Page 49 of Witches of Dubious Origin
“Why? I don’t want to be whatever this is,” I protested, waving my hands at my body and no doubt looking like I was having a fit. “I want to go back to my quiet little life where weird shit didn’t happen all the time.”
“I think you’re missing one important point,” he said. “If it wasn’t you but rather another necromancer, then why did they sic a Viking on you? To take your grimoire or worse? And now that their Viking has failed, what will they do next?”
I gasped. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“What do you think I’m saying?” He’d answered my question with a question like an annoying prophet who refused to commit.
“That whoever sent the Viking murdered my grandmother and my mother to get the grimoire and I’m next.” I shook my head. “But that makes no sense. The book is bonded to me and supposedly I’m the only one who can use it. How would killing me and taking the book be of any use to them?”
He pressed his lips into a tight line as if he didn’t want to say what he was thinking. I stared intently at him, making it clear he wasn’t going to get away with not answering.
“If it’s a necromancer, chances are their plan is to kill you and then bring you back, making you their minion to use your grimoire in service of them.”
I gasped. I’d be an undead minion. This was completely unacceptable.
“If our speculation is correct, they’ll just keep sending undead assassins until they get what they want.” He tapped the book I cradled to my chest with his finger.
My knees went a little wobbly and Jasper caught me by the elbow. “Chin up, Zoe. You’re not alone. You’ve got me, Miles, Tariq, Claire, and probably Olive to keep you safe.”
“Probably Olive,” I repeated, finding an unfamiliar comfort in these new and unexpected friends. Even Olive.
16
We were almost at my house and I noted the lights were out at Mrs. Graham’s and the Perkinses’ minivan was absent, meaning they were likely grabbing pizza in town after a late soccer practice.Phew.
“What I can’t figure out is how did you or they or whoever call up a Viking?” Jasper used both hands to sweep his hair away from his face. It fell into thick black waves, landing effortlessly just past his jawline. Annoying. “When historically no Vikings landed, lived, died, or were buried in Connecticut.”
“That we know of.” I dragged my gaze away. “There is the Maine penny to consider.”
“Oh, yes, the Goddard coin, discovered on a beach in 1957. It’s the only pre-Columbian artifact of the Old Norse ever found in the United States, which also makes no sense. Leif Erikson’s settlement Vinland is said to have been in Canada, Newfoundland to be exact, and the farthest south the Vikings were supposed to have gone is New Brunswick. So why was just one penny discovered and nothing else?”
“Maybe the rest of the items were washed out to sea, or the Norseman who the coin belonged to was a captive, or maybe it was planted there by someone just to cause a stir.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. Just like I have no idea how an ancient Viking could come back from the dead and barge into my house looking for a book.”
“That’s right,” Jasper said. “He was fixated on the book. But why?”
“Maybe, like Eloise, he wants to walk on.” It was as good an answer as any, but given that I would have to be the one to send him, I didn’t like it. Also, I could understand my grandmother bringing Eloise back for companionship. But who the heck wanted an ancient Viking to pal around with? No one. Which was another reason I was certain that the Viking’s arrival was all my fault.
When we reached my walkway, the teeny-tiny hope, truly just a flicker, that this was all a nightmare evaporated as I saw half of my front door still on my lawn while the other half was on the floor at the entrance.
Jasper scooped up the half door as we walked by. He propped it against the side of the house while I stepped around the other half and went inside. The fire had burned out and the books the Viking had tossed from the bookcase were scattered all over the place.
My nerves were frayed. I crossed to the cabinet where I kept an emergency bottle of whiskey and I poured us each a shot. If Jasper didn’t want his, I’d happily drink it myself. I noted my fingers were shaking, so instead of holding his glass out to him, I slid it across the granite counter.
Jasper pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and I noticedeach of his forearms bore a tattoo of a very detailed black raven, which ran from his elbow to his wrist, with different Norse runes tattooed below each.
“Odin’s ravens?” I asked. I don’t know why I was surprised. Probably because I had assumed he was a product of a posh British prep school and wouldn’t have tattoos. How very narrow-minded of me.
“Very good.” Jasper looked impressed. “My mother, Christina, is a Swede and she used to caution my siblings and me when she left us on our own to behave because Hugin and Munin see and hear all and they would report back to her.”
“So these are a nod to your heritage and your childhood?” I asked.
“Something like that.” He grabbed the whiskey I had pushed in his direction and lifted it up in the air, tapping it against mine. “Skål.”
“Skål,” I repeated the Swedish equivalent forcheersbefore I fired back the whiskey, coughing as it scorched a path down my throat but welcoming the bloom of warmth it unfurled inside me.
“I have a question.” I poured myself a second shot.
“Another one?” He held out his glass and I poured him one, too.
