Chapter Eleven Edith
“Amund?” Nils suddenly stops, and I nearly bump into his back. I’ve been so focused on what’s waiting for me in Helga’s office, I almost didn’t notice.
Amund turns around.
Why is he here?
Some part of me hoped that last night was another nightmare. Emilía lying in the grass. Blood covering my hands. Amund accusing me of murder. Now, standing before him, I know it was real. There’s no escaping Amund or his accusation.
But it isn’t me he’s staring at.
“Nils?” He takes a tentative step toward us.
They clearly know each other.
“What are you doing here?” Nils asks. He sounds… different. Not his usual cheerful self, but I can’t figure out why.
Amund approaches him. “Is that really all you have to say to me?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
Something flashes across Amund’s face, almost like hurt. “I was running an errand for Father.”
Now that they’re standing near each other, I can see some similarities, though Amund looks more severe, his features sharper and chiseled. He’s all hard edges—he has none of Nils’s soft kindness. Nils mentioned he had an older brother, didn’t he?
I never would’ve imagined it was Amund.
I study Amund a little more closely, lingering on his brown eyes and bangs that stick to his forehead. A slight sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, like he’s been training already this morning.
“You.”
Amund looks me over, scrutinizing every inch of me, his gaze hard and cold, before turning to his brother. “What are you doing with her?”
“Showing her to Helga’s office.” Nils frowns. “Why would Father send you here?”
“We need to talk, Nils.”
I shift uncomfortably. Is he going to tell Nils about last night?
“I have nothing else to say to you.” Nils turns toward me, gesturing to a door on our right. “Here, Edith. This is her office. I’ll see you in history later.”
“Nils, it’s important,” Amund pleads.
I have no idea what happened between them, but I also can’t help imagining how Amund must be feeling. How I would feel if Bea refused to talk to me even after I begged.
Nils looks at me and then to his brother. “What is it?”
“I need to speak with you. Alone,” Amund adds, the words pointed at me like a weapon.
“I was just leaving.”
I head inside Helga’s office.
My senses are immediately assaulted. Grim daylight filters in through large windows, the brightness burning my eyes in the otherwise darkened room. The reek of dust and mold stings my nose, making me sneeze. Loudly.
“Bless you,” Helga says, but then I realize her mouth hasn’t moved.
A raven ruffles its feathers on a wooden perch and repeats, “Bless you.”
Helga has a pet raven. Because of course she does.
Everywhere else I look, I notice something new and strange: a massive stone tablet etched with runes covering an entire wall; a creepy-looking portrait of some bald, bearded white guy; stacks of ancient books teetering on top of her desk; a candle held by… is that a shriveled hand?
I grimace.
“Have a seat,” Helga says, waving toward one of the ancient carved chairs in front of her desk. It’s hard to believe only a few weeks ago, I was sitting before Principal Matthews in a plastic chair.
As I approach her desk, the man stares at me from the portrait behind Helga, his skin ruddy and weathered. He’s bald, but he has more than enough beard to make up for it. His nose is twisted to the side like it’s been broken multiple times. EGILL SKALLAGRíMSSON, the plaque below him reads.
The wood groans as I lower myself into the chair.
Helga places a steaming cup of tea in front of me. “You wouldn’t know who was responsible for the attack, would you, Edith?”
“No,” I say, staring down at the dark liquid.
I bite my lip, cutting off the rest of the words.
I want to tell her it wasn’t me, but… as much as I try to, I still can’t remember everything.
Would she even believe me? No one at my old school did, even though I was a straight A student and one of our best runners.
Helga doesn’t even know me. If I mention the symbol or my nightmare, who knows what she’ll think?
We sit in silence. Hot steam curls in the air, filling my nose with the tea’s herbal aroma.
Helga nudges the cup closer. “Tell me about last night.”
I take a slow sip to buy myself some time. The blend tastes strange, unlike any of Patricia’s teas. Earthy, with a harsh, bitter taste, but there’s something almost coppery about it too. Shuddering, I set the cup down quickly and tell her what I do remember.
By the time I finish, my mouth feels bone-dry. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can recall. I must have gone into shock, because everything is all jumbled.”
“I see,” Helga says, leaning back in her chair. “Agnar mentioned your hands were bloody. Tell me, why is that?”
I take another sip to wet my tongue before continuing, “There was something drawn on her chest in blood.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “While I was trying to make out what it was, I accidentally smeared it.”
The teacup trembles in my hands. What am I even saying?
I shake my head. “Sorry, I don’t know why I—”
“The tea,” Helga says simply. “It’s a special seier blend. Truth-teller. You cannot lie right now even if you wanted to.”
I quickly set the porcelain cup down, splashing some tea. “You drugged me?”
“I needed to know the truth” is all she offers. No apology. Nothing.
It feels like a violation. Claws cut into my palms with a sharp sting, but I do my best to hide them in my lap. “How long does it last?”
“With the few sips you took? No more than twenty minutes. Probably.”
I sit there, silently seething. Calm down, Edith. Breathe.
This isn’t the time or place to lose my temper.
“Let me ask you this.” Helga pauses for a long moment, letting the weight of her words settle over me. “Did you kill Emilía?”
“I don’t think so.”
Helga laces her wrinkled hands together on her desk. Strange symbols are tattooed over both her hands and run down the length of her fingers, reminding me of my nightmare. “Tell me about this symbol you saw.”
Helga gives me a shrewd look. She watches me the same way her raven does, intense and unblinking. I fidget uncomfortably in my seat. I have to look away, unable to bear her scrutiny a moment longer.
“It was a triangle… three of them, interlocked together.”
The words sound strange, forced from my lips. Before I even remembered seeing it this morning, the same symbol appeared in my nightmare last night. Almost as if my subconscious was trying to tell me something.
After a long moment, Helga says, “You are not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“What?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise. “Shouldn’t people know? There’s a murderer in Skallagrim. More people could be in danger. My little sister could be—”
“The school is safe,” Helga says harshly.
I must be glaring at her because she adds, “In thirty years, we’ve had fewer than three deaths. After the Tragedy, the gates of this school nearly closed forever. A long legacy passed down through my family, all the way back to Egill himself, was almost destroyed.”
I clench my teeth together. She’s as stubborn as her sister.
“My father was ousted after the Tragedy, which is how I came to sit here. If word gets out we have a killer on campus, Skallagrim won’t survive this time,” Helga says, her voice grave.
“This school has only ever closed once. During a time of religious extremism, we were forced to. Do you know what happened?”
I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“We call it Brennuoldin, or the fire century.” Helga tips her chin toward the stone etching on the wall. “Those are the names of every Icelander hunted down and burned alive for practicing seier during that time. Jón Rognvaldsson was the first of hundreds. Witches. Berserkir. Seers.”
My stomach sinks as I realize just how many names are written there.
And how many more aren’t.
“Once they thought they’d burned the last of us, society turned on our hunters, too.
You see, hunting us required them to learn seier themselves.
When we reopened Skallagrim—privately funded this time—we welcomed in the remaining hunters, ensuring they only hunt wayward seier users in order to keep our existence secret.
“That is why Skallagrim is so important,” Helga continues. “We provide a safe haven for seier and all its practitioners. But I have a board to answer to. I can’t—nay, I won’t—let anything interfere with that mission.”
Clearly Helga intends to sweep Emilía’s death under the rug. One girl’s death may be an acceptable loss to her, but not to me. If there’s a killer at Skallagrim Academy, then Bea is in danger too.
I push up from my chair and head for the door.
“Don’t even think of interfering with the investigation,” Helga adds wryly.
“And if I refuse?” I ask. Damn this truth-teller tea.
“Then you’ll be expelled and face the justice system back in the United States. However, I would hate for that to happen. It’s vital you continue your studies at Skallagrim. Perhaps if your father had finished his, then—”
“Wait. What?”
“Did you not know?” Helga lifts her brows, wrinkling her forehead. “Your father, Henry, once attended Skallagrim Academy, but he never completed his studies. Perhaps if he had, then things would have turned out differently.”
I clench my hand into a shaking fist. Maybe Mom would still be alive. Maybe we’d still be a family. Maybe I would actually be happy. My nails break the skin of my palm, raw and painful. Even if I didn’t kill Emilía, unless I learn how to control my berserking, I could kill someone else.
Just like my dad.
I have to stay at Skallagrim. I have no choice.
“Fine,” I force out. “I won’t tell anyone.”
Helga nods, satisfied. “Then you may leave. But if you hope to stay at Skallagrim, I expect you to take your lessons seriously. Deadly seriously.” She meets my eyes with a grave expression.
Her words feel like another threat.