Page 137 of North Is the Night
He chuckles, dipping the tip of a tattoo needle in what’s left of the ink. “Finding Aina, of course. You don’t think the death gods will have her perched on the river’s edge holding a lantern and a plate of sweet cakes, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Of course not,” he echoes. “So, you’ll need to know the lay of the land.” Head bent over the hide, he begins to scratch with the needle. “Listen closely now, Siiri. Commit everything I say to memory. It could mean the difference between taking a leisurely stroll through Tuoni’s back garden... or rotting in his dungeon.”
41
Aina
“My lord,” I gasp,swatting at his hand as he works it under my dress. “Someone will see us.”
“Let them see,” he growls, pressing his lips to mine. “I want them all to see the way I hunger for you. And call me by my name.Sayit.”
“Ah—Tuoni,” I cry.
He presses me against the tree with his hips. Behind him in the darkness, the horses snort, pawing the ground. We’re meant to be riding again. It was my request. But Tuoni clearly has other ideas. After showing me the fallow fields and the hot springs, he pulled me from my horse and walked me into the shadows of the trees.
I cry out as he claims me.
“This is all I want,” he pants, his face dropping to the curve of my neck. “I want to feel you like this, bury myself inside you, taste the sweetness of your mortality pulsing here at your throat.”
I arch my neck for him, and he groans, dragging his teeth over my pulse, as though trying to pull my essence through my skin. It was like this all night. He woke me twice to have me again. By morning, we were slicked with sweat and sated.
“More,” I pant against his mouth. “Give me more.”
“Everything,” he groans. “Anything. It’s yours.”
We finish, and I fight the heat in my cheeks as I search for my discarded clothes—my mittens, my hat. I like this new intimacy we share. He’s attentive, like my raven, but unrelenting, which I can only assume is the god.
I glance around as Tuoni leads me back over to our horses. In this darkness, endless threats loom—spirits that want to eat me, witches who would see me dead, creatures that don’t trust me. With the other girls gone, I’m alone.
He cups my cheek. “What’s wrong, wife?”
I find him a smile, knowing it doesn’t meet my eyes. “Tell me about tonight,” I say, looking for any distraction.
He laughs, helping me back into my saddle. “About your coronation? When all shall bow and call you Queen of the Dead?”
“I’m not sure now is the right moment to announce my new status—”
“It is exactly the right moment,” he counters, swinging up into his saddle. “There can be no delay. If the other gods sense continued discord in Tuonela, we will all be vulnerable.”
“But thereisdiscord,” I press, urging my little grey mare into a trot. “Surely, inviting a host of immortals into the palace to witness it for themselves will do nothing to shore up our vulnerabilities.”
“Ahh, but that is where you underestimate my daughters,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Underestimate them how?”
“There is nothing more abominable to them than appearing weak before the other gods. They will do everything in their power to present a united front.”
I smile, feeling his hope fluttering down the bond. “And you think that if tonight goes well, we can keep the charade going even when the others leave?”
“All will be well,” is his only reply. “Now come, wife. We must return and prepare.”
A few hours later, I sit at my dressing table, fine-toothed comb in hand, working it through my unbound hair from roots to ends. Tuoni is gone, overseeing preparations in the hall below. Kukka is my only companion. The dead maid lays out my coronation dress on the bed. It’s a beautiful gown of rich green velvet, trimmed in red fox fur at the collar and cuffs. The bodice is embroidered in a scrolling vine pattern. It must have taken Loviatar ages to complete.
A knock at the door has the maid turning from her work. She moves silently across the room and opens the door, admitting the witch. Loviatar is flanked by a pair of maids, each carrying a wooden box. She herself wears robes of white trimmed in fur over a raven-black gown. Silver adorns her ears, while more silver encircles her wrists and neck. “You are recovered from the events of last night?” she asks.
Setting the comb aside, I turn on my stool to face her. “I am. Your father healed me. And you?”
