Chapter 22
The mechanical clock on the mantle ticked toward midnight when Talia heard the first voices.
Not Klaus's measured footsteps returning from reconnaissance. Not the wind rattling the shutters. But human voices, multiple and loud, carrying across the snow with the distorted acoustics of anger and fear.
Her stomach dropped.
Theo looked up from the wooden puzzle Klaus had made him, his small face going pale in the lamplight. "Aunt Talia?"
She moved to the window, peered through the gap in the curtains. Torch light flickered between the trees, bobbing and weaving like predator eyes in the darkness. Too many lights. Too many voices.
They're coming.
The thought arrived with terrible clarity, stripping away the fragile hope she'd been clinging to for the past three hours. Klaus had gone to observe the festival, to assess the threat level, to determine whether Jorund's rhetoric would translate into action.
Apparently, it had.
"Go to your room." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "Get under the bed. Stay quiet no matter what happens."
"But—"
"Now, Theo."
He scrambled toward the bedroom, clutching his puzzle piece like a talisman. The door clicked shut just as the voices grew loud enough for her to distinguish words.
"—can't just let this stand—"
"—unnatural things in her cellar—"
"—our children at risk—"
Her hands trembled as she stepped back from the window. The homestead suddenly felt too small, too exposed. Every repair Klaus had made, every improvement they'd implemented together, now seemed like evidence of guilt rather than simple competence.
Where is he?
The question stabbed through her chest with physical force. Klaus should have returned by now. Should have given her warning, prepared defensive measures, done whatever tactical analysis his Tandroki brain deemed necessary.
Unless something had happened to him. Unless Jorund had somehow captured or injured or—
No. She forced the thought away. Klaus was practically indestructible. Had survived a crash that should have killed him, healed from injuries that would have crippled a human. He was fine. Had to be fine.
The alternative was unthinkable.
The torch light grew closer. Talia counted at least twenty distinct flames, maybe more. Her neighbors. People she'd traded with, helped, tried so desperately to befriend. Coming to her home in the middle of the night with weapons and fire.
The betrayal tasted like copper in her mouth.
She'd given Martha herbs for her arthritis. Had fixed Albert's broken plow blade using skills Klaus taught her. Had made toys for children whose parents could barely afford food, asking nothing in return because that's what neighbors did.
And now those same neighbors were marching toward her door, convinced she'd brought demonic corruption into their village.
Maybe I did, a traitorous part of her mind whispered. Maybe sheltering Klaus was selfish. Maybe I put my own loneliness above their safety.
But that thought dissolved when she remembered Klaus reading to Theo, his deep voice stumbling over unfamiliar words but persisting because he wanted the boy to smile.
Klaus repairing Nimbus's injured leg with the same precision he'd use on advanced technology, treating a simple deer with dignity and care.
Klaus looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the universe, his icy reserve melting into warmth that made her heart ache.
Monster, Jorund called him. Demon. Corruption.
But demons didn't stay up all night fixing toys for children. Didn't learn human bedtime rituals because a grieving boy needed comfort. Didn't look at her with such vulnerable longing, like she was the answer to questions he'd never known to ask.
The voices were close enough now that she could identify speakers.
Jorund's authoritative timbre, rallying and directing.
Thomas the blacksmith, usually jovial but now grim with purpose.
Old Man Henrik, who she'd helped with his firewood last month.
Anna, whose daughter treasured the mechanical bird Klaus and Talia had made together.
Anna, who'd smiled when her child laughed at the bird's movement. Who'd thanked Talia with genuine warmth.
Now holding a torch and walking toward Talia's home like she was purging evil.
The hurt of it threatened to buckle her knees. She'd tried so hard. Had worked herself to exhaustion building bridges, creating value, demonstrating trustworthiness. Had thought she was finally succeeding, finally becoming part of this community her sister had loved.
Sarah would have known what to do. Would have had the right words, the perfect gesture, the way to defuse tension with grace and charm.
But Sarah was dead. And Talia was alone, standing in a house that would never truly be hers, protecting a child who'd lost everything, waiting for an alien who might have abandoned her to save himself.
No. That last thought was wrong. Klaus wouldn't abandon them. Whatever his Tandroki conditioning said about logical efficiency and tactical retreat, he wouldn't leave. Couldn't leave.
She'd seen it in his eyes three nights ago when he'd looked at her and Theo over dinner. The fierce protectiveness that transcended rational calculation. The belonging that had nothing to do with strategy.
He'd stay. Would fight if necessary. Would demonstrate exactly the kind of dangerous capability that would prove Jorund right and destroy any hope of peaceful resolution.
Because that's what happened when you backed a warrior into a corner with the people he loved.
Loved. The word bloomed in her consciousness like warmth in winter darkness. Klaus had never said it—probably didn't even have a translation for it in his Tandroki vocabulary. But she'd felt it in every gentle touch, every patient explanation, every time he'd chosen her comfort over his efficiency.
And she loved him back. Completely. Irrationally. In a way that made no logical sense but felt more real than anything she'd ever experienced.
Which meant she couldn't let him throw away his future defending her from fear and superstition.
The footsteps stopped outside. Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of torches and her own thundering heartbeat. Talia moved away from the window, positioning herself in front of Theo's bedroom door. If they broke through, they'd have to go through her first.
Someone knocked. The sound was almost polite, civilized, completely at odds with the armed mob outside.
"Talia." Jorund's voice, calm and reasonable. "We need to speak with you. With your... companion. Please come out."
Her mouth was too dry for speech. She swallowed, tried again. "It's late. Whatever this is about can wait until morning."
"I'm afraid it can't. The village has questions. Concerns that need addressing before the Longest Night passes." Still reasonable. Still calm. The tone of someone who held all the power and knew it. "We're not here to hurt you. Just to talk."
Liar. But what choice did she have? Refuse and they'd break down the door. Accept and at least she could try to reason with them, explain, demonstrate that neither she nor Klaus posed any threat.
Even though every bone in her body screamed that reasoning with a mob was like reasoning with winter—both would kill you while insisting they had no choice—she opened the door.
Her knees trembled but she locked them in place.
At least twenty people, maybe more in the shadows beyond the torch light. All familiar. All carrying tools that could double as weapons. All looking at her with expressions ranging from grim determination to active fear.
As if she were the threat. As if her existence endangered them.
Martha stood near the back, face tight with disapproval but not aimed at Talia. Albert beside her, jaw set. But they were outnumbered by those who'd bought Jorund's rhetoric wholesale. Who looked at her homestead like it was contaminated ground.
Jorund stepped forward, torch held high. His face was solemn, righteous, the expression of a man doing difficult but necessary work. "Where is the creature?"
"Klaus is not a creature. He's a person from—"
"Where. Is. It," he snapped. "We know you're hiding something unnatural here. The village has a right to see what threatens us."
"He threatens no one. He's been helping me repair the homestead, teaching me skills, caring for—"
"Witchcraft." The word came from Thomas, who'd laughed at her jokes last market day. Who'd traded her three good hinges for one mechanical toy. "We've all seen what you create together. Things that move against nature. Tools beyond any honest craft."
"It's technology. Advanced engineering. Nothing supernatural, just—"
"Then demonstrate it." Jorund's smile was sharp. "Show us these tools. Explain their workings. Prove they're as natural as you claim."
It was a trap. She recognized it with sinking certainty. Show Klaus's technology and prove it was beyond human capability, confirming supernatural origin. Refuse and prove she was hiding something dangerous.
There was no right answer. No winning move. Just like her parents' debts. Just like Sarah's death. Just like every impossible situation life had thrown at her. Except this time she had something to lose that mattered more than survival. She had people depending on her who'd already lost too much.
"I won't wake him for this." Her voice came out stronger than she felt. "You want to talk, we'll talk in the morning. At a reasonable hour. Like civilized people."
"Civilized people don't harbor demons."
"Civilized people don't show up at their neighbors' homes with torches and weapons in the middle of the night." She met Jorund's eyes. "You want proof I'm not corrupted? Here it is—I'm standing here trying to reason with you instead of fighting. If I had demonic power, don't you think I'd use it?"
The logic was sound. She watched it land, watched doubt flicker across faces. Anna's grip on her torch loosened slightly. Old Man Henrik shifted his weight, uncomfortable.