“Fantastic,” Gunnar muttered. “Another human who’ll scream when she sees tusks.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” Gryla waved the image away in a puff of snowflakes. “You have a nice face under all that brooding. And she’s lonely too. I can sense it.”
“Because you’re stalking her aura?”
“Because I’m a mother,” Gryla said sweetly. “Mothers know these things.”
Ketty chose that moment to yowl, the sound echoing off the stone like a war cry. Gunnar winced. “And mothers apparently bring their familiars to do reconnaissance.”
“Ketty likes her,” Gryla said brightly.
“She also liked the goat carcass last week. Your point?”
“Temper, temper,” Gryla teased, smoothing the cat’s fur. “Honestly, you get more like your father every century.”
Gunnar leaned back in his chair, glaring up at the ceiling. “Mother, I do not need your matchmaking. Or your meddling. Or your magical illusions—or your damned cat—in my workspace.”
“But you need companionship,” she said softly. For just a moment, beneath the ice and sass, there was warmth and real concern. It almost made him feel guilty.
Almost.
“I’m content,” he lied.
“You’re bored.”
“I’m peaceful.”
“You’re talking to wooden toys.”
“They listen better than you do.”
Her laugh echoed, bright and unrepentant. “Fine, pretend all you like. But the heart does not thrive alone, Gunnar. Even stone cracks without warmth.”
She turned toward the mouth of the cave, her magic gathering again. Frost swirled around her feet, wind rising. Ketty leapt to her shoulder, tail curling smugly around Gryla’s neck like a fur collar.
“Mother—” he began, but too late.
“Oh, one last thing,” she said over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. “Try not to scare this one away. She’s traveling nearby. You’ll know when the storm hits.”
“What storm?”
Her grin was wicked and fond all at once. “The one I’m sending. You can thank me later.”
The temperature plunged, wind howled, and in a blink, Gryla and her infernal cat were gone—leaving a snowdrift on his newly swept floor and an ominous pressure in the air.
Gunnar glared at the ceiling, muttering every ancient troll curse he knew. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
He picked up the half-carved rowan charm again, but his knife slipped, nicking his thumb. The blood welled bright against his green skin.
“Stupid,” he muttered, sticking the thumb in his mouth. The taste of iron reminded him he wasn’t made of stone—not yet, anyway.
Outside, thunder rumbled low and distant. The wind had already begun to shift, bringing the scent of snow and ozone.
He sighed, setting the charm aside.
“I am not falling for a human,” he told the empty cave.
The fire crackled in answer, unconvinced.
