustered a small smile but, after a moment, pulled her hand from under her mother's. "I ... I don't know. I might step away for a few minutes." Even as she said it, she rose from her seat, sweeping her gown around her and averting her eyes from Mama's disappointed frown.

  "Come back soon," she said softly, not quite concealing the mix of concern and suspicion in her voice.

  "I will." Satara planted a kiss on her father's head before gliding behind the elders' table and back to the path, through the trees. She tried to ignore the gazes on her back as she did—of course the retreating form of the guest of honor, standing at seven feet, would draw some attention. She just hoped no one would follow her.

  Or perhaps, secretly, she did. She wasn't even sure anymore.

  She left the music and the laughter of the clearing behind and, as soon as she was somewhere clear of trees, spread her new, permanent wings. Lifting into the air came as naturally as breathing now. In a moment, she was soaring above Mare Isle, every detail keenly visible despite the twilight.

  She flew over the barrows, then the deeper parts of the forest; when she came too close to Darras's death place, she circled back around and passed the lighthouse. The village came back into view, her childhood home peeking between the pines, but she kept going, swooping east and following a familiar beach path.

  Soon, she reached a steep pebbled shore and a dock of her father's make, only big enough to moor the one rowboat that was tied to it. As she landed, the dock bobbed slightly, sending ripples through the purple water. Somewhere nearby, a loon wailed: a mournful, lonely sound. Someone trying to find their friend or family member. Satara crouched on the dock and held her face in her hands, trying to deny the tightness in her throat.

  What was this feeling? Was this what Astrid had felt all those years? Was this why she’d isolated herself like she had? Was this part of the process or was she, like Daschla, a fraud—broken, just in a different way?

  Even if this was preferable to the Shore of Corpses, it seemed like she had traded hell for solitude. How could she be so apart from life when she could literally feel it, all around her, humming through her being from every angle?

  She wasn't sure how long she stayed crouched. Time felt so different now. So arbitrary. But when she sensed one of those brilliant living threads vibrating faster and closer, she raised her head to see that the twilight was gone, the sea before her like a black mirror.

  "Satara?"

  She spun quickly and faced a figure carrying a lantern, framed by the trees around the beach path. Even in the low light, she knew at once who it was.

  "Mama." Slowly, she stood, turning toward her mother's approaching form. "I'm fine. I'll be right back."

  Mama didn't falter in her path, nor did she take her eyes from her daughter's. She set her lantern on the shore in front of the dock and came closer, lifting her gown around her ankles. "You've been out here half an hour, my love." After a pause, she cocked a brow. "You didn't even realize, did you?"

  Satara exhaled. "Things have changed, Mama."

  "Of course they have." Her mother's brow remained raised as she flanked Satara, craning her neck to look up at her. After a moment, Mama let go of her gown and wrapped an arm around the valkyrie's middle, squeezing their sides together in a gentle hug. "W
e can all see that well enough."

  "I've changed."

  "I know."

  "No, you don't." The words escaped Satara in a breath as she carefully extracted herself from her mother's embrace. How could you know? she thought. You don't even know who I was before.

  Mama's brow knit tightly, lips pursed. "What is this? What is this about, Satara?"

  Satara crushed ten years of pain and uncertainty down, down, down, until it was a condensed ball of sour hatred. As usual, she pushed it down and tried to address the matter at hand. "I'm scared," she admitted quietly, unable to keep herself from shaking despite her indifference to the cold.

  "Scared?" her mother repeated in that tone Satara knew well, the one that asked for more without asking.

  "I..." A trembling breath filled the air between them. A breath Satara didn't really need; another reminder that she was no longer human. "This ... being this way feels so different. Nothing is how I remember it ... every sensation is strange. Time and life and my body and how I perceive you and the living and the dead..." Her voice turned into a croak, and she brought both hands to her forehead now, smoothing them over her braids.

  Her mother said nothing, simply listening.

  "But I'm tired of being different, Mama." Satara blinked, and freezing tears rolled down her freezing cheeks. "I'm tired of being alone and ... sad. And most of all, I'm tired of others making decisions about my life. I'm tired of being forced into one role, onto one path. And—" Her breath hitched. "And if that's what my existence is going to be from now on, I don't know if I want to exist at all."

  Silence fell between them, Satara's shaky breath melting into the sound of the water rippling around them. Another loon wailed. From far in the distance, the sound of laughter and music wafted to the shore, very faint.

  When the silence became too much, Satara whispered, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't cry, but—"

  That strikingly warm hand against her back made her words run dry. "Cry," her mother said. "Cry. From your first day on this earth, it's always been how you've told me what you need. Why would I ridicule you for that?"