Chapter 49
“What sort of magic did you infuse this cream jelly with, Mor?” Saga, who just finished consuming her third slice, uses a finger to scoop some jelly cream off my piece of cake. “Holy Hel, it’s delicious. Zas, you’re quite literally going to die!”
“Hopefully not,” I reply with a tight smile, her jest hitting too close to home.
“No one’s going to perish.” Sigrid shakes her head at her daughter and titters. Such an odd sound coming from my more-often-than-not stern aunt.
I look around the field at the partygoers who lounge beside the bonfire with plates and drinks in hand. Everyone’s laughing. No one’s dying.
Shutting down my hesitancy, I lift my piece to my mouth and bite into it. The icing’s flavor is lovely, but the spongy cake layer isn’t my favorite. A tad too bitter, like biting into unripe lingonberries.
“So?” Saga sucks on her fingertip. “Delicious, right?”
“It is,” I lie.
Sigrid offers me a generous smile, one that feels like she’s setting down not only her sword but also her shield.
“Oh, wow.” Saga’s eyes pitch wide. “Fireflies. I love fireflies.”
I frown because she’s never commented on her love for any insect before. “Since when?”
“Since Lenora’s bedtime story. Remember?” Saga holds out one palm to try to capture the glowing bug. “The one about the firefly that thought it was a dragon and tried to offer rides to other insects on its back because it saw dragons doing it with the vamps?”
I do recall that story.
As Saga lunges left then right to capture an unsuspecting bug, Sigrid peers around the clearing before staring in the direction of Meadowpoint, which is sadly too great a distance from where we stand and curtained off by too many fir trees for us to see it.
Otherwise, I’d be watching those tunnels for Nordin.
“I hope my son comes,” she says. “Saga would be so disappointed if he let his bitterness toward his father and me trespass into his promise.”
“He said he would.”
“Saga, sweetheart, can you walk these over to Eira and Klaudia?” My aunt hands the dedicated firefly hunter two metal plates topped with neat, frosted slices.
My mother doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, so she turns down her portion, which Saga happily consumes on her way back to us, after weighing in on Mor and Klaudia’s discussion about crafting a soap that won’t irritate babies’ skin.
“I know it’s your party, but perhaps that’s too much cake?” Sigrid chirps.
“No such thing as too much cake,” Saga quips.
“Couldn’t agree more,” Nika says. “Especially one that’s so tasty. You’ll have to give me the recipe, Sigrid. Also, how did you get the purple color?”
“Lingonberry juice.” Sigrid beams at Nika. “Come to the kitchen tomorrow, and we can bake another.”
It shouldn’t sting that Sigrid never offered to teach me how to bake. Yet it does. Perhaps if I’d shown half as much interest in cooking as I do in jewelry making, she’d have welcomed me not only into the pack’s kitchen but also into her son’s life.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to convince my father to vote with Nordin,” Nika says. “My brothers filled his ears with so many arguments that by the time I got to him, I couldn’t even get one through.” Nika sets her spotless plate back on the slab of wood balanced over two tree stumps.
“Babe, that’s not your fault.” Saga drapes her arm around Nika’s shoulders. “Your skin’s so soft.” My cousin’s fingers roam across the Fjord shifter’s collarbone. “What lotion do you use?”
Nika laughs. “One that Klaudia makes.” Another laugh. “I’ll get you a jar.”
There goes my jealousy again. Maybe I should admit to Saga that her proximity to Nika bothers me. She wouldn’t bite her tongue if our roles were reversed.
As I ponder how to voice my disgruntlement, a werewolf pads into the clearing.
His eyes glow navy, but his stripe isn’t red—Ulf.
I hunt the darkness between the trees behind my uncle for the stir of a second wolf, but the shadows are stagnant.
Could Nordin still be with the Glacier Jarl, or did he go home?
Once Ulf takes his two-legged shape, Saga slings her arms around his middle and hugs him with such vigor that my uncle raises a brow. One that makes Sigrid shrug.
“You came!” Saga exclaims.
“Why do you sound surprised?” He drops a kiss on the top of her head.
“Because you’re crazy busy being an Alpha.” She pulls back and squints around the clearing, evidently seeking out another Alpha.
When she begins to nibble her lip, I say, “He’s coming.”
Ulf and Sigrid trade a heavy glance that Saga thankfully misses.
“Are you having fun, my beautiful girl?” Ulf asks.
Saga grins. “You know me…I don’t only have fun, I embody it. Fun looks at me for inspiration.”
All of our brows sling up, because, yes, Saga loves fun, but she sounds a tad unhinged. I decide she must be overcompensating for her brother’s absence by acting extra cheery.
“You must try Mor’s cake.” Saga pulls away from her father to grab him a slice. “It’s divine.”
His enormous hand dwarfs the little plate she pushes into it.
Saga sucks in air, then grips that very same hand and flips it, sending the cake flying off. “Is that blood? Did you cut yourself?”
Ulf stretches out his large fingers. Sure enough, blood speckles his skin. Not much, but enough for me to wonder where it could come from since he doesn’t sport any open wounds.
Ulf wipes it against his trouser leg. “Left over from a little spat I had earlier. Nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”
My ears begin to ring. A spat he had with whom? With Nordin?
He grips his daughter’s shoulders and plunges his tormented stare into hers.
“One day, Saga, you’ll learn that being a leader is not always fun.
Hopefully, I can preserve you from it a few decades longer.
” He scrapes a caress along the edge of her jaw that is square like his, like Nordin’s, like Mor’s.
Not for the first time since I found out about my Thorn roots, I wonder if I took more after my mother or my father. And then I wonder if I’ll ever find out, seeing as they’re both dead. Perhaps their likeness was immortalized on a canvas or on a piece of wood? Is art a custom among the valkyries?
“How many more can our sky withhold?” Since Saga is staring heavenward, I surmise she speaks of the dragons sailing through the moonlit immensity.
“And our wards?” Nika adds under her breath.
“Our wards are unbreachable,” Ulf reassures us.
The dragons’ bellies gleam silver and white, save for one that shines like onyx against the indigo. Of course, Skarnir’s dragon would be in the mix. He’s probably not going to leave until he gets to avenge his master.
Will it be tonight? Will Nordin go through with his plan of hurling Tyron off the cliff face?
“Is Nordin still with the Glaciers, Far?” Saga asks.
“Yes. Still trying to get them to side with him. My stubborn boy.”
“I agree with him,” Nika says. “We should give them Tyron.”
Ulf breathes out a weighty, “I know.”
Saga suddenly squeals and claps. “Look at them!”
“At whom?” I ask.
She slow-twirls. “The dragons. They’re putting on a show. Do you think it’s in honor of my birthday?”
Alarm clangs through my veins now.
“Did she take something?” Ulf echoes my thoughts, his voice tiptoeing through the dense air and flicking my eardrums, making them thrum with a harried pulse.
“Not that I saw,” Nika murmurs back.
“I didn’t smoke or drink.” Saga rolls her eyes, which is a feat considering they’re still planted on the dragons lacerating the darkness with their amber breaths.
Admittedly, it does look like they’re putting on a show.
Saga reaches for my hand and clasps it tightly. “Let’s go lie down by the fire to—Shit!”
My heart takes off. “What?”
She bursts out laughing and lifts her shoe. “My boot ate your cake, Far.”
I snort, not so much because it’s funny, but because Saga has an infectious laugh.
“Thought it was wolf shit.” Another uncontrollable burst of laughter pours out of her.
Even Nika grins this time. “I’ll get him a fresh slice. You”—she wags her finger at Saga—“go sit down.”
By the fire, we’re met with more delighted peals.
“Such a perfect night,” Saga coos, staring around at her packmates with hearts in her eyes. “Can you tell Nordin to hurry the fuck up?”
The mention of Nordin dampens my bliss. “Can’t.” In the crook of her ear, I murmur, “Not of the same species, remember?”
“Species?” She grins, but then she whirls toward me, her expression flat with sudden gravity.
“What?”
“Shh!” she yells. “We’re not supposed to tell people.”
“What are you two not supposed to tell people?” Dov asks, from where he lounges against one of the logs girdling the bonfire, squinting through the tines of his fork.
“That Zas is part troll,” Saga deadpans, plopping down beside him. “Whatcha doin’ with your utensil?”
“Part troll?” I snort. “Out of all the species, Saga…”
She blows me a kiss before lolling her head on Dov’s shoulder and peering at his elevated fork while he explains how even the scariest creature appears puny when observed through an everyday object.
My stomach swoops, and the feeling is so familiar that my skin grows clammy. “Saga, how’s your stomach?” Mine churns with the memory of my doused drink.
“Fine.” She pats the grass. “Come look at our fork-dragons. They’re so darn adorable.”
“Fork-dragons,” Dov repeats. “Excellent name.”
I scan the clearing, checking if anyone else looks queasy, but I seem to be the only one. Even the humans, whose constitution I probably share, are grinning.
It’s all nerves, I tell myself. Because Nordin isn’t here.
Especially since I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol or water. All I’ve had is a bite of—
I spin around so fast, I almost topple. My eyes go to the frosted confection before swerving toward my aunt.
She’s no longer there. Neither is Mor nor Ulf.
Only Nika remains. She’s staring at the sky like almost everyone else, but not in awe.
Little worry lines carve up the outer corners of her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Saga.