Page 1 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Chapter 1

Helene

Iwrestle Audra’s dying wheelchair toward the riverbank while my sister calmly recites fairy tales like an oracle at a funeral.

The motor gives a rasping, grinding cough before going silent.

Fuck this decayed battery.

Off-kilter wheels trip over the cobbled path, the angle too steep to negotiate with grace, and my lungs burn. The river’s mist curls like ghostly fingers heading for the road and secrets buried under the forest shadow whisper through pine needles along with her story.

“And Odin chose his fallen, the souls destined to die in battle, sending his trusted shieldmaidens to retrieve the slain from the battlefield, then carry them to Valhalla. In blood and gore they swept, Hellevi heralding the hunt. Her bright sword⁠—”

I glance up and flash an apology at the stricken mother clutching her baby to her breast like the words blood and gore will cause permanent damage to the kid's ears.

“Audra, keep it down.”

We bounce over a tree root cracking open the sidewalk, and she tilts to the left. Muscles bunch, clench, and threaten to give out before I manage to right her again.

Audra’s voice carries fragments of Norse prophecy into the dusky gloom with a gruffness borne from pain with no relief.

I grind my teeth. “You read from that stolen book like we aren’t late to the fucking Longship Festival.” Sweat slicks my back. And time is a thief.

“I got it from Mom’s stuff,” Audra murmurs, her freckles standing to attention.

I pause, grimace. “Then you should have left it where you found it.”

"No can do. Those boxes need to be organized. Mom⁠—"

"No, they don't."

"You're going to hoard us out of the house if you insist on keeping everything."

I sigh. "It's a rainy day project. Okay?"

I spare a glance down at the threaded edges of the journal on her lap, like it’s easier to delve into the past rather than face the crowds surging into the field below us.

Dampness rolls off the mossy banks of the Heath river and the belching gray fog. It can’t touch the mugginess in the late autumn air.

We don’t get the leafers in this corner of Massachusetts. Something about the way the mountains ring the county keeps the mist in place, a constant and middling ceiling of gray. The trees are dark and wet, lichen filled. The river is Lethe, ready to steal memories.

Damn car, stuck at the mechanic’s for a broken belt.

Damn festival.

Damn chair.

It has a motor on it for a reason but after a decade the battery decides today is the perfect time to meet its maker. We’ve got a spare but it’s already at our booth, waiting for us with the lopsided banner that refuses to straighten and welcomes new visitors to Nightshade Hollow with spidery cursive letters and half-assed runes stolen from Google.

Too many people treat the Viking alphabet like stickers or temporary tattoos.

Mom used to swear the symbols carried weight, but only if you knew how to wake them.

“All her stuff is getting mold on it. If we don't do something about it soon, we'll end up throwing everything out. Ooh, over there. Ten points, Helene.” Audra sits up straighter in the chair and signals to a lone jogger with twin braids heading straight for the docks.

I flash an apologetic grin at the jogger who caught Audra’s crowed ten points remark, and she hurries in the opposite direction.

This place needs the festival like we need the battery. More so.