Sea Witch Rising

by Sarah Henning

  “Set?” They raise their inked arms in a double-fisted salute, gemstones set in their palms.

  “Light!”

  Will and Sofie scream out the wildfire command as one. They ignite as if they’ve done this their entire lives—luscious purple flame leaping toward the rafters.

  Now it’s my turn. “Vindr!” I direct my hands toward their flames, and a gust of wind kicks up and guides the flames to each boat.

  One and two. Three and four. Five and six. They go up, two by two, steel taking the flame with a twist and a sigh, the heat of it bending, curling, buckling. Within the space of a minute, they’re nothing but molten lava.

  Almost finished.

  “Vaxa!” I scream, and with the wind’s help, the flames leap to the rafters, which catch fire in an instant.

  “Run!” I say, and they do, each extinguishing their flaming arms.

  We push out into the noontime glare, smoke chasing us out of the building, but it’s just starting on the roof. If we hurry, we can be out of here before anyone notices.

  Maybe.

  Sofie jumps over the car door and into the back seat of the open-top motorcar, tucking her long hair up into a bun and pulling a guard’s hat over the mess of it all. I have a much easier time, but I know I’ll look suspect up close. It’ll have to do.

  Will gets the motor going, and the car rumbles to life. He shifts a few cranks and gears, and we jolt back and then forward as he edges around the other car and the sleeping stunned men.

  “What are you smiling about?” I whisper, because he is indeed smiling and it’s completely ridiculous that he should have this expression on his face while driving a getaway car.

  “I can’t believe they’ve got a Vauxhall,” he says. I have no idea what this means. When he sees me frown at his glee, he adds, “It’s British.”

  Ah. Made by the same country that produced the ship they destroyed with the first of their U-boat fleet. Now, I grin back. “Traitors.”

  As we come around the corner of the warehouse, I hold my breath. A few dock workers have noticed the flames, but they’ve yet to notice us fleeing the scene.

  Will turns onto the sea lane, and there’s an identical car rumbling down the narrow road, coming from the direction of the castle. Inside is a single driver with two men in back—one in the blue of Havnestad, the other in a coat as green as ours.

  Will tenses, and I know it’s exactly who I suspect. The baron and the councilor working to make a sale in the dead king’s place.

  I immediately find something very interesting to look out my window, which faces town and away from the vehicle about to pass within inches of us. Will props his elbow up on the door, his knuckles to his temple as if this is the most boring drive ever. In the back, Sofie slumps in her seat, head down. I can nearly hear her praying.

  We’re close enough that her father could reach over and remove her hat without much trouble at all.

  Will obscures his profile with a quick salute and I hold my breath, waiting for Baron Gerhard to recognize his nephew despite the hat pulled down low. The baron doesn’t linger and neither does the driver—though the vehicle slows through the pinch point to avoid scraping the paint of either motorcar.

  When the pass is complete, all three of us exhale deeply, the other car gaining speed as it chugs down the hill toward the docks, pointed toward the prize that’s cost everyone far too much.

  Will hits the gas, and we lurch forward up the hill. As we take a hard right off the sea lane and into town, a rumble begins. Soft, so soft, until it’s suddenly a volcanic and undeniable BOOM—ripping toward the sky as the clouds gather again over the Øresund Strait.

  I glance in the side mirror. A fireball the size of Øldenburg Castle lights the noontime sky—the warehouse and the U-boats inside it now nothing but memories and ash.

  31

  Evie

  THERE IT IS.

  I feel it like the earth quaking. Like a volcano erupting. Like the flood of waters that cannot be stopped.

  Like I did when Alia died. Or when Runa’s transformation from mermaid to human was complete and permanent.

  The magic around me and in me has shifted again—the balance tilting a little to the left, to land, to the place in the shadows. Those shadows spent centuries growing. Since before the tragedy of Maren Spliid and Christian IV, the witch-hunter king. Before families, covens, and the magic itself was split and divided and cut and ripped into minute slivers of a whole and tossed into the blowing wind.

  And, oh, it feels good.

  Runa and her little coven have produced the most powerful magic on land in a generation.

  Since the day Nik lived, Anna succumbed, and I was made.

  Real, true, strong land magic, depleted for generations, driven into hiding, and then, weak and tired, sleeping for so long, is now awake. Eyes open, yawn shaking, raising its head. It’s here.

  And it just killed Havnestad’s fledgling U-boat program. I know it.

  My cauldron’s in use, bubbling with a spell that might change my world for the better, too. So, though I cannot see Runa in action, I lift my eyes to the surface and smile up to the clouds blanketing the sky.

  “Look at you, little witch,” I say to no one at all but the bubbling turfmoor and waving polypi. “Not yet human a day and you’ve already done more magic than the land has seen in fifty years.”

  I allow myself a smile for Runa, the little gardener, planting magic and immediately bearing fruit.

  “She’s talented indeed, but she needs your help,” Anna answers.

  I nod, my back to her. “Yes, and she’ll get it soon.”

  She must.

  If I feel the magnitude of what just happened on land, I know the sea king does too. He will be coming. He might already be on his way. And before he arrives, I must be ready.

  The glee for Runa fades, replaced by the concentration I must have in its place. The potion in my cauldron simmers happily, steam rising to the surface in an endless drifting current. It must boil longer than Tante Hansa’s pea soup ever did—or at least that’s what I think it’ll take—I’ve never performed this spell before.

  I lean over my cauldron, giving the contents a stir with my swordfish spear. It’s been a day since I first put the potion on, and the color is good—the bright yellow of sunshine. Fitting for the freedom it provides.

  But it’s not ready. It has all the aspects necessary—land, sea, lifeblood—save for one.

  Love.

  All I need is the ring.

  Just that word bouncing through my mind’s eye brings me back to childhood. Back to the time when we were ten and Nik bashed his leg on a rock during a climb of Lille Bjerg Pass. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it was right on his shin and bled like his entire life was going to flow right through it and into the dirt as Anna and I carried him down.

  Nik passed out for a moment, and we had all his weight on our shoulders, which wasn’t as much of a problem as his size—tall and gangly, the angles of him made him nearly impossible to drag down without scraping up his shins and boots worse than they were. So, when Anna’s mother appeared from inside a shop right near the trailhead, we decided it would be best if I stayed back with Nik, and together they went to fetch the royal physician.

  Nik came to as soon as they rounded the corner, confused and then slightly embarrassed, his ears blushing hard as I relayed what had happened. “Mother will have something to say about this.” Nik’s eyes were on his hands, long fingers playing in the grass. “‘Niklas, a king shouldn’t be scarred—the eyes of the people are always watching,’” he said, trying very hard to mimic his mother’s particular affected speech pattern. Then he smiled, dark eyes flashing. “Yes, as if the kingdom will crumble when I roll up my pant leg, flash a scar, and prove that I am indeed human.”

  “Blame me,” I said, knowing his mother already disliked me. “She’ll have the comfort in knowing that your disfigurement was all my fault.” Trying very hard to be self-effacing, I shrugged.r />
  A tight smile crossed Nik’s face. He tossed a few blades of grass and then plucked out a tuft of lady’s cushion, its tiny pink leaves dwarfed after a dry summer. His eyes flashed up to mine. “Evie, you know I don’t care what my mother, my father, or anyone else thinks about you.”

  “I know,” I said, because I did. Though I was young enough to think that the opinions of one boy didn’t matter against a sea of opposition.

  I know better now.

  And I think Nik knew better then. Because he was quiet for a moment, messing with the flowers, and just when I thought we were done talking, my eyes focused out in front of me, looking for the telltale stovepipe hat of the royal physician, Nik nudged my arm. When I turned his way to respond, he held up a little circlet of flowers. Then he took my hand and placed the ring on my fourth finger.

  “Thanks for staying with me,” he said, his eyes meeting mine, blush reddening at his ears.

  I glanced down at the ring of wildflowers, mostly because looking at his face was too much. “Always.”

  Oh, Nik. What we could’ve had.

  What we should’ve had.

  I need that ring.

  Closing my eyes, I reach up through the onyx waters of my prison cell, into the open ocean, round the mines the sea king so fears, and into the warm exhale of late summer air.

  I picture my toes in the sand and running along the beach. My magic pumping, churning, streaming—as unstoppable as life itself—straight from the earth through me and out my fingertips with the right words and sayings.

  I run past Greta’s Lagoon and my first lair, filled with long-rotted clams spilling their pearls, a library of spells, and rows of bottles left to time.

  I run past the inlet leading to Øldenburg Castle. The marble balcony added after Nik’s death looms white and arching. If I squint, I can see where my father once docked his fishing boat, kitchen staff waiting and eager to get their hands on fresh whale meat for tvøst og spik.

  Magic swirls around me, renewed with what has just occurred on land.

  And still, I reach.

  I reach for the origin of this magic.

  A register. A signal. A mark of where it started from.

  Reaching, reaching, reaching.

  Until I find it. A ghost of an impression. The sandy footprint dying in the tide.

  The place where the witches honed their magic using Runa’s knowledge. There is living magic in this place, coiled and ready, though locked away, key dangling.

  I push into that dark room and feel around.

  Put my hands on something familiar.

  The Spliid Grimoire.

  The same book I borrowed from Tante Hansa in the middle of the night when she saw me so clearly though I was invisible. That old woman always saw through me and into me in a way no one else could. In a way no one else ever will.

  This book is another version—a copy with different binding and a calf-skin cover that’s seen better days. But it’s perfect. I dig in my nails and grab hold.

  That’s enough to put me there. Anchor me. Give me time and space that allows me to reach into a fire gone long cold.

  “Kveykva.” I whisper into the kindling. Sparks answer back, claiming the kindling.

  A fire roars to life.

  And then, I grab the smoke by the throat, and I write my message, whispering “Dveljask” when it’s complete so that it will stay until Runa’s eyes are upon it.

  And then I prepare for both her father and the ring.

  32

  Runa

  THEY SAY EVERY DROP OF WATER FLOWS TOWARD THE sea, but in Havnestad, at this very moment, every person flows toward the sea in a never-ending stream.

  Our motorcar is headed against the tide, up the crooked streets as men, women, children, donkeys, goats, and dogs course out of every home and shop and yard in town, ambling down the cobblestones with stunned looks on their faces, running toward the harbor. Toward flames licking the clouds just singed by a fireball.

  I tell myself what we just did will save lives, like the ones streaming past us, just somewhere else.

  Maybe it will save them too. Will was right when he said war doesn’t know its bounds—neutrality isn’t a shield. It’s simply a statement that can be easy to ignore.

  Only when the people stop coming and we’re alone with the rumble of the car and the open road over Lille Bjerg Pass ahead do I let myself relax.

  “Hey,” I say to Will. His arms are braced against the steering wheel now, doing what they can to keep moving in the direction of the road as the wheels navigate the bump and skid of cobblestones meant for boot soles and horse hooves. I hang a hand on the ridge of his upper arm and lean in. When his eyes flit my way, I toss him a full grin. “We did it, William Jensen.”

  He smiles back. “We did.”

  A quick blush creeps across his cheeks as he checks the road, but then his eyes come back. I want them to always come back.

  I lean in farther, drawn to him—warm and true, and flush with the thrill of success.

  He’s close enough to kiss. For real. Not just his cheek.

  Above the scruff he’s left, his lips are the same pink as his cheeks, and the combination makes his eyes even more blue, like shallow water on summer days and—

  “Stop the car, Will! I want to watch. Are you guys seeing this? We have such a great view!”

  I yank myself away, and there’s Sofie, wrenching around from where she’s clearly been watching the flames.

  “I don’t think that’s a great idea, Sof.” Will’s voice is soft but stern. “Agnata hosed us—the second those men wake up, the one who met her by the safe house is going to lead them straight there. We have to beat them.”

  He’s right, though we deserve to watch. I can’t argue with that logic and neither can Sofie, apparently.

  “Okay, fine. You’re right. I just want to revel,” Sofie pouts.

  “You’re reveling fine from the back seat, I’d say,” Will notes. “How about you be on the lookout for anyone tailing us while you’re at it.”

  “Fine, but if you guys kiss, I’m still going to see it even if I’m turned around. I have eyes in the back of my head.”

  Cobblestones drop off the road and make way for hard-packed dirt. The wheels churn smoother underneath us. Motorcar-related glee returns to Will’s face and his lips kick up. “Let’s see just how fast this baby can go.”

  A few gear shifts and movement of his legs and suddenly we’re going twice as fast, barreling down the hill, wind whipping at our faces. Sofie spins back around, holding on to the sleeping Agnata in her lap as we barrel down the hill and into the valley, green pasture streaming past under the gray sky.

  My hand flies to my head, holding my hat in place. Too late, I realize Will’s isn’t safe either, and the wind claims it for its own. Sofie tries to catch it, losing her own in the process, the hats gliding into a pasture dotted with sleeping cows.

  We decide to stash the car in a small cave carved by the sea into a cliffside on the beach. Will secures the soft top to the frame and backs away, unhappy.

  “Salt water will be hell on her engine.”

  “Oh, heavens, Will”—Sofie groans—“tell me you haven’t named the car.”

  His cheeks pink and he pulls a frown to cover. “Freyja deserves better than this cave.”

  Sofie rolls her eyes. “Where would you like to park Freyja instead? On the beach, where someone could easily snag her? Or maybe right in front of Katrine’s house, to give the guards a big, fat Freyja-shaped tip?”

  Will frowns, and I grab Sofie’s arm to stop her from responding further. We don’t have time to waste. Sofie obliges, and she and I shoulder the rucksacks and the extra sets of boots for Katrine’s collection, while Will folds Agnata over his farmer’s shoulders. She’s still bound, and we’ve returned her gag, just in case she wakes up and starts screaming.

  Freyja’s cave is about a mile from the safe house. Not far at all, but not ideal, considering we still have to d
rag Agnata around. We go in silence as the clouds seem to drop closer to the earth, lightning from a coming storm snagging the water across the Øresund Strait. It’s enough that we pick up the pace without exchanging a word.

  I watch Will’s boots ahead of me as we press forward, almost there, trying very hard not to think of what comes next. Surely, more time spent running, the safe house compromised. None of us can go home, we can only go forward. To the next safe house. The next mission.

  Almost by reflex, my focus strays to the waves beside us. The water sluices through the sand, making its mark with each inhale and exhale of the tide. Its energy sparks into the air we breathe, and though I haven’t eaten in hours or truly slept in days, it’s invigorating and cleansing. It puts a smile on my face because I suddenly feel I made the right choice. But then something taps my foot. I look down and stifle a scream.

  A fish stares up at me, blood black as night clotting where its eyes should be.

  The sight of it stops me dead in my tracks. Sofie bumps straight into my back with an audible umph and a “Hey, what—oh my God, what is that?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Ahead, Will stops and turns as quickly as Agnata’s weight will allow. “Guys . . . ,” he says, and my eyes immediately jump farther out into the waves.

  And there, coating the surface, are hundreds—thousands—of fish belly up, their eyes oozing rotting blood into the water.

  Oh, Father, what have you done?

  I glance to Will. “We need to get back right now. Can you run with her?”

  He doesn’t answer, he just starts running. Sofie is scared enough that she simply does, too, though I feel the questions building in her throat.

  We race down the beach and veer up the little hill where I’d first heard Agnata selling us out. Over the hill and then it’s just a few steps more and—oh.

  The little bushes disguising the windows and door are gone.

  There’s nothing but another sloping hill, cloaked and green.

  “What?” Will pants. “I’ve been here a hundred times. It’s always right—”