Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
La Croix disappeared just after the train pulled into the Minot station, off wherever he lurked when he wasn’t irritating all living creatures in his immediate orbit. But her old Mustang was easily spotted in long-term parking.
“A convertible,” Gray observed. “In March. In North Dakota. Is your dad tricking you into coming home so he can kill you with pneumonia?”
“Oh, please, he could kill me with a thought.”
“Uh, what?”
“Don’t worry, this car has an incredible heater.”
“Sure, sure, could we get back to how your dad can kill you just by thinking about it? I mean, I know he’s the Reaper, but how can he think you to death?”
Given Gray’s childhood, mentioning a potentially murderous parent was a dumbass move.
She cursed her lack of tact even as she ignored the question and talked up the car.
“This heater? It could warm up the Arctic. More than climate change already is, I mean. C’mon, let’s go.
The Mustang won’t hurt you. Most likely. ”
It wasn’t just transport; it was an inside joke.
Her dad had procured the Mustang her senior year in high school so she could drive it to prom.
He’d never gotten around to selling it despite the fact that Amara hadn’t lived at home in a decade.
But she still had the key. She wasn’t sure what that said about him. Or her.
Prom had been a bust, anyway. Her date showed up two hours late and left early with another girl.
The knowledge that Amara’s replacement would OD before she hit voting age hadn’t been especially comforting.
Nor had throwing her room-temperature Coke in the guy’s face.
The worst part? The cheating SOB was going to live well into his eighties.
The drive to her parents’ place took half an hour, which was fine because she hadn’t been kidding about the heater.
It was colder than Minneapolis here—colder than almost anywhere, getting colder by the minute—and crisp.
Dusk was quickly shifting into night, and the uncountable stars over their heads were brilliant pricks of fire.
It was impossible to take them in and not feel insignificant.
And Death’s daughter liked feeling insignificant.
She understood why so many dismissed the Dakotas with tired scorn (“flyover country”), but it only ever evinced pity in her. That’s fine. You’re missing out, but it’s fine. Stay in New York. Stay in LA. We’ll take all that room and clean air.
Gray yawned again, apologized again, and kept chattering while she wondered if she was losing her mind. Going home—bad enough. Exposing Gray to the dangerous chaos ever-present in her parents’ home—bad and possibly stupid.
She didn’t have to bring him. Easy enough to ditch him, in fact. But if she was going home in a long-overdue attempt to stop running from her problems—if that’s even what she was doing—abandoning Gray spit in the face of that.
Far more worrisome: Ditching him would put an unwelcome strain on their friendship.
Also, she was lonely. Even with her parents. Even when the house was full of death gods and their accompanying shenanigans. But it was impossible to be in Graham Gray’s orbit and feel alone.
“Gah, sorry,” Gray said after another yawn. “Long day and I didn’t nap on the train. Too busy marveling at the big soft bed to actually sleep in the thing. So what am I in for?”
“Sorry?”
“Besides your folks. Who else is gonna be there? I’d love all the dirt ahead of time.”
She snorted. “It’s not a class reunion.”
Gray shuddered. “Thank God. I’ll sit down with death gods before any of the shitheads I went to school with. Also, La Croix said something about calling the guide?”
“Gede. Pack of death gods. The usual gang of suspects.”
“Uh-huh. Pretend I’ve never met a death god.”
“Well, La Croix, of course. His territory’s south, but he’s fond of my mother. And if Death really is sick”—she was still having trouble swallowing that one—“he would hurry to her side. Hades and Persephone, too.”
“Wait. Greek mythology Hades and Persephone? Demeter’s daughter? The reason we have winter? That Persephone?”
“Yes, but the myths don’t get everything right. Sometimes they don’t get anything right. She adores her husband, and her mom was always overprotective. Demeter made the classic mistake; she made the Lord of the Underworld forbidden fruit.”
“‘I forbid you to see him again, young lady.’ Like that?”
“Exactly like that. Oh! And my favorite. If I had favorites. Which I don’t, but I can’t wait for you to meet my old teacher, Scáthach. And you’ll like Chernobog, but you probably won’t meet him right away; he’s always late and he comes at night.”
“And they’re your dad’s friends?”
“Colleagues. My father doesn’t have friends.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess that would be weird. Is that why you don’t want the job?”
“Don’t! Please, it can’t be. It can’t be my time yet! It’s a mistake, please. Please, I’ll do anything. Take my mother. Take . . . anyone. Just not me.”
“That’s one reason,” she replied carefully.
“Because, Amara, we’d still be friends if you—God forbid—had to take over for your dad.”
And then they were over the small bridge that marked the start of her family’s territory, thank Christ, and it was a relief to climb out of the car and suck in the cold air.
That’s how you knew you were back in NoDak; you inhaled and your esophagus hardened instantly.
Amara was seeing the farm with fresh eyes thanks to Graham Gray: Unabashed Tourist, which needed to be a podcast. And she had to admit the three thousand acres were splendid, even this time of year: all fallow fields and leafless trees, the monotony of white and gray broken by acres of evergreens.
The grounds were vast, the driveway snaked for three miles, and the two-story, ten-thousand-square-foot house—
“House? That is not a house, Amara. That is a stadium with bedrooms!”
—was on a private lake, and somehow designed so that every window had a water view. Even the basement! (Amara chalked it up to dark magic or genius architecture.)
If you stepped out the back door, you had your choice of four docks and half a dozen canoes and kayaks. The barn and outbuildings were on the other side of the driveway.
“Holy shit, this is a compound!”
“A hub and a homestead,” she agreed. “My folks entertain. And they get a lot of pop-ins. Sometimes by the dozen. So.”
“Death throws a potluck,” Gray mused, and giggled.
“My mother would never allow a potluck. She would take mortal offense, in fact.” Amara knew it was a cliché, but it was too quiet. “There should be people out here to greet us. Well, me.”
Gray shrugged. “It’s late.”
“It’s only nine p.m.”
“Yeah, but they’re old, right?”
“You have no idea.” Still. Worrisome. “Come on, this way.”
She led Gray up the heavily salted front walk and into an entryway that was larger than most living rooms. She relieved Gray of his coat and boots, took off her own, then tossed the bundle in the nearest closet and led him to the parlor, also larger than most living rooms.
“Jeeeeeezus,” Gray breathed.
“Yes, it’s . . . uh, well, it’s our house.”
The parlor, like most of the rooms, was all gleaming wood and glossy floors and heavy leather furniture, with loads of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves (complete with sliding ladders child-Amara definitely didn’t ride while pretending they were horses), thick throw rugs, a fireplace, a wet bar, and the de rigueur dead animals on the walls: deer heads, a bobcat, a bison, drake and hen mallards . . .
“Holy shit, that’s a cougar!” Gray was beneath two of the heads, craning so far back to see, she wondered if he’d tip over. “And . . . a grizzly?”
“Tacky, right? Sorry, my folks are old-fashioned.”
“No, I mean—did he shoot them here? On your farm or whatever this place is?”
“Sure. A while ago, but yes.”
He spun and stared at her. “North Dakota grizzlies and cougars are a thing?”
“Like I said, he killed them a while ago.” She cupped her elbows and rubbed, trying to chase the chill that had nothing to do with the weather. “Also, this is odd.”
“Did you just now notice?”
“No, I mean . . . where is everyone? There’s a reason the homestead is so big, and why my folks have a staff to help them with it.”
“Because of course you have servants.”
“Yes, and where are they? I should have had to introduce you to half a dozen people by now.”
“So what kind of benefits package does Death offer? Full dental? Paid leave?”
“You can ask him yourself. My suggestion is that you not lead with that.”
“Oh oh oh oh ooooooooh!”
At the familiar trilling, Amara turned toward the far doorway and smiled. “Hi, Mom.”
“Ohhhhhhhh!”
Amara braced herself for the clutch, and her mother did not disappoint, rushing across the room and hugging her hard enough to lift her off her feet. A good trick, since Amara had towered over her since she was twelve. “Herregud, my darling!”
“Nnnnnf.” Amara gently extricated herself. “Nice to see you, too, Mom. You know you’re getting shorter, right? This is my friend, Graham Gray.”
“Of course, of course, Amara’s told us so much about you, velkommen, Graham!”
“Thank you, ma’am. Please call me Gray.”
“As you like, dear.”
Her mother was . . . changed. Short and stout, with shoulder-length red hair shot with gray, her normally tidy braid was carelessly done up, dozens of straggling hairs sneaking loose.
Her eyes were still lovely, a clear green like beach glass, but the shadows beneath them were so dark, she looked like she’d been double-punched.
She had always looked extremely well for her great age, but today, some of the years showed.
But she was still strong and sweet and smelled like soap and honey and home.
Amara stopped staring long enough to remember her manners. “Gray, this is my mother, Freyja Brunhilde.”
“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Morrigan.”
“Hilly, please, everyone calls me Hilly. Has Amara given you the tour?”
“She just started. This is all amazing.” Then, “Oooof!” as she picked him up in a hug. When she put him down, he was flushed and smiling. “Wow! Great grip.”
“We’ll get you set up in one of the guest suites, don’t fret even a little. Unless you’d prefer the Caretaker House? It’s empty right now so you could spread out . . . or maybe Amara’s tower? Where’s your luggage, dear?”
“The Mustang. Amara said someone would be along to help—”
“Well, you and Amara can bring it in and sort out the sleeping arrangements.”
“Mom, where is everybody?”
“Are you hungry?” she asked with a bright, bright smile.
“We’ve got lots of leftovers. Oh, let’s see .
. . venison stew, some duck, lasagna, lots of sandwich fixings.
Or I could make something. Do you like lefse, Gray?
They have lefse down in Minnesota, right?
It’s good with brown sugar and butter and we have so much!
Or are you a vegetarian? There’s salad and pasta and—”
“Mom?”
“—and you just help yourself and make yourself at home.”
The sick feeling that had hit her when she saw the psychopomps at the RV park had never entirely left. The birds of prey, the crown, La Croix’s urgency, the quiet house, and her mother’s determined cheer were popping too many red flags.
“Mom, what’s—”
“Later, dear, your father needs to see you right now.”
Needs. Not wants. And he wasn’t here to greet us, either. That’s never happened before.
“Gray, dear, why don’t you head over to the kitchen—take the doorway behind me and you can’t miss it, but if you find yourself in the wine room you’ve gone too far—and I’ll be in there straightaway to fix you something.
And I just brought up a batch of mead from the wine cellar, won’t that be a treat? ”
“Mom, Gray doesn’t drink.”
“Oh, how stupid! I forgot!”
“Don’t even worry about it, Hilly. I wasn’t in the mood for fermented honey anyway, and I’m almost fully self-sufficient. Amara can vouch for that.”
“Can I, though?” The sarcasm fell flat, not least because she had trouble keeping her tone light.
“And then you can pick out a room. I’ll get Amara settled with her father and be right back, okay?”
“Sure. I’m guessing it’ll take you at least an hour, given the size of the place. I’m pretty sure your house exists in two counties at the same time.”
“Don’t be silly,” her mother replied, then seized Amara’s hand.
“Ack! Easy.”
Her mother hauled her toward the doorway. “Uh, Mom? I know the way.”
Her mother clamped down harder. “It’ll do him such good to see you,” she replied, and her tone—hopeful yet uncertain—alarmed Amara all over again.
“Mom.”
“I’m just so happy you’re home.”
“Mom.”
“And he will be, too.”
“Mom.” She’d known her mother was preternaturally strong—as a child she’d assumed every mother could move a loaded china hutch with one hand—but she hadn’t manhandled Amara in years.
“I wouldn’t say you’re scaring me, but you’re definitely uneasying me.
” That was a word, right? And if not, she’d make it one. Right now.
“It’s just so lovely that you’re here.”
Lovely. Not the adverb she would have chosen.
“It’s just such a—a thrill!”
Another descriptor that didn’t fit.
As her mother hauled her down the hall and into the next wing, Amara had time to take in the walls and note that they had changed exactly nothing in the decade since she moved to Minnesota.
More dead mammals and waterfowl, stuffed and mounted, including the lesser scaup drake, Amara’s favorite due to its purple head, and the trumpeter swan, her least fave, because swans were jerks.
And hey! Can’t forget the hunted-to-extinction birds (great job, Dad, really) also adorning their walls: the Labrador duck, the great auk, and the Eskimo curlew, which was just dumb. Who killed curlews?
Now the art: The occasional federal duck stamp painting long before there was a federal duck stamp. Some of John James Audubon’s original sketches. Van Gogh’s The Kingfisher (the one in the museum was a brilliant fake).
And there, just before her father’s door, the sketch of her mother, courtesy of Loki and never intended to be seen by Death, never mind mounted in his house.
It was part of the reason her folks decided her dad should go be Death in North America.
Amara used to worry the trickster god would come for it, but it had been centuries.
She planted her feet. “Mom. Stop dragging me.” Home five minutes and she could already hear the teenager whine creep into her tone.
Her mother released her, then grabbed her again, since Hilly hadn’t anticipated immediate obedience. “Sorry. Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I know it will do him good. Seeing you.” Her mother yanked the bedroom door open and all but shoved Amara inside. “Look who finally showed up!”
Then her mother shut the door. And Amara trudged toward the bed for a long-overdue face-to-face with Death.