Chapter Three Edith
“Can’t remember the last time I’ve come out this far,” the taxi driver says. Fortunately, he’s fluent in English as well as Icelandic.
We drive through a sullen landscape, all brown and green.
When Helga said Skallagrim was in Iceland, I didn’t realize she meant the middle of nowhere.
Rocks kick up beneath the tires, making the whole cab shake.
At least we’re on the ground again after the ten-hour flight, even if the cab reeks of cigarette smoke, body odor, and what I suspect is an egg salad sandwich.
“Oh really?” I ask politely, doing my best to ignore the stink. I’ve always been sensitive to smell, but this seems way worse than normal. This must be what Helga meant when she warned me about having heightened senses.
Bea is glued to the car window, oohing and aahing.
Helga insisted she attend Skallagrim too.
Bea likely inherited the same ability as her sister, she explained to our foster parents.
Jim let out a too-loud laugh. When Helga didn’t, he said, Oh, you’re not pulling our leg?
Jim and Patricia exchanged a long look. They didn’t want to believe it any more than I did.
Helga looked them square in the eyes and simply said, If Edith had gone to Skallagrim sooner, she wouldn’t be facing prosecution or jail.
Like she said, Helga can be very persuasive, especially when she uses seier.
I’m not sure Jim and Patricia fully understand everything she said about berserkir and magic and Skallagrim Academy—I don’t know if I do, either—but they trust our social worker wants the best for us.
The alternative was a lot worse. As normal as my foster parents are, I guess they’d rather believe I’m a berserkr than a criminal.
So we said our goodbyes at the airport. Jim and Patricia couldn’t come with us because neither of them has many vacation days at work, but they promised they’d visit soon.
Apparently Skallagrim is having some big celebration for friends and family next month, and Jim and Patricia said they’ll come.
Which means I have a month to get my powers under control.
Next time I see my foster parents, I need to prove I’m still a good girl before I lose them—and Bea.
“Hardly anyone ever comes out here,” the driver says, bringing me back to the present. “Unless you count the wolves, that is.”
I straighten in my seat. “Wolves?”
At the same time, Bea says, “Awesome.”
The driver nods. “Only part of Iceland that has them, but no one knows where they came from. Imported, I guess.” He laughs and glances back at me expectantly.
Rude or not, I can’t bring myself to laugh at his joke.
There aren’t any wolves in Iceland.
They must be berserkir.
Like my father.
Like me.
I glance down to check that my nails haven’t turned into claws again. Ever since the incident three weeks ago, I haven’t been able to stop checking. Every time I do, I don’t know what I’ll find. I have no idea what I’m turning into.
“What do they look like?” I ask, picking at a hangnail.
“Never seen one,” the driver says, “but you can hear ’em howling.”
Wonderful.
I grip my phone tighter. “How much farther is Skallagrim?”
The driver ignores my question. “That’s the place for troubled youth, isn’t it?”
Principal Matthews believes the same thing.
So do the police. As far as they know, Skallagrim Academy offers a wilderness program, intensive counseling, and equine therapy for troubled youth.
It’s how Helga convinced them to drop my charges.
And a lot of magic. She must have used magic on Jason, too, because all of a sudden he became the kind of person who can forgive and forget.
And I know he isn’t. Not to mention all of the witnesses with their phones and the hallway cameras.
The driver adjusts the rearview mirror until he meets my eyes in the reflection. “You two don’t look very troubled to me.”
I laugh. If only he knew.
As soon as I open my mouth, the driver’s eyes shoot wide. He grips the steering wheel tighter, all white knuckles, and shifts in his seat like he’s the uncomfortable one now.
“Should be there soon,” he says, suddenly nervous.
There’s no more polite conversation after that.
What just happened? Is there something in my teeth? I check my smile in the rearview mirror, but it looks… wrong. My canines are impossibly long and sharp. Too sharp to belong to a girl. All the air leaves my lungs. These… these are an animal’s teeth. The taxi shrinks around me.
Get it together, Edith.
I focus on my breathing, just like my therapist said I should whenever I start to panic.
In and out. In and out. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
I’m fine. This is the whole reason I’m going to Skallagrim.
So I can learn how to control myself. And then I’m going to push this power so far down, it will never come out again. Problem solved.
When I run my tongue along my teeth, they’re smooth and round.
Thank God.
Bea is still glued to her window, completely oblivious to what just happened. Despite what Helga said, I have to hope she isn’t a berserkir too. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, let alone my sister.
“Look, horses!” Bea exclaims excitedly.
Leaning over, I catch a glimpse of two riders on horseback as we drive past. Both are decked out in leather and have bows slung around their backs, looking like they belong in one of the fairy tales Mom used to read me before bed.
Thankfully, no big bad wolves in sight.
Ahead, mountains rise on the horizon, towering in the distance.
Each sharp peak looks threatening enough to be a volcano, but instead of hot ash, thick clouds hover over them.
An ancient-looking school appears in the rocky wilderness.
It’s a far cry from Saint Vincent’s Prep School.
There’s something brutal and wild about Skallagrim Academy, as if it’s been carved from the mountain crag or it erupted violently from the earth.
“Here we are,” the driver says, sounding relieved as we pull up in front.
After paying for the ride with Patricia’s card, I climb out of the car quickly and breathe in the damp, wild air.
Bea joins me, her mouth hanging open as she looks around in wonder.
The cabdriver pops the trunk. Cold wind whips my hair as I walk around the side of the car.
Howls echo through the valley, chilling me down to my bones.
“Did you hear that?” I manage to ask.
The driver gives me a dubious look. “Hear what?”
I fall silent. I’m sure I heard howling, but now all I can hear is the wind.
“Need help with your bags?” the driver prompts.
“Huh? No, I got it.” I haul Bea’s suitcase out of the trunk before grabbing mine. They’re surprisingly light considering all the clothes crammed into them, enough to last us the rest of the semester. Patricia spent the last week helping us pack.
“Well, if that’s all, then,” the driver says, climbing back into the car. “I should get going.”
And with that, he slams the door and speeds off, leaving us alone.
Unease scrapes over my skin as I face Skallagrim. Iron gates stand between us and the school, reminding me of the cemetery where our parents are buried. An elaborate S marks each gate. Across the top, words are wrought in iron: NONE SHALL ENGRAVE THE RUNES WHO KNOWS NOT TO READ THEM.
“How do we get in?” Bea asks, craning her neck back.
“No idea.”
Normally, the cemetery gates are thrown open like arms, welcoming visitors from dawn to dusk. These must be automatic. Leaving my luggage behind, I approach the gates, wondering if there’s some kind of sensor that will open them. Nothing happens no matter how close I get.
Great. Skallagrim Academy is less welcoming than a graveyard.
Wolves howl again, louder than before.
“Hello?” I call out, peering between the bars like a prison cell.
Past the gate, a long walkway stretches into campus, surrounded by ancient-looking buildings. No one else is in sight, but the school is cloaked in heavy fog, so I can’t see in very far. Skallagrim gives me an eerie, ghostly impression.
“Edith,” Bea says, tugging at my sweater.
I turn around to see what she’s staring at.
Wolves prowl toward us.
Shit. No wonder the cabdriver couldn’t wait to get out of here. I grab the cold gates, stinging my palms like icicles, and try to pull them open. No matter how hard I pry, they won’t budge. I throw a panicked glance over my shoulder.
The wolves are getting closer.
“Come on, open up!” I shout, yanking the gate desperately.
With a groan of metal, the gates slowly start to open. Too slowly. They hardly seem to move at all. I face the wolves, pulling Bea behind me, and stare into their glowing yellow eyes as they snarl at us.
Unlike humans, animals only show their teeth for one reason: violence.
I back away, keeping Bea behind me.
We bump against the gates. There’s nowhere else to go.
Damn it, I did not come all the way to Iceland just to die here. Especially not like Mom. The wolves growl louder, their hackles raised and their jaws snapping—
Suddenly their ears prick, and their attention shifts.
Two riders are approaching on horseback.
The first is older, with a face carved from stone and his posture just as rigid.
He makes a sudden, sharp noise, rumbling deep from the back of his throat.
I stiffen as if I’ve been scolded. Apparently, the wolves feel the same.
They tuck their ears and bound away, back into the hills and out of sight.
“Thank God,” I say, unable to hide my relief. “We couldn’t figure out the gates—”
The wrought iron gates finally finish grinding open.
The older rider barely glances at me and Bea before riding past us without a word.