My pulse raged in my chest, louder than the wind.
They resumed their quiet melody, undisturbed.
“Gaia?” I tried again. When I was only met with silence, I inched forward. Tipping my chin, I attempted to catch a glimpse of their face. They twisted in the opposite direction, strands of white hair spilling out.
“None by that name here.” It was a woman’s voice, somehow both ancient and young, jarring and smooth.
“Oh.” My heart sank. “Do you know where she is?”
Dumping turquoise powder into a mortar, she spun around to the cauldron, ladling a spoonful of liquid into the vessel.
The flap of her hood dangled over the dark pits of her eyes. “They call it Jarðarbæli.”
They. “Yes.” I dared a step forward. A creature squeaked in its cage. “Can you point me in that direction?”
“You think an old witch knows the path to the angels?” Snatching a pestle off a cluttered table, she ground the tool against the bottom of the bowl.
Emotion pricked at my chest, cutting through the muscle. I breathed out, pushing the air, the pain, away from my heart. “You’re a witch, then.”
She dipped a chalky-white finger into the paste, smearing it against the wall. The… bare wall. No markings, no eyes.
“What’s your name?” While her back was still to me, I peeked into the pot. Smoke curled over the sides. A bone floated to the top.
I shot backwards as she turned and ladled more liquid, more potion—whatever it was—before returning to the wall and working the bright turquoise splatter into two distinct circles.
“Please.” I meant for it to come off strong, but desperation riddled my tone. “Hildur did me up, tossed me in here, and gave me no other instructions. I’d love some help—” I angled my head as she dunked the tip of a thumb into a different bowl and traced two swooping black lines above the blue. “If you have any, I’m all ears. Otherwise, I’d better be on my way.”
“Rushing off already, eh?” The witch clicked her tongue. Another sweep of her stained fingers, another arching black line, this time below the blue. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Smacking her palms together, she placed her hands on her hips, chin tipped up at her work. Eyes. The same eyes that flashed across my mind, the same eyes in Gr?—
She whirled on me then, rotten, jagged teeth reflecting the subtle light. “Grýla hasn’t had a guest in decades.”
Grýla. A scream caught in my throat.
What was she doing here? Hiding?
Hunting?
I staggered towards the mouth of the cave, the soles of my slippers skidding over the stray pebbles.
Grýla was fast, faster than I expected. Her nails cut into my skin—she was yanking my hair so hard my scalp screamed at the pain, and my head snapped back. “It’d be rude not to stay. You came all this way. You must be hungry.”
She threw me into a chair at the end of her wobbly table, the glasses clinking and tipping over, smelly liquid pooling and fizzing on the surface of the wood.
A bowl of soup appeared in front of me, wafting putrid-smelling steam into my face.
Nails, claws, digging into my neck, she snarled, “Eat.”
The vapor tickled my nostrils, carrying the stench of charred flesh and rotten fruit.
There’d been a bone in the cauldron. It didn’t look any different than an animal’s, but…
Bile collected in the back of my throat. I pushed it down. Puking would make her angrier. Puking would make me look weak. I was not weak. Not anymore.
The elves had called Grýla a folktale. I would have said the same about mermaids, yet they were real—and Gunnar and Freyja had tricked them into letting us pass through their waters with nothing but old trinkets and empty compliments.
My pockets were empty, but I had my wits. Maybe I could outsmart the witch—trick her somehow. At least to buy some time to formulate a real plan.
