Page 93 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Hope is a dangerous thing around Helene.

She crawls into the dead places inside me and makes them feel alive again.

Being a masochist helps. I’ve become accustomed to the pain.

This woman with her flaws and traumas and cautious optimism is not the warrior Valkyrie I used to know. Helene bleeds through everything.

She is the compulsion I’ve never learned to live without.

I pry loose from her hold, an electric crackle lighting my skin where it pulls free from hers. I survive a twinge of remorse before heading into the living room.

The sun lifts to the horizon line with skeletal fingers of cold, hard light. Clouds obscure any dazzling sunrise the town might experience, like a perpetual dome over the entire place. It traps the gloom inside, the hopelessness as abundant as maple trees.

Another gray October morning with crisp air and a quiet broken by my heartbeat.

It clangs against my ribs, and I bet the forest will swallow that in time as well.

The mist of Ginnungagap seeps through thick here.

Another few minutes and those brave tendrils of dawn will push through the dirty mullions of the living room windows.

I cut my attention across the room to the sagging center cushion on the couch. The chair has seen better days as well, patches of fabric fraying.

I’ve half a mind to gift it to Draven’s court as a prototype of torment. Those loose springs are a killer.

But there are dainty hand drawn sketches in faded back frames nailed to the wall. There are herbs in cracked porcelain jugs, and a vase of flowers wilting on a coffee table. Christmas lights decorated in dust she hasn’t yet taken down over a mantel without a chimney.

Blankets drape over the rear of the couch and pillows with tufts and tassels form a satisfactory nest.

Helene has made this dump a home. She makes ugly things feel warm. I hate how much I want that.

But has she ever found the peace I tried to offer her? I⁠—

She clears her throat behind me. “You’re up early,” she whispers.

“There’s no need to lower your voice. Your sister will sleep. She needs to replenish what she’s lost.” I drag a finger along the limp line of a macrame tapestry.

Not turning.

Not looking at her.

Not bothering to hide the shadows seething from my palms like hungry pets.

“Oh.” Helene chuckles, losing some of the morning reverence. “That’s good to know. I didn’t realize you sensed that.”

Fabric rustles, and she stops at my side. Beyond, the view stretches over the roof of the single story cafe across the street. The slightly sloping landscape shows the rolling busy streets, the old houses stacked along their borders. Soon winter’s chill will take residence and blanket the world in white. Now, frost crackles across tree limbs and stubborn shrubbery.

And if I look at her, I’ll break. One glance will unravel me.

It’s been hard enough to resist the touch, not when her scent has laced its way into every corner of my lungs.

A different scent intercedes, the stringent softness of spearmint. I stifle a grin. She brushed her teeth.

I wonder why.

Her knuckles brush mine. “What do you see when you look at Nightshade Hollow this way?” she asks.

“Do you want the truth or diplomacy?”