2. Helene #3
The awareness deepens, discomfort spreading out from my head and heart until the tips of my toes tingle. I twist around, the seams of the costume pulling tight.
This is different.
Something’s changed.
The tone of the air, the noise level of chatter... What is it?
I’ve always had a strong intuition, the kind you learn to trust without words, and I’ve never felt anything like this before. Things are watching me. Some mark me.
Some are malicious.
Audra snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Hel!”
I stifle a gag, the weird change in the wind hitting me like a gut punch of adrenaline and anxiety.
“You’re white. Is it the meatballs?”
“I’m—” I break off on the fine I want to hurl out.
“Look, I had my time. Why don’t you take a walk and clear your head? I’ll man the booth for a few minutes,” she offers, round eyed with worry.
I push a hand against my roiling stomach. It’s not the meatballs. Instead of telling her the truth, I skirt around the table. The raven snaps its beak at the last piece of bread and eyes me but doesn’t hop away.
“Thanks, kid. I appreciate it.”
As slowly as we made it to the stand, I bolt, stealing whatever precious seconds I get. It’s no easier to breathe through the labyrinth of festival goers. The fireworks show is slated for eight, and before then, they’ll start calling out the ticket winners for the raffle.
The sensation sinks its claws into me. It spreads with rot and disease speed.
I knock into someone’s shoulder. They stop talking but offer no apology, and I keep walking. The tree line is right behind me. An entire forest to escape inside...
Where I'll be closer to those eyes, in the branches, in the bark. Watching.
My mouth dries, the queasiness twisting into something sinister.
“Honey, if you need a break, you’re welcome to sit here with me. It’s a safe space.”
Esmerelda pauses her needlework only long enough to see it’s me, then ducks her head down. The gold, aubergine, and sandstone strands will come together in one of her famous pumpkins by the time she’s done.
“You look like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have, Miss Blake,” she adds.
I scrub my temple and inhale. “People overload. Thanks for the offer.”
The owner of the antique store has always been sweet to me despite Mr. Barnes quasi-encroaching on her territory. A town this size has space for two consignment businesses, but Esmerelda set up shop first. If you believe the gossip around the twenty-five year-old feud.
And Barnes always said he’d stick to books.
A glint of burnished gold on the table catches my eye. It’s—
Oh. Shit.
Shock becomes a cold weight in my abdomen, sinking lower. The world presses in, my temporary peace shrinking, and suddenly the festival is too small and cluttered to contain my emotions.
“You’re selling it.” I point to the leather pouch like it isn’t dragging me closer to the table.
Esmerelda doesn’t notice the wince cutting through my forced smile. “Sorry, Blake. Times are tough for everyone. And those are solid bone and crystal. You know their caliber. I've priced them fair.”
This rune set for divination are worth more than she paid me for them. Way more. The bag and the messages inside are my mother’s.
Or were, before she died.
I sold them to feed us. The food is long gone but the glyph set is not.
“You know I’d sell them back to you if I could.” Esmerelda’s tone is oddly sharp.
“I understand. You’re doing what you have to do.” Blood drains from my face. “No hard feelings.”
With Esmerelda properly distracted by her crochet, I take the satchel, and my heart clangs against my ribs. My choices collapsed with Mom’s death, one by one, rows of toppling like dominoes.
I open the bag, and the crystal and bone runes spill into my hand. I know the weight of them, the roundness of their worn edges. Working them in my hand, I toss the tokens into the sack one by one, until only a single polished stone stares up at me from my palm.
Thurisaz (?).
It’s strange and amazing how quickly one emotion can flicker and transform into another. From grief and loss to confusion, frustration. Back again.
“What you got?” Esmerelda didn’t look up.
“A message, I guess.”
The symbol is meant to embody the raw and elemental power of a storm and the god Thor’s hammer. It’s an unstoppable force crushing everything in its path, embodying danger. Treachery.
Chaos.
Shards of glass lodge inside my throat. I don’t know how I know but I know. Mom always taught us; runes aren’t magic unless someone asks them a question Otherwise they’re nothing but carved stone, bone, or wood.
This isn’t actually a reading, or a message from the universe.
It’s a warning.
I almost put the crystal back, working it between my thumb and forefinger. Almost walk away.
Warnings only matter if you listen.
Which I do not, not even when a small piece of mountain separates itself from the ground. Not when craggy stone shifts into eyes, and the ground rumbles with its first step.
A different type of warning screams through me—worry, for Audra. I see trouble coming and feel it when the next step vibrates through my bones.
But for some reason, fear never comes.