Page 2 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Her boline, a white-handled knife, rested in her basket next to bandages, peroxide, alcohol, and a suture kit she’d found on Facebook marketplace. The crescent-shaped boline was beautiful and tactile, but it wasn’t practical for the task at hand. She reached into the basket and pulled out a Promaja cleaver, turning the chef’s knife over and setting the thick blade flat against her palm.
Ritual came at a cost. Gods demanded payment. Still, Tehlor held fast to selfish hope. She could use an extra power source.Slavewas too taboo to say out loud, butassistantworked. Sort of. A little bit. And to be fair, the goddess of death probably didn’t want him anyway—someone cowardly enough to trick his lover into pawning off generational magic—but Tehlor still braced for a bargain. Whomever Bishop had murdered wouldn’t be missed, and whomever Colin had exorcised surely wouldn’t be slithering out of hell anytime soon.
It would’ve been wasteful to leave—Landon, Liam, something like that—trapped in purgatory. Not when Tehlor had use for him.
Before she lost her nerve, Tehlor dabbed a bit of menthol beneath her nostrils, arranged the two bodies beside each other, and carefully placed Gunnhild on the back of the recliner.
“Don’t look,” she said to the rat and carved a line across the man’s bloated throat with her boline.
Rituals on television always started with a chant or a blessing, but realistically, witchcraft was a boring, lonesome thing. Especially Norse witchcraft, which tended to be messier than most. After she made the ceremonial cut with her boline, she set the knife down and then fastened her wheat-colored locks into a bun with a scrunchie.
“Hel, be kind,” she whispered. Her small palm fit neatly around the handle of the cleaver. “I come to you humble and wanting, my lady, for I am a child of the true gods, and I wish to carry their glory into the new world.”
Tehlor brought the blade down hard, severing the man’s head from his shoulders in three blows.
“The dishonored are bestowed upon you, but I request a contract. Give passage to this unclean soul. Grant him access to your daughter, and through his servitude, I will bring you greatness.”
After the man, the dog came apart easily. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, and traded the two, setting the dog’s head upon the man’s shoulders. Sticky fluid stuck to her temples, and she paused to dip her fingers into the sour blood, spreading like a crimson lake across the floor.
“Honor me with a spectral guard selected from your keep.” She closed her eyes and dragged her bloody fingertips across her face, leaving red trails from forehead to chin. “Long is the way, long must thou wander.”
The words came easily, uttered from a poem-turned-spell she’d learned years ago.The Ballad of Syipdag, solemn and ancient, poured from her in longwinded stanzas as she sewed the dog’s head into place, and sutured the patches on the man’s body where insects had chewed at him.
Power churned inside her. The more she tended to him, and the more blood spilled, the more entranced she became. She hadn’t realized the candles she’d arranged around the room had sparked to life until their light sent shadows flickering in the corners. She didn’t notice her breath fogging the air until the ghostly chill crept beneath her clothes, nipping at her skin like a winter morning. At one point, she was reciting the poem, and at another, she was breathing hard, blind and overcome, lost in the overlap between Nilfheim and Earth.
“I am your daughter,” she whispered, teeth chattering, and traded the cleaver for her boline, pressing its curved mouth to her arm. “And I am loyal. Give unto me the blessing of vorðr.”
Tehlor winced and sliced her fair flesh. The small incision gaped. She dropped the knife, pressed her hand over the wound, and flicked her blood onto the man’s body, laying claim, calling his spirit back to the host she’d uncovered and reshaped.
Give me power.She hiccupped. Nausea rolled through her.Give me a warrior.
Something brutal and unfamiliar opened in her core. Her magic snared it—him—and she held on.
“You’re mine,” she choked out. Blackness tunneled inward, snatching away her consciousness.
Somewhere nearby, Hel whispered, “Be glad.”
Chapter two
TehlorwoketoGunnhildnosing at her cheek and the Promaja cleaver pointed at her face. She blinked blearily, willing the shape looming above her to sharpen.
Well, I’ll be damned.
Pointed white ears rimmed in black fur twitched. The man’s newly attached snout curled back in a snarl. She stared into his wolfish eyes—one blue, the other brown—and laughed in her throat, grinning triumphantly.
“You again,” he seethed. An animal growl bubbled up and out of him.
“Me,” she purred. “What’s your name?”
He lifted the knife away and crossed his arms. “Lincoln. You’re that witch, aren’t you? Bishop’s friend.”
“Sure, I guess. I’m Tehlor Nilsen, your new keeper.”
“Careful,” he warned.
She laughed again, coughing through it. Whatever power she’d summoned had left her weak, but she knew what she’d done. Recognized the gift Hel had given her. “Go ahead, honey. Try it. Let’s see what’chya got—”
Before she’d finished speaking, Lincoln slipped the cleaver beneath her chin and set the blade against her throat, pressing until blood welled beneath it. She flinched, cursing under her breath, and watched the same, small wound open on Lincoln, darkening the place where snowy fur met beige skin.
