“Sir, my name is Hela.”
I exhale slowly out of my nose.
“There we go,” Will says. “I hope that will suffice. I’m sure your job isn’t easy in a downpour like this.”
The guard doesn’t comment. “Have a safe night, Herr Johansson.”
With the checkpoint behind us, Will finally exhales. “Good job, ladies.” The way he says that, I know he really means “Agnata.”
“I wasn’t going to out you,” Agnata pouts.
“You were thinking about it. I know you were,” Sofie accuses, not looking at her.
“I made one bad decision and now there’s no trust between us? At all?”
“You made two bad decisions, actually,” Will says, eyes flashing up to the mirror. “Sharing our plan and selling the king’s ring.”
Sofie turns the knife. “And it wasn’t a bad decision for you; it was a bad decision for the rest of us, and that’s the problem.”
“What would you have had me do? Rot in the castle cells?”
Sofie cocks a brow. “Yes, actually.”
“Can we save this argument for after we get the ring back?” Will asks. “Driving in this weather isn’t exactly the easiest.”
“What—oh,” Sofie says, finally looking out into the streets.
Water streams down the cobblestones at least two inches deep under our tires. The wheels struggle to hold fast to the road, and we list from side to side down the narrow streets.
As we turn onto the sea lane that runs parallel to the shoreline, the Øresund Strait looms ahead. Lightning spider-webs across the sky, and I gasp. The water is a living mass. Frothing, festering, churning, boiling. Whitecaps crest into waves that slam into the shore with enough force to swallow the beach whole. There’s not a grain of sand to be seen, except in the little cove, cordoned off by rope and respect—the sea witch’s lair.
Cluttering the storm tide are the bodies of more fish, all bleeding black from their eyes, deposited and then shuffled again with each new wave, unable to rest. Freyja’s wheels skid and thump over a few of the dead fish.
“It might be best to park the car here,” Will says when a school practically washes beneath the wheels.
“You want us to walk in that?” Agnata asks, eyeing the streaming water outside her window—high enough to soak the hem of her dress right along with her boots.
“Do you have a better idea?” Sofie says. “Get out.”
Will hops out first and helps Agnata from her bindings. Sofie and I grab the pistols from under the carpet at our feet. We each hand them to Will, who is the only one whose clothes can cover their bulk. If it comes to it, Sofie and I have our gemstones—we’re already wantedfor horrible things, and those guards suspect we’re both witches, so there’s no real point to hiding our magic if we’re under fire.
We slosh through the water, our boots bumping the bloating carcasses of fish along the way.
“Why are their eyes like that?” Agnata asks, looking to me, for obvious reasons.
“Magic,” I say. “No more questions, please.”
We haven’t told her of Father’s plans. Nor have we told her why we want the ring. Despite an afternoon of her pestering questions, there’s no way we’re spelling anything else out to her.
The air smells of rain, rot, and smoke, as the ashen remains of the warehouse settle behind the steep roofline of a row of shops catering to dockworkers. The Vœrtshus Havnestad is at the end of the row, its shingles whitewashed and dingy. It doesn’t help that sandbags line the foundation and are piled two deep at the door, keeping the water at bay.
For a moment I worry that Møller won’t be out in this weather—maybe nobody will. But Havnestaders are hardier than most and, despite the relentless rain, the tavern’s windowpanes glow warm with firelight on either side of the single entrance. I think back to the alley—one exit there, likely from the kitchen. These are good things to know.
At the red-lacquered door, I run a quickly whisperedround of“Purr klœdi”to dry us. Then, we lock arms as planned—myself on Will’s left, Agnata on his right, Sofie bracketing her on the outside.
When we enter the vœrtshus, music is playing, a trio of stringed instruments going from the corner. Laughter cloaks the room, people pleased to be dry, warm, and slightly drunk. I’ve never been in a place like this before. Luckily, though, Will either has or is really good at pretending.
We grab a table that has an excellent view of both the entrance and the doors to the kitchen, which we know lead to the alley. Will deposits the three of us at the table before calling the serving girl without much more than a kind look her way. “The last of your summer wine for the table please, Fru...”
