Page 2 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Potholes don’t fill themselves, and neither do government officials’ pockets. Our little corner of the world isn’t thriving. It’s disappearing.

Today the stoplight downtown stopped working.

Yesterday it was a neighborhood power outage.

Last week, every police siren went off at three in the morning for no reason. People blame technology and old wiring. It’s always old wiring.

“If we end up throwing things out, it’s not a huge deal.” I shake my head.

Audra hugs the journal tighter. “Mom marked passages.”

“Yeah, a lot of people underline phrases in books.”

“Not like they’re making a map of something.”

We race toward the riverbank, and she clutches the borrowed book in her lap. Mom won’t miss it. The dead rarely complain.

The living are another story.

And my sister is right about the mold. It’s hungry and already starting to creep across the ratty and torn cover. The gold embossing on the title has faded from age and the brush of too many fingertips.

“—a blow meant for another. The Visigoth prince held himself back in awe of the Valkyrie, the chooser of the slain, and they fought a mighty battle. Then Hellevi turned into the hit, and his axe took her life.”

I squint into a stray slant of sunlight in between the passing bloated clouds. Sedona was nicer, especially this time of year. Even the six months we spent at Mount Shasta were quieter, prettier, than this.

Why the hell did we land here?

“Don’t you want to know how this one ends?” she presses.

“It will end the same way it always does,” I say breathlessly. “Dead bodies.”

"Well, yeah, but there's always more."

"Sure. Like mead."

Audra sighs and flips the pages. “Odin’s chosen enjoyed their feasts and praise over the mortal remains of the fallen, yet none were so mourned as the loss of Hellevi and her mighty battle sword. Her defeat rippled through her shieldmaidens⁠—”

She hiccups when we take another corner too tight.

Shift weight, drive forward, movement before thought. It’s too damn hot today.

The small-town streets of Nightshade Hollow all angle toward the Heath. Everything we are and everything we have are lost in those murky banks, and the silver water raging over stone are a backdrop to panic.

Late. We’re always late. The Festival has already started, our booth empty, friendly neighborhood busybodies marking the seconds of absence and passing the information to Mr. Barnes.

It never makes a difference how fast I run. But I run anyway.

Glancing down at my watch, the pale mark beneath the band flashes, brief. Three crooked lines.

A scar I’ve carried as long as I can remember.

I stop at the crowd of people at the base of the handicap ramp, the field leveling out, and adjust the strangling girdle keeping my breasts pushed up to my nose. They're close enough for me to smell the sweat on my skin.

Our usual empty streets, tight and quaint, are cramped with cars today.

Town lore claims Nordic sailors made history coming up the Heath but most locals claim it equally loud bullshit.

The event committee labels it all tourism.