Page 9 of Veil of Blood and Bone

A yell rings out from the river and at the docks, the audience lifting their arms in a unanimous cheer as the first longboat pushes through the murky water.

Brown and silver currents hide the whirlpools, but the men on either side muscling the oars cut through them.

More people will arrive as the evening progresses. The Longshore festival draws a crowd in all manner of dresses. Some of them are Viking adjacent, some less, some what Hollywood thinks Vikings are.

More than a handful of guys dressed like Loki pass our booth, from the show and from the movies.

Not one of them is Tom Hiddleston. Pity. I’d gladly run over him with the wheelchair any day, points or not. Then nurse him back to health.

None of them measure up to the aura of the dude with the cape either. There was nothing effeminate about those feathers. Not when he rose up taller than any man had a right to, when those eyes shone with an unnatural iridescence.

Not even when his lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Hi, can you tell me about this piece?” A young woman glances briefly at her friends who are already bored by their pause at the booth.

“Come on, Missy, they started the Galley procession, and I want to see who they choose for the Guizer Jarl,” her friend whines.

My grin widens and freezes in place with too much teeth. “You have good taste. That’s a Rosmaled trinket box, hand-painted in Norway.”

I’ve always been partial to the round case with its colorful design on wood. The girl leaves with a new find in her pocket, her friends happier to scope out potential mates, and I score another sale.

Somewhere along the line, between the Rosmaled box and a first edition copy of Wuthering Heights, Audra disappears and returns with a lap full of treats.

“It was pickled herring or Köttbullar,” she explains.

My stomach gives a singular growl. “I’ll take the Swedish meatballs, thanks.”

“Extra gravy, extra lingonberry jam, and extra boiled potatoes.”

“Why didn’t you buy two dishes?”

“It’s stupid to shell out for two when I’m going to eat off yours, anyway. Besides, it was cheaper this way.” She shrugs, and my appetite vanishes.

“Sure.”

I sound unconvincing in the worst possible way. Covering my tone isn't an option, either. We both know money is tighter, allocated to other more important things than having two meals.

No one else is going to look after us. Blood hadn’t guaranteed it. Choice had.

“Mr. Brandstedt was happy to toss a few extra potatoes in the box.” Audra is all chipper, fake optimism. “These legs are good for something at least.”

She hands over the recyclable cardboard container, and I have enough time to shove two meatballs in my mouth like a chipmunk before the next wave of potential customers stop. Most of them gloss over the wares and shift off with a nod of acknowledgement to us.

The top visitor of the evening doesn’t actually buy anything.

Our raven is back.

It flits between tents, darker than the violet dusk, hopping nearer each time. I break off a piece of rye bread and toss it to the bird to entice it closer. “I could use a buddy to keep me company.”

“Jeez, what am I?” Audra hands change to a happy couple visiting from the Midwest. “A loser? I’m the best company you’ve got.”

I lob another bit of rye. “You’re doing an amazing job, but this cements my status as the town crazy lady. The only way to have people leave us alone is to train a flock of ravens. I’ll have my own murder.”

“You don’t actually want that,” she says.

I nod. “Yes, I do.” Clucking my tongue has the raven turning, angling its head, snapping its beak.

But it doesn’t fly off.