Chapter Thirty-Six Amund
“What was she doing here?” Father demands.
I ease myself back against my pillow, grateful Edith left without incident. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what she was going to do. Something in the air shifted. Her nails started sharpening into claws. Edith may be a berserkr, but she’d never survive a fight with my father.
No one would.
“She just came by to see how I’m doing.”
“I see,” Father says, taking the seat Edith was in moments ago. “Whatever is going on between the two of you, it needs to end. That girl is trouble.”
I grind my teeth. My first instinct is to defend Edith, but if I do, I’ll only reveal that I care for her. Father wouldn’t take that well.
“Nothing is,” I say firmly.
That much is true. Nothing can ever happen between us. Not only is she a berserkr, but Nils is clearly interested in her. I didn’t put my brother first before, but now I have to.
“Good.” Father looks me over, assessing my injuries. “You’re the worse for wear.”
A rough laugh escapes me. “I’ve been better, that’s for sure.”
I did my best to hide my pain from Edith, but Father is different. He’s too familiar with injuries, and inflicting them, to conceal anything from him.
“Is that arm broken?” he asks.
I nod. “Mother used healing magic on it, but it’ll take some time to set. In a couple of days, I should be able to—”
Father leans forward, grasping my shoulder tightly. “No, son. If you return before you’re fully healed, you’ll be placing yourself in greater danger.”
“Well, I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
“I promise, I’ll make whoever did this to you pay.
” His voice turns low and menacing. Protective, even.
It’s something I rarely ever hear. Father normally keeps his emotions wrapped more tightly than my injured arm.
The only times I’ve seen him get emotional are when he talks about his dead brother. Or my mother.
Words fail me.
All I can manage to do is nod.
“Can you describe what attacked you?” Father asks. “Anything will help.”
“The creature was unlike any berserkr I’ve ever seen.
” I struggle to sit up. “He was more a werewolf than a wolf. He stood on his hind legs like a man but also ran on all fours like a wolf, without any of its grace. And his glowing eyes… they weren’t yellow like a berserkr’s. They were completely white.”
Maybe it’s the grim light of the clinic, but it looks like Father’s face drains of color. “Are you certain?”
“I got a good look before the creature attacked this time.”
Father drags a hand through his short hair. “That sounds like an original berserkr. I can’t be sure, since I’ve never seen one myself, however…” His voice trails off. He doesn’t need to finish.
Everyone at Skallagrim has heard about them.
Our founder, Egill, was the first berserkr.
Before berserking became an inherited ability, the transformation wasn’t as natural as it is today.
Original berserkir were neither fully man nor animal when they transformed.
Instead, they were seers who wore animal pelts and channeled the beast’s spirit, making them more out of control. Animalistic. And now—
“Is that why Egill’s pelt went missing?” I ask. I’d completely forgotten about the theft until now. But it might just be what started everything.
Father grimaces. “It must be.”
The pieces of this puzzle are starting to click into place. It makes sense why Edith claimed the killer was following her through the seer campus too.
I stare at him expectantly. “That means the killer is a seer.”
The weight of my words settle over us.
“Which means it could be anyone,” Father says gravely.
I wait for him to offer more, but he doesn’t. I grasp the rough sheets, crushing them in my fist. Why won’t Father admit he is a seer? I saw his portrait in the seer school, right beside Trygve’s. Now I need to hear it from him.
“Do you have any idea who it might be?” I press. “Do you know of any other seers at Skallagrim?”
Come on, I plead silently. Tell me the truth.
Seconds stretch out painfully.
If there was any time to come clean, it’s right now.
Instead, Father says nothing.
My stomach bottoms out. Could he be the killer?
No. I don’t want to believe it. Father has dedicated himself to protecting Skallagrim. But… he is the only seer I know, other than Irina. I’m ashamed to even think that it’s possible.
I fall silent, studying his severe face.
My father is ruthless, a trained killer.
He would be the only person in Skallagrim capable of taking Idris by surprise, let alone killing him.
Ever since Idris stopped hunting, they’ve been at odds.
He is—was—one of the only hunters to question what we do, and challenge others to do the same. Father hated him for it.
I feel suddenly sick.
But why would Father ever go berserk? He blames the berserkir for killing Trygve.
Unless… is he trying to pin this on them?
He ordered us to shoot any berserkir out after curfew.
And this is all happening when the Unity Celebration is being held for the first time in thirty years.
Is this some kind of twisted revenge for the Tragedy?
Even so, I can’t believe my father would ever willingly go berserk. Not when it would mean him becoming that which he hates more than anything.
Movement over Father’s shoulder catches my attention.
Someone ducks behind the wall, but I catch a flash of brown hair.
“Nils?” I ask in disbelief. Am I hallucinating?
Nils emerges from around the corner, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey,” he says, clearly uncomfortable. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I brought you some medicinal tea.”
Father stiffens at the sight of him. Nils holds up a metal thermos sheepishly, careful to avoid eye contact with Father. Rather than come any closer, he hangs back.
The silence is suffocating.
Father stands. “I’d better be going.”
With that, he turns and leaves.
Once he’s gone, Nils hesitantly approaches the bed. He holds the thermos out to me.
“Thank you,” I tell Nils, struggling to reach out and take it. As soon as I do, my brother turns toward the door. I guess he can’t wait to leave, even if it means following Father.
I stare at the thermos, the metal cold in my hand.
With my arm pinned down, I can’t even unscrew the lid.
Nils hesitates, glancing over his shoulder. Noticing my frustration, he frowns as he looks at my broken arm. He casts one last look at the door before walking over to me.
“Let me.” Reluctantly, he reaches for the thermos and unscrews the lid. “When Mom told me you were attacked, I… I didn’t realize it was so bad.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“This should help with the pain anyway.” Nils can’t meet my eyes as he hands me back the open thermos. “I made this especially for you.”
“Thank you, Nils.”
He gives me a sad look, his eyes watery. “Don’t thank me yet.”
I sip the warm tea, only to grimace. “It tastes awful.”
“I know,” Nils says with an apologetic laugh. “But it’ll help you heal quickly.”
He hesitates on his way out. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Wait,” I say, not wanting to lose this opportunity. This is the most we’ve spoken in years. If being attacked is what it takes for Nils to talk to me again, then it will be worth it. “I’m sorry.”
Nils lingers in the doorway. “For what?”
“I’m sure you know.” I try to sit up, only to be met with a sharp pain. “I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”
Nils falls quiet. For a long moment, he says nothing, then clears his throat like he’s overcome by emotion. “Don’t worry about that now. Just worry about getting better.”
He disappears, and I slam my fist into the bed. Damn it.
I chug the rest of the bitter medicine. My throat burns, but at least it’s done with. Before my head can even hit the pillow, my eyes are already closing. Whatever this tea is made from, it works fast. I’d expect nothing less from Nils.
Sleep claims me before long.