The roots of the World Tree were the silver gray of moonlight. They were so deep down that no light ever reached them except for the luminous lanterns of the Norns as they watered its roots and sang their songs to it.
While one watered, the other wove, then it was the next sister’s turn to pick up the pattern.
This is how they passed the day before drifting back to their halls, leaving their buckets next to the Well of Fate.
Urðr, the eldest, stared at her weavings of the past and frowned.
“What’s wrong, sister?” Verðandi asked. Always in the present, she was the most balanced of the three.
“In the past, things have been pleasant. Perhaps they could be again,” Urðr said, causing her sister to pause. Urðr, with her focus always behind her, very rarely speculated about the present, let alone a future.
Urðr tied off her stitch before stepping back from the weaving. Verðandi joined her, staring at the glossy and glowing pattern that meant Urðr had been weaving the fate of immortals.
“What are you both looking at?” demanded Skuld, the youngest of the three, as she pushed them out of the way. She was the brightest and most beautiful of the three, embodying what most people hoped for their future. “Oh, look at that.”
“Quite,” Verðandi acknowledged.
“Look at how beautiful it started,” Urðr complained, pointing to where dark and light were interwoven in glorious complex patterns. “Now the pattern has straightened into parallel lines, separate and boring.”
“I agree. It’s completely screwed up now,” said Verðandi, sitting down at the loom. She twisted two threads of silver in one hand and two threads of shadow in the other. Contemplating.
Skuld started laughing. “Do it. Do it, Verðandi. I can see it, and it’s going to be great. Like the most fun we’ve had in ages.”
Verðandi shrugged. “Okay, let’s screw with them and see what happens.”
CHAPTER 1
Søren stood outside the impressive facade of glass and light that was the University of Oslo Library and wondered what in the goddess Hel’s name he was doing there.
He hadn’t expected a university with laughing students and walkways lined with winter trees, black with rain and stripped of most of their leaves. He had expected a grand building, dripping with either dilapidation or money—that was more of the Darkness’s style.
The organization known as the Darkness had been quiet since the battle in Russia two years ago. Anya—shamanitsa, honorary Álfr, and general pain in his ass—had almost wiped out the Illumination and the Darkness completely when she had combined her magic with his brother Aramis’s and the Firebird’s during that fateful battle.
But almost destroyed wasn’t completely destroyed, and Søren still had a score to settle with the bastards who had attacked his city. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
“Are you there yet?” Aramis asked.
“Your dodgy tracking spell has led us to the wrong place. This is a university, not a bloody headquarters for the Darkness.”
Aramis let out a long-suffering sigh. “We are looking for an artifact that has a 98 percent probability of being a book. Where better to hide it than a library?”
“I’m not an idiot, but something is…off.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I just have this feeling. I’m going to check it out.”
“Call me afterward. And Søren? Try to be polite if you talk to the humans.”
Søren hung up. He was a Dauđi Dómr, a Death Judge of the Álfr. He didn’t have to be polite. He certainly didn’t have the inclination to be polite when it came to people who had plundered the artifacts of his people.
Svetilo, a mountain Álfr city in Russia, had been hit the hardest during the war with the Darkness two years ago. It was a place devoted to the knowledge and culture of the Álfr in Midgard, but it had been plundered by the Darkness and had many of its treasures stolen.
After the war, Aramis and Søren had made it their responsibility to restore Svetilo and had scouted the world for its lost books and artifacts ever since.
They had only managed to recover a third of them in the last two years.
Find the piece and get out of there, Søren prompted himself. He walked through the doors and into the warmth of the library foyer. The word “BIBLIOTEK” was carved into a marble wall over an opening that led into the stacks.
Søren spread out dark
tendrils of his magic, searching for any other magical signatures in the building. To anyone walking past him, he would simply be another person looking at their phone.
His magic jolted back to him so sharp and hot that he almost dropped his phone in surprise. He put his phone in his pocket and headed through the door. Students sat at long rows of desks, studied the timber shelves, searching for titles, and made out where they thought no one would see.
Søren followed the pulsing signal that had made his magic so excited. He halted at the end of a long row of shelves.
A woman was taking books from a trolley beside her and reshelving them. She was young, early thirties if he had to guess, with straight red-gold hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail. Even wearing high-heeled ankle boots, she barely reached five feet tall. She was dressed demurely in a knee-length black skirt and tight cream cardigan buttoned all the way up to her neck. It was almost as if she had looked up “repressed librarian” in a book and stuck to the aesthetic.
Pocket-size librarian, Søren thought. It was obviously a disguise. His magic rarely made a mistake, but here it was going crazy over this bookish mouse. She turned as if sensing that she was being watched. Large gray eyes that lifted slightly at the corners studied him behind a pair of stylish square-framed glasses. She was cute, he realized with some surprise, with her Scandinavian cheekbones and full lips.
“Hei,” she greeted in Norwegian. “Can I help you?”
“Do you work here?” he asked bluntly in English. Gray eyes narrowed at his tone.
“What do you think?” she replied in English. She pointed to the badge above her breast stamped with the red-and-white insignia of the university and the name “ASTA” printed in bold black letters. She had a curious accent that Søren couldn’t place. A touch Scandinavian, a bit British, and a little something else. Liar, perhaps.
Be polite, Søren thought, remembering Aramis’s words.
Søren smiled at her. “Thank goodness you speak English. My modern Norwegian is atrocious.”
“How can I help you? You don’t look like a student,” Asta said cautiously, looking over
his black-on-black three-piece suit and cashmere overcoat. Aramis had tried to convince him to glamour his long black hair, but he had refused. He’d pulled the top half up and away from his face in a braid and left the rest loose. It wasn’t the 1920s anymore. He could have his hair as long as he wanted. Women, Søren had observed, also liked his hair and often used it as a conversation starter.
“I need a book,” he replied vaguely. “I mean, an expert.”
“Which one do you need more?” Asta said with the slightest smile.
“I need an expert in old books.”
“How old? We have a medieval literature section. Is that old enough?”
“Yes?”
Asta folded her arms. “You aren’t a student. What are you actually doing here?”
Søren pulled his magic back in. He couldn’t focus while it buzzed around her, trying to reach out and stroke her.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m horribly jet-lagged. May I start again?”
“Only if you use your words this time. Otherwise, I’m calling security.” The haughty book mouse wasn’t going to give him an inch.
“I’m looking for old manuscripts and books. I have inherited one, and I’d like to see if the library has anything similar. If you know of an expert who can help me, I’d appreciate it. As you can tell, I’m not one.” He gave her his winning smile that usually loosened up most people and supernaturals, but her eyes only narrowed further.
“Can I see some ID?”
“Do I look like I am some kind of thief?” He laughed.
“Don’t thieves look like everyone else? We’ve had people try before. I want to be able to give the police a name if anything goes missing.”
Asta held out a small
hand impatiently. Søren took note of her black nail polish. Interesting. Maybe the uptight librarian’s prim act was slipping. He reached inside his overcoat pocket, took a fake driver’s license from his wallet, and handed it to her.
“You’re from Alaska, Mr. Søren Madson? That doesn’t sound like an American name,” she said skeptically.
“I immigrated when I was young.” He didn’t say from where. “I inherited the book from my father after he died, and it sparked my interest to search out its origins here in Norway. Satisfied?”
She handed him back the laminated card. “For now.”
“Are you sure you aren’t security?”
“Worse. I’m the expert you are looking for.”
Søren’s smile was sharp as a blade. “Of course you are.”
CHAPTER 2
Asta felt the stranger’s emerald-green eyes on her as she led him through the library to a reception desk in front of the sealed archives.
Her gut instinct was still to call security on the obviously rich Loki wannabe. He acted clueless, but every inch of him said otherwise. She was a sucker for a black-on-black suit and goddamn…that hair. He was attractive in a way that had made her stop dead in her tracks and stare at him like a rabbit in front of a wolf. Then he had opened his beautifully curved mouth and ruined it with his entitled tone.
Asta went behind the counter and handed him a form and a pen.
“I’ll need you to fill in all of your details for the system log before I can let you in to see the collection.”
Søren let out a pained sigh. “If this is a way to get my number, you should’ve just asked.” Asta rolled her eyes before she could think better of it. Seriously, the nerve of this guy.
“Has that line ever worked?”
“More than once,” he admitted.
“It’s the rules.”
“And you follow those often, do you?” he asked, not looking up from where he scribbled. Asta stilled. Was he on to her? He didn’t look like he belonged to the university.
“In the library I most definitely do.” She tried to imitate the stern, authoritative voice her mother had always used to bring people into line.
“Where are you from?” Søren asked.
“None of your business.”
“It seems only fair. You just saw my license and are about to know everything about me from this invasive form of yours. You don’t have much of a Norwegian accent, and your English is excellent. So where are you from?”
“Everywhere.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d never lived anywhere longer than six months in her entire life.
“Sounds like it.” He pushed the form back across the counter. His handwriting was atrocious. Asta could barely make out what he had written but wasn’t about to let him know that.
“Come on through, Mr. Madson.” He joined her behind the counter and held out his arms.
“I’m ready for my full-body search. Go on. I won’t move, I promise.”
Heat tingled at the back of her neck, but she managed to ignore it.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Afraid of what you might find?”
“I’m sure it would
be as disappointing as your manners.” She walked past him and swiped her card to open the medieval book room. Søren laughed under his breath, and something about it seemed to slither along her skin. She bit her lip to keep herself from smiling.
“Do you know what time period you are looking for?” Asta asked.
“No.”
“What’s the book about?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a lazy wave of his hand. “It’s old. I can’t read the language.”
Asta pinched the bridge of her nose. This guy was going to drive her insane and blow her cover unless she dealt with him fast.
“Do you have pictures?” she said finally.
Søren looked thoughtful for a moment before pulling out his phone and dialing a number. “Brother. Can you please send me some pictures of the old book we inherited from our father?”
Asta heard the questioning tone of the person on the other end. She wondered if the brother was as mental as Søren was.
“Gods, Aramis, you know what book I mean. It’s old, has pictures in it, odd language. It’s the one we think is medieval,” Søren said impatiently. “I’m with an expert who’ll be able to tell me if she has anything similar. Send them through.” He hung up the phone and turned to smile at Asta. “What?”
“I’m just happy to see that you talk to everyone like that and not just me.”
“Like what?” He tilted his head.
“Like you’re some general giving orders, and everyone is just expected to jump.” Jesus, she was being rude. She couldn’t help it. The guy was infuriating.
“How do you know I’m not a general?”
“I don’t think I want to know what you are.”
Søren’s phone buzzed, and he opened the messages. Asta saw a flicker of gold bordering, and her stomach fluttered.
“This is it.” He passed her the phone. “Have you seen anything like it before?”
The coffee and sandwich she had eaten for lunch threatened to come up as she squeaked,
“No. Never. They look…very medieval. The detail on the borders looks similar to The Lindisfarne Gospels, but the designs are almost Viking.”
“The Lindisfarne Gospels are from the eighth century. You think my book could be that old?” Søren asked curiously.
Asta carefully made her face blank. He wasn’t as big of an idiot as he seemed if he not only knew the manuscript she was referring to but also knew the date of its creation.
She let out a breezy laugh. “Well, it certainly could be, Mr. Madson, but without seeing the actual book, I won’t be able to tell. If you bring it in—”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. How about I email you the pictures, and you see what you can discover. If that fails, and you ask me very nicely over a drink, I will consider bringing it in for you to look at.”
Asta opened her mouth to tell him what he could do with his drink offer when a crisp voice announced over the PA system that the library was closing in ten minutes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Madson, but you need to leave. Your hunt for a similar manuscript will have to wait for another day.”
“I do love a good hunt. Do you have a card, Asta? So I can email the photos.”
“I haven’t agreed to help you.”
“Yes, you have. I saw your eyes light up when you saw the pictures. I have a mystery, and it’ll annoy you until you help me solve it. Let’s help each other, and we’ll both get what we want.” Søren’s general voice was back again. She hated it, but not as much as the fact he was right. She did want to see those photos just not for the reasons he thought.
“I don’t have a card,” Asta said as she escorted him out of the room and back to the reception desk. Taking a pen, she wrote down an email address on a Post-it note and handed it to him.
“[email protected],” he read aloud. “Miss Johanson, your phone number isn’t on this piece of paper.”
“And it doesn’t need to be. Goodnight, Mr. Madson. I’ll let security know you’re on
your way out,” Asta said, walking him toward the exit door.
“You have a safe trip home.” Søren gave her a knockout smile that was ruined by the calculating look in his eyes.
“I will.” Asta closed the door behind him and engaged the lock. She didn’t breathe until the light turned red to indicate it had locked. He folded the note and slid it into his breast pocket before disappearing into the night.
“What the fuck, Asta?” she whispered to herself before picking up the reception desk phone and pressing the number for security.
“Hei, Erik, there’s a man in black exiting now. Please make sure he gets out,” she instructed before hanging up.
It took Asta ten minutes to get her bag and jacket from the staff room and disappear out of a side door. She needed to get home and talk to Tyra. This night had been too weird. Her phone’s email tone buzzed. Glancing at the email, she saw it contained the photos of the mysterious book.
“No, I’m not looking at you before I have a beer in my hand,” Asta said and closed it immediately. Her stomach clenched, and she looked behind her.
It was ten o’clock at night, and university students still mingled on the lit walkways. There was no sign of her strange visitor. Somehow she didn’t think he was the type to catch public transport. Asta pulled the hood of her jacket up and tried not to run to the light-rail stop on the other side of the campus.
It took her thirty minutes to get home to her two-room apartment at Louises Gate. She still hadn’t shaken the feeling of someone watching her and needed to get a locked door between her and the rest of the world. She could already hear the TV through her front door as she fumbled with her keys.
“Really, Tyra? Again?” Asta said with a laugh.
Her cousin was lying upside down on the couch in the lounge room, her huge black eyes transfixed on the TV. She was watching The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug for the third time that week. Her long black hair was woven in complicated fishtail braids that made her look like a heavy
metal elf.
“Thranduil does strange things to my body. Ljósálfar have never done that to me before, so I’m fascinated. I want to meet this King of the Woodland Realm and show him what I’d like to do to him on that fancy throne of his,” Tyra said with a lascivious smile as she straightened up the right way.
This was not an unusual thing for Tyra to say. As a Norse mythology nerd, her cousin was forever making strange comments on the nature of dwarves, the arrogance of Asgardians, and the treachery of the Norns. She was extremely opinionated on the Ljósálfar, the light elves from Álfheim, and the Dökkálfar, the dark elves from Svartálfaheim, and would, with the slightest provocation, launch into a great one-sided conversation about the virtues and failures of both races.
Asta sighed. “I guess I should be grateful it’s not Thor: Ragnarok again.”
“Hela is my queen!” Tyra shouted. “What’s the matter? You look upset.”
“Long day,” Asta admitted. She pulled a beer from the fridge and sat down next to Tyra.
“Your mother?” Tyra asked gently. Asta swallowed another mouthful of beer.
“No. Not really,” Asta lied.
It had been six months since her mother Tove had been killed in a hit-and-run in the middle of Oslo. Asta hadn’t even known Tyra existed until she had shown up at the funeral and introduced herself as a long-lost Norwegian cousin. Her mother had never talked about her family, but Tyra had said that the article about the hit-and-run and the accompanying photo of Asta’s mother was enough for her to track Asta down. Family was family.
They were both in their thirties and had bonded over too much vodka and grief. Asta had been surprised at how well they got along. Tyra had been raised in Norway and was the complete opposite of Asta. She was ridiculously tall, athletic, and had a sexy goth aesthetic that Asta secretly
wished that she could pull off. Tyra had moved in to cover Tove’s half of the rent, and Asta was glad of the company.
“Talk to me, baby cousin,” Tyra insisted, slinging an arm around Asta’s shoulders.
“A weird guy came into the library. You know, the super-arrogant type. He wanted to know about medieval manuscripts,” said Asta, not wanting to bore Tyra with details. ...
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