Page 16 of Veil of Blood and Bone

I launch into the air to track her progress.

Erratic movements take her through the tents.

The world is splintering apart. Energy snaps and crackles, splinters pulling free and others shifting and rising to take their place. The festival is nothing but callus, a cancer, metastasizing and spreading. But the problem goes deeper.

Before the pieces land and make sense, the woman stops in front of a booth held together by dust and age. The old woman crouches on a stool with shoulders hunched and hidden by layers of rags.

A Seeress?

A poor, miserable völva. Has my woman gone to have her fortune told?

The breeze batters me away from the tent but a glance solidifies the scene. A seeress had recognized Odin, once, ages ago.

He'd offered the völva his necklace and ring as payment for telling him about the future. The woman spoke of the creation of the cosmos and the first gods and people.

Then she remarked about the end, Ragnarök, and the great battles to come. She remarked of the destruction of Ragnarök and how the world would rise again.

How evil would return.

Through staff and song and seat, völva are able to send a soul out of its body and on a mission.

Perhaps that’s why the blonde is there.

I settle at the top of the tent and dig my claws into the fabric to root.

“Honey, if you need a break, you’re welcome to sit here with me. It’s a safe space.” The old woman’s voice tremors like a tightened string plucked. “You look like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have, Miss Blake.”

“People overload. Thanks for the offer.” Silence, then, “You’re selling it.”

“Sorry, Blake. Times are tough for everyone. And those are solid bone and crystal. You know their caliber. I've priced them fair.”

I can’t see anything from here. Indignant, I take off, landing on the ground opposite the old woman, hidden by the folds of her tablecloth and felt gourds.

The blonde spills the bag onto her palm, and although its belly is swollen and full, only a single crystal falls. Magic punches out from the rune.

My eyes widen.

They’re the only authentic piece in the place, the only thing that is not cheap plastic or replica. The woman keeps the symbol in her hand with her fingers rubbing the polished crystal, stealing the last of the light and glinting ever so softly.

I hop forward, catching myself by the leg of the table.

I want it.

I want to take the piece of crystal, covet it...

I want to take her...covet her. Keep her. She’s mine.

She’s always been mine.

Her adrenaline rush is my own, as well. Her emotional reaction is mine to share, but I have no idea why. What is it about the stone that captures her? Is it the magic? Does this human recognize what she holds in her hand for what it is and what it represents?

The gold lettering of the rune blurs from this angle. A flap of my wings takes me level with the glyph, and I stop.

Thurisaz.

I shake my head.

No, Thurisaz has no place here.