Chapter 42
Nordin doesn’t show at dawn.
I wander to the longhouse, which should be called the tallhouse, seeing as it’s two-storied, and help the early risers set out breakfast for the rest of the pack. Ravines flow in and out in a steady stream until midmorning.
The Alpha never enters.
“Have you seen Nordin?” I ask Thyra, a Ravine of barely twenty-two whose belly is close to bursting with her firstborn.
Though no one could ever take Saga’s spot, Thyra and I bonded soon after I settled in the valley.
Mor’s vocation helped, considering the Ravines only had one very old and very cranky healer before our arrival.
A man so set in his archaic ways that he refused to learn anything my mother brought to the table.
While Mor has been revered by the females, almost from day one, I’ve been scrutinized and whispered about.
From what Thyra tells me, they don’t understand what I am to their Alpha, and people tend to dislike what they don’t understand.
Not to mention, I have pointed ears yet cannot shift. Again, a conundrum.
I personally believe, given that most of the hostility stems from unmated females, the ambivalence toward me has more to do with rivalry than misunderstanding.
As Thyra stacks clean metal bowls on the long table beside the cauldron of gruel that I’m replenishing with more crushed seeds and goat-soaked barley, she says, “He went hunting in the Wilds and camped out there for the night. Rainn says they’ll be home tonight.
” Her hazel eyes sparkle. “And that it will be a feast of epic proportions.”
No wonder Mor didn’t tell me where Nordin was. She knows how nervous I get when he ventures into the Wilds. Where I trust her and most wolves to stay within the magical boundaries, I don’t yet trust him.
He may have sworn to me that he’d stopped his plotting, too busy running a pack, I’ve seen every Jarl—save for Ulf—come to the valley to visit with him. I’m aware I could be worrying about nothing, yet I still worry. Especially since the Ravines don’t have a Council to counterbalance the Alpha.
I might not have seen eye to eye with the Vale elders on every topic, but I always found it comforting that Ulf wasn’t alone in making pack decisions.
Thyra pushes a coiled brown lock off her forehead, then leans over to whisper, “Even though I hear things are a bit tense between father and son, I’ll forever be grateful to Ulf for the treaty.”
My eyelid spasms. Not because I care that Ulf’s getting recognition for something he didn’t bring about, but because I feel guilty that Nordin and Mor haven’t truly talked to Ulf since the night they both became Ravines.
I say truly, because when Mor went to pack up our things, she stopped by to see her brother to check on Tyron’s sentence. Lo and behold, Tyron had run away. The sentinels monitoring the pass mentioned seeing him race into the Wilds.
Though Mor didn’t trust this eyewitness, I did.
After all, Tyron had aided Vaelen. Of course he’d run to them with his tail tucked between his legs.
His odds of survival in a land infested with dragons and vampyrs were far greater than in one now ruled by a male who’d sworn to gut him through his scalp.
“I hear it’s a disagreement caused by our Alpha’s refusal to marry the Fjord Jarl’s daughter,” my new friend is saying. “Which, in my humble opinion, is a boon. I mean, now that he’s Jarl of the Ravines, his mate should be a Ravine shif—Zaskja, your dress!”
Thyra titters.
“You’re wearing most of the gruel.” Another bubble of laughter emerges from her throat. “Here.”
She snags the front of my dress, stretches the wool tight, then lengthens her nails into claws and scrapes off a lump of gruel.
“Did Nordin mention anyone catching his eye? We could sit them together tonight at the feast.” She waggles her brows.
“My grandmother swears that if you matchmake two wolves—those forgotten by Fenrir…” She rumples her nose.
“I shouldn’t say forgotten. Sounds awful, doesn’t it?
” Thyra’s lips tug sideways. “Anyway, if you matchmake them, you’re certain to earn a place in Asgard beside Fenrir and the other Norse Gods. ”
Even though my insides squirm at the idea of matchmaking Nordin to another female than myself, I force a smile. “You, Thyra Falson, couldn’t end up in Jotunheimr even if you tried.”
Her light-brown skin deepens from delight that I find her soul to be so decent. “You’re too sweet. Anyway, any ideas who we could sit beside him?”
Me. My lack of hesitation tells me that, as I suspected, the last of my scabs has fallen off.
I glance in the direction of the longhouse’s open doors, willing Nordin to trample the threshold. But he doesn’t.
Not until much later that evening, when the wild game the hunting party returned with sits crisp and glistening on every table of the longhouse, alongside heaps of roasted vegetables and mounds of boiled grains.
Mor is splashing mead into her cup when a hush falls over the Ravines.
Nordin strides in, followed by Vanoo—the newest member of our pack.
My wolf’s blue eyes cycle over the hundreds of faces peering at him.
I know he’s looking for me before his gaze even latches on to mine. And then he’s striding in my direction.
“Spotted any short-haired poltroons in the Wilds?” Mor asks, once Nordin reaches our table.
His clean-shaven jaw tics. “Sadly, not yet. Had a pleasant day…days?”
“Very,” Mor says. “The weather was so nice that Zaskja and I went swimming in the Basins.”
I can still feel the silken kiss of the water on my skin and its clean glide through my long locks. Can still hear it thundering down the mountains and pounding into the bedrock of the Ravine valley to carve out pools so deep no one has ever touched the bottom—or so Thyra insists.
She also claims a particular basin leads straight to Jotunheimr, so I receive her tales with a hefty measure of skepticism.
“How I love when the spring is upon the North…” Mor muses. “If only the world could tilt on its axis so winters were less brutal.”
Vanoo grins. “Doubt the valkyries would appreciate that, given they don’t have a built-in fur coat like we shifters do.”
I wonder whether Vanoo knows what I am. Tyron did. Is there a chance the traitor didn’t spread the news of my heritage far and wide?
“Have you been to the Basins yet, Nordin?” I ask.
“I’ve walked past them, but I’ve yet to find the time to go swimming.” He starts to lower himself onto the bench across from me.
“Maybe, if you don’t have too much work tomorrow, we could go together?” I offer.
He hovers over the bench, pupils blown wide in surprise. In truth, even I’m surprised by the boldness of my invitation.
He finally sits. “I’ll make sure to carve out some time.”
Mor snatches Vanoo’s arm and gets to her feet. “There’s someone you absolutely need to meet.”
A restrained silence blooms between Nordin and me after they leave. I seize the serving utensils and load his plate before fixing mine. Though rations are a thing of the past, my appetite has remained slight.
He brushes his bath-damp locks off his shoulder. “I heard you and Thyra have become fast friends.”
“She’s an easy person to like.”
“And the others? Have they been likable?”
I bob my head. For the most part, the Ravines have been amicable. “How’s Saga?”
“Busy with the Council, who’s bringing her up to date on all things Vale. But she promised to stop by tomorrow.”
“She’ll make such a wonderful Alpha.” I don’t add how I wish she’d succeed her father already. Knowing Ulf, the male won’t be stepping down anytime soon.
“She will.” He produces a pouch and holds it out. “Here. These are for you.”
I frown as I take it from him. One peek inside has my heart faltering. “Did you pick my cave clean?”
“Almost.” His smile is soft, barely there.
“I had Koppar gather your supplies. He sends his love, by the way.”
“I wish he’d join the Ravines.”
“Perhaps, someday, he will.”
“Evening, Jarl.” Thyra curtsies as she reaches my side.
“Evening, Thyra.”
“Need to borrow your cousin for a second.” And then she’s rushing me away, up the stairs to the mezzanine.
Once we reach the balustrade, I ask, “Where are you whisking me off to?”
“Just away from Nordin so that he can concentrate on the room, and we can see who catches his eye. Easy pass into Asgard, remember?”
Jealousy descends upon me. I’m about to remind Thyra that Nordin and I aren’t blood relatives when we reach the balustrade, and I spy three females closing in on him.
Thyra drops her forearm on the wooden beam and lists forward as though the weight of her rounded belly were dragging her off-balance.
I will Nordin not to give his feminine entourage the time of day, but he’s the Jarl—it’s part of his duties to make sure everyone is heard. As they chat, I grip my little pouch of opals so grindingly tight I expect the raw stones might polish themselves.
I hate every second of the interaction and want nothing more than to streak back down there and tuck myself against him in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.
“My bet is on Rikke.” Oblivious to my mounting frustration, Thyra asks, “Who are you betting on?”
My lids spasm, but then calm because Nordin is craning his neck, and not to look around. His eyebrows slant. His whole head slants.
Without a word, I back up from the railing, then turn on my heel and head back downstairs, the flared sleeves on my forest-green dress shivering from my brisk pace. I can feel his eyes on me as I march to the longhouse door.
I will him to follow me…to come after me. I almost pause on the threshold to check if he will, but my nerves get the better of me.
I don’t stop until I’ve reached another threshold—the first I ever crossed upon arriving in this valley. I banish the flashes from the fateful night, reminding myself that Varganson no longer lives here. No longer exists, period.
As I reach for the handle, my nape prickles with the weight of someone’s attention.
Without glancing over my shoulder, I let myself in, leaving the door wide. It’s only when I hear it snick shut that I finally turn.