Chapter 11
Iemerge from the hollow at the base of an ancient oak.
Upon seeing it, I thought I could take refuge there for the entire duration of Myrknótt, but it’s not deep enough, and the netting of gnarled roots not dense enough to fully conceal me from the outside world.
I take a sip of water as I crouch beside the entrance of my hiding place, surveying the moon-bitten expanse that glows as white as daylight.
A shame Myrknótt falls on full moons. Then again, the rise and fall of moons are how shifters track time. Do Freyja’s Daughters use a lunar calendar as well? What of Odin’s Sons?
Gods, I am so unworldly. I should’ve cornered an elder and forced him to tell all so I’d have been more prepared. Then again, the elders hold the Empresses and the vampyric dragon tamers in such low esteem that whatever they’d have shared would surely have been tinged by antipathy.
I twist the lid back on my canteen then slot it into my rucksack, far from the canister of deer urine so the metal containers don’t clink together.
I consider drizzling a few drops of the latter, but not only is it unnecessary, it’s also ill-advised.
After all, wolves aren’t only hunting for mates tonight; they’re also hunting for wild game.
After slinging my heavy bag onto my back, I emerge from the crawl space and rise from my squat. The stretch feels divine after my long, steep climb and longer crouch. So much so that a small sigh escapes me.
Will Saga find a mate? It occurs to me that if she does, I won’t hear about it for months, perhaps longer.
Gods, I already miss her. And Mor. Before nostalgia can encroach on my triumphant mood, I squash it back and begin to move to even higher ground.
Though there are wild creatures up here, they’re smaller and leaner.
The larger ones—elk, bears, deer—the ones wolves relish, favor lower altitudes, thus my ascension.
The frosty air saws into my lungs as I take off at a run, winding like a wolf tail around the millennial trees. How fortunate that I’ve trained alongside Saga and built up such endurance.
My heart pounds harder than my footfalls, which I strive to keep featherlight. Perspiration slithers down my nape, gluing my underdress to my skin and my stockings to my thighs. I’m certain that in a few days, when my feet are blistered and my muscles tender, I will miss this tiny discomfort.
A fortnight. That’s my educated guess as to the duration of my journey on foot and without stopping for more than a few snatched hours of rest. In fourteen or so days, I’ll come upon the valkyrie border.
From there, it’ll take another four to reach the coastal capital where the Twelve are said to reside.
Will they be larger than life like in my childhood nightmares?
My foot catches on black ice, and I skid. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I windmill my arms, desperately trying to grab onto a branch. I succeed, except it’s too thin and splinters. I smack down on my tailbone with such force that stars spangle my vision and my whole spine feels like it shoots upward several inches.
Dazed, I sit there for several minutes. “Fuck,” I repeat, this time out loud.
I take inventory of my body, test my ankles, which roll without pain.
Good. That’s good.
No. Not just good. Fucking great!
I don’t even want to contemplate what my journey would’ve been like with a sprained ankle.
Actually, there wouldn’t have been a journey. I would’ve had to slide down the mountain on my ass and call for help. Oh, the world of trouble I would be in…
If I had thought the valley a prison before, it paled in comparison to what would await me. Mor would surely put me under lock and key, and Ulf would strap a ball and chain to my ankle. And Nordin—
I grit my teeth. Nordin would do nothing since he’ll surely be holed up with his betrothed, busy getting to know one another before Gothi Dorson bound them in holy matrimony.
My nose wrinkles but then straightens as my ears capture a muted click, click, click…
Like claws on ice.
Let it be a squirrel.
Even a bear.
Just not a wolf.
Also, preferably not a dragon.
Please, Fenrir…please.
I carefully thread my longbow over my head, then draw an arrow out of the quiver strung to my pack.
The clicking has stopped, yet my scalp prickles from someone’s stare.
Slowly…slowly…I turn my head. My eyes land on a luminous gaze set over a muzzle of snow-white fur—wolf.
I plant my foot and whirl onto a knee, pointing my arrowhead at my observer. The stripe along his spine glows Ravine red. Out of all the shifters in the North, I had to come face-to-face with a Ravine.
The wolf growls, saliva dripping from his stretched lips.
“My arrowheads are tipped in silver,” I warn him.
It was a last-minute decision that came to me after my archery practice. I’d melted a teeny mound of glimmering dust and dipped the point of each arrow.
“I will shoot you if you don’t back up and forget you saw me.”
More saliva gathers and drips from the wolf’s maw. Is he about to eat me? When did wolves develop a taste for human flesh?
My bow creaks as I pull the arrow back. “I don’t want to harm you, but I will.”
The wolf’s forehead seems to pleat in disbelief that I’d follow through with my threat.
He tips his head up. Before he can howl, I let the arrow fly. It sinks right into his long neck, making the beast release a satisfying yowl.
A heartbeat later, the edges of his body sparkle and he regains his two-legged form.
I reach into my pack for a second arrow when something rams into me from behind, sending me hurtling forward.
My forehead cracks against the forest floor.
When warmth rushes around my eye socket and cheek, I realize that whatever I hit split my skin.
But my gash becomes the least of my worries, because two massive wolves bearing red stripes are circling me.
When boots appear, big, black, polished to such a high shine they reflect the fat moon piercing through the canopy, my lungs feel on the brink of collapse.
Only Jarls can shift at will during this phase of the moon. Or injured wolves, my mind pitches in. Or a tardy shifter. Really, the Ravine standing over me could be anyone.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” His voice is so nasal it grates the inside of my skull.
Since I’m still lying face down, I slide one of my hands to my hip where I’ve holstered my dagger. Before my fingers can close around the handle, the male crouches, fists my hair, and yanks.
I think he mistakes me for a wolf and is about to shear my tresses clean off my scalp, but no, he merely uses them to jimmy me onto my knees.
The smirk carving up his face is as sharp as his head is thin and as brassy as his hair is orange. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?”
A grunt rises from behind him, from the mammoth, dark-haired male I shot.
“Fucking twat,” the incapacitated male grumbles while reaching for the arrow protruding from his neck. Once he’s seized it, he pulls it out, then snaps it in half like a twig. “Stings like a mother.” Blood surges from the wound as he rolls onto his side and attempts to press up.
“I asked you nicely to leave,” I mutter, delighting a little when he collapses right back in a heap, panting through his pain. “You didn’t. So suck it up.” I sneak a hand under my furs. “And don’t fucking call me a twat.”
The razor-faced male holding me by the hair snorts. “She’s got a mouth on her. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Keeping one eye on the third wolf—the only one still in fur—I hiss, “Cressida Larson.”
“From Clan…?”
“Vale.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” He glances at his still muttering friend. “Cressida Larson ring any bells for you, Arek?”
Arek is too concentrated on trying to staunch his gushing wound to bother weighing in. Doesn’t he realize that it won’t stop bleeding until his veins fully expel the silver? Hopefully, in several hours?
“Human or…” He tugs a strand of hair off my ear. “Huh. Will you look at that?”
I’m guessing the that is my pointed ear.
Razor-face sniffs the air. When his nose nears my brow, I tear my dagger from its scabbard and punch it through his calf. Shock loosens his grip and kicks up his lashes.
I scramble backward, holding my dagger steady. “I said, leave me the fuck alone!” I blink to clear my eye of cascading blood. Why must head wounds bleed so profusely?
Razor-face stands. “That was a very, very, very bad idea, Flower.”
Flower?
He lunges forward. I back up. Hit a tree. Shit.
The third Ravine must want a piece of the action, because as the one in skin closes in on me, the one in fur leaps.
I drop my dagger and grab Razor-face by his coat collar, spinning him around. My shield staggers, sending us both to the ground. My rucksack absorbs most of the shock; my spine, the rest.
As I brace for the airborne beast’s impact, I shut my eyes and hold my breath.
My mother’s face blooms against the back of my clasped lids, then Nordin’s.
I don’t chase his face away this time. Instead, I conjure it into finer detail to carry him with me to whichever realm I’m about to be pitched into—Fenrir’s Helheim or Freyja’s Fólkvangr?
Where do lost souls end up? With the God who raised them or the Goddess who made them?
Instead of crushing pressure, weightlessness comes as the redheaded male unwedges himself from my grip and flings himself sideways.
Actually, not flings; he’s tossed. How unfortunate that my newest attacker grasped my plan and removed the buffer.
I shift my gaze to the ground, intent on locating my gleaming dagger, when a paw plants itself so close to my nose, the fur tickles my skin. I wriggle back, bumping against the wolf’s other leg. I gawp at the belly of the monster standing over me, coat mottled crimson with fresh blood.
Razor-face’s friend has me caged.
Before he can tear into my throat, I flatten my palms against the frozen ground, making myself as narrow as possible, then push, praying the ice will help me skid out from underneath the behemoth.
My rucksack drags, not only hindering my escape but also dropping my growling captor’s head low. His stare cuts my breath short and judders my fingers.
Impossible…