No Earthly Treason

by Genevra Black

  Abruptly, Tilda stood from the chaise and began walking toward the kitchen. “I … I really have a lot of housework to do today, so I should probably get back to that, but it was so nice to see you, Edie, so thanks for stopping by.” She didn’t make eye contact. Instead, she shifted some stuff around on the counter and grabbed her rubber gloves again.

  Edie blinked, stunned for a moment. Message received. She mumbled a quiet goodbye and drifted toward the door.

  As she left, foreboding clenched around her body. Things were not adding up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Satara descended the stairs to Astrid’s hearth room, boots clanking with every step. She could hear the teakettle screeching—or, at least, what she assumed was the teakettle. After the week they’d had, she supposed it could be steam coming out of the valkyrie’s ears.

  It had been two days since the last time Satara had seen Edie, and she was beginning to wonder if the necromancer was ever going to follow up on her meeting with the Norn. The last time they’d seen each other, Edie had been more focused on taking care of Mercy and Fisk than talking about Indriði. It was understandable, considering, but Astrid was not known for her patience, and it was Satara who had to deal with her.

  Thankfully, however, Astrid had been distracted with trying to hunt down the mysterious thief. The shade hadn’t succeeded in taking her shield and spear, but he had stolen something else—something apparently important, if Astrid’s rage was any indication. The valkyrie had been vague on what, but Satara supposed she’d find out once they took it back.

  A tug in her subconscious had compelled her to don her armor and head downstairs. Now she walked into the hearth room to find her battlemother pouring boiling water into two cups. This was Astrid’s ritual before anything and everything, and she had a different blend of tea for a surprising array of occasions. When Satara sniffed the air, she could faintly smell chamomile, thyme, and nasturtium. Most likely something for going into a fight … which must mean it was time to track down the shade.

  “Here, drink this,” Astrid said, placing one of the cups on the table as Satara took a seat.

  “What news?” asked the shieldmaiden.

  “Lylirion For-Shadow.” Astrid sat in the chair across the table, arctic eyes intense. “Our thief. He’s a light elf blackguard. We’re not the only ones who have run into trouble with him recently. With my eyes around the city, he wasn’t hard to find.”

  “Maybe this is what they call hiding in plain sight?” Satara raised her cup to her nose and inhaled the aroma. This was an angry tea.

  “He’s what I call a cocky show-off. But not for long.”

  “It’s strange....” Satara frowned. “Why would an otherworldly being like that bother to come to Midgard to steal from a valkyrie? Whoever hired him must have paid him a great deal.”

  “By all accounts, he has lived here for a while,” Astrid said. “Perhaps exiled from Alfheim. Or slumming it. Light elves are talked up to be nothing but sun and goodness and beauty, but they can be just as spiteful and self-serving as anyone else. Perhaps more so, considering how powerful they are.”

  “But he stole something specific from you, didn’t he?”

  “He did.”

  “If he had what he was looking for, why would he stop to get your shield and spear?”

  “Whoever hired him probably offered a bonus if he brought them back.”

  “With all due respect, Battlemother … why? They are old, but what’s so special about them?”

  “They are unique weapons.” Astrid sighed and took a long sip of her tea. “I suppose I’ve never told you their history.”

  Satara looked up, already listening intently. Even though she had lived with Astrid for a decade, she knew little about her past. What she did know, she held close to her heart. Even though her passion didn’t lie in being a shieldmaiden, she loved Astrid like a second mother.

  “I am ancient,” Astrid began, “but I am far, far from the eldest of my kind. After the Aesir-Vanir war, Freyja and Odin turned a handful of his familiar spirits into valkyir as a sign of the Pantheons’ truce. In the beginning, there were six—the Riders—then eleven more to keep Valhalla. But Freyja’s most trusted valkyrie is the Rider-General and youngest of the Mother Norns, Skuld.

  “In old times, Sváfa, my battlemother, helped Skuld and the other Riders win a difficult battle and was given two gifts: a spear, crafted and enchanted by the dwarves of Niðavellir, and Skuld’s own shield.”

  Satara’s eyes flew wide, and she looked at the shield hanging on the wall. It was well-made, and she had seen it glow in battle before, but she’d hardly expected a Mother Norn and one of the first valkyir to wield something so plain. Still, it certainly answered her question. Stealing such a legendary relic would ensure Lylirion For-Shadow never had to work another day in his immortal life.

  Astrid had already finished her tea when Satara looked back at her. “When Sváfa fell in battle,” she said as she rose from her seat, “the weapons passed to me. I won’t give them up so easily.”

  Astrid suited up in her silver half-plate armor, and by the time they grabbed their weapons and exited Harbinger Trinket & Tome, the sun had set.

  The valkyrie scanned the dark blue sky for a moment before loosing an unearthly whistle. From the horizon slipped three blue forms that solidified into black birds as they veered from the sky, landing all in a row on Astrid’s shoulder and outstretched arm.

  Satara watched as the one on her shoulder leaned close and croaked softly in her ear as though it was whispering. Astrid tilted her head, nodded, and lifted her arm to send the birds off. They disappeared as quickly as they had come.

  “He’s staying in a small apartment in Strongfair, in Anster, but he’s packing his things. Someone must have told him I was looking for him.” Astrid reached into her armor and pulled out one of her wolf whistles, attached to a chain around her neck. She blew it, and the great beast burst forth to greet them with a howl and its usual stench.

  “Are we going there to kill him?” Satara asked as she climbed onto the wolf behind Astrid.

  “Not if he cooperates. It’s always a shame to take an immortal life … but I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

  The night air whipped Satara’s face as the wolf bounded down the dark street, gaining momentum before a portal that looked more like a deep wound opened and swallowed them whole.

  A split second later, they were in Anster. The fresh air of their seaside town was replaced with the strange, bitter smell of the city. The alley in which they’d appeared smelled particularly bad. An overflowing dumpster sat against the brick building to their right; grime crawled up the walls, and under a dense cloud of light pollution, shattered glass shimmered against the concrete. After living in small villages her whole life, Satara chose to see the ruin of the city as a beautiful display of chaos and order. She didn’t mind the ugly parts. But she could not imagine a light elf feeling the same way.

  She and Astrid slipped off the wolf, and as it disappeared, she murmured, “Why here?”

  The valkyrie peered up at the building as if willing it to tell her its secrets. “Who would expect a graceful fox to live in a hovel of dirt?” She pointed to a railing on the fire escape, and Satara noticed one of her birds perched there, staring into the window across from it. “He’s there. The third floor.”

  Quietly as they could, so as not to alert the shade of their presence, the two women snuck around to the building’s front door. The lock broke easily, and as they slipped inside, darkness enfolded them.

  A number of the apartments on the bottom floor seemed to be abandoned; as they climbed the cramped and creaking stairs, only a handful of doors were locked—a few weren’t even intact—some with faint light seeping from under the doors and some as dark as their surroundings.

  When they reached the third floor, they made their way to the alley side of the building. Astrid listened closely at each closed door until she came to
one toward the end of the hall. The sounds of a window being wrenched open and a bird flapping and crowing told them this was the right apartment.

  Unceremoniously, Astrid reeled back and kicked down the door.

  The room beyond did remind Satara of the fox dens to which Astrid had compared it. It was one small, dark room and bathroom. A tiny cot sat under the one window. Clothes and miscellany were strewn about, and a full bag of belongings sat open on the floor. Standing before them, slender hands still clutching the window’s casing, was a familiar figure. Lylirion For-Shadow.

  The elf had jerked his head over his shoulder at the sound of their entrance. He was dressed in the same battered leather as before but had discarded the shadowy scarves, revealing his face. Satara stared in surprise; she’d been expecting him to be an exiled elf like Zaedicus, one who had lost nearly all their elven features, but that clearly wasn’t the case.

  A sheet of ash-blond hair fell to the small of his back, and his pale gold skin—covered with a barely-visible layer of peach-fuzz—almost seemed to have its own luminescence, shimmering slightly on his razor-sharp cheekbones, nose, and forehead. In lieu of human eyebrows, two thin, black antennae twitched angrily along his elegant brow. Familiar beryl eyes narrowed to a glare as he unsheathed a knife from his belt.

  Before he could use it, however, the room flooded with a terrible, cold light. Satara murmured a spell to help her see through the glow of her battlemother’s unveiled form and drew her own weapons, watching Astrid strike the knife from her opponent’s hand with a small blast of energy.

  The knife clattered to the ground, and Lylirion grasped his wrist with an audible groan. Still, his glare didn’t waver; not even the blinding light rolling off Astrid made him flinch.

  “I’d ask what in Yngvi’s name you want,” he said through gritted teeth, “but we both know the answer.”

  Astrid reached him in a single stride and grabbed him by the collar. Her voice echoed as if it was coming from the bottom of a well, dark and demanding. “Where is it?”

  He clamped his mouth shut. After a moment of silence, the valkyrie lifted him off the floor, then yanked him down with great force. Satara’s heart sped as she heard the crack of his legs breaking, but he made no sound.

  “Where is it? Tell me.” Astrid enunciated each word this time, voice growing louder.

  He hung loosely in her grip, mostly leaned against the edge of his cot. The sweat beading on his face was the only indication that she had hurt him at all. “It doesn’t matter if I tell you. You’re going to find it either way.”

  “Don’t die over it, then.”

  Lylirion said nothing, but for a fraction of a second, his eyes darted to the left side of the room. Without having to be asked, Satara followed his gaze and began to overturn anything she could get her hands on.

  Though she didn’t know exactly what he had stolen, she knew she had found what she was looking for when she saw it. In a wardrobe cabinet filled with various food items, a large horn of burnished brass sat partially obscured behind some cans. She drew it out, and the runes on its surface glistened in the light emitting from Astrid.

  “You’re going to regret this,” the elf muttered, closing his eyes.

  The valkyrie leaned in and jerked him. “Who contracted you? That isn’t worth dying over, either.”

  “I’m not a contractor.”

  “What organization are you a part of, then? Are you with the Gloaming?”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? You have something shiny to bring back to your nest.” His snarky attitude was somewhat weakened by the fact that he was panting through his teeth now, exposing small fangs that curved inward. “And you’ve got your bloody shield.”

  Satara cut in, her tone more even than Astrid’s. “We need to know who’s after those things. If you tell us, you can go home.”

  “Home?” Lylirion scoffed. “You’re even more miserably lost and confused than they said.” He looked at Satara. “Especially you.”

  Before the shieldmaiden could reply, Astrid had discarded her spear and drawn the broad bladed throat-cutting dagger at her hip. “I will use your severed head to weight my loom, elf. Do not test me on this. Tell me who your people are.”

  “No,” he said, almost primly. “But don’t worry; I’ll take heart in the fact that I was on the right side of this conflict.”

  A million more questions sprang to Satara’s mind with that statement, but Astrid’s hand was quick. Before she could ask him what he meant or even react, the valkyrie had slashed his throat open and dropped him to the cot.

  A strange fluid—viscous like blood but glowing like molten gold—seeped onto the sheets beneath him. Satara watched in awe as his body shriveled up, drained of all its blood almost at once. She had been around dead bodies her entire life, but it had never occurred to her that an elf would die any differently than a human.

  She tore her eyes away from the rapidly desiccating body, still holding the brass horn to her chest. “We could have gotten yet more from him, couldn’t we?”

  “He wasn’t going to tell us anything,” Astrid replied as she shifted back into her human form. “I could see it in his face. At least we got what we came here for.”

  Satara nodded and handed their prize to her mentor. “I wonder what he meant.”

  “Hm?”

  “I wonder what he meant when he said he was on the right side of the conflict,” she clarified.

  “I don’t know.” Astrid looked around for a moment before snatching up a heavy canvas bag in a corner near the bathroom. She wrapped the horn in a discarded shirt and placed it inside. “He most likely meant the winning side. The New Gloaming are even more arrogant than their predecessors.”

  Satara frowned. From what she knew, the light elves were no friends of the Gloaming, however mischievous or unkind they could be. Was Lylirion simply a defector, or an exile? If so, why had he retained the elves’ insectoid features? What if more was at play here?

  “What is that, anyway?” she asked, eyeing the bag Astrid had strapped across her chest.

  There was a pause. Astrid didn’t look at her, simply held the bag closer. At length, she replied, “I’ll tell you some other day.”

  Satara was still for a moment, disappointed but not surprised by that answer. As Astrid turned to leave, Satara stepped closer to the elf’s body and noticed a chain around the withered neck. She slipped a pendant out from within the armor and snapped the chain, bringing it closer so she could study it. It was tarnished, etched with the image of a sun and two crossed daggers. It looked almost like an insignia.

  “Shouldn’t we—” Satara began.

  Astrid cut her off. “There will be plenty of time to figure out more about him another time, my dear. Let’s go home.”

  The shieldmaiden took one last look around the room and at the glittering blood pattering to the floor beneath the dead elf. Tucking the pendant into her armor, she turned and followed Astrid into the hall.

  Thirty-three … thirty-four … thirty-five. Edie released a puff of air as she finally finished the set of curls she was doing. Her bicep ached, but it was a good, burning ache that told her she was getting stronger. The fact that she was adding weight onto her equipment nearly every day was proof positive of that.

  It was approaching 8 p.m., but to her, 8 to midnight was the perfect time to go to the gym. Hardly anyone else was here, and it was a huge facility, so no one bothered her. Though, to be fair, it was a safe bet that anyone whose lifestyle required they go to the gym in the dead of night wasn’t interested in speaking to her anyway.

  Understandably, Satara had been skeptical when it came to investing in a gym membership. Edie wasn’t sure where it was, exactly, shieldmaidens trained, but she was willing to bet it wasn’t Fitness Galaxy. She’d been a trooper. For now, though, it was probably best if Edie avoided her … at least until she figured out what was going on with Astrid.

  So, she’d asked Cal to give her a ride—not a much better o
ption when it came to potential betrayal, but a lot better than riding the T drenched in sweat. The revenant sat on a bench nearby now, jacket hung over one shoulder, looking at his phone disinterestedly.

  “You done yet?” he asked while Edie was trying to decide which machine to do next.

  Edie was definitely done with this day, but probably not in the way Cal meant. She’d had to fight off a dragon two days before, and she was really feeling the bruises. “I want to get a few more things done. I can’t rely on revenant powers to make me strong and durable,” she said, wiping the sweat from the crease of her arm and grabbing her water bottle.

  He grumbled and looked back at his phone.

  They hadn’t talked about her adventure at Tilda’s yet, and he didn’t seem curious, but Edie’s brain had been swimming with questions for the past couple days. How much could she really trust someone who told her so little about themselves?

  Maybe she could approach it from another angle. Fiddling with the cap of her water bottle, she ventured, “So … Tilda’s doing okay.”

  Cal just grunted.

  “I guess that’s no surprise, though. I mean, she has the money for a fancy security system, so the Gloaming or Aurora probably won’t catch her by surprise. If they care about going after her.”

  “Seems like they care more about going after us.” He put his phone down, but didn’t say anything about the wight.

  She studied him carefully as she added, “The guy who answered her door seemed nice.” There was probably nothing going on between Antoniu and Tilda, but she wondered how he would react.

  Cal stared straight ahead for a moment before saying, “Good for him,” and picking his phone up again.

  Edie suppressed a heavy sigh. Maybe she’d need a more direct approach if she was going to get him to talk about this. “Are you ever going to get up the nerve to talk to her?”

  The revenant finally looked her in the eye. He had a familiar expression on his face—the drop it look. “It ain’t about nerve, kid. We have nothing to say to each other, that’s all.” After a pause, he continued, “You saw that fiasco at the party. There’s no point in it. It’s been ten years. We’re different people.”