Uncle Thordy’s eyes widened. “During the day! Where?”
“In the croft . . .” Mordur began. He sucked in some air, held his side. “I . . . I think we must sit down.”
“Come in, come in.” Uncle Thordy motioned with his hands. “You all look like you’ve been dragged through Niflheim and back.”
We kicked our boots off, dropped our weapons, and tumbled into the living room. Uncle Thordy locked the door and followed us. The lights of the Christmas tree reflected in the window and the fireplace was blazing. It looked like heaven. I collapsed on the easy chair and loosened my jacket. I set the backpack at my feet. Michael and Sarah plopped down on the couch, both still dressed for outside. Mordur leaned against the wall beside me, favoring his right side.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes,” he wheezed, “just a little bump.”
“Why don’t you sit?” I said, patting the armrest of my chair.
He gave me a mocking salute that only made him wince more, then sat carefully. “Thanks,” he whispered.
Uncle Thordy had gone into the kitchen. He returned with a tray full of coffee in huge gray mugs. I grabbed mine eagerly, the comforting smell filling my nostrils. I sipped. It almost burned my tongue.
“Where are the horses?” Uncle Thordy asked.
“Dead.” Mordur leaned one arm on his knee, trying to take pressure off his chest. “Both dead.”
There was the sound of a door opening and footsteps plodding down the hall. Grandpa stumbled like a sleepwalker into the room, his face as pale as the white bathrobe he was wearing.
“Uncle Thursten, careful.” Uncle Thordy got up and tried to guide him to a seat, but Grandpa just waved him away. Step by slow, careful step he closed in on his target, then turned and lowered himself onto the couch beside Sarah. He looked like he’d aged ten years in the last ten hours. His eyes were bloodshot. His lips curled into a painful smile. “Don’t stop on my account,” he whispered hoarsely, “things were just getting interesting. Please, though, for an old man’s sake, start at the beginning.”
So we did. First Mordur spoke, then we found our voices. Sarah would explain something and Michael and I would add our bits. It was a jumbled story, like piecing together a nightmare. I drank the rest of my coffee; my body was finally starting to warm up. I took my jacket off.
When we finished, Grandpa cleared his throat. It was a gross, phlegmy sound. He looked at Mordur. “So you think this—we’ll call it a wolf—is different than the one you saw before?”
“Yes. But it was dark both times. Maybe it grew large in my memory.”
Grandpa thought this over for a second, then turned to Uncle Thordy. “How many attacks have there been?”
“Four,” Uncle Thordy said. “Just on animals though. The only evidence we’ve found are tracks.”
“Wolf tracks?”
“No, not exactly. They are larger. But signs of claws in the print. The tracks always disappear after a few hundred yards. And, up until now, it’s only happened at night. Dogs won’t follow the beast, they just spin in circles and yelp. The constable is baffled by them.” Uncle Thordy wiped sweat from his forehead. The thick scars above his eyebrow glistened. “I thought the nephews would be safe. I’d never have allowed a trip to the old croft house if I thought this could happen.”
“It wasn’t like anything I’d seen before,” I said, thinking of its glowing eyes. “It climbed the ladder. It had . . . hands.”
“Hands?” Uncle Thordy repeated.
“Did it bite any of you?” Grandpa asked.
We all shook our heads.
“Any scratches?”
Again, we shook our heads. Grandpa let out his breath, like we’d answered an important question.
My thoughts were getting tangled. I wanted to yell What’s going on? Grandpa seemed to know more than he was letting on. Maybe Uncle Thordy did, too.
Another part of me just wanted to curl up in some corner and hide. Too much was happening.
“I . . .” Mordur began. “I have a favor to ask from you, Mr. Asmundson.”
“It’s Thursten,” Grandpa said. “And what’s this favor?”
Mordur reached down for the backpack, opened it, and pulled out the box. He lifted the lid and gently took out the calfskins. “These were hidden in the croft house. My father wrote French on them. Michael said you would read it.”
“French?” Grandpa echoed. “I can’t say I know much of it. My wife dragged me to a French class for a few months before we went on a holiday in Quebec. I watch hockey games on the French channel, but that’s about it. At least I know when they say, ‘he shoots, he scores.’ I’ll give it a try.”
“There is also this.” Mordur held the spearhead in the palm of his hand so everyone could see. It glinted in the light. “I think Dad made it.”
“He kept himself busy,” Uncle Thordy said. “That’s one thing about Einar. If he wasn’t reading some old book about Icelandic history, he was trying to recreate it. Some of the professors at the university would even phone him and ask him questions. He showed me a paper that one professor had written that quoted him. He was pretty proud of that.”
“May I hold it?” Grandpa said, and Mordur handed the spearhead to him. “That’s a fine piece of metalwork. Light, sharp as a razor. And all these symbols carved on the sides. This must have taken a long time.” He gave the spearhead back. “I wish I could have met your father. He sounds like quite the man.”
“He was,” Mordur said.
Just then I saw the slightest movement in the kitchen window.
There was a face staring in at us.
Then it was gone.
“There’s someone outside,” I said.