“I have three sayings in life,” Death says, ticking off three fingers, their intricate metal coverings glinting orange in the desert light. “Never trust the living. Never trust a God. And never trust a redhead.” He glances at me. “I’m afraid you’ve already done all three.”
I feel like he’s baiting me now. We continue to walk, and I’m ever so conscious of the rising dust and heat and Death’s commanding presence beside me, his metal and weaponry chiming with each step. Despite his size though, his movements are fluid and graceful, even if the ground shakes a little under his footfall.
“I trusted Rasmus to keep me alive,” I eventually say.
“Yet you’re the one who fought my daughter and killed the swan,” he points out tersely. “It sounds like you kept him alive there.”
“He called upon Vellamo when The Devouress was going to eat us. He told me the truth about my father. He did that ice thing with Eero and Noora, these shamans back in Finland. Saved me from them too.”
“I see,” he says. “Did you know his mother was a Lapp Witch? Among other things…”
“No. But so what? That makes sense that he would have some power that way, right?” I mean I don’t know what a Lapp Witch is, but it sounds like a normal witch.
“Perhaps,” he says. “But even Rasmus doesn’t know that. He thinks his mother died when he was young, same goes for his father. He was raised by his grandmother, then in part by your father after she died. Did you know that part?”
Obviously I didn’t, but I hate that Death knew of the secrets my father was keeping from him, so I don’t say anything.
“Did you not wonder what happened to him in the night?” he goes on, his tone light now, as if we’re having a casual chat.
I shrug. I had wondered that, of course. “Figured he went to take a piss and you accosted him?”
“He ran off and left you behind. We found him at the mouth of the Gorge of Despair,” he says. “Somehow he crossed these plains and survived.”
“What’s so dangerous about them?”
“You don’t hear that?”
I listen. There’s nothing but the sound of us walking, of sand blowing in the wind.
“You’ll see them soon enough,” Death says. “Regardless, it’s impressive. But by the time he got to the Gorge, he was stuck. We were up early doing surveillance of the area, looking for you, when we saw him. When we grabbed him, he told us he was here to do a trade. We assumed he would trade himself for your father, but to our surprise he said he was going to trade you for him. Must be the witch in him.”
I swallow the dust in my throat. Death could be lying.
“He knew how badly I wanted my father back,” I tell him. “He assumes I would gladly make that trade, and I did.”
“You don’t think that was his plan all along?”
“His plan was to rescue my father, to save him. He said he needed my help. If my help meant me being traded in his place, then so be it. What difference does it make now?”
“You don’t feel betrayed?”
It’s like he’s trying to get a reaction from me, but the truth is I don’t care. Okay, I do a little. Rasmus could have been honest with me from the start, but then he didn’t know if I’d go through with it. It’s one thing to say you’ll do anything, it’s another to follow through. Just as Vellamo had said.
“What are you going to do when you find him?” I ask warily. Despite Rasmus having an ulterior motive, I don’t want anything bad to happen to the guy.
“Oh, I haven’t given it much thought.”
“Did you really torture him? He seemed fine to me.”
I swear I can tell Death is smiling. “There are different types of torture, little bird.”
Suddenly he stops and puts his arm out, the cloak flowing over me as I still. “Listen,” he says, voice lowered.
I concentrate, listening.
Then I hear it. A long wailing sound, the same sound I briefly heard when Tellervo and I first came to the desert. It rises in tone, totally eerie and inhuman, and feels like nails on a chalkboard, making my nerves shake and twist.
“Wh-what is that?” I manage to say, the sound making me stutter.
“The Liekkiö,” he says. “Spirits of murdered children.”
I stare at him aghast.
He glances at me. “I didn’t murder them, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says testily. “They are relics from the Old Gods. Like many relics here, they cling on through the ages, impossible to get rid of, like fleas on a bonerat.”
The wailing gets louder, enough that I have to put my hands over my ears, the sound tearing me apart from the inside. “Fucking hell. Make it stop!” I yell.