I stare at him. “My defenses? You’re blaming me?”
“I am stating a fact. The ritual cannot force a connection that is not offered. You see me as a threat. Or, at least, as an unknown. You do not trust me.”
I want to argue. I want to yell at him. But I can’t.
Because he is right.
How can I trust him? He appeared in a blast of ice, told me I was trapped, and looked at me like I was an inconvenient variable. He is seven feet tall, has pointed ears, and is literally made of winter. I’ve known him for maybe six hours. My trust is reserved for my cat, and even that is debatable most days.
“So what?” I say, finally. “You expected me to just... open my soul? To a stranger who trapped me in a library?”
“I expected you to follow instructions.”
“I did follow instructions!”
“You followed the physical steps. The rest was absent.” He turns away from me and picks up the Chronicle. The book looks dark. Dormant. “We have failed. The ritual is complete for tonight.”
The finality of it hits me. We’ve just wasted one of our three chances. Because of me. Because I can’t “synchronize” with an ice elf.
“So that’s it? We just... wait until tomorrow?”
“We wait until the next midnight.” He sets the book on the reference desk, away from the circle. “And this time, Rianne, you must actually participate.”
He walks away. He just walks away, toward the history section, leaving me standing alone in the failed salt circle. I can feel the cold radiating from him. Or maybe that is just me.
I sink onto one of the reading chairs. My hands still tingle. We have two chances left. Two.
I pull out my phone and stare at Martin’s unanswered texts. At least he was human. At least I understood what went wrong.
STENRIK
Keith has commandeered the conference room. Through the glass doors, I can see him arranging chairs with the dedication of someone who has attended far too many seminars on optimal seating arrangements. He’s manifested a projection screen from somewhere. Carl is helping, though his version of help involves moving the same chair back and forth repeatedly.
“Should we stop him?” Rianne asks. She is slumped in a chair at the circulation desk, her legs draped over one arm. The aftermath of our failure hangs in the air, but her cheeks are flushed, and she keeps giggling at inappropriate moments.
“He seems content.” I continue reinforcing the barriers, adding another layer of ice to the front door. The temperature drops another degree.
“He’s a shadow creature with PowerPoint. Nothing about this is content. This is madness.” She attempts to sit up properly.
Mister Poofypants the Third has claimed the returns cart as his throne, surveying us with the disdain of a king watching peasants argue.
“We have two midnights left.” I try to give her some hope. To give some to myself. “Tonight, and the solstice. Between them, we wait.”
“For what? What happens if we keep failing?”
“The barrier continues to thin. The worlds blend at the edges.”
“Blend how?”
“I’m uncertain. The records from 1847 simply mention ‘integration.’ Keith may be an example.”
I move to the next window. Each seal must be perfect. The shadows outside are growing bolder, pressing against the barriers. One has manifested what appears to be a battering ram. Another is checking its phone. Carl waves at me through the glass. I find myself nodding back.
“Why midnight specifically?” Rianne asks suddenly. She has managed to sit properly now, though she is listing slightly to the left.
“The barrier is thinnest then. The magic is most receptive.”
“But why only two more nights? Why not every night until we get it right?”
