“What do you know about it, anyway?”
“Only what Helen told me.”
My eyebrows arched. Aghast, I said, “You and Helen are buddies?”
“Of course not. You can’t really call your foster mom a buddy, you know?”
I wheezed. Bombshell much? “Helen’s your foster mom?”
“She never adopted me, but she raised me after my mother went missing on the streets when I was a baby. Never knew my dad.”
A cold sweat broke out at the nape of my neck, and my stomach burbled unhappily. “Does Baldur know this?”
“He hasn’t asked,” Nina said. She widened her dark eyes into a kooky stare and tapped her temple. “Not too bright, that one.”
“You’re on good terms with Helen, still?”
Nina shrugged. “Haven’t talked to her in a while. I left her when I turned eighteen, went out on my own. She’s a little… intense, let’s say. We bashed heads a lot.”
“But you keep in touch?”
“Up until the wreck, yeah, we talked every couple of weeks.”
“And since the wreck?”
“I’ve been debating whether I should contact her. If I gave you to Helen, she might welcome me with open arms, but this Baldur thing might work out pretty good for me, too.”
“You two are soul mates. He’s loved you for eternity.”
Nina rasped a dry laugh. “That’s what he keeps telling me—reincarnation or some such nonsense. Past lives.” She stuck her tongue between her lips and blew a raspberry. “That’s what I think about that.”
I scrunched my nose at her. “I see Helen’s had a lot of influence on you.”
“Maybe.” Nina shoved herself off the porch rail and strolled back to the front door. “It pleases me to keep your secret, Solina. I can’t be sure Helen’s plans include a place for me. I know she used me to get to Baldur, and that makes me more than a little resentful. But you can be sure if the scales tip in her favor, I’ll sell you out in a hot minute.”
“Why would you tell me this? Most predators don’t give their prey a heads-up.”
An innocent, childlike look came over her face. “I honestly don’t know why I would tell you except I think I feel sorry for you. I think you deserve fair warning.”
This chick is one tinfoil hat away from being the mayor of Crazy Town. “Do you know how insane you sound?”
“Yes, I do. Crazy has been my game for a long time. I totally hate myself for it, too.” Nina stepped closer and pulled up her sweater sleeve, revealing a thick, puckered scar snaking from her wrist to the inside of her elbow. “Tried to cure myself when I was sixteen. Didn’t take, though. Helen found me soaking in a bathtub full of red water and got me to the hospital in time.”
I wiped my hands over face, trying to clean away the vision stirred up by Nina’s words. She told her story as if she had suffered a case of appendicitis instead of an attempted suicide. Horror and pity waged war within me. Nina didn’t behave as though she wanted my sympathy, though.
“You know I’ll have to tell Baldur,” I said.
Nina’s jaw clenched. Her eyes glittered like hard black stones. “Of course you will. I hope you tell him and cut his heart open with it.” She turned on her heel and went back inside after that—thank God—and left me to digest her disturbing revelations on my own.
She was right that sharing the information with Baldur would hurt him, and when it came to Nina, he had already suffered too much. Still, he had to know. The decision of what to do with her after that would be his. For my part, I planned a quick separation as soon as Baldur brought news of Thorin down from the mountain.
On the run again—it barely bothered me anymore.
The clear day eventually gave over to clouds and stiff winds. I ceded my outdoor vigil and went inside. Nina had secluded herself in her room—good riddance—and I went into my bedroom and tried to relax. I must have dozed off because I awoke to darkness, the front door banging open, feet stomping, and Baldur calling my name.
I rolled out of bed and scurried into the living room, where Baldur stood, his face grim, worry etching lines around his eyes and mouth. His shoulders bowed under the burden of keeping a swaying and nearly unconscious God of Thunder upright. I gasped as he stepped forward and deposited Thorin onto the sofa in front of the fireplace.
Drawn and haggard, with a rough beard and circles of trauma and pain ringing his eyes, Thorin had obviously survived a horrible ordeal. But he was there and alive, and nothing mattered more than that. A wild and uncharacteristic frenzy haunted Thorin’s eyes. My gut clenched, and I knotted my fingers together and waited for Thorin to look my way and recognize me.
“Thorin?” I asked. “Are you okay?” Though he obviously wasn’t, I didn’t know what else to say.
Thorin looked at me because I spoke to him, but no light of recognition brightened his face. His brow creased, and in a dry and raspy voice, he mumbled something vaguely Germanic sounding before falling silent again.
My insides caved in, and my heart sank to my feet. I looked at Baldur, pleading for reassurance. “Can you help him?”
Baldur shrugged. “He was half buried in a crevasse when I found him. Time and rest are the best medicine. He’ll heal quickly, I promise.” Baldur knelt before Thorin and examined his compatriot. “Mild hypothermia. A strained ACL in his knee, but not torn. A few bruised ribs and a wicked concussion. He should be mostly fine in a day or so. Sore and tender in spots for a while, but back to his old self in no time. Surprisingly good condition, considering.”
Throughout Baldur’s inspection, Thorin remained silent. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes dull and listless.
“Aleksander?” said Baldur. Thorin did not respond. “Magni?”
At that, Thorin looked up, and Baldur spoke to him in the old language. Thorin blinked a few times and stuttered an answer.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He remembers me, but it wasn’t in this place. He doesn’t know where he is. I get the impression he doesn’t know when he is, either.”
Baldur and Thorin conversed again in their ancient tongue. Finally, Thorin nodded and closed his eyes. I almost sobbed but shoved my fist against my lips and turned back to Baldur. The sight of Thorin, defeated and confused, hurt my heart.
