Unholy Spirit (The Necromancer's Daughter Book 3)

by Genevra Black

  Eventually, at the top of the hill, Edie could make out a wrought-iron fence and rows of stone monuments. The old burying ground.

  From what she could see, it was a typical New England Colonial cemetery. Lots of grave markers, some monuments, and chest tombs, but no mausoleums. A gnarled oak tree loomed over it, covering half the yard in a black shadow.

  Everything was still as they crept past the gate. Looking back at Shipshaven was like looking into another world. What was the fire World called? Edie could sort of remember it from her research. Muspelheim?

  “Over here.”

  She turned away from the burning town to look where Satara indicated. Toward the back of the cemetery, there was a row of nearly identical chest tombs. They were better taken care of than most Edie had seen, with no cracks or chunks missing from them. She could even make out the writing. Shipshaven took pride in its historic burial ground, evidently.

  This tomb was unadorned and labeled simply as Ingeborg Einarsdóttir, beloved friend and mentor. Satara ran her fingers along lip of the slab on top before pushing it aside with some effort. Edie’s heart beat a little faster. In all her years wandering graveyards, she’d never thought those things could actually be removed. But there couldn’t be someone inside, could there?

  She came a little closer and peered in, but there was only an empty space. And at the bottom, a large ball of fabric.

  Satara picked up the ball, unwrapping it to reveal a sturdy leather satchel. She unbuckled it, peeked in, then quickly closed it again. “Let’s go."

  Edie’s shoulders nearly sagged with relief. They had the horn.

  She wished she could say it had been a simple or safe excursion, but there was still the matter of the burning town behind her and the dead bodies they’d left in their wake.

  “Let’s draw the circle here,” Edie said, reaching into her own satchel to find the instructions Basile had written down for her. The chances of Harbinger Trinket & Tome being engulfed in flame by the time they got back were pretty good.

  As she began looking for a place to start drawing, though, a faint squeal reached her ears. Her heart leapt into her throat, mouth immediately going dry.

  The sound of the cemetery gates opening … and a familiar voice.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Edie froze, exchanging looks with the others. That voice was unmistakable. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

  Had Indriði followed them into the cemetery or was their luck just that bad?

  “Hide,” Satara mouthed, and slunk into a crouch behind the chest tomb. Edie followed suit, shifting her rifle into a low ready position and double-checking the location of the safety lever. She glanced up in time to see Cal flatten himself against the thick trunk of the oak tree, his own weapons at the ready.

  She breathed shallowly, listening to the footfalls of people—certainly more than just Indriði—entering and walking up the burying ground’s central path. After a moment of hesitation, trying to determine how close the intruders were, she peered around the side of the tomb.

  Immediately, her gaze narrowed on Indriði. She stood in front of an obelisk almost thirty feet away, looking businesslike as always in a black-and-tan color block dress. She was smiling, and Edie wasn’t prepared for the white-hot hatred that lanced her heart at the sight of it. This was the first time she had seen Indriði since she’d thrown them back into the dungeon. Since she’d killed Astrid.

  Would one bullet to the head end it all? Her finger trembled over the safety for a moment. No doubt Indriði deserved to die, but would ambushing her with a gun even work, given her power? And if it did, would it actually change anything, or were the wheels of whatever godsforsaken bus they were on already in motion?

  Slowly, Edie released her breath and took her finger off the safety. Not now. Not yet.

  She watched the lesser Norn for another moment before moving on to the people surrounding her.

  Immediately, she recognized one of the women with her: Daschla. She had discarded her business casual clothes and was wearing a white gown trimmed with brown fur and draped in red cloth, her hair braided tightly down her back. The second woman was wearing a cloak, but when she pulled the hood down, Edie recognized her at once, too. Scarlet.

  Her gaze flicked over to Cal, who was leaned to peek out from behind the tree. His face twisted into a terrifying mask of fury—more than his perpetual grumpiness, more than even the usual anger he displayed when someone brought Scarlet up.

  For a moment, Edie wondered if he would jump out from behind the tree and shoot her now. But no; he simply kept his gaze trained ahead, his body still as the tombs around them.

  There were a few other people with them. A light elf, Edie guessed based on the buggy appearance, and three armed Blood Eagles. Unlike the ones they had run into in the shop, these ones wore more elaborate, well-tailored robes. Generals, maybe? One of them even had a capotain hat, like a seventeenth-century witchfinder or V For Vendetta or some shit. Their terrible fashion choices would have been funny if they weren’t so terrifying.

  “We haven’t found anything, my lady,” the one in the witchfinder hat said. Edie glanced between the Blood Eagle general and the others, expecting him to be addressing Indriði, but … he wasn’t. He spoke to Daschla.

  So much for Daschla being a pawn in the Gloaming’s plot.

  “We’ll keep the search up through the day and night.” Daschla crossed her arms. “If we have to turn this entire town into ash, so be it. The horn won’t melt.”

  The generals nodded, and Witchfinder said, “We’ll keep the men searching, my lady.” After a few moments, he shifted and asked, “If we had more people, we could search faster. Where is the rest of the Gloaming? I thought we had their support.”

  Daschla blinked for just a second too long and lowered her arms. “Because you’re special,” she said quietly. “You don’t need the rest of the New Gloaming. You are an elite force.”

  Witchfinder swelled visibly, and when he spoke, Edie heard the renewed vigor in his voice. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Daschla smiled, though Edie couldn’t make out how genuine it was, and held a pale hand out for him. “You can do this job for me,” she almost cooed. “You can fight for me. I can’t do it alone.”

  He reached forward, closing her hand in one of his thick black gloves for a moment before returning it to the body of his rifle. “We’ll protect you, my queen.”

  Queen? Edie screamed internally.

  “And when you’re through with this,” Indriði added, “you still have your big rally coming up.” She made little cheering hands, a plastic grin pasted on her face. “Seeing that will more than prove your worth to the rest of the Gloaming. I’m certain of it.”

  “They’ll be sorry they doubted us,” Witchfinder said firmly.

  Edie frowned, focusing once more on Indriði. It seemed out of character—her true character, anyway—for her to humor humans, whether that was Daschla or her Blood Eagles. Letting Daschla lead these people, encouraging them … there must be some ulterior motive. Just like using Edie to get to Astrid. Either Daschla hadn’t outworn her usefulness, or…

  Or Daschla wasn’t human.

  But that didn’t make any sense. She looked like a human. Shieldmaidens had some magic attached to their title, but they were still human.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Daschla’s words caught Edie’s attention. Her tone was slightly sharper, addressing one of the generals. He had said nothing the entire meeting, and was standing stiffly at the back of the pack, slightly set apart from the others. Now, he shifted uncomfortably under their gazes. “It’s nothing, my lady.”

  “Speak freely,” she prompted.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s just … I’m not sure we’re ready for the rally. I mean, I have some … doubts about our effectiveness.”

  Witchfinder turned to look at him and pointed toward the town. “Looks to me like we’re plenty effective, General.”

 
“Yeah. I mean, we can start fires.” He paused. “But our ranks … not all of the men are ready for what we need to do. They’re not all on board yet. If we waited, we could get more—”

  “Why,” Daschla interrupted, “exactly are they not on board? Haven’t I made it very clear what we have to do? Didn’t they pledge to lay down their lives if necessary?” After a moment, she added, “Just who are these cowardly men, who would turn away from the chance to go to Valhalla?”

  “I—” The general shifted. “It’s just sort of a … feeling I get. I don’t think it’s about the rally, my—”

  “What is it about, then?” she snapped in a hot tone that seemed to turn off even Witchfinder.

  The third general cleared this throat to chime in. “There’s, um … okay, frankly, there’s a question about leadership, my lady. Some of us are wondering when we’re going to serve under the Wounded, or … another warlord.” He tittered nervously. “You are our queen, but … someone needs to be in charge.”

  Ouch. Even Edie, who felt less than zero sympathy for Daschla, could feel the impact of the statement. It hung in the air as the “queen” took a few steps toward him.

  “Someone needs to be in charge,” she repeated bitterly. “Someone needs to be in charge.” She repeated it once more, her voice rising: “Someone needs to be in charge?”

  She threw her arms out, and suddenly, the graveyard was bathed in purple-white light. Edie gasped and pulled back as the glare washed over the tomb, temporarily blinding her. Within a few moments, it receded slightly, but it was still surrounding Daschla, throwing stark shadows.

  She checked that Cal and Satara were still under cover before peering, with much more care than before, around the edge of the tomb.

  Her stomach dropped into her knees.

  Where Daschla had been standing now hovered a winged woman, seven feet tall. The same white gown draped over her toned, athletic frame, and thick, intricate lavender braids were wound into buns on either side of her head. A dark winged helmet adorned her head, a matching gorget around her collar and cuffs at her wrists.

  She beat her wings—enormous, void-black, pointed like knives—once, twice before her bare feet touched the dirt. Still, she towered over the men.

  A valkyrie.

  Beside her, Edie heard Satara choke.

  But Daschla was not like the unveiled valkyir she had seen before. They had all had more or less the same color palette: their ghostly bodies were always surrounded by blue and white light, their wings and armor monochrome. Their skin, whether it was pale as the moon or as dark as obsidian, always seemed to glow with an inner light, and the surface was always unbroken.

  Daschla’s skin, however, was as dull and dead-looking as the underbelly of a fish. There was no inner light, only paleness, shot through with small gray veins. The glow that came off her now was coming through fractures in her body. The breakages snaked over her entire form as though she was made of cracked china, one move away from shattering completely. Her dark purple armor shimmered in the light.

  “You swore fealty to me.” Her voice echoed like it was coming from another realm, but it was definitely the same woman. “Did the Wounded choose you? Has the Wounded trained you? Has the Wounded, time and time again, defended you, provided for you, put—”

  She cut herself off with a shriek of fury, pressing her fists to her forehead. Her wings shuddered and beat the air, lifting her again so she was practically above them.

  “I’m more than just your damn queen. I am the aspect of death! Do you idiots understand that?” Her next hiss slid through the graveyard like a cold fog: “I am the closest to Odin you will ever get.”

  The men were silent, though the two without hats took a noticeable step back, clutching their weapons tighter to their chests. From here, Edie could see all three shivering, and she had to clench her jaw shut to keep her own teeth from chattering, too. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees.

  At length, Witchfinder said quietly, “Yes, my queen,” and the others followed his example in mumbles.

  Daschla hovered for a few more moments before lowering herself to the packed earth again and pointing toward the cemetery gates. “Now go do your fucking job.”

  The Blood Eagles left in short order, heads down. They said nothing, but Edie could practically feel the bitterness rolling off them. Admonishing them hadn’t made them more obedient.

  Indriði, at least, seemed to notice this. As Daschla’s human form returned to her, the lesser Norn crossed her arms and said flatly, “We need to move the rally closer.”

  Daschla huffed, tearing the red drape from her body and casting it into the grass. Her gown followed soon after, revealing an undershirt and leggings. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They were supposed to be willing to do anything for me.”

  “Men are fickle.” Indriði gestured for the light elf to fetch the discarded clothing, and he scrambled to do so. “I told you they would never follow a woman.”

  “But I’m not a woman,” Daschla snapped back. “I’m not a damn human. I’m more now!”

  “Honey, I never said they would let you be their leader. You’re worth fighting for: something to protect and be won. Their maiden queen.” The Norn huffed a laugh. “I’m surprised they’ve tolerated you for so long without a male present. I guess one of them was hoping to be the lucky guy?”

  “You promised.” The younger woman’s voice cracked. “You said that once I was a valkyrie, everything would be fixed.”

  “It will be,” Indriði said, coming forward to place her hands on Daschla’s shoulders. Daschla was of average height in her human form, but the Norn still had to reach up. “We’ll move the rally to tomorrow afternoon, before any of them have time to change their minds. Once it’s done, everything will be different. You’ll be a queen, or jarl, or warlord, or whatever you want, babygirl.” She released her shoulders and spread her hands. “You just need to wait a handful of hours.”

  Daschla’s jaw worked slowly. She swallowed hard. Finally, she muttered, “Like the chickens.”

  “Like the chickens,” Indriði agreed with a nod.

  Chickens? If Edie hadn’t been lost before, she was certainly lost now.

  The New Gloaming group said little else. There were a few whispers to Scarlet and the light elf—giving orders, Edie assumed—but then they dispersed, leaving the old burying ground as empty and silent as before they had entered it.

  No one dared move until their retreating forms were no longer visible. Then, Cal slipped from behind the oak tree to crouch in front of Edie and Satara.

  “Welp,” he said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, his eye still on the cemetery gates, “guess that eliminates the valkyries from our list of allies.”

  Satara frowned and sat forward. “No, it doesn’t. Something isn’t right here. Whatever she is, she is not a valkyrie.”

  “She certainly seems to fuckin’ think so.”

  Edie rifled through her satchel to get the translocation spell instructions again. “Valkyir serve Odin, right? They’re connected to him?” she said as she smoothed out the paper.

  “They’re connected to both Odin and Freyja—they made the valkyir together,” Satara answered. “Freyja is their Mother, their general. But they’re practically aspects of Odin. Imbued with his magic.”

  “Then we’ll ask Basile.” Edie stood and looked around for a good place to start painting, eventually deciding on the packed earth of the central path. “I mean, he’s a priest of Odin. So he’ll know. Right?”

  Satara winced as she stood. “Either way, we need to move fast. That rally they were speaking about … it must be the one Basile has been predicting. Marius said the rallies have gotten more and more violent, and this one might be the culmination of those…” She trailed off, reaching a hand back to gently rub her shoulder blade.

  The sight of her in pain spurred Edie to paint more quickly, focusing on the runes. Their priority had to be getting out of here and fi
guring out how to stop Satara’s wings from poisoning her.

  But if they could no longer rely on the valkyir to do it, they were well and truly fucked.

  “Daschla is a what?”

  It was about the reaction Edie had expected, but she hadn’t expected Basile to look as skeptical as he did—like she might have been making it all up to embellish their adventure or something.

  “She’s a valkyrie,” she repeated, more firmly.

  “Like those hot babes from God of War?” Elle chimed in from the chair. It seemed she was camped out there for the day, curled up in a blanket with her phone.

  Edie glanced but ignored her, focusing instead on Basile’s judgmental gaze. “Satara can vouch for me.”

  “Oh?” The priest raised his brows and looked over her shoulder at Satara, who lingered in the dining area, eyeing the easel Yuval had left in front of the large windows.

  She didn’t answer, her fingertips ghosting over the unfinished canvas. Her wings had come unfurled and were sagging down her back, trembling slightly.

  Edie watched for another moment before approaching. “Satara?” She kept her voice soft. “Are you okay?”

  The shieldmaiden opened her mouth, then closed it again. She nodded to the painting—an acrylic of an overcast field, dotted with wildflowers here and there. “This … it just looks like the field Astrid used to take me for training. Inland a few miles.”

  “It’s pretty,” Edie replied, unsure of what else to say.

  “It’s not exactly the same, but the trees…” Satara traced the treeline. “Astrid used to say it reminded her of Fólkvangr, Freyja’s meadow. It always reminded me more of home.”

  She said nothing else, and Edie shifted from foot to foot, searching for words. Finally, she settled on, “Everyone brings their own point of view to things, I guess.” Or baggage, she added internally. “Basile isn’t gonna believe me about the valkyrie thing unless you tell him.”