Chapter 18
The instant Mor leaves to check on one of the pregnant women, I set down the vegetable peeler and dry my gourd-stained fingers on a rag.
And then I head to the wooden shelves nailed to the far wall and untuck the fairy-tale book from where it sits wedged between a tome on the medicinal properties of plants and a slender prayer book.
I snatch a quill and my little pot of charcoal ink, then return to our dining nook and settle back on the short bench. After sweeping away the leathery orange peels and blotting the juice with the rag, I crack the book open, having much on my heart that needs unloading.
It takes me all of a second to find my last entry. I hunt for new lines of text. Lines not written by me. Unsurprisingly, no magical reply darkens the margins.
I unscrew the lid of the inkpot and dip my quill in. Just as I’m scratching the date on the creamy vellum, Saga bursts in like a tempest, cheeks flushed, hair wild, expression wilder.
My stomach slips in time with my quill, which hits my open book, splashing ink everywhere—on my bare hands, on the delicate page, on my homespun frock. “Did the Vampyr King arrive?”
“What?”
“You look…rabid.”
“Oh. No, my mood has nothing to do with Taeric and everything to do with Leif. The bastard dumped me!” Saga strides over and sinks onto the bench opposite me before jamming her hands into her white tresses.
“Claims pups are less impulsive than I am. I told him that if he wants a passive bitch, then he should join Havrik’s pack.
” Her scowl turns into a frown. “Heinous Havrik. Are you trying your hand at writing fairy tales?”
Blood has never deserted my body so fast. Not even when the dragon dropped from the sky. Before she can decipher the next word—marriage—I snap the volume shut and flatten both hands atop the brown leather cover.
“Yes,” I blurt out.
“Yes?” Saga’s thin eyebrows gather close.
“I’m writing a fairy tale. Well, not a fairy tale. More of a gory story. My bad guy is Heinous Havrik.”
“Who’s your good guy?”
“I haven’t picked one.”
She plops her elbows on the table with a snort. “Your blush says otherwise. Tell me.”
I don’t. I can’t.
“You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”
Except this. “Fine. It’s Tyron,” I lie.
“Tyron Gustafson?”
“Do you know many other Tyrons?”
“Three-and-a-quarter-moons Tyron Gustafson?”
“He’s gone up a few moons since I rated him last,” I fib again.
Saga leans back, the wood creaking beneath her. “I’m a little surprised. I know he has a thing for you, but I didn’t think it was mutual.”
“It’s um, recently mutual.”
A corner of her mouth perks up. “What poor timing.”
“Why is that?”
She slides her elbows on the table and leans forward as though to impart a secret. “Because I just broke it off with Leif, so no double-dating.”
“I thought he broke it off?”
She flaps a hand in the air. “Potaytoes, potahtoes.” She squints. “I’m not sure I can see it…”
“See what?” I ask, looking down at my chest.
“You and Tyron.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling and lock on Fenrir’s carving as though willing him to send her a vision of Tyron and me. “He just doesn’t strike me as your type.”
I drape my forearms over the book in case she feels the urge to thumb through it. “I didn’t know I had a type.”
“You know what I mean…” She waggles her fingers.
“I don’t.
“Tyron is arrogant and immature. I didn’t think you were into that.”
How can Saga know me so well, yet not realize who I’m in love with? Does she simply not want to see it?
“If you could pick anyone for me,” I ask, “who would it be?”
She lets out a long sigh.
I hike up a brow. “Am I that unlikable?”
She reaches across the table and clasps one of my hands. “Zas, you’re just special. You deserve someone equally special.”
“By special, do you mean a valkyrie?”
“Not specifically.” Her eyes linger on my old, gruesome welts. “I just mean that you need someone who will realize your worth—however cringey that sounds.”
“My worth? I’m magicless.”
“Magic isn’t everything.”
“Says the girl with magic.”
She hooks one finger into her necklace and jiggles it. The colorful veins in the opal catch the firelight and scatter it. “Look at what you made. It’s extraordinary.”
“Anyone who knows their way around a forge could make that.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I can prove that I’m not by teaching you.”
“Just because I could learn to bend metal doesn’t mean I could ever craft something of this caliber.” She releases the necklace, which bounces against her collarbone. “Don’t underestimate your talent, your creativity, your vision.”
“If you keep plying me with compliments, my head is at risk of becoming larger than Tyron’s.”
She laughs, gives my hand a final squeeze, then picks up one of the discarded peels and rolls it between her fingers.
“By the way, has anyone figured out what I am?” I feel the need to lower my voice even though we’re alone and the door is shut.
“Leif and Tyron had some questions, but Far dealt with them.”
The mention of her father tightens my jaw.
“Speaking of Far… He got into a huge row with Nordin last night. Huge.”
“About?”
“According to Mor, Far is trying to convince Nordin to change his mind about Nika.”
My heart falters.
Saga keeps rolling the gourd peel. “Fingers crossed, he will. Those two are so perfect together.”
My throat clinches. “I don’t know about perfect…”
“Trust me, if you’d hung out with us when she was here, you would’ve seen it. She’s not only gorgeous but also sweet and kind and…well, perfect.”
I’ve never hated a word more. “Why don’t you get with her if she’s so perfect?”
My borderline scathing tone earns me a bark of laughter. “She’s perfect for Nordin. You know I like my partners dark and moody.”
Even though I wish she’d never brought up the Fjord wolf, it serves to dispel whatever hesitation I’m still nursing about what to say to Nordin when we finally finish our conversation.
If he does have feelings for me, that is…
Saga tilts her head. “What’s with the pursed mouth and pissed-off stare?”
“Nika reminds me of Havrik.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re mates.”
“Were. Past tense.”
I glare at the gourd peel Saga holds. “Is Kjell Blaka awake yet?” I ask, to change the topic.
“No, but his flesh has started to regenerate. Still missing a good chunk of it, though.” Her nose crinkles. “According to Eira, it’ll probably be another few weeks before he fully heals.”
“I’m surprised his king hasn’t come to collect him. Unless he has?”
“He hasn’t.”
“You think Taeric hasn’t heard about the fight?”
“I’m sure he has.”
“Then why hasn’t he come? Doesn’t he care about his people and pets?”
“He does.” She rolls the rind into such a tight cylinder that its edges fissure.
After a great deal of waiting, I ask, “What aren’t you telling me?”
She tosses the peel onto the small mound with a sigh and meets my probing stare. “I suppose it’s only a matter of time until you find out. Some of us believe Taeric Skarnir hasn’t come because his sickness has worsened and he’s on his deathbed.”
“By sickness, you mean his curse?”
Her lashes pull up a fraction. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Vanoo mentioned there was an infection going around Hasam?r. One that involves a curse and leaves marks on the skin…” I add, not so much to jog her memory as her tongue.
She bobs her head. “One of the Empresses cursed Taeric’s father. It’s what killed him and most of his regiment.”
So much for almighty immortals… “And it’s contagious?”
She nods. “Through skin-to-skin contact.”
“With any species, or solely between vampyrs?”
“Any species. Save for valkyries, I’d think.” She snags her lower lip. “I’m not a hundred percent certain about that, but I don’t think it’d affect you.”
“How does it kill them?”
“From what I heard, the vines move under the skin, sawing through organs.”
I drop my hand to my stomach, which churns as though magical thorns were writhing within me. “Didn’t Taeric’s father die before his son was born?”
“Yes, but he infected his wife, which led to Taeric’s infection.”
“So Taeric has been infected for…”
The only thing I recall from our history lessons is the ongoing Southern War that reduced Hasam?r to what it is today: a wisp of barren cliffs snaking along the continent’s southeastern border, with only the dragons that roost in its ridges for resource.
“Since his birth, twenty-three years ago,” Saga finally tells me.
“How long did Taeric’s parents survive after they were infected?” I ask my well-informed cousin.
“Months. A year at most.”
“How come Taeric is still alive then? And how come this is the first I hear of this curse?”
“Taeric is still alive because he was born with it. All the others who faced off against House Thorn on the battlefield died within the year. Taeric’s father slew the ruling Empress of House Thorn and many from her line.
” Saga holds my stare steady. “As for how come you were never told… You know how Eira doesn’t want anyone speaking about valkyries around you. ”
“How come you know?”
“Because I’m a shifter, and we’re warned to avoid Skarnir at all costs. He’s supposedly the only infected one left, though some believe there may be others.”
Her answer doesn’t sit well with me, and not because I think she’s lying, but because I’ve been aware of my ancestry for two years now. The least Nordin or Mor could’ve done was mention this curse and warn me to stay away from the vengeful vampyrs.
“Is there any cure?” I ask.
“The complete demise of the Thorn bloodline. Or, I suppose, the naming of a new Thorn Empress, but for this to happen, the reigning Daughters would have to elect someone from that bloodline. Since there’s no love lost between valkyries and vampyrs, odds are they won’t risk it until Skarnir passes on to the next realm and his people flee the continent. ”
“Which you think might be happening right as we speak?”