“I am aware.” I gesture to her nameplate, which is decorated with cat stickers and what appears to be a hand-drawn middle finger labeled “Monday Mood.”
“Right. Of course. Very observant, Stenrik the ice elf.”
“Vetrfolk.”
“Right. Sorry. Vetrfolk.” She continues pouring salt, creating patterns that would make any self-respecting protection circle weep. “What’s the difference anyway?”
“Elves are diminutive. Cheerful. They make toys and cookies.”
“And Vetrfolk?”
“We are winter incarnate. Ancient guardians of the boundary between worlds.”
“Who track WiFi-stealing shadow creatures.”
“That is... not typical.”
Another crack in the window. The shadows are becoming impatient. One has what appears to be a clipboard, though I cannot imagine why.
Four days. I must keep her alive for four days, despite her apparent determination to injure herself on every available surface.
The Chronicle sits innocently on the desk, but I’ve seen its true nature. This will not be a simple renewal.
This will change everything.
RIANNE
The next hour passes in a blur of salt lines, ice barriers, and increasingly surreal explanations. By the time we finish reinforcing the last window, I’m either drunk enough to accept talking ice elves or sober enough to realize arguing won’t help.
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I say, clutching Mister Poofypants the Third like a fuzzy shield. His purr sounds like a chainsaw that’s planning revenge. “I can’t leave the library.”
“Correct.” Stenrik is doing something to the windows with his hands that makes ice spread in elaborate patterns. It’s actually kind of pretty, if you ignore the shadow faces pressed against the glass.
“Because I read a magic book.”
“The Chronicle. And yes.” He moves to the next window. I notice he has to duck slightly to avoid the hanging display of “READ” letters I made from coffee filters last month.
“And you can’t leave because...”
“The ritual requires both participants to remain within the boundary until completion.” He touches another window. The ice spreads faster this time, and one of the shadows outside makes what might be an annoyed gesture.
“But you’re—sorry, Vetrfolk. Can’t you just...” I wave my free hand vaguely, nearly dropping the cat. He digs his claws into my sweater in protest. “Magic your way out?”
His left eye twitches. It’s surprisingly human for someone who’s currently radiating cold like a walking freezer. “Magic does not function in that manner.”
“How does it function?”
“In a manner that keeps us both here.” He’s moved to the door now, reinforcing the seal there. His movements are precise, economical. No wasted energy.
“That’s super helpful, thanks.” I set Mister Poofypants down. He immediately starts winding between my ankles, a furry, judgmental trip hazard.
Another crack spreads across the window. Something that might be a hand—if hands were made of smoke and corporate jargon—presses against the glass. It waves. Or possibly makes a rude gesture. Shadow anatomy is unclear. Another shadow joins it, and they appear to be having a discussion. One of them is definitely holding what looks like a coffee cup.
“We require additional salt,” Stenrik says. “And we must complete the ritual by the solstice.”
“But that’s…” I count quickly. “Days from now. I can’t stay trapped in here with you for that long.”
Ok. I didn’t really have other plans. But still.
