The Strange Maid

TWENTY-SEVEN

AS THE SUN slides in its arc across the clean blue sky, I stand outside the fort at the edge of the ocean.

Valtheow.

My palm tingles when I think her name, and I rub the rune scar. My Valtheow the Dark, transformed into the troll mother who destroyed Vinland, who nearly crushed me in her arms.

I shudder and close my eyes. I can’t hold my fingers still; I can’t stop the chills screaming up and down my spine.

I can’t tell if this is bliss or terror.

Her aquamarine gaze was so sharp and clear when we met, and in the dreams, too. She was a Valkyrie but fell completely into monstrousness. Could the same happen to me? Signy, you’re drawn to those things, too.

But how can I take my seax and shove it into the heart of Valtheow the Dark? Won’t that be like cutting out my own heart?

A strangled laugh falls out of me as I remember putting my seax to my chest at Baldur’s ball and saying, Before I would cut out his heart and offer it to the Alfather, I would cut out my own.

Soren, as if sensing the rising panic, comes and takes me gently by the neck to go with him and check that all the weapons are ready and placed where we can easily get to them.

“This changes nothing,” I whisper to him. “I still have to take the heart. Make her pay.”

“Work,” he says, “and distract yourself.”

Sharkman and Rathi sail to Mizizibi for some heavy nets and a second generator so we can reposition two of the UV lights to shine south over the island. We expect her from the north, to rise directly out of the water, and I take off my jeans to wade with Darius around the circumference of the fort, since the piece of the wall that dives into the ocean is the most likely place the troll mother could surprise us, if she stays underwater that long. Darius checks for weak spots, especially around the small drainage holes where the brick meets the concrete foundation. I draw invisible protection runes with seawater and spit, and imagine them being more than prayers, more than poetry, but feel silly.

When I have the heart, my runes will have true power. I can have everything I wanted when I was younger.

Is that what Odin always wanted? He must have known what happened to his Valtheow, whom he loved, whom he spoke of in such passionate terms. And when Freya offered him this prophecy, he knew I was Valtheow’s perfect heir.

What could I do with that power?

Anything.

I splash out of the ocean and tear over the sand into the fort. Inside my little guardhouse I press my forehead against the edge of the slit window that opens up along the eastern side where the sally port is. There’s nothing but wild beach and grass billowing in the wind, a few wispy clouds clinging to the horizon. We have maybe an hour until twilight, almost three until full dark. Until my hero, my dark enemy, arrives.

I’ll never survive her. I’m not strong enough; I’m terrified of her: she’s not only an impossibly old troll mother but a Valkyrie with all the strength of runes and centuries behind her.

What am I?

My throat closes; my mouth suddenly waters profusely.

I’m going to throw up.

“Signy.”

I whirl and it’s Ned. I swallow, shaking my head. He helps me lower to my knees onto the cool slate floor. I spread out onto my stomach and press my cheek to the stone, my palms. I breathe deeply and think of the New World Tree. I think of the bright pearl of Odin’s mad eye, and the laughter of his ravens, so like the echo of seagulls crying outside.

Ned rubs gentle lines across my shoulders.

Until my stomach settles, until my pulse calms, I remain silent. I breathe. I pretend I can feel the oxygen spinning out to all my cells, filling my veins and arteries, out to the tips of my fingers and toes. I know what I need to know. Nothing can make me bigger or stronger, but I’ve got my weapons and my friends, and we’re as ready as we can be. I roll over. Ned kneels beside me. “Nu is se ræd gelang eft æt þe anum,” he says.

Now our plan depends upon you alone. Words from King Hrothgar to Beowulf before he went hunting Grendel’s mother. I look into those rain-colored eyes.

He says, “The heart, it will call to you, too. You’re so like Valtheow, and even younger and less experienced.”

I open my mouth to curse at him for mirroring my fears, but he shakes his head sharply. “You don’t know how to kill, and she’d fought in battles. She’d sacrificed men with rope and knife since she was a child. It was different then; life was different, and its value different. Here in this new world you all place so much more value on individuals and choice, no matter the talk of destiny or Freya’s web of fate. Wyrd bið ful aræd, you like to say, that line from ‘The Wanderer.’ Fate is inexorable. But you don’t believe it. You think you can change your destiny.”

“Ned.”

“You’re brave, Signy, but so was she. You’re drawn to the darkness and power and blood, and so was she. She succumbed. She turned into a monster, don’t you understand? You have to be stronger than Valtheow.” His hands grope at the air but find my hips. The simple connection relieves me, offers up the answer I need.

I grab his collar and drag him down to me; I push him over onto his back and roll onto him and do what I’ve dreamed of: I put my thighs against his, our hips together, our chests and lips together. I prop myself on my elbows and stare into his eyes from barely a breath away. Truth spins in his starry gray iris. “I don’t have to be stronger than Valtheow; we do. All of us. I have you and Soren and the Mad Eagles and even Rathi, and none of you will let me fall. You can’t. I need you.”

“Me.”

“I love you,” I whisper. “And I hate you. Both things stick in my heart, grounding me here. That’s the complete truth.”

His hands cradle my neck, thumbs flick along my jaw, and he says, “I don’t deserve it.”

“Make yourself deserve it; rise up to meet me if you want me.” I press my cheek to his shoulder and curl around him like he’s the earth. His heart pumps hard under my ear.

“I’m afraid,” he says, an echo in my ear. “Of her.”

I put my arms around his neck and pull him tight.

“She won’t forgive me.”

“I do.” I kiss him. I open my mouth and force my way in, to show him there’s nothing between us now, to show him I understand. His hands crawl down my hips. I scramble at his shirt, tugging it up, but I don’t want to stop kissing him. He rolls on top and pushes my face away to separate us so he can tear his shirt off. It catches on his braids like always and I laugh. He laughs, too, half a little snarl with his teeth, and I feel it straight down to my rocks. I tug at him and he shoves my shirt up, making my spine burn and arch. I don’t know where to put my hands and so I try to put them everywhere, and I open my legs to let him closer even though there are still clothes between us. Just the weight of him between my thighs makes me groan, and I clap my hands over my face because I’m too loud but I don’t know how to stop. He kisses my first rib, climbs his lips up the second and third. I bend under him; I grab his back. His skin is rough under my hands. I have the absurd thought he needs to eat more; he’s too whip-tight and the scars raking down his flesh curl my own fingers into claws.

His teeth dig into my shoulder, my neck. I gasp and suck at his ear, I taste the salt at the hollow of his throat, and I feel so messy.

I try to get my hand in his pants but can’t—quite—turn my wrist the right way, and he gets in mine first. Surprise and severe pleasure crack my head back against the ground so I see blobs of light and leave my eyes shut. I bite my lip until he kisses me again, slow and deep with his mouth, and with his fingers. There’s nothing for me to hold on to. So I just let go; hands rigid and splayed out, I open up with my whole body and try not to moan and hiss and beg too loudly.

Hot satisfaction melts me into the floor. I reach for his braids, pulling, and whisper his name as I try to remember how jeans unbutton with tingling fingers. He helps finally, muttering things I don’t care about like how there’s no pillow or even a door, and everything is too hard and cold. But he lies back to pull me on top of him. Then Ned Unferth says “prophylactic,” and I rear back and stare with horror, not because that matters right now, but because it is absolutely the least poetic thing I’ve ever heard fall out of his mouth.

I flatten my hands on his chest and laugh silently, shaking so violently his eyes go wide like there’s something wrong with me. He scowls and I don’t hear what he says next because his stomach flexes under me and he sits, pulling me into a close embrace. I curl in a ball, giggling and shivering, half undressed and holding on to the waistband of his jeans like my life depends on it.