The Strange Maid

TWENTY-FOUR

I LET MYSELF cry like a child all the way home, grateful for the easy grid of streets and the darkness.

My little house is easy to spot by the tall iron fence molded like wheat stalks and the ghostly blooms from the dogwood trees in the back. Sharp white light escapes through a slit in the heavy curtain blocking the square windows high in the garage door where Red Stripe is hidden. Inside, I suck away my tears as I hurry through the hall to the garage and whisper to Thebes, “I’ll stay until morning and talk to you all then.”

He hesitates, but I go straight to the calcified troll and sink down to the floor, my face against his stone knee. Thebes’s large hand settles on my head and then he leaves, more quietly than any of the other berserkers seem to move.

When I’m alone, I bury myself in Red Stripe’s cold comfort, my chest aching from the fury and wildness and just plain relief that Ned’s alive. I hold myself tight, shaking and hissing sobs through my teeth.

My tears turn the pale blue marble of the troll skin darker, like patches of lichen.

She catches me from behind in her claws and pulls me against her chest, cradling me gently. She’s soft and cool, humming a lovely tune that has my eyes drifting shut. Until her claws dig into my chest. I scream as she cracks open my ribs like double doors. My heart is on fire, but she takes it in her massive hands and eats it.

I wake up.

My eyelashes stick together, but I smell coffee. Somebody is poking my cheek and I grimace up at Sharkman. There’s no grin on his face this morning. “Why were you crying?” he demands softly.

Darius crouches just behind him, holding two mugs of coffee. Rain hits the tiny windows; moisture drips through the crack at the bottom of the wide garage door. “Did you locate her?” he asks.

I sit up. My first vicious thought is I should have tied Ned up and dragged him here and given him to Sharkman for interrogation.

My fingers curl as if he’s here now, and I make fists, wanting to hit him because I’m hurting so much.

“You were bleeding,” Thebes says from the three steps leading up into the kitchen. “Last night when you got home.”

The three of them glower at me to various degrees, and I unzip the hoodie, then drag it off my arms. Rusty dried blood stains the collar of my tank top. I can’t quite see the gash from Ned’s knife, but my exploring fingers find it. My entire chest is warm. The pain is a dull burn.

“That’s a knife wound,” Darius says.

Without ceremony, Sharkman pulls me to my feet and half carries me into the house and up the stairs to the bedroom he and Thebes are sharing. He plunks me down onto one of the twin beds and digs through his military-issue duffel bag for a box of first-aid supplies. I untie my boots and remove them, then fold my legs up by the time he kneels before me to wash off the wound.

“I’d really like that coffee Darius brought me,” I say ungraciously.

“Coffee after.” Sharkman rips open an alcohol swab and swipes it against the cut. I yelp.

He’s quick and methodical, decides there’s no need for stitches or a hospital, but suggests I change my shirt so Thebes doesn’t get light-headed again. I do as he lurks in the doorway lasciviously.

In the kitchen Darius and Thebes are dancing around each other in the narrow space to fry bacon and toast, though it’s nearly lunchtime. I reach across the counter to the old rotary-dial phone and call Soren and Rathi and ask them to come over.

Two cups of coffee and brunch later, Soren arrives with Rathi on his heels. My brother goes a little white when he sees the slash across my chest but eyes the berserkers instead of asking.

We gather in the empty dining room where the heavy bag hangs. Darius and Rathi drag chairs in from the kitchen, but the rest of us sit in a circle on the floor. I immediately catch Rathi and Soren up, and say instead of finding out the mother’s location I discovered several packs of wights and trolls hiding in an old cemetery.

Rathi loosens the orange and gold sunburst tie at his neck and sets his coffee on the floor. “Did you alert the authorities?”

“Which ones?” I ask. “The army? The jarl? The Valkyrie of the South?”

“All of them?” he suggests.

Sharkman laughs. “They will demolish the cemeteries or cause a wide panic.”

“And what will you do differently?”

I say, “Find the troll mother, kill her, and they’ll disperse. They’re here because of her.”

Rathi says, “You know that?”

“Yes. Ned Unferth confirmed it.”

Soren’s eyes instantly go to my shoulder, where Hrunting usually hangs. Sharkman curses and Rathi smiles. “He’s alive?”

“He was in the cemetery with the trolls. Talking with them. Protecting them.” I cut my hand through the air, eyes on Rathi. “He is no friend of ours.”

“How do you know he told you the truth?” Darius leans back in his chair. It creaks gently.

“He always told me the truth. No lies pass his lips,” I say, as bitterly as possible. “It’s what he doesn’t say you have to worry about.”

“Signy.” Rathi gets off his chair and crouches in front of me. “What did he do to you?” His eyes lower to the wound on my chest.

Sharkman hisses, “That complete bastard.”

“Stop, all of you.” I put a hand on Rathi’s wrist. “I’m fine. I will be fine, I promise. I can handle Unferth; I always have. The point is that I did not find her exact location—we only know she is here. But she’s also definitely looking for me. Unferth admitted it. She wants me, but we can’t take the fight directly to her, and so we need to move. We need to find a safer place and be on our way there by the time the sun sets.”

“We should tell someone, Sig,” Rathi insists. “Thor’s Army. We should have machine guns and heliplanes and walls of swords.”

“Guns don’t work well against trolls,” Thebes says quietly.

“Bombs would,” Darius says. “You can blow them to pieces.”

“I need her heart,” I say firmly. Soren catches my eye. He knows she wants mine, too, that she said your heart to me.

Sharkman grins. “Where’s the fun in killing them from a safe distance, anyway? Getting up close and personal is what berserkers were made for.”

“This is about me and her. I will face her and take her heart.”

“Do you think you can kill her on your own?” Soren asks quietly. “In your dreams of her, you die.”

Rathi makes a noise of protest. I keep my eyes on Soren. “I am going to face her.” There’s no point arguing it, especially since I know better than the rest of them how impossible it is. None of them were there when I charged her, when she laughed. None of them felt the cracked ribs or the grind of dirt in my raw hands, the sheer panic when my arm was useless or the pain that burned through me. None of them were there when I thought, This is my end. I take a deep breath. “But I don’t want to be alone. I’m asking you all to go with me.”

The brief silence as all five men study me is broken by Darius casually suggesting, “Move nearer the Wide Water?”

Thebes shifts his mass and it’s like the whole room shifts with him. “We can find a warehouse or commandeer something.”

“I’d rather be as far from the city as possible.”

“It’s all swampland, isn’t it?” Soren says.

“Swamps are never good for combat or hunting.” Darius stands up. “I’ll get one of the maps.”

I nod. “It does need water access, for her.”

“Wait.” Rathi runs his hand through his hair as he does when upset. “I … have an idea.”

Surprise turns all our heads toward him.

He directs the thought at me, bottle-green eyes bright and discomfiting. “What about a private island?”

Sharkman starts to laugh.

Ship Island is a barrier island twenty kilometers off the coast of Mizizibi kingstate. Rathi points out the long, crescent finger of it on a map, explaining that Hurricane Camille destroyed its center, dragging about forty percent of the landmass back into the ocean. There’s the remains of a Thralls’ War military fort on the western island, and a working dock. It used to be a kingstate monument, but there hasn’t been money to rebuild the campgrounds or facilities since the last major hurricane seven years ago, and Rathi’s mentor Ardo Vassing decided to buy it. For a private retreat or to fix it up for national tourism, the preacher hasn’t decided yet. All I can think is that the Bliss Church of Freyan Worship must be significantly richer than I imagined.

And it’s incredibly convenient.

We break up the meeting for Rathi to speak with Ardo about the island and Soren to call Baldur and ask for the use of his yacht, though Thebes, whose family comes from Massadchuset fishermen, recommends we rent a trawler because it has something called a displacement hull that might make it better at bearing Red Stripe’s weight. We considered leaving the troll behind, but I have an idea that if we allow him to decalcify once we’re in position, he might be able to hear or sense the troll mother coming, the same way she’s gathering all these lesser trolls to her. He may be our only early warning system.

The berserkers start to pack up and make lists of anything they think we’ll need for an island siege. I go wake Red Stripe to feed him. The troll’s wound is better but still seeps purple crystals. I clean it and take the new pot of ink Rathi brought me yesterday to paint whole and son around Red Stripe’s chest.

I don’t stop. With the troll awake and witness, I paint runes down my arms and in spirals around my legs. They’re all the runes I know, in a vast, chaotic poem. I close my eyes and paint a line by memory and touch just under the red streak of blood Unferth gave me: Where is my heart? I strip off my tank top and write daughter of Odin across my belly.

It’s been too many weeks since I wrote poetry, since I let my mind rest and explored the words of my heart. Since I prayed to my god.

I don’t want to die; I don’t want her to kill me, but I won’t leave her. I chose this destiny a decade ago, with the Alfather beside me, and I won’t run away from the consequences of my choices. That’s what destiny is, I told Rathi weeks ago. I have to prove to myself that I can be the kind of Valkyrie I want to be and be accepted by the world. No matter how many other answers there might have been at one point, now, today, it means holding her stone heart in my hand. Whatever that heart is, whether magical or only a heart.

Hangatyr, my god of sacrifice, accept my sacrifice, this is my choice, my choice, my choice.

This is the throne I will build: a throne of trust and love, a throne of choices and blood.

My choice. My blood.

Signy Valborn, death-born, outside herself, inside the world, strange strange strange girl.

My poetry is war paint, great swathes of black against my skin, gouges and scars of prayer, marking me for the sacrifice.

Myself to myself.

The ink tickles me, tightening as it dries. The runes wrinkle and I let my brush wander, spiraling and circling, sometimes becoming a word, sometimes only a pattern.

Outside, a crow calls twice. Another answers. I think of the ravens Thought and Memory, snickering at each other. My shoulders relax; I breathe evenly. I’m not afraid.

“What is this?” Sharkman asks, clomping down the three stairs into the garage.

“Prayer.”

Sharkman holds out his hand for the brush. I give it over and offer Sharkman my back, lifting my hair off my neck.

The cool brush licks my skin in assured, smooth strokes. I shiver. “What are you writing?”

“A poem.”

“Will I be embarrassed if my wish-brother sees it?”

“Does he like limericks?”

I laugh and he grunts. “The letters will be shaky.”

“Give me my brush back.” I reach for it and he catches my hand. He turns me around and spreads my fingers.

Sharkman traces the binding rune on my palm with heavy black lines. As the ink dries, he holds my hand. I raise my eyes to meet something hostile and dangerous in his. Madness glows sure and tiny in his left iris, like stars caught in the blue.

“I will not let you die, Valkyrie,” he says.

“I am not planning to die, berserker.”

Sharkman leans over me, around me, as if he can surround me from all sides. “I will do what I have to do.”

It sounds like a threat.

I go upstairs to wash off my poem, to repeat the words I remember as they rush down the drain. Choice, my choice, a throne of choices and blood.

Soren follows me, and while I pull out a T-shirt wrinkled from being balled in the small drawer of the bureau, he plants himself in the center of the room. His shirt is that orange color he favors, and the sock on his forearm is white today.

“What’s the tattoo?” I ask, wringing the dress in my hands.

He ignores the question. “Do you think Freya wants you to die?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Who does?”

“No, I don’t like you accepting it.”

“I haven’t accepted it—it isn’t as though I’m just going to stand there. I plan to fight. I plan to fight hard.”

“But if you think it’s inevitable, that will change how you fight. If you’ve given up.”

“I haven’t, Soren.”

“Baldur could have Thor Thunderer here in an hour and we’ll all go together. You’ll have more backup than a few berserkers.”

“This is about the Valkyrie I am, who I want to be, and my blood revenge. I can’t set an army on her.”

“Because it would be too safe? Because it wouldn’t feel like revenge?” That line in his brow has returned, and the corner of his jaw shifts as he clenches his teeth.

Soren must be absolutely furious.

He grinds out, “Explain it to me in small words, Signy, because I don’t understand.”

I take a step back. “Why are you pissed?”

“You’re playing into her hands, you’re being stupid, and you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Stop, Soren, stop.” I drop the shirt and hurry to him, taking his hands. His skin is slick with sweat. “Soren.” I touch his buzzed hair, his tattooed cheek, and put my palm over his burning heart.

He sucks in a huge breath and shuts his eyes.

It hits me, first Sharkman and now this: my friends love me terribly, and their grief will be a screaming storm if I die.

I know what that grief is like.

I throw my arms around Soren. He balks for a hot moment, then hugs me back. I lay our cheeks together and softly say into his ear, “I have to do this because I want to serve the god of the hanged, and this is how I prove myself to myself. I face myself; I face destiny with my eyes open. And moreover, it’s right.”

“I don’t trust your god of the hanged, or his cousins.”

“You don’t have to.”

Soren groans.

“What would Astrid say?”

His dark eyes sadden, but his mouth pulls into a tight smile. “She’d want to know if we have a sword her size.”

“I knew I liked her,” I say, nudging him away so I can shower.

Downstairs, Rathi is arguing with Soren over the keys to the Mad Eagles SUV. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his pin-striped shirt, and his tie is unknotted. The moment I enter the kitchen Rathi whirls to me. “Signy, tell them I’m going with you.”

“I want you safe.”

“I don’t care. The island was my idea, and you couldn’t have gotten it without me. And, regardless, I have to be there with you.” His hair is ruffled, and with his loose tie, with his sleeves rolled up, he’s more like my old wish-brother than he’s been in a long while. But it’s not excitement coursing through him; it’s desperation.

“Why?” I ask, stepping nearer.

His entire face twists with grief. “I wasn’t there when my parents died. You know what that’s like, Signy.”

Soren gets my attention over Rathi’s shoulder, and when I glance at him, he nods. Just like Astrid, Rathi wants a sword his size. I squeeze his hand. “All right. All right.” I rise onto my toes and kiss him. Rathi leans his forehead against mine.

I can’t help thinking we need our King Hrothgar to make the cycle complete.

The semi-trailer the Mad Eagles transported Red Stripe in from Halifax is parked in an abandoned warehouse lot fifteen minutes away. Sharkman and Rathi go get it while Darius, Soren, and Thebes make a run for extra camping supplies. I wake up Red Stripe and feed him again, and by the time he’s rubbed down they’ve arrived with the transport. I join Darius and Thebes in the foyer, where they’re going over a long checklist surrounded by hard weapons boxes and backpacks, nylon bags of tents and tarps, folding chairs, gas cans and batteries, and a camp stove, plus our suitcases and crates of food. Once we’re on the island, getting back to a city for something we forget will be rough.

It’s three hours till sunset when we’re all ready but for loading Red Stripe.

We stand in a circle for a moment, as if waiting for somebody—me—to give a rousing speech about our mission and purpose. I stare at Rathi, the sheath strapped over his shoulder incongruous with his loose tie and the shine of his loafers. Soren stands in an orange T-shirt and jeans, his father’s sword in his relaxed hand, and the three Mad Eagles are broad ravens all in black, steel glinting from hips and shoulders and boots, and shields against their backs like massive dark halos.

“Where’s your sword?” Soren asks me.

Everybody stares at the empty sheath hanging from the baldric strapped across my chest. They all know Ned’s alive, and so what can I say?

Darius offers me his sword, hilt-first.

The doorbell rings.

We all freeze. I jerk forward to swing it open, ready to scare whoever it is away with the circle of large, well-armed men behind me.

Ned Unferth stands there, holding Hrunting in his hand.