The Monster's Lover Page 2

  “Sol!”

  I jumped at the voice. It sounded like a young man, and his intonation tugged at my memory. Was it one of the town boys, someone I’d recognize?

  I turned and saw a tall figure step out from the shadows of Attin’s barn. Bryn, I realized. It was Bryn Attinsen. The sun lingered low on the horizon during harvest season, casting sharp shadows across the landscape and making it hard to decipher the expression on his face. He took a step closer, and I told myself to relax. This was Bryn, for the star’s sake. The boy who danced with me, who’d held me under the colored lights and kissed me until my head spun.

  “Hello, Bryn!” I called. “You startled me!”

  He smiled at my voice. In the days after last year’s Harvest Festival, I’d allowed myself an occasional, impossible dream about what it would be like to have Bryn as my husband, to wake and find his handsome face on the other side of the pillow every morning.

  Bryn stepped into the middle of the muddy road, his feet wide and one arm cocked behind his back. Only then did I notice something oddly cold about his smile. Shivers crept up my spine. A flash of motion caught my eye, and I spun to see another figure emerging from behind Attin’s barn. He was a full head taller than Bryn, and he wore the same hard, cold smile. Both his arms were tucked behind his back.

  I recognized him. Olafur. Once, when little Egren was only five or six, Olafur had chased him through town, pelting him with rocks until he bled. Da pulled us all aside and told us to run like deer if we ever saw Olafur again.

  “You’ll be safe under the trees,” Da had told us, his voice rough and his eyes dark. “You kids belong to the Ironwood. They’ll never find you in here.”

  I shifted uncertainly on my feet, not daring to glance behind me. I wasn’t far from the shelter of the Ironwood, but the basket of eggs pressed against my hip, heavy and unforgiving. Ma was right; we needed the flour. I forced myself to stand tall and ignore the tight knot in my gut.

  “Hello, Olafur,” I said, willing my voice not to tremble.

  “Sol.” His voice was a lazy, slow drawl. “What a surprise.”

  “We hear you’ve been sold,” said Bryn.

  His voice was different. It had been honey and velvet when we kissed during the Harvest festival. Now it was steel.

  “Bryn?” My voice trembled as I spoke, and I wished I could bite back the word.

  “Sol.” He gave me a smile that made me feel all the warmth had been drained from the world.

  I glanced at Olafur’s cruel, pale eyes and then back to Bryn, trying to force my lips to smile. “I thought we were—”

  The words died in my throat. I thought we were what? Friends? Bryn and I had never played at being friends.

  “Oh, you thought we were?” Bryn said, throwing my words back at me as if they’d been a sardonic joke.

  Bryn stepped closer, one hand still held behind his back, and dropped his eyes to crawl over the swell of my breasts. “Pretty little Sol from the mud of the backwoods. Sol, who’ll let any boy put their hand up her skirts.”

  Mud squelched between my toes as I shifted my weight, pulling the eggs even closer to my body.

  “We had a bet going, you know. Between the boys. To see who’d be the first to break your pretty little maidenhead wide open.”

  His grin vanished, and his eyes hardened. “Now, you’ve gone and sold it to the highest bidder.”

  “I didn’t have much of a say—” I stammered.

  Olafur snorted, loudly, and I fell silent. He spat a great wad of phlegm into the mud of the road. “We don’t like whores in town, Sol.”

  “I-I’ve brought eggs to sell. For Johmaersen.”

  Something moved along Attin’s fence post, and I glanced to the side. Two more boys were pulling themselves through the gray slats of the fence. They looked like the Bergensen twins, but I couldn’t be certain. I’d never seen the Bergensen twins wear such predatory smiles, or look at me with such hard, cold eyes. The first tendrils of real panic began to tighten around my chest.

  “Bryn,” I pleaded, meeting his eyes. “I’m just taking eggs to—”

  Something wet and cold slapped my face. I staggered backward, wiping my eyes. My hands came away black with mud. Olafur guffawed as a streak of mud trailed down the pale blue front of my everyday dress.

  “What—” I stammered.

  Bryn pulled back his arm and something dark flew through the air. It hit me in the open mouth. The cold grit of mud coated my tongue, and I gagged, staggering backward.

  The basket of eggs hit something behind me with a sickening crunch. I flinched and turned. Yes, it was indeed the Bergensen twins. Now they stood like great pillars behind me. I used to think they looked kind, with their pale eyes and straw-colored hair, but there was no kindness in their expression today.

  “Whore,” one of them said, pushing me forward.

  I staggered, almost hitting Bryn. Blinking through the mud that lay splattered across my face, I tried to speak. Something hard hit the back of my skull. My head exploded in a shock of blinding, white pain.

  “You don’t look so pretty now, little whore,” Bryn sneered.

  His big hands shoved my shoulders. I slipped in the mud and crashed to the ground. My hands and tailbone shrieked with pain. My fingers scrambled over the woven straps of the basket, and I tried to pull the eggs onto my lap where I could curl my body around them.

  Someone kicked me in the ribs, sending bright bolts of pain up my abdomen. I doubled over in the filth of the road, the eggs forgotten.

  “Dirty whore,” Olafur snorted.

  Fistfulls of mud and stones rained down on me. Over the ringing in my ears, I heard the merry echos of their laugher.

  “She looks like a pig in shit,” one of the Bergensen twins announced.

  “She smells like a pig in shit!” Olafur snorted, apparently laughing at his own joke.

  “Some whore,” Bryn announced. “She’s not worth a copper.”

  Someone’s foot slammed down on my shin. I ground my teeth together, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of a scream.

  “She’s not worth a piss,” Olafur laughed.

  Oh, by the Realms.

  “No,” I cried. “Please, no!”

  Something hot splashed against my chest, and I couldn’t stop my scream. I recoiled, twisting to get away, and rolled onto my side. Someone’s sharp, hard shoe connected with the small of my back, and I heard the sharp crack of the egg basket as it flattened beneath my hips. Something thick and wet rolled down my shoulder, but whether it was eggs or piss was impossible to tell. A second stream hit my ribs, the hot liquid trickling through my thin dress and between my breasts, and a third landed on the curve of my stomach. I covered my face and tried to breathe through the mud while I waited for them to finish, willing myself not to cry.

  Not here. Not in front of them.

  Finally, Bryn stopped laughing long enough to speak. “Don’t come back,” he cried. “Whores aren’t welcome here.”

  The men laughed again, even louder this time, and I heard the flat ring of shoulders being slapped in celebration. Then the dull thud of shoes as they turned to walk away, laughing. I caught snatches of their conversation.

  “Nice aim, Bryn. You–”

  “Dumb whore. Good thing you saw her coming—”

  “—a pint together?”

  When their voices finally faded and I could hear the call and murmur of the birds again, I lifted my head and took my first shuddering breath. Then I forced myself to count to one hundred before I opened my eyes.

  There was nothing before me but the flat muck of the road. I wiped dirt from my eyes and pulled the basket from the reeking, gritty mess beneath me. It was shattered. I pawed through the mud and piss and broken twigs, searching for a single intact egg.

  There were none.

  Every egg had been broken. The dark mass of snapped twigs that had once been Ma’s woven basket gleamed with slick albumen and tiny, delicate fragments of eggshell. A d
ark and furious rage boiled inside me as I thought of my mother dragging her busted leg to the hen house. Collecting those eggs.

  Something flickered in the corner of my eye, and I turned. Someone vanished behind Attin’s barn. Someone tall.

  Tall as Attin himself.

  My rage fled before an even stronger force. Shame. Had Attin watched what Bryn and those boys had done to me, or was he just now coming around the corner of his barn? My heart hammered against my chest, and my skin felt hot. Having Attin see me like this, covered in mud and piss and shattered eggs, would make my humiliation unbearable. Bryn may have thought me a filthy whore, but stars, that didn’t mean the rest of the village had to see me like this.

  I forced myself to my feet, clutching the shattered bits of the basket in my hands. My ankle screamed at first, but the pain dulled as I took a few steps. Thank the Realms. If those town boys had broken my ankle, I’d really be trapped. After a few steps, the pain in my side ebbed and I found I could run.

  I could even run while I cried.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Körmt River has many tributaries. One of them, the Jorgyn, runs through the village, and the Jorgyn in turn is nurtured by a stream that flows past our home and down by our potato fields. It’s such a tiny little thing, I’ve never known if it even has a name. My Da always called it the Lucky; I was never sure if he meant it as a joke.

  I ran through the Ironwood until I found the soft, winding banks of the Lucky, and there I stumbled and fell to my knees, panting hard. The Lucky ran slow and dark on the edges of the Ironwood, winding through a series of pebble-lined pools. Insects buzzed over its dark waters, and birds called to one another through the canopy. I held still for a long time, listening for the sound of pursuers.

  Once I was sure I was alone, I slipped out of my dress and into the dark waters of that slow little river. The biting cold of the water was a relief after running for so long. I picked up handfuls of gravel from the riverbed and ran it over my arms and legs until my skin was red and raw, wishing I could scrub away my memories so easily.

  Only when my hands and feet began to ache from cold did I step out of the water and turn to my dress. Like the basket, my dress was ruined. It would forever be stained, and it may never again smell of anything other than piss and mud.

  Still, I had to try.

  I sank the threadbare fabric deep in the tannin-rich waters, and I was sorely tempted to let it swirl away on the slow currents. But it was bad enough I’d be returning home with no flour, no eggs, and no basket. I didn’t want to come home naked, too.

  I dragged my dress over the stones of the river bottom and ground pebbles into the fabric, imagining I was grinding those sharp stones into the faces of those village boys. Only when my hands were numb from the cold did I pull the dripping fabric from the dark river. It was late in the afternoon, and the light filtering through the forest canopy was thick and golden. Little white flies rose from the swirling waters, stretching their wings before fluttering upward.

  I brought the fabric to my nose and took a deep breath. It smelled of darkness and pine tannins, with the metallic tang of cold, fresh water. Not eggs, or piss.

  Or humiliation.

  The fabric was still streaked with dark stains from the mud, but at least the smell was gone. I could live with that. With a sigh, I lay my dress on the grass beside the water. It wasn’t going to dry this late in the day; no matter what, my walk home would be cold and uncomfortable. But I could at least give myself some time here, in the protection of the woods, before I had to explain what happened to the eggs.

  I closed my eyes, tilted my face toward the fading sunlight, and ran my fingers through my wet hair, carefully avoiding the sore lump on the back of my skull. The fear and shame of the day slowly melted from my body, evaporating in the thick evening light. I was safe under the trees, just like Da always said.

  I can scarcely explain what made me turn.

  There were no strange noises, nothing out of the ordinary. The river hissed and murmured. Birds cried from the canopy while the wind whispered to the treetops. Shadows pooled beneath the pines’ thick trunks, and the evening insects began their songs.

  Still, something silent and invisible thickened the air, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I opened my eyes and turned away from the Lucky, toward the deep forest.

  He stood a pace away from me, beneath the trees. Not hiding, but not exactly visible. He was so motionless, he may as well have been made of wood himself. My heart jumped, and I grabbed a river-smooth stone in my fist before coming to my feet. If he tried to throw mud at me, I’d smash that stone into his skull.

  His pale eyes blinked, and he tilted his head to the side as if trying to understand what he was seeing. My breath caught in my throat. He wore no shirt; black curls of hair scattered across the rippling muscles of his chest. His bare skin reminded me of my own nakedness, and my cheeks warmed.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  He frowned, then tilted his head to the other side.

  “Are you from the village?” I asked. My voice trembled slightly as I tightened my fingers around the cool rock pressed to my palm. I’d never seen him before, but that meant little. Town people moved around like seeds on the wind.

  “No.” His voice sounded odd, as though he were unused to speaking. “I am not from the village.”

  My fingers relaxed around the smooth stone from the riverbank. He wasn’t one of the boys from the village, come to further torment me. Thank the stars. I glanced down at my stained, wet dress spread over the grass, then at my own exposed body. I’d never been naked in front of a stranger before. King Nøkkyn most certainly would not approve. The thought sent an unexpected ripple of heat through my core.

  “I’m not decent,” I said, wrapping an arm around my breasts and cupping my free hand over the curls between my legs.

  His gaze dropped, as though he were just now noticing I was completely naked. He watched me for a long time, his eyes widening as they traveled down my arms, over my legs, and along the bare contours of my hips. My skin warmed as he watched me, almost as though he were running his elegant fingers across my body, chasing away the cold of the Lucky’s waters.

  “You’re quite beautiful,” he said at last when his light eyes returned to my face.

  Beautiful. How many times had I heard that? Ever since I was a child, I’d been dogged by that word. I’d grown to hate it.

  But, coming from his soft, full lips, the word brought me pleasure. Beautiful. It was unreasonable, but I was glad to hear he found me beautiful. My lips started to curve, and I turned away, embarrassed to have the stranger see me smile.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  I bent toward the grass and let the rock slip from my fingers when I grabbed my dress. It was still wet, but I pushed it to my chest anyway, making sure the damp, stained cloth covered my breasts before I stood again.

  He’d moved. The stranger was one step closer to me. I blinked, trying not to stare at the way his muscles curved and arched toward his hips. He was totally naked, and I had to force myself to tear my eyes away before they could linger between his legs.

  Was he mad? Was this a demon from the fiery depths of Múspell?

  He was certainly handsome enough to be a demon, with his pale eyes and high cheekbones. His hair spread over his shoulders, a dark amber like the last flash of life in a dying fire. A tiny green twig twisted in the strands. Something unexpected tightened deep inside me as the silence between us stretched taut.

  Perhaps he was trying to lure me toward him, so he could grab me around the waist and drag me back to Múspell. I watched him through narrowed eyes, wondering about Múspell. How would his demon fires compare to the cold stone of King Nøkkyn’s fortress?

  I’d never seen the fortress of Nøkkyn the Mountain King, of course, but everything I’d ever heard about it was frightening. Some of it was downright terrifying, like the stories of rotting heads on iron spikes lining the gates. Eve
n the head of his first wife, if the rumors were true. Could life with the demons of Múspell possibly be any worse?

  If this strange madman dragged me away, I’d look at those bright blue eyes every day, those full lips and high cheekbones, that thick, auburn hair swirling around his temples. My heart thrummed against my breastbone so loudly I worried he’d hear it.

  “What do you want?” My voice wavered like sunlight across the water.

  “Want?” he echoed. He frowned, and a crease appeared between his ice-blue eyes. It made him look older.

  “Are you a demon?” I asked.

  His frown deepened until he looked slightly lost. “Why would I be a demon?”

  I shook my head, pressing my lips together to keep from answering his question. Because you’re so beautiful, I wanted to say. Because you’re naked, in the middle of the Ironwood, by yourself.

  “I-I’m sorry. Have I scared you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, crushing my dress to my chest as if it could muffle the wild pounding of my heart.

  “Don’t run. Please.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to put any more space between the two of us, between his bare chest and arms and my trembling body.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. His lips twitched as he opened his eyes, almost as though he were trying to remember how to smile.

  “I’m Fenris,” he said.

  I couldn’t stop my laugh. It rang across the Lucky like a peal of thunder before I could clamp my hand over my lips. He frowned again, his forehead wrinkling.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But Fenris is a wolf. A monster. You’re just a boy.”

  “A boy?”

  He took another step toward me, so close I could have touched him, then glanced down at himself. A flash of heat burned through my body. No, not a boy. His shoulders were wide, and his chest was ridged with muscles. And between his legs...This close, I couldn’t avoid it. I didn’t want to avoid it. Another ripple of heat surged deep inside me as I drank in the sight of him.