Page 88 of Veil of Blood and Bone

And since I’m one of them, it makes perfect sense.

The unease of foreboding trails me out of town like a mob.

It’s not enough. The memories of our first meeting, of Helene walking like the first breath of spring across the battlefields of Asgard, aren’t enough. I have to know more. I have to know why⁠—

What brought us to this location? What’s still left for me to discover in the empty holes in my head? And why are there gaps in the first place?

If I’m meant to unearth the memories then why aren’t they all coming back to me at once?

The raven’s cry scalds my throat.

I dive through the rain, the slushy mix coating roads until they’re perilous for anyone stupid enough to leave their homes tonight. Soon the peak of the old colonial house, tipped with a rust eaten weathervane, swims into view through the storm.

Another sharp kraa sees me flying through the space between peeling columns and changing in one breath. I land as a man, the rafters raining down dust and moisture from boards in need of replacement.

A keen twist and the antique brass knob clicks, the door creaking open to the rental.

I had adequate awareness to procure the site for myself, near Helene even prior to understanding her or her significance. How?

With a thought, magic ignites the wick of the kerosene lamp and casts the parlor into half-light.

Between sagging couches and an empty hearth this room holds more than brittle pages. My den of treasures. My safe spot for this latest round of trials before the wheel of fate crushes us all.

Again.

How long have I rented this dwelling? How many times have I been here? With Helene? With the rest of them?

I bend at the waist and grip the handles of a steamer trunk, prying it out from the lowest berth of an armoire. The pelt from dead game drapes over the top as I drag it to the sofa and push open the lid.

I’ve never understood why I kept Sigrún’s notebooks. Only that it was important I did. All her ink has faded to brown, the words of fate and fire.

A new and different type of memory keeper.

Stacks of journals draw me forward, the covers inlaid with pressed flowers.

The first journal holds the remains of Myosotis, Forget-Me-Not.

A thought and magic banishes age, restoring the flower to its former glory, each word preserved from the ravages of time.

A second thought fills the hearth with flame. Flames roars to life only to deepen the shadows.

“Bless Sigrún for her accounts,” I mutter.

My voice echoes back to me eerily, followed by a clang of thunder. I grip the book and squeeze tight enough to turn the pages to sawdust. With a careful breath, I loosen my hold.

This never gets any easier, the calling in my bones, the inner monologue in my head to push me forward. A sound without words.

One thing I can’t forget? Her.

Her face, her smile, the energy of her soul, a twin to mine.

Kissing her in the store had been a wish fulfillment and a lure home. Fighting with her was everything. We moved as a unit, our movements mirroring each other.

Does she know it, too?

I shouldn't have left.

“A detail of the lives we lost.” I glance at the other journals, hundreds of them, a call from every lifetime.