“You wouldn’t.” She pulls out something small and egg shaped that dangles from a long chain. It reminds me of the thurible the priest swings before Mass, trailing incense over the altar, but the one Helga holds is miniature by comparison. “Not after I used seiðr on you.”
She draws the syllables out, pronouncing the word likesathe-rr.
I blink. “Say what?”
“Ancient magic.” Helga holds the censer in front of me. “It’ll be quicker if I show you.”
She flicks her wrist, swinging the censer back and forth like a pendulum. As I stare at it, red smoke pours out, swirling up my nostrils. The smoke doesn’t smell like myrrh and frankincense, but something ancient and earthy. Strange yet familiar.
My eyelids grow heavy as I breathe in.
“Muna,” Helga says, her voice echoing throughout the room. “Muna langt fram.”
My eyes close.
And then it feels like I’m falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Moments from my childhood flash around me—broken dishes and shouting over the TV. But now, my memories begin to morph. Shattered glass didn’t slice Mom’s hands… Dad’s claws did. As he screams at her, his teeth sharpen into fangs.
Suddenly it’s the night that has marked me like a brand.
Dark liquid covers the carpet like spilled juice. Dad stands over her, knife glinting in the moonlight. But then the knife shrinks, turning into claws, and hair envelops his entire body. Dad transforms into a wolf before my eyes—
Enough. I’ve seen enough.
I jerk awake in my chair, returned to reality. Slowly, I look around Principal Matthews’s office. Helga studies me with a shrewd expression.
I’m back.
But now everything is different.
My memories of my parents have alwaysfeltincomplete, like I waspeering through a dirty window. There were things I couldn’t recall. Therapists theorized it was because of PTSD. But what I just saw felt like I smashed the window and finally glimpsed the truth.
Itwasreal.
And Helga hid the truth from me. It’s all coming back—she used the same censer on that horrible night ten years ago, only to make me forget instead of remember.
I stare at Helga, at a loss for words. Itrustedher. She’s been the one constant in my life since my parents’ murder-suicide, but now she seems like a total stranger. Is Helga even a social worker? Who the hellisshe?
“You… you messed with mymemories?” I choke out. “How could you?”
“I had no choice,” Helga says. “The existence of berserkir cannot become public. Once, berserking was useful for battle, but now it’s responsible for numerous homicides that need to be covered up. If not, it would create hysteria like the witch trials of the past. Berserkir would be killed en masse, along with other practitioners of our magic.”
I shake my head slowly. Nothing she’s saying makes any sense. Berserkir. Seiðr. I don’t want to believe it. Any of it. But… I saw my dad. He was a wolf. Rage turned him wild and dangerous. And he wasn’t the only one with claws. I didn’t just inherit his eyes or hair or anger—I inheritedthis, too. What other explanationisthere for what I did?
An awful pressure builds and builds inside my chest.
Something cracks under my finger.
The chair.
My breathing quickens. I stare down at the bright piece of plastic in my shaking hand. The arm of the chair is snapped in jagged pieces, and small bits are scattered over the floor like broken glass.
“That’s to be expected,” Helga says, unfazed. “You’re going to experience increased strength and other heightened senses. This was yourfirst time going berserk, wasn’t it?” When I nod, Helga adds, “It won’t be the last.”
