I stopped myself as my tattoos once again began to burn.
Isla’s eyes locked onto mine. I could sense that she was still afraid of me, but I was also aware her eyes were constantly on me. Clocking every move I made.
“Your markings. May I see them?” Haddi asked.
“You want to see my tattoos?” I asked, suddenly feeling more vulnerable than I would have expected of myself. In the gym I’d walk around shirtless all the time, but somehow being in front of Isla and the others made me feel different.
“Arric, in a few moments the ashes will reveal much more to me than your flesh.”
I nodded and peeled my shirt off.
Haddi’s eye widened. “When did you get these tattoos?”
I opened my mouth to reply but the answer simply wasn’t there. I paused for a moment. Racking my brain for a single detail surrounding receiving any of these tattoos.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “This is fucking crazy. Why can’t I remember when and where I got these?”
“I believe the truth of your identity is hidden even to you,” Haddi replied.
I scowled. “What are you talking about? I know exactly who I am.”
“And what of your family?”
I shook my head. “None.”
“Everyone comes from somewhere, Arric,” Haddi said. “Who are your father and mother?”
“I never knew my father, and my mother was a junkie who died when I was young. I’ve been on my own for a while.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
Once again, the moment I searched for a specific detail from my past it would vanish into the ether.
“I know who I am,” I said, but I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince. Him, or myself.
“Are you sure of that?” Haddi asked.
“Goddammit!” I growled. “My name is Arric Mann. I’m twenty-four years old, I’m a welder, and I live in Port Thunder Alaska.”
“That is what you remember but I suspect there is more.”
“What do you mean?”
“Memories you are unable to access.”
“Like amnesia?”
“No. Amnesia is memory loss due to brain trauma. This is magic.”
“Magic,” I huffed. “Oh, sure. Magic. That explains everything, doesn’t it?”
“What explanations canyouprovide, young Arric?” Haddi challenged, the smile dropping from his face. “For instance. How do you explain having me tattooed on your chest?”
“What?” I asked, once again utterly confused at a time when I was expecting clarity.
“That symbol, there,” he said pointing to one of the nine shapes that made up the circle on my chest. “That is the ancient Icelandic rune that represents me.”
“Just because some shape looks like your name—”
