12. Wren
Wren
The troll heads toward the bookstore. Ingenious, really. The beast doesn’t even stop traffic.
Kari’s magic, as chilly as his disposition, fucks with the mechanisms of this place. With the stoplight down there’s a pileup of enraged moms on their way to pick up kids from school and tourists with no fucking clue where they’re going.
Soon enough, they won’t even know what happened.
They’ll slap a label on it, like they did with the festival. Anything out of the ordinary fits rather nicely under the umbrella of mass hysteria.
It’s a human thing.
Icy winds scatter leaves and bow trees, filled with Kari’s minions and their unearthly singing. At least they’re in tune if the tune they’re going for is souls of the damned in eternal torment.
No one else hears it except Nicholas. He lurks in seclusion like some kind of monotone horror movie monster from the forties.
Helene and Forest have this covered yet again. Shadows cluster closer to my skin, and I take off in the opposite direction. Soon, the troll’s lumbering footsteps fade to a tremor as it pauses in wait outside the bookshop.
Instead of looking where it’s going, I’ll find where it came from. The thing’s heading toward Helene.
My stomach tightens before I can stop it.
Annoying.
The bookstore is nothing but a layer of dust standing in its way. At least she knows how to take care of herself.
So where is the tear in the veil letting these things come through?
It’s large enough for Odin to stuff his creepy crawlies so it won’t be subtle.
A scream slashes through the silence, echoing off the hillside and the sloping paths descending to the river. Churning water echoes the gunmetal sky. The wall of trees is a fortified barrier of tangled branches with only a few precious cuts for the brave jogger to take.
If they don’t mind running from wolves.
That’s where I’ll find the tear.
Away from humans, away from the town. It will be somewhere Midgard naturally bleeds into the next, a fraying spot leading to the limbs of the great tree.
Unnatural silence pulses from the hearts of the oaks and maples.
This place seems too much like home. I shove the thought down ahead of any damage and clear my throat.
Shadows leech from my skin to pry branches and brambles apart, the world swelling and distorting my vision. I stop, closing my eyes, waiting to the count of five before opening them again.
The moss seems to lift off the ground toward me.
“This is it,” I say softly. “Not trying hard to hide it, are you, old boy?”
Odin has no answer for me. He never does.
The magic is potent enough to drown me. Shrugging one shoulder high, I take off again. Here, the gray Monday afternoon in October fades away. I’m on my way through worlds, and the only thing that makes this so shitty is the reason.
The cold doesn’t bother me.
Underbrush rustles, and I stop, gaze snagging on the knot at the base of an elm before a pair of tall ears prick toward the sky.
“Ha. You little shit.”
The mist rises and pulses closer, the river’s song a poisoned lullaby, and the goddamn bunny has horns.
Trees crowd closer. Thank fucking gods for it, too, because if bunnies with antlers are running around, then the wheedling fingers will start pointing, and I’m not about to murder an entire town to clean up this mess.
Thinning or tearing veils are always someone's fault.
I should hurry.
I should keep my eyes ahead and my mind on Helene. My steps slow.
And is it my imagination but are the squirrels a bit too large to be from this land?
One of them skitters across the trunk of a pine and stops to frown at me with eyes glowing gold through the dimness.
My shadows don’t do much to the squirrel, about the size of a Labrador. “Shoo.”
It gnashes Bugs Bunny chompers at me before clawing its way into the taller branches.
There’s no shine through the canopy here. Watching my steps, I weave between them, along curling trails of mist.
Darkness thrives this deep in the forest, a shade so similar to Rokkrheim my teeth ache.
Right now, I have no home. Nothing to welcome me back with open arms. I have a soulmate who doesn't remember her sacrifice or mine, and it’s been enough for centuries.
Sometimes, I want more.
Which is disgusting, honestly.
I want more than the immortals meddling and their curses and the suffering that comes along with a game I hadn’t wanted to play in the first place.
It doesn't matter that I was correct. I’d told the others how the gods would take her from us. How they’re clever and mean and hungry, sharp-clawed with superiority.
Did anyone listen to me? No, they fucking didn’t.
The air goes rich and cold, and I stop, swearing.
“Now, you definitely don’t belong here.” I stare down the frost cat pack with a stern expression.
The leader drops into a feral crouch and snarls, the white and gray fur on its neck bristling. These kitties are cute enough to make a kid squeal and violent enough to split bones with a single chomp.
“Norwegian forest cats from Jotunheimr. Fantastic. Murder kittens.”
My chest clutches through the smile.
“Love that for me.”
Hard and fast, I loop my shadows around my fist and lift it to my sternum, magic throbbing and ready to be unleashed.
“You’re going to be challenging to round up. How many of you are there?” I do a headcount. “Five, great. Where there’s five, there are more prime numbers.”
Of course, the giant frost felines don’t smile back at me. My gaze drops briskly to the circling rogue kitties.
Shadows bend from my fingertips like eager things. I dart quickly, hauling myself up and swinging over the group. One of the cats darts up to nip my heels, and I kick it square between the eyes.
It lands with a yelp, shaking his head.
“Now get the hell out and go be someone else's problem. I’m busy.” Centuries old and somehow I’m still herding magical cats through haunted forests.
The lead cat leans closer like it's considering its next move and how worthy a meal I’ll be. Then with a dismissive sniff, it paws the earth and takes off. The last fluffy ivory tail disappears in the mist.
“Smartest decision you’ve made all day. At least it didn’t take much to deter you.”
The further I go, the less earthly or recognizable my surroundings become. The veil is too thin. The nexus points are bleeding into one another.
White flowers spear up, and the trees are a mixture of rotting and alive, blackened and green. Their thick branches strain toward an unforgiving sky. They twist around each other, locked in eternal embrace, some arching back to skewer into the ground.
What the actual shit has Odin done now? The Norns are not going to be happy with him for going this far out of bounds. Someone should have been dispensed to patch this.
Before some other Dokkálfar senses opportunity.
Despite the season, I pass bushes and trees heavy with full spring bloom. Through the gloom, light blazes and bobs, the hazy yellow twinkle flickering and disappearing behind another warped tree trunk.
There are monsters here.
I let out a breath that devolves into shaky laughter.
The answers are always hidden in the thin places. My mother said so. You have to be willing to look where others are too scared to tread. Like a damn fool, I always dove in head first.
“Unless it’s not Odin?” I touch down and creep through blueberry-colored shrubs.
“Talking to yourself again, Wren? Awful habit. I thought your parents beat it out of you when you were a sprite. Mine certainly did.”
By the time I turn to Sabine, my smirk is pinned in place. “Who let you out of your cage, darling?”
My sister’s best friend lifts a hand and the gauzy amber glow I saw before coalesces on her palm, sparks igniting on the dead leaves at her ankles. In the gleam I catch her flash of interest, a furious calling of a different kind.
The awful creature used to be interested in what I’d be able to provide for her.
Now, I’m not sure if she knows any differently, but her attention is stitched through with intent. Jaw clenched, I force myself closer, balancing on the balls of my feet and ignoring the cold, solid darkness in my head.
She sniffs and I dig my fingers into my palm. “We’ll call it a well-earned sojourn.”
“Out hunting murder kittens?” I ask.
“Please. I have better things to do.”
A Dokkálfar out of bounds. Interesting. Called it.
“I’m uncertain how the courts are functioning without you,” I reply. “You are the pillar of their gossip and dreams.”
Sabine and I have known each other for longer than most history can recognize. I wouldn’t label her a big player at court. Moreover, her ego has inflated, too oversized to fit through the majority of doorways, and she considers herself more important than she’s worth.
The mist parts for her, then curls around her ankles, up the slice of thigh. Her dress is water, the color of violets, designed to show off every ample access, weapons in an always changing arsenal.
“Come on, Wren, what are you doing out here?”
“You?”
Fire pulses in her eyes. “Only if you say please.”
“You know what I mean, Sabine.”
The words are a purr, and she shivers. For each step she takes toward me, I circle her, maintaining equal distance.
“Draven is going crazy. He barely leaves his palace anymore. Always planning and scheming...” She lifts a hand, her fingers spectral, then lets it fall, twining the mist around her knuckles. “It’s boring.”
“Why not use it as an excuse to throw a party?”
“Come home and entertain us. You know things aren’t the same without you. And with Draven—”
“Careful,” I interrupt. “I didn’t realize you were on a first name basis with the King.”
She blows me off. “Dokkálfar are concerned. No one wants to say anything, but the tremor has spread throughout our world. Wren.” She pouts prettily. “Please.”
“Please what?”
My shadows lift and twine with the mist, casting the clearing into an unnatural dark.
“You know, Sabine, if you’re going to beg, at least make it interesting.” I grin when her pulse jumps. “You’re starting to sound desperate.”
Her expression flickers.
Mean of me? Probably.
Sabine licks her lips, softening, reaching for me with intent.
I sidestep her and paint it as a game.
“Is that what you want?” she presses. “You want to see me beg for you? I’ll think about it if you come back to court.”
She lifts a delicate shoulder high.
Hard pass. I smirk. “You’re boring me.”
I’ll only ever want one person. Which is unfortunate for Helene, really.
The bit about the King, though...
Interesting. Has he holed himself up somewhere to plan for war? Once again my foresight is astounding.
I tuck the information into my metaphorical bag of tricks. If Sabine is telling the truth, and some new existential crisis has swept through our world, reaching the creature at the pinnacle—
Does it have anything to do with Odin’s heavy hand?
She huffs. “You’re not listening to me.”
I feign a yawn. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
She wants the version of me that still knows how to pretend. Poor girl.
The second yawn is entirely real and the crunch of underbrush beneath soft paws has my mind drifting back to the frost kitties. They might not be satisfied with horned bunnies as a late afternoon snack.
They might want something more substantial.
“There are no balls anymore. Nothing but dull, bleak days. He’s called all his available Dokkálfar back to the palace like he’s bracing for some kind of war. Is it any wonder I wanted to slip through the world a bit?” Sabine grimaces.
My ears prick. “War. You heard this verbatim?”
“Here and there,” she replies with a sniff.
Her dress, as insubstantial as the mist, shows a glimpse of perky tits and dusk-colored nipples. The roundness of the globes and the heavy fall of her hair would entice anyone, sane or not, to risk a touch.
My mouth goes dry and my cock shrivels. “Where did you hear it, Sabine?”
“Gods, Wren, are you seriously more concerned with Draven than you are with me? What’s happened to you?” She cuts her hand through the fog but the thickening haze recovers almost immediately. “You’ve changed.”
Every minute I waste out here is another minute Helene’s breathing the same air as a troll. If that thing so much as touched her—
Best not finish the thought.
“Darling, I am exactly the same as I’ve always been.” The lie tastes strange. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not adopting you.”
I snap my fingers, and her image fades, never here. The veil might be thinning, but she’s right about one matter, even though it was never explicitly stated.
King Draven keeps an iron fist of control on the door to his world. He’s shut all of them except the one leading straight from the great tree, and the only way out is by express permission.
Which must be hard to come by these days if he’s hibernating in his chambers.
“Sure as shit he is. Dramatic bastard.”
A thinning veil won’t make a shit of difference in the universe of the dark Fae.
Draven will personally keep the threads plucked tight enough to cut if anyone should attempt to pass. Of course he won’t listen to reason. Of course he’s preparing.
Because a fight is coming whether we want to admit it or not. It’s in my bones. The future war sits under my skin like rot.
I glance skyward, halfway expecting the starlight to solidify into the awful paleness of the Norns, the weavers of fate.
The impending twilight reeks of the heavy hand of something more mighty than Gods. None of us are exempt.
Not me, not King Draven.
And especially not Helene.