The information is spare, and my fingers shake so much Amon pulls me off the stool by my waist and takes over. He shows me that most of the articles draw on a single original, from a place called Eureka in Alta California.
It happened the morning of Yule. Reports claim Soren stopped a car from leaving its driveway with his bare hands, ripped off the driver’s door, and flung a man out so hard his neck snapped on impact.
There’s one witness who says Soren wasn’t even frenzied, and another who says he definitely was, because how else could he have ripped the door off? Most of the witnesses condemn Soren outright. Unprovoked. Premeditated. Blood will out.
My throat closes, and I can’t stand the rich coffee smells. I cover my mouth. I know absolutely Soren did not murder anybody.
But there’s a dead man.
And Soren is in jail.
At least I know he is alive.
He must be so full of despair. Thinking of his own father, Styrr Bearskin, who infamously went berserk in a mall when Soren was eight years old and killed thirteen innocent people.
I’ve never seen Soren avoid my eyes as he did when he told me that story. He looked anywhere but at me, then would suddenly snap that hot gaze right to mine and not let go. As if I was the only thing to keep him focused. Keep him sane. I must get to him.
“Idun,” Amon says quietly. “Hey, jilly. You’re staring through the computer. You see something on the other side?”
I blink slowly, until my eyes alight again upon the screen. I click through to another image of Soren. It’s kinder, in full color. His shoulder leans into Baldur’s, and they’re laughing about something.
“Take me there,” I whisper.
“Huh?”
“Take me to Eureka. To Soren.”
Amon neither pulls a face nor even looks surprised. Only resigned. “It’s about a twelve-hour drive, maybe more if the snow’s bad, but I’ll take you.”
That was easy. “Why?”
“What the skit else should a person do? Leave you on the side of the road?”
“Some would.”
“I’ve met him.”
“Soren?”
The godling tugs at his eyebrow ring. “A year or so ago. At Bright Home. He was looking for you now I recall. Asking why Idun wasn’t at a Hallowblot sacrifice.”
“I only attend the quarter celebrations.”
“That’s what I told him and offered to hook him up with one of the disir-daughters. They love a good buzz.” Amon grins slyly, as if to imply Soren might have taken him up on it.
I return a level gaze. He can’t fool me so easily. “You know he’s no murderer.”
“I think anybody could murder, given the circumstance.”
Grabbing to-go cups and pumpkin bread for the drive, we go back outside. In the bright morning, Amon’s van is revealed to be a gentle sky blue. He tells me it’s named Aurora and boosts me into the passenger seat before I can protest. Once he’s settled behind the wheel, Amon says, “I also know the militia lieutenant in Eureka.”
My shoulders wilt in relief. Knowing the chief of the local authorities will be a boon. Since the death wasn’t on federal land, it’s the kingstate militia who must have him. “That’s wonderful.”
“Doesn’t mean it’ll matter a rag.”
“Do I want to know how you know him?”
There’s Amon’s wide grin again. Like he’s laughing at me. “Nope.” Then he stills, staring at the bobbleheads. “Skit,” he says. “Gotta make a stop first, jill.”
“Where? For what?”
He jerks the van into gear. “The new year nodder.”
As we drive to the south side of town, Amon points to each of the bobbleheads and tells me their names: Stone Brain and Hammer of Klaus and Short Stop and All Dressed Up/No Date and Fur Face.
“Is it truly necessary?” I ask, straining not to snap my irritation and worry. “We’re in a hurry.”
“If you want the van to run, she needs her good-luck charm. It’s a five-year tradition: first sober morning post-Yule, I have to grab a new daddy mascot to replace my father’s love.”
“Hmm. T is for Twat?”
“Lady Idun, I didn’t know such a word could pass those pretty little teeth of yours.” He pulls smoothly into an icy Walton’s parking lot. The glaring yellow flower logo is the brightest thing in the world.
Stiffly, I say, “I do need a toothbrush.”
Walton’s is a busy warehouse store with metal shelves and sweeping, blue-painted rafters. Yuletide music pipes merrily through the aisles. Garlands and sparkling Yule trees and glittery stars and candy canes hang from the high ceiling. We go to the pharmacy section first, and I grab travel toothgel and a brush. Amon stands with his head angled back to stare up at one of the trees.
“Should be some stuffed horses hanging by the neck from those branches if they really want to capture the spirit of the holiday,” he says, and smiles when I can’t help imagining the horror.
I drop my items into the hand basket and start toward the center aisle again, though I have no idea what part of the store Amon plans to find his good-luck charm. It seems to carry everything you could possibly want, with no conceivable organization. The entire place is a shrine to commercialism, and I can’t say I’ve been inside one in seven years. My mom and I traveled from festival to festival during the warm months and occasionally had use for the cheap supplies, but once she vanished and I lived with Uncle Richard, we abandoned this sort of place in favor of locally owned shops.
“This way,” Amon says, heading toward the rear of the store. I hurry to keep up, eyes caught by beach towels printed with pink and yellow sun runes and a poor likeness of Baldur the Beautiful.
“You know your way around,” I say crossly. “Visit my Bears often?”
He tosses me an amused glace and leads me further into the toy section. Twelve short aisles of glaringly offensive colors and sounds. The godling weaves past plastic dragons and pillows shaped like cutesy purple cat wights, robots and hundreds of Viker figures encased in plastic. A line of warriors dressed in black stops me in my tracks. GO BERSERK is the brand name, and each individual toy is labeled with a real berserker band like Mad Eagles or Scarlet Wolves and the warrior’s own name. With growing horror, I realized they’re based on not only real bands, but real men. I’ve heard of a few, like Hal Henryson, father of Henry Halson who is Vider’s mentor in Tejas.
And there, in a box with a garish gilded sun, is an action figure whose packaging declares: Special Edition Sun’s Berserk. Soren Bearstar.
I cover my mouth with my hands to keep from squeaking. The toy is shaped vaguely like him, with an odd skin tone more like dull sand than his lovely cinnamon. The spear on his cheek is exaggerated, as it is on all of them, and he’s grimacing as if about to go into battle, with a miniature Sleipnir’s Tooth sword in his hand.
“Heya, you found him,” Amon says behind me.
I whirl and actually smack him in the stomach with the back of my hand.
Amon catches my wrist a little too roughly. “Whoa, whoa, joke. It’s not even a great likeness. Not like this one.” He drags me across the aisle to the row of god figures and taps a finger against the plastic sheath holding a very voluptuous, very angry-looking Fenris Wolf.
“Oh my,” I whisper, appalled laughter catching in my throat. Her teeth are long and her breasts huge, her hair reddish like Loki’s instead of the dark color I know. “Is there one of you?”
“There was, but I was recalled.” Amon pauses, leans down. “For a choking hazard.”
The flirtatious tone makes his innuendo clear. Embarrassment warms my face. The godling laughs as I compose myself, smoothing down the flare of my coat.
“Now that I think on it,” he says slowly, “there’s no Idun the Young action figure, though you can find any other of the gods in some form or another. Not to mention apples of immortality made of glass or marble or plushy.”
I hold his lightning gaze, angry suddenly that it’s a secret at all. That nobody in the Middle World knows Idun is a girl like them, a girl with a mortal heart pretending to be a god. Mightn’t it be better if everyone knew? It would give people hope to know the gods need us, need a living girl to complete their immortal magic. Like Baldur, Idun could be a symbol of the connection between gods and humans.
But if Amon discovers I’m not divine, he might not feel a need to help me. I say, “I like my privacy,” and scoot around him into the next aisle.
It’s magic-themed, and I stop. Here are plastic seething wands and catskin gloves. Spools of red yarn with weaving instructions. Bags of runes.
I reverently touch a cheap velvet bag hanging from cardboard that declares, Read your future in twenty-seven runes! The picture shows pale rocks carved with glaring silver runes.
Amon joins me, dropping the Soren action figure into my hand basket. My noise of disgust only earns me a grin. “You want some runes?” he asks.
Shrugging, I turn away. “I don’t know what use I’d have for them.”
He grabs the bag and drops them in. “I know a fantastic drinking game.” “Which way to your nodders so we can go?” I do not let my gaze drift down to the runes.
Amon leads me two aisles down to one that is entirely made up of Thor Thunderer paraphernalia that you could never find in a temple. Replicas of the god’s hammer Crusher in all sizes and types, from key chains to one made out of a beanbag; a goat-driven chariot toy and a few blue-and-yellow-painted goat skulls; fake red beards; children’s costumes of plastic armor; sock puppets and collectible statues and picture books. And, of course, a long row of bobbleheads.
I stare in horror. Thor is the most popular god—the friendliest and, many argue, the best—but this is a shrine of tacky consumerism I can’t understand. He is a god. I’ve long felt isolated, but I’ve never before felt so sheltered.
Amon looms behind me. “You really hate this.”
“It’s so…crass. Disrespectful, after all he’s done for us.”
“Us?”
Pursing my lips to fake annoyance, I scramble for an explanation. “He protected everyone from the giants for centuries.”
Amon leans his shoulder against the corner of the bright red shelf, a plastic hammer hanging inches from his face. “Why don’t you just call him then, or one of the other cousins, to get Soren out for you?”
“You know the gods aren’t supposed to interfere with the affairs of mortals so directly.”
“The Covenant? I don’t think it extends to helping you or getting Baldur’s pet out of jail.”
I cross my arms and go silent.
The godling narrows his eyes. “They don’t know about your relationship. That’s why you won’t call in a favor. They don’t know of your relationship with Bearstar.”
“They do!”
“They don’t approve.”
I flick my fingers dismissively. He’s not wrong.
Amon says, “I’m not a huge fan of gods having affairs with mortals, myself. Doesn’t end well.”
Fighting another furious blush, I say, “I am not having an affair. That isn’t what this is.”
“It’s platonic, jill?” he drawls.
“Don’t call me that.”
“I can’t go around calling you Lady of Youth—people will talk. Though you blend in better than the rest of the cousins.” He nods his chin at my coat and chaotic curls. “Not just your dress, but you don’t care when I grab you. You’re easily embarrassed and quick to worry. You’re nothing like them.”
“Perhaps that’s how I want it to be,” I suggest.
He tugs his eyebrow ring. “Sure. Sandra?”
My mouth falls open.
“Petra? Elizabeth? Florence?”
I take a deep breath, my name caught in the back of my throat. I swallow and softly say, “Just call me Astrid.”
“Astrid.”
A shiver snakes down my back. No one—no one—has called me that except for Soren in six-hundred-and thirty-three days. I say, “Let’s get one of these stupid toys and be on our way. I am needed elsewhere.”
• • •
The sixth bobblehead is now stuck to the dash with some tackytape right in front of me. He’s the brightest of them all: Thor’s happy, nodding face over a sky-blue gown with painted feathers and a girdle of gold. He’s called Thrym’s Wife, and Amon gleefully explained it’s a new addition to the toy line or it would’ve been the first one he bought.
It is funny, despite myself, and based on the story of the time a giant named Thrym stole Thor’s hammer. To retrieve it, Loki dressed the god of thunder up as Freya in order to pretend to marry the giant.
Amon promises we’ll get to Soren tomorrow at the latest. There’s nothing I can do for the time being, though I’m unsure if he’ll be transferred or if there will be a bail hearing. Will his friends come for that? Rathi, the rich preacher, or Signy, the Valkyrie of the Tree? He’ll have a chance to contact them, surely, and perhaps already has. He couldn’t have called me.
If this hadn’t happened just in time for him to miss our day together, I still would not know anything went wrong. I might’ve never found out until it was all over, or too late.
Leaning my head back, I stare through the windshield at the mountain pass. My stomach is an aching hole, hungry and swimming with nausea at the same time. I close my eyes. Count the hours since I slept. Since the morning after the Yule feast, when I so greatly looked forward to Soren’s arrival. Twenty-nine or thirty hours. Hot air blows dry against my mouth from the dash, loud enough to hide the roar of the engine, the rush of wind. It ruffles my hair, tickles my temples. My head lolls to the side.
I imagine Soren driving, imagine he’s the source of this warmth.
I drift to sleep.
• • •
I slam awake, toes knocking the dash, hands flinging to either side.
There were eyes in my dream.
I dreamed. I dreamed.
“What the skit?” Amon demands.
My heartbeat thumps inside my skull, and my fingertips tingle. I saw something in the deep darkness, in the chaos. An image. Two moon-gray eyes watching me from a face half-swathed in stretched black skin.
Freya, my Feather-Flying Goddess. She sees me. And I saw her.
“Pull over,” I say.
“Huh?”
“Pull. Over.” My hands ache for the smooth leather of my seething kit. But it’s ashes. “Do it now, Amon. There’s no time to lose.”
“To lose for what?”
I say, “I have to seeth, right now, because I dreamed.”
“What?” The tires crunch against gravel as he obeys.
I swivel in my seat for the plastic Walton’s bag and dig around for those cheap runes he bought. A tiny laugh pops out of me: Amon’s destiny is working in my favor.
Amon says, “Wait,” but I’m already throwing open the door, tumbling onto the side of the snowy mountain with the velvet bag clutched to my chest. My head spins—what does this mean, what could this mean—as I crush through frosted undergrowth, down the slope toward the creek. Cold air cuts at the back of my throat and my breath puffs out before my nose, but my eyes feel wild. I turn, and there—there!—enough space to dance.
I fall to my knees in the icy leaves and brush them aside as quickly as possible. I scramble, shoving the cold detritus, until I have a two-meter circle clear enough for spinning. Astrid Glyn, teen prophet, could seeth without tools, without herbs and tinctures and poison corrberries. If the need was great enough. If fate was with her.
I shuck out of my coat and toss it away.
Amon’s boots roar their way here, but he stops at the edge of my seething circle. I close my eyes and breathe. I imagine the spinning, fast darkness surrounding me, the wild magic, red strands of destiny reaching away.
The world is waiting. Wind creaks the branches overhead, shaking loose the dry top layer of snow, and the babble of water is a subtle note. Amon breathes long and low. My heart and my breath form up.
I lift a foot. I put it down. I sway. Wind cuts cold on my cheeks. I feel it seep into the bones of my hands. My nose goes numb. I turn again and again. Dizziness fingers my stomach, my head swims. I haven’t eaten in so long. I’ve barely slept. I’m so close, so close to the fall.
I feel it first in my belly: a thin, sickly thread of cold. Cold like outer space, like the distance between stars. I grab at my chest, fingers digging as though I could rip through my dress, through my skin, and into the weave of fate.
The thread is so weak, so tired. But I saw her eyes in my dream. I dreamed.
With a layer of my skirt, I make a pouch and dump the runes out into it. They are so plain and cheap. Mine were hand-carved, made one at a time myself, out of rock and bone, antler and heartwood, and that one crystal god rune. It might still exist, buried under two years of fire debris.
These in my skirt all look alike, silver paint filled messily into the carved runes. They’re real marble, though, mottled and milky. And—oh my—there are two fate runes. The joy rune is missing. A poor sign.
“Astrid,” Amon says.
I shake my head and sway again with my eyes closed. The dark behind my eyes is streaked with red. Lines spiraling together, crossing and bending, flailing out again into the blackness.
Clutching my skirt-basket in one hand, I touch my other over my heart. I whisper Freya’s name. She already sees me—those were her eyes—and already must know I’ve abandoned the orchard. If I can’t have corrberries, if I can’t have my seething kit, at least I can pray.
“Freya,” I say softly and then louder, “Oh Feather-Flying Goddess, show me Soren Bearstar. Let me see him. I call on you, Freya, goddess of fate, weaver of worlds, to give this gift, this fragment to your devoted daughter.”
The words echo in the wintery forest. It is strange praying to her now, having held her hand.
I spin slowly, again and again, and toss runes high into the air. One hits the earth, then another and another. “Soren,” I whisper. You’re part of my world, he said. You affect my destiny. I can find him. I can seeth him, if anything.
“Soren.” A scattering tap-tap-tap as more runes hit. I grab another handful and scatter them in an arc as I turn.
I spin faster, toes skidding, off-balance.
The seething pulses. It shrieks through my blood. Oh, I missed it! The wild burn of it!
I fling out my arms. “Soren Bearstar.”
It’s there, a hot hot magma heart, flaring out through my back, down my arms.
My head falls back.
My back arches.
Black.
Blacker.
There is no sound but a roar, a scream I recognize—SorenSorenSoren—surrounding me, encasing me. It explodes from my back, and my mouth is open, too—screaming, too.
It hurts! It’s never hurt before. I bite my lip, but the pain is like jagged metal under my ribs, cutting up up up and out in all directions.
Spinning.
Red.
Fire.
I break open.