Page 42 of Soul of Shadow #1

The show had to go on. Elias might have been a liar, and a manipulator, and hell-bent on destroying the very Seal keeping the human race from falling victim to Loki’s army of horrific beasts meant to bully Odin off his throne, but he was still Charlie’s homecoming date.

She had to pretend that nothing had changed.

That her sister had never visited. That Sophie hadn’t tasked Charlie with thwarting Elias’s mission at all costs.

Charlie had to be a spy, and she had to do it well.

It wasn’t going to be easy. Last night, the minute her sister had vanished, Charlie’s legs had given out, like bone turning to butter, and she’d slid to the floor, grabbing at the foot of the bed for support.

The v?tte had hopped down from the duvet and waddled over, plopping himself down on her knee.

Shakily, she’d reached out a hand to touch his back. He’d nuzzled his hat into her hand.

Don’t break , she thought over and over. Do not break.

She’d felt the tears coming. Whether happy or sad, she didn’t know, but she knew that she couldn’t let them out.

Because when she did, she knew they wouldn’t stop.

Two years of repressed emotion would bubble forth, drowning her, filling her lungs with water until she could no longer move. And not moving simply wasn’t an option.

She had a job to do.

As she sat curled up in the library that Saturday morning, laptop shut on blanket-covered legs—not reading a book, not watching videos on close-up magic, not even thinking about what she would do about not having a dress to wear to a dance that was happening that very night—all she could do was plan.

Plan how she would act around Elias. What she would say.

How she would weasel any information out of him that he had on the Fenrir’s whereabouts.

Maybe she could play off what he said he’d figured out about the symbols.

Use that as a jumping off point to more targeted questions.

As she planned, another wave of fury began to wash over her.

Fury and nausea. Fury that Elias had lied to her, had promised that her friends would come to no harm when his end goal had always been for Loki to break the Seal.

Nausea that she had almost fallen for someone who wanted nothing but harm for the people she loved, had even gone so far as to kiss him.

The sensations had kept her up all night twisting in her sheets, plotting ways to murder Elias before remembering that she had nowhere near the gut required for killing another human being.

Plus, she needed him alive if she wanted to have any chance of locating the missing kids.

Opening her laptop, she went to Google and typed in Ragnarok .

She had done this the night before, too. After Sophie had left. She still had so many questions, so much that she figured her sister could have answered. But without a way to communicate with her, she was stuck reading over the limited—and probably inaccurate—information gathered by humans .

Same as the night before, she clicked on the first website. A wiki page on Nordic mythology that looked just sketchy enough to come from the kind of fanatics that dedicated their lives to these subjects. Once the page loaded, she read:

Ragnarok is the word given to the Asgardian apocalypse—the inevitable future in which Surtur, the oldest of all creatures, would rise and destroy the Norse gods, burning Asgard down with them.

To understand the myth of Ragnarok, one must begin at the beginning: the dawn of time, as described in Norse legend.

Unlike Christian lore, which says that the Earth and all things were created by one all-powerful God, Norse mythology surmised that before humans, before gods, before everything…

there was only ice and fire. Niflheim, the frozen realm, and Muspelheim, the burning realm.

At the very edge of Muspelheim, where frozen mists met powerful light, stood Surtur—the only being to exist before the gods.

He stood there at the beginning of time, and he stands there now. He will stand in that exact spot until he is called forth to fulfill his destiny: Ragnarok, the end of Asgard and all the beings that inhabit it.

She turned to look out the window. The morning was brisk, the September air finally starting to cool down for fall. The words from the article played on a loop in her head: Ragnarok, the end of Asgard and all the beings that inhabit it.

If the Fenrir was responsible for the beginning of Ragnarok, as Sophie had said, but there was “a much worse monster” to come…

she must have been referring to Surtur. The fire creature, fated to destroy Asgard and the gods along with it.

And if the internet was at all accurate, then Loki planned to fight alongside Surtur.

To kill Odin and the other gods, taking Asgard down with him.

What he planned to do after that, she could only guess at—take up residence in one of the other seven realms?

Build his own kingdom, his own species to rule over?

Charlie didn’t know, but one thing was clear: Loki didn’t just plan to break the Seal on Earth; once humans were no longer protected from Asgardian magic, he would invite Surtur into the realm, guaranteeing its destruction.

No wonder the Valkyries were so desperate to keep the Seal in place.

As she stared out the window, three of the rocks leading to her front steps stood up and walked away.

Charlie blinked twice before realizing that the rocks themselves were not walking; they merely sat on the backs of three small creatures, like shells on tortoises.

The creatures were small and stooped beneath the weight of the rocks.

Their bodies were the color of mud and grass.

Stray leaves stuck to their arms and legs.

Charlie watched the little creatures run in circles and wished she knew what they were called.

Elias would know. She could text him, pull up the contact still labeled God of Fornication , but every time she reached for her phone, which rested on the table under the window, she hesitated.

She was going to see him later that day, wasn’t she?

And that would already be so difficult. She would be putting on a show, pretending they were still friends when really, they sat on opposite sides of a war.

Was it better to put off talking to him until the last minute, or would it be more believable if she texted him now ?

As Charlie sat, hand hovering awkwardly over her phone, the door to the library creaked open. In scuttled the v?tte, his arms sticking out at his sides.

“What is it?” Charlie asked, sitting up in her chair.

The v?tte pointed at the open door.

“You want me to come with you?”

He nodded.

“Well, what is it?” she asked, grabbing her phone finally, standing up, and crossing the room. She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. “Did something happen? I thought you were—”

“Who are you talking to?”

Charlie froze, hand on the doorknob as she shut the library door behind her. Slowly, she turned to find her mom standing at the top of the stairs, a cardboard box under one arm, head tilted in confusion.

“Um.” She looked down at the v?tte, who only skittered behind her legs, even though her mother couldn’t see him. Her eyes flitted back up to her mom. “Just… myself. Going through a list of things I need to do to get ready for tonight.”

“Uh-huh.” Her mom narrowed her eyes but said nothing else on the matter. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Nope,” Charlie said too cheerfully. “Lou and Abigail will be here in a couple of hours. We’re all getting ready together.”

“I see.” Her mother watched her for a few more moments before adjusting her arms, holding out the box. “This came for you.”

“For me?” Charlie stepped tentatively forward, eyeing the box for a shipping label. She didn’t see one, but up close, the box was not as simple as she’d originally thought. What she saw as cardboard was actually a soft, slightly sparkling velvet material in dark gray. “Who’s it from?”

“No idea.” Her mom shrugged. “Someone rang the doorbell, and when I answered, I found this sitting on the front step with this”—she reached into her back pocket and pulled out a small black envelope; across its front, CHARLOTTE HUDSON was scrawled in silver Sharpie—“sitting on top.”

Charlie took the envelope, studying the handwriting. She didn’t recognize it, but she had a strong feeling about who it came from. Someone with a penchant for theatrics and mystery.

When she looked up, her mother’s eyebrows were raised.

“Don’t ask,” said Charlie, holding out a hand for the box.

Her mom handed it over with a knowing smile. “Wasn’t going to.”

Back in the safety of her bedroom, the v?tte ran little circles around her legs as she set the box down on her bed.

Tentatively, she lifted its lid, half-certain that a pair of goblins would leap out—Elias’s idea of a hilarious prank.

But when she got the lid all the way off, what she found was not a living creature.

It was a dress.

At first, she thought she had seen it before, perhaps in the local boutique or online.

Its design was intensely familiar: airy black chiffon embroidered with silver beads.

She slid her fingers under the fabric, soft and flowing like the waves of Lake Michigan, and lifted it from the box.

It fluttered open. The hem fell to about her thigh, with some fringe at the bottom.

The straps were an inch or two wide, with the neckline dipping low and deep.

To the untrained eye, it probably looked indistinguishable from the flapper dresses of the 1920s.

But as Charlie ran her hands down its sides, she felt the one thing that set it apart: pockets.

Pockets at the waist. Pockets beneath the armpits.

Pockets just above the backside. Hidden pockets, the seams too subtle to spot with the naked eye.