Her younger sister’s file is in here too. Beatrice. The little girl who wanted to pet my horse but was too shy to ask. When I think of how kind and caring Edith was toward her sister, it’s hard to imagine her killing anyone.
But she’s a berserkr. I have no idea what she’s capable of.
My stomach drops as I continue reading.
Their father murdered their mother and then himself in front of Edith. She was only seven years old. My throat constricts. Wait…Holden. I saw that name mentioned earlier. Henry Holden was their father. A berserkr. An abusive one, as so many of his kind are.
Recently, Edith began to show signs she inherited her father’s abilities.
She attacked one of her classmates.
That’swhy she was sent to Skallagrim. She slashed someone’s face with her claws, and in front of other students, no less. The other Helga, who uses social work as a guise for finding recruits, had no choice but to use magic to cover up the truth. She arranged for Edith to attend Skallagrim, as she has quite a few others, hoping Edith could learn to control her abilities before it’s too late.
Except… it already is.
I think of Emilía lying there, shredded by claws. Of Edith standing over her, covered in blood. She’s a killer, like her father was. Like my father has molded me into his image too. I spread my hand over the page, fighting the urge to crumple it in my fist. Between my fingers, Edith stares out at me from her photo.
She also—
Footsteps. Not far.
I glance up as the knob starts to twist. Shit. No time. Quickly, I grab the flap of my messenger bag and stuff the file inside. The door opens and I duck behind the nearest bookcase instinctually. I don’t dare exhale as Helga steps inside the room.
From around the corner of the bookcase, I watch as Helga heads straight for her desk. A low, ancient sound resounds through the office. I stiffen. An alarm. I’ve been caught. Of course I—
A raven pops out of a clock, chiming the hour. My body relaxes a little as I flatten against the bookcase. Not caught. Yet.
I dare another look at Helga, hoping she’ll get whatever she came for and leave, but instead she takes a deep breath, picks up her phone, and dials a number.
She stands for a minute as it rings, and then: “Hello, Jón, this is Helga, the headmistress from Skallagrim.” She turns her back to me. “I apologize for calling you at such an early hour, but… well, I need to share some heartbreaking news.” A heavy pause. “I know this is going to be incredibly difficult to hear, but there’s been an accident at school, and Emilía… Emilía has died.”
Helga falls silent. Even without my heightened hearing, I would still be able to hear the awful cries of despair on the other end. All because of me. Because I couldn’t protect their daughter.
“I’m so, so sorry, I know this is devastating… No, it wasn’t another student. It was an animal attack. One of the wild ones must have gained access, and your daughter was the victim. I know, I know. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
My hand tightens into a fist. How can Helga lie to them like that?
They deserve the truth. Everyone does.
“Well, because of the nature of her death, you understand why we have to cremate her as soon as possible. The existence of berserkir cannot get out. I understand, but I was actually calling as a courtesy, since you already consented when Emilía was admitted. Skallagrim is dedicated to protecting seiðr—”
On the other end, I hear a man screaming. “What about protecting our daughter?”
The call disconnects.
Helga sighs heavily, rubbing at her temples. “I suppose I’ll have to pay them a visit after all.”
I tense.
The lignite is already breaking apart in my palm. Now that I have what I came for, I have to get out. Immediately. Moving as quietly as if I’m on a hunt, I slip around the shelves and pad toward the door. I’m almost there when the raven lets out a shrill cry.
I stiffen, holding my breath.
“Oh, quiet, Huginn,” Helga snaps. “I’ll feed you soon.”
I give a quick glance over my shoulder. The raven is looking right at me, ruffling its feathers in displeasure, but Helga hasn’t bothered to turn around. She pulls her shawl tighter and starts to boil some water before setting out two teacups.
I slip outside, closing the door with the quietest click. Just in time too. The helm of concealment is nothing more than crumbled dust in my palm. My shoulders sag as I glance down at my messenger bag. I did it.
