Page 42 of Shield of Fire

“If they have not yet done an inventory, that plays to our advantage.”

“Meaning the harpe wasn’t part of the hoard?”

“It was, but your mother did have some worrying visions about it some eight or nine months ago, and it is a sad fact that the Ljósálfar protections in recent centuries have not been up to scratch. The wind sometimes whispers of its malice, and that should not be if it was fully and properly secured.”

“The council does regular stock takes?—”

She cackled, the sound harsh and unpleasant. “If you can call ticking off as present whatever chest or receptacle the relic might be stored in, then yes, they certainly do.”

I frowned. “Surely every relic wouldn’t be contained?—”

“What, and leave them open for any numbskull human or fae who fancies a little godly power boost to grab?” She snorted. “Not likely.”

“Which means whoever stole the hoard might not be aware of what, exactly, they have or have not.” And might not know yet if the harpe is there or not.

“If they do discover it’s missing, your ability will put you in greater danger. There are few left in this world who can see and seek the unseeable.”

It was that very ability that had killed Mom. She didn’t say that, of course, but it was there in her dark eyes.

I took a long drink that didn’t ease the inner ache, and then said, “I was told the harpe is a sword with a sickle protrusion along one edge near the tip of the blade, and that it gives the user control over life and death—is that true?”

She nodded. “What the records fail to say is the fact that it is the only means by which Ninkil can be recalled into this world.”

“So, if we find the harpe first, we stop the Ninkilim’s plans cold?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Then I don’t suppose you have any suggestions as to where we might start looking?”

“I don’t suppose I do.”

“Mom didn’t say anything?”

“Her visions were undefined.” She sniffed. “The wind still whispers, but she has little in the way of details.”

“Well, that sucks.”

Amusement glimmered briefly in her eyes. “It is the way of the gods.”

“Never make it too easy on us poor mortals,” I said, with a nod. “Got it.”

“I’m a hag,” she said. “This flesh suit is my punishment and my prison. I cannot do or be what I once was.”

“But you’re still pretty damn powerful, and you can still talk to the gods, old and new, be they above, below, or even remain in this world.”

“If they deign to talk to us hags or curmudgeons. Many don’t.” She sniffed, the sound contemptuous. “And many consider watching humanity’s attempts to erase each other great sport.”

Curmudgeons were the hags’ male counterparts who, unlike the hags, could shapeshift away their unpleasant forms.

“Is Ninkil one of the ones who doesn’t talk to you?” I asked curiously. “Is that why you’re so worried about his rising?”

“I’m worried because I’ve seen the chaos his rising has caused in the past. Remember, I’m bound to this body and this world for eternity—or until the gods collectively decide the punishment has exceeded the crime. I’m not holding my breath for the latter, let me assure you.”

“Hard to hold your breath and drink a fine whiskey,” I mused.

She barked a laugh. “Never a truer word spoken.”

“Is chewing me out for working with the council the only reason you came here? Or was there something else?”

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