“It’s your right to think that,” Wrenn said. “I don’t blame you.” She lifted her satchel off the floor of the truck. She looked between the two elves as she held up the bag. “I have no secret agenda.” She didn’t. “Ed’s shotgun is in here.”
Benta took the bag. “And you’re telling me this now?”
“Please check it thoroughly before giving it back to him,” Wrenn said. “Robin gave it to me.”
“What’s this?” Benta pulled out the sheath holding the pixie vellum.
How to explain? “I was on my way to talk to the troupe of one of the sprites killed by the kelpies’ blood syndicate.” She inhaled. “That’s the report with the sprite’s contact information.”
Benta looked at the other elf, then back at the sheath. She tucked it back into the satchel. “Leave the bag.”
“That’s private information,” Wrenn said. “It’s a police report.”
Benta nodded. “We’ll give it back when you leave.” She handed the bag to the other woman.
The other elf, the one who was probably Maura, pointed at the gate made from colorful bottles. “Frank’s out back.”
Wrenn nodded again. Slowly, she opened the door and stepped out of the truck.
“He knows you’re here,” Benta said.
Wrenn stared at the twinkling rainbow of light refracted through the glass between her and her “sibling.” She pointed. “The gate’s pretty,” she said. Not in the ethereal sprinkling way of the fae, but in a stronger, clearer, more headstrong way.
Like the elves.
Maura snorted.
Benta peered at Wrenn’s face. “Hmmm…” she said. “You don’t need to worry.”
Worried? No. Apprehensive, yes.
“Thank you,” Wrenn said. Maybe a little worried.
Benta squeezed her hand.
Wrenn nodded again. She squeezed back.
“Good luck,” Benta said.
Wrenn walked by Maura and toward the gate. A rainbow of color danced on her skin as she pushed it open, and for a moment, splashed reds and blues across her vision.
Someone had punched the side of the house and cracked the siding. She picked out small residual magicks in the dent, and along the railing leading up to the deck.
The house wasn’t warded, at least not on a level she would have expected.
She stepped up onto the deck.
The entire area between the house and the lake had been set up in three sections stepping down to the water. Each section was its own little living space, the middle one with a covered two-person swing, and one closest to the house had its own large outdoor dining table.
A break in the rail led to a small trail into the trees. Child-created chalk drawings of winged horses covered the planking of the middle section, and several garishly-colored plastic toys were scattered around.
The curtain over the lovely French doors from the house to the deck wavered.
Sophia appeared, along with an elf girl the same age. They pressed their little faces against the window and waved.
Wrenn waved back.
A male elf she sort-of recognized—she was pretty sure he was the other Thor elf—glanced around the curtain. He said something to the girls. The elf girl nodded and waved again, then disappeared. Sophia said something to the elf, then she, too, waved.
Then they disappeared, too.
Wrenn looked around, figuring she would have noticed a man who according to Victor was eight feet tall and terrifying to behold.
The lake lapped at the pebbled shore. Late afternoon sun reflected off the chrome and glass monstrosity of a house on the other side and danced along the water like—
Like Victor, she thought.
That glint only flashed for a second but it screamed blue-white and too bright.
Wrenn scrunched her eyes closed and looked away.
“Are you okay?” a deep, resonant male voice said.
She looked to the side, down the trail that led into the trees.
He stood there, the man who had to be Frank Victorsson. He was huge and wide at the shoulders and more muscular than she’d expected. He wore jeans and a blue jacket with “Gullinbursti Reclamations” embroidered over his left pec. He had on a knit cap much like Ed’s too, but this one had some sort of fighting squirrel mascot in the center instead of an Alfheim County Sheriff insignia.
He extended his hand. “Frank,” he said as he walked up onto the deck. “You must be Wrenn.”
He was classically handsome, with a strong jaw and fiery maroon eyes. A tattoo on the side of his face covered scars, but they weren’t even that distracting. The tattoo looked to be Yggdrasil, and shimmered with elven magic.
He wasn’t eight feet tall—more likely seven.
Every single one of the exaggerations, the lies, the manipulations Victor had told her were in that foot of difference. Frank Victorsson had a house full of children. Friends, too, and a lot of elven family. This man was not a monster, nor was he brutish and terrifying.
He smiled and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Is this as awkward for you as it is for me?” He looked out at the lake. “Two hundred years and I had no idea you’d survived.”
Hands that had a dusting of magic around them. She peered at his shoulders. And there, too, the same dust shimmered in the sunlight.
His face screwed up in a clear indication that he was annoyed by someone or something. “Victor told you I was a monster, didn’t he?”
“He told me you tried to drown me to force him to make me your mate.”
Frank’s face scrunched up into something more angry than annoyed indignation. Wrenn wondered if he realized how easily others could read his emotions.
“I saved that young girl from drowning,” he said. “He blamed me for his friend’s death. There was a boat.” He looked up at the sky. “He told me that I didn’t deserve a companion. That I was unlovable and horrific. Then he showed me… parts… that were supposed to be you.” He sighed.
“Your mate,” she said.
“What?” He looked genuinely confused. “Oh! You see the mate magic, don’t you?” He grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s not for you.”
He closed his eyes for a second and when he opened them, he was looking up and to the left. Then the grin turned into the smile of someone in love.
“You look relieved.” He leaned a bit toward her as if sharing a secret. “It’d be weird, anyway. It’s been two hundred years.” He nodded knowingly. “Besides, I’ve always thought of you as the sister I never had, no matter what Victor thought.”
Was she relieved? Happy? Sad? She had no idea.
Out front, Benta’s truck started up.
“Benta’s leaving?” Wrenn said.
“She’s taking Sal in,” Frank said. “The elves need her to see if they can crack the fae enchantments on that sword the kelpie left behind. Sal went crazy this morning. Started yelling ‘How dare they!’ and about how she would ‘take care of the fae threat.’ We figured it would be best to keep her away from you for now.”
“Is Sal another elf?”
Frank laughed. “She’s an axe.” He scratched at the side of his head. “And a bit possessive.”
They stood there for a long moment, neither saying anything. Both watched the lake.
Frank scratched at the tattoo on the side of his face. “Victor Frankenstein had a lot of romantic stupidity in his head. He thought he was entitled to dance along the threshold between the living and the dead.” He pointed toward the lake. “He got angry when he came face to face with the consequences of his actions.” He sighed. “That anger turned to madness, didn’t it?”
She nodded yes.
“The only information we found were letters written by a ship captain. We all thought he’d died shortly after I left him on the ice. I didn’t learn otherwise until last month.” He watched her face for a moment as if trying to read her emotions. “We’re not his only creations,” he said.
Was she really one of Victor’s
creations? She was. Did it matter?
“I watched him behead Victor,” she said.
His mouth rounded. “I am sorry.” He rubbed the top of his hat. “If I’d known, I would have come back.” His face said that coming back wouldn’t have been feasible two hundred years ago. Yet here he was feeling guilty.
“We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?” she said.
He motioned her toward the table. “Yes, we do.”
They walked toward the house and the seating. He pulled out a chair for her and offered a seat. “Here.”
How was it that she’d allowed Victor so much real estate in her head all these years? This man wasn’t a monster.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Sister.”
Wrenn reached out and took his hand. Why, she didn’t know. They’d just met. But for the first time in maybe her entire life, she truly exhaled. She did have family, and not unwanted intrusions into her life from Victor Frankenstein’s ghost. “Brother.”
The smile he gave her said it all. “Welcome to Alfheim,” he said. “Where do we start?”
Chapter 32
Mr. Frank and Ms. Wrenn were still talking outside in the cold when Mr. Lennart took Gabe and Sophia to their house to get clothes. They were going to stop and pick up dinner at Raven’s Gaze, and Gabe was sure Lennart and Bjorn were angry about something to do with the restaurant, but Lennart wasn’t particularly specific.
Gabe didn’t ask. He’d had enough of magic for a while.
Lennart took a suitcase into Mateo’s room and Gabe and Sophia went into theirs. They were to get their homework and any electronics they needed, and at least a week’s worth of clothes, just in case. The house was chilly, but not as bad as he thought it was going to be, even though there was a huge hole where the garage should have been. Lennart said Mr. Magnus wanted to build them a mansion, but their Papa had told him then he’d have to build everyone else in Alfheim mansions, too.
Gabe wouldn’t put it past the elf to do just that, to make a point.
He rummaged around in his room, got his homework from the family room, packed up his bag, and went to find his sister.
Sophia sat on the floor next to her bed, her bag next to her feet and one of her storage boxes from the closet next to her elbow. She’d tossed all the sweaters that had been in the box onto the bed.
She had a notebook on her lap, one of those leather-bound blank-diary-type books for people who like to journal, except this one looked old.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She slammed it shut and tucked it into her bag. “You can’t tell Mr. Frank I have his notebook.”
She’d stolen a book from Mr. Frank? “Did you take that?” He pushed his way into her room and loomed over her like a babysitter. “Seriously, Sophia! What were you thinking!”
Gabe grabbed it from her bag.
It really was old. The paper inside had dried out and he had to extra careful not to rip anything. “It’s blank,” he said.
“No, it’s not.” She grabbed it from his hand.
“Sophia….” Was the notebook magical? He looked over his shoulder at the door. “Does this have anything to do with the kelpie?” Was the book bad?
She thinned her lips. “It’s how I knew we were supposed to bring Ranger’s bridle home and give it to Mr. Frank.”
When Mr. Frank came home this morning, Sophia said she’d handed the bridle to him and told him to take it to someone named Ellie.
Mr. Frank disappeared for a bit after that. Then Wrenn came by.
“I don’t like all these magic things we don’t understand,” he said.
She nodded yes as if she, too, felt overwhelmed. “I was really scared of Ranger,” she whispered. “And those vampires.”
Gabe dropped down to the floor and hugged his sister. He didn’t think she’d seen the bodyguard behead his boss, but she had seen the bullets impact his vampire body.
It hadn’t been anything at all like gunfire on television. The vampire had popped and snapped and sprayed more than just blood.
“If that notebook is magical,” he said. “Mr. Lennart will know.”
She shook her head. “The elves think it’s useless and no longer magical.”
Still, Gabe thought. What if there was magic that got by the elves? He didn’t want to think about that. Because that meant there might be a way for those vampires to get back into Alfheim.
And the last thing he wanted to think about was vampires.
Epilogue
Between The Land of the Living and The Land of the Dead…
He’d been digging so long he’d forgotten who he was supposed to be. No name, no past, no intrinsic understanding of why he slammed the tip of the broken pike into the schist again and again and again.
He only had his work, and Anthea.
She was a lovely vampire, one with bouncy blonde curls, a satisfying plumpness to her hips, and a chatty disposition that filled in his gaps with details about a place called Las Vegas. It was hot and dry but oh so full of life!
He hated deserts. Of all the voids he carried around, those empty spaces that should have been full of memories and wants and desires, he was able to label one: Deserts were good only for invading.
Every so often a little air would leak from that bubble of emptiness called “disdain for deserts” and he’d get a sun-bleached image, or the memory of blowing sand scouring his skin. But then that would stop, and another bubble would fart out the smell of sweet clover, or another would wheeze cliffs and the cold, cold wind over icy seas.
The frightening thing weaving these moments together was not their breadth and variety. It was their synchronicity. Deep down inside him, deep in the blood in his veins, he knew that all of these geographically far-flung memories had happened at the same time.
The same year. The same month. The same exact moment.
Such things were not possible.
Yet he dug with Anthea out of a gray place with gray wailing and grayer dust. A place of twilight and vampires.
Such places were also not possible.
Hell was not possible, though he was sure the place from which they sought to escape was not Hell. Just somewhere adjacent. So perhaps he did have an understanding of why he chipped and clanged and stabbed with a pike he knew was a lot more than the dead piece of gray metal.
Magic, it whispered. Or not. Perhaps the whispering came from the blood—bloods—pumped by his (vicious) heart.
Vicious, it whispered.
He stopped for a moment, pike in his inordinately large hand, his shoulder sore under the bleak, dead armor he wore. Why did his shoulder hurt? Why would he think of his armor as dead?
Magic.
Anthea looked up at him with her preternatural violet eyes. He was almost twice her height. Not quite, more or less a yard or a meter or… He did not remember his measurements. There were many, and most were not synchronous.
She was Anthea of Las Vegas, that place of dry and hot, but the black dress she wore was something wholly different.
It flickered out around her, blackness more black than the absence of light, yet all the illumination in their pit came from the dress’s shimmering obsidian sheen and its crow-feather-like refracted rainbows.
It was the absorption of all colors at the same time it reflected back darkness.
And it had a mind of its own. It made him uneasy even though he should have made her—and it—quake in their boots.
She smiled and stretched up onto her toes to touch his cheek. “This is how I become a valkyrie,” she said. Then she and the dress returned to digging.
So they dug, and dug, and dug.
The hole was now so deep they couldn’t climb out. Anthea chattered on about her kingdom of Las Vegas, with its glowing lights and loud noises. About expensive chariots and dancing women and mundane magicians who specialized in all sorts of slight-of-hand.
Her chattering occasionally triggered his mind
to make shapes and places out of the shadows in their pit, and sometimes those shapes and places triggered other, strange, asynchronous memories.
He’d dug himself out of a prison, once. Not for the time he chased down a maiden in a dark forest, and not for any similar crime. He could not remember why, yet there had been mortar between cut bricks of granite, and the constant drone of the sea outside. Seagulls and the smell of dead turtles had wafted up from the beach.
And every so often, he’d remember names. A place called Castilla. Tribunals and God and Queens and Kings. Pain and anguish and begging for the release of death.
Then more digging.
And one day, the floor of their pit became the wall of their tunnel. They both felt a pull, a need to dig up, and turned accordingly.
Neither he, nor Anthea, nor the dress understood how long it took for the turn to block the dust and howling from the Hell-adjacent territory behind them. Time and space meant nothing here, nor did hunger, or yearning, or pain. They were inside the structures between life and death and they burrowed between day and night. Between fire and ice. They bathed in the frozen ashes of murdered worlds.
They dug upward, chipping at the limestone, breaking through new layers of schist.
Finally hitting dirt.
They’d found the edge of The Land of the Living—the dark place where the boundary became more life than death. Where living things worked in the service of death. The soft place filled with bugs and beetles and worms.
Anthea chattered about how this could not be Las Vegas because the loam here was too rich and hearty. The soil smelled fresh, not like a desert, and clearly had been tended lovingly by whomever tilled here.
Perhaps they had found the land she sought—the place where she could fulfill her destiny to become a thing called a valkyrie.
“This might not be the world you remember,” he said. They were as likely to break through into another circle of Hell as they were to find the place they’d called home.
She shrugged and her soft blonde curls bounced sweetly around her rosy apple cheeks. “But it is, my love,” she said.
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