Page 112 of Winter Lost

Her feet were bare and thick-soled, as if she spent most of her days without shoes. Her strong, fine-boned hands bore long, thin calluses, as if one of her usual tasks wore her skin.

Her attention was not on me but on Garmr.

“Poor boy,” she said. “Poor, dear boy. It was not her fault. She only had her part to play, and she played it. Come here.”

Garmr closed his lips over his teeth and quit growling at me. He carefully stepped over the body, around the bed, and sat at the old woman’s heel. His attention focused on her face.

She set a hand on his head, unbothered by the not-quite-realness of it. “This has been difficult for you, and your tasks are not done, poor boy. Fetch the harp for me, if you would. We have need of it tonight.”

He whined softly.

“Hugo doesn’t need it anymore,” she said. “He never did. You know that. Be a good boy and fetch it.”

He chuffed and padded out the door—giving me a baleful look over his shoulder when the old woman couldn’t see him. Then all that was left was the soft clicking of his toenails on the floor outside as he went about his task.

She surveyed the room and sighed. “Poor thing.”

I couldn’t tell if she was talking about the dog, the dead man, or me. I was feeling sorry enough for myself that I didn’t need anyone else’s sympathy.

“I don’t know why they put locks on the doors in this place,” I complained mildly.

“Locks only ever keep out people who aren’t determined to come in,” she said.

She sat down on the bed beside me. Without asking, she took the gun from my hand. I looked at it, too. It was Adam’s 1911, his spare carry gun. I had killed someone with it. I had known I would use it to kill when I took it from Adam’s holster.

After a brief examination, she set it on the bed. She put her hands on my face and looked into my eyes.

And all the pain in my head fled at her touch. The only thoughts running through my head belonged to me. I could think. I could wonder who this woman was. The spirit of Looking Glass Lake, maybe? That didn’t seem right.

“I didn’t fix you,” said the old woman. “I isolated us—gave us a pocket of time to solve our problems.”

I blinked at her. With the pain gone, I recognized her voice. “You’re the spider. The silver one.”

“Call me Asibikaashi,” she invited with a grin that briefly displayed her teeth. “Grandmother Spider. Or just Grandmother.”

“Oh, Grandmother, what big teeth you have,” I murmured, realizing only after I spoke that I was still a little woozy.

She grinned again. “Oh, no. I am no wolf. The big bad wolf is your mate.” She made a sound of appreciation, and I remembered she’d seen him naked when she had destroyed the hungry ghost. It hadn’t bothered me at the time. “A fine mate for Coyote’s daughter.”

She frowned a little and shook her head. “Such a smart boy.”

“Adam?” I asked.

“Him, too,” she said. “But I am thinking of that troublemaker, my old friend, your papa. I did not see his hand in this—and I should have. I knew you were one of his the first time I saw you.”

She perceived my confusion, because she laughed. “Oh, I have no doubt that you and I are both here for reasons that have nothing to do with putting off Ragnarok.” She gave me a sharp look, shook her head, and said, “All right. I am here for reasons that have nothing to do with that. You are pinch-hitting for your brother.”

“Did you just use a baseball analogy?” I asked.

She tapped her cheek just below her eye and said, “These old eyes see, these old ears hear.”

She stood up, taking a firm grip on my arm—much firmer than anyone of her apparent age should have been capable of. With a tug, she had me scrambling off the bed.

“Come now, child,” she said. “We have much to discuss.” She glanced at the dead body on the floor. “And better places to discuss it.”

She let me go and urged me out of the room.

“Clothes?” I suggested.

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