Shades of Darkness (34 page)

I don't know why I went to the academics concourse.

I told myself it was because I wanted to take a shortcut to the arts building, to check out the space for my thesis. I told myself it was because it was cold and windy and dark outside, and the warmth of the concourse made me forget all that. Mostly, though, I told myself it was
not
because of Kaira. Not because I knew she was there for a tutorial group. Not because I hadn't been able to get her off my mind all day.

It's why I ended up skipping the movie. It wasn't just the wind or the snow or the ever-present darkness. There was something in the air. Something beyond the crows clumped like snow. Something darker. And I knew, somewhere deep down, that it was because of her.

I felt stupid, but I'd had the boys and Elisa drop me off after dinner. It was a bit more of a trek for them but no one questioned the change of heart—we were all in that headspace, when nothing felt right or real. So there I wandered, slowly, down the hall, toward the arts building, and saw her farther on. She leaned against a door and there were tears streaming down her face, her fists balled tight. And she was shaking.

My heart nearly stopped.

There had been way too many tears lately. Too much death. Too much sadness.

I jogged toward her, but as I did so I watched her expression change, watched her face tighten and her fists slam into the door and then she was pounding on it, screaming at the top of her lungs. I called out her name but I know she didn't hear me. I barely heard myself through the screams of crows outside the window. Then the door opened and she ran in, and everything in my head was crows, and for some reason, with every blink I saw her. My sister. In that ring of sand. I ran faster and pushed into the room.

Everything else was a blur.

The black circle on the floor, ringed with students. Jonathan in the center, his hands upraised as Kaira leaped at him, her fist aimed straight at his face. People were yelling, the crows in my head going wild. And then, the moment her foot stepped over that damned black line, a silence. A pause. Like that great big inhale before the bomb goes off.

And then it did.

There was an explosion. Kaira's fist smashed into Jonathan as the window smashed open and then there were birds, birds everywhere. Crows and ravens, cawing and screaming and flocking toward the circle. They swarmed it, funneled around like a tornado, like a cocoon of black wings and beaks and flashes of violet light, and the kids around the circle were screaming too, trying to get away, but I was pushing forward. Forward. Pressing through the crows that slashed at my skin and pierced my eardrums and it was more than caws, it was screaming, the screams of a thousand dead and dying, the screams of the damned. I knew those screams. I heard them every time the nightmares came. Every time I heard my sister's voice.

The birds imploded, collapsed in on themselves and the circle in a whirlwind of shadows. I braced for an explosion, but it never came. Silence rang loud as a gunshot. No birds. No screaming classmates. Just Kaira and Jonathan in the center of the circle.

I fell to my knees at her side and pressed my head to her chest. No movement. No heartbeat.

Jonathan didn't move either but I was too focused on her. I picked her up in my arms. Her head dangled to the side and all I could see was my sister's face. Back in the nightmare, back on the beach.

“Kaira, please,” I whispered, holding her close. “Please don't leave me. Please. Please.”

Something scratched on the tile. I looked up, blinked hard. A bird. But not a crow.The falcon, its golden eyes trained on me.

“Get out of here,” I hissed. “Get out of my head!”

The fucking bird. The bird that was always there, always at the edge of my dreams and vision, saying my debt was yet to be paid.

You must rejoice,
the bird said.
She has banished our enemy. And now that she is dead, the Aesir will triumph in the battle to come. In our battle.
Behind him stood a boy, his skin gold, a halo of daggers crowning his head.

“It's not my battle,” I said. “I'm not going to fight for you. I'd never fight against her.”

I pushed the bird out of my mind and cradled Kaira close, prayed to every god I knew to bring her back, to make her okay.
I can't lose you. I can't let you go. Please, don't let her die. Take me instead.

Kaira gasped.

“Chris?” she asked.

I looked down and stroked her hair. “It's okay,” I said. “Everything's going to be okay.”

“Chris, I'm scared. She's . . .”

Then her eyes closed, her entire body going stiff.

“No! No no no no!” I tried to steady her, tried to get her to calm down. Tried to ignore the sound of ravens in the distance. “Kaira, don't leave me!”

“I am not Kaira, vessel of the Aesir,” she whispered. “My name is Freyja.”

She opened her eyes. Violet eyes. Then she screamed and curled over, away from me, shook harder.

“Chris,” she moaned. “Chris, please. Save me.”

I reached out to touch her, but she screamed again, and this time the scream was echoed by a hundred ravens, their oily wings bursting from her body. They circled her, swarmed her with shadow.

And when they flew out the shattered window, Kaira was nowhere to be seen.

This book began as a hasty sketch of a tree and a quote in my journal at 3 a.m. in Scotland. It was one of those lines that I knew was important:
The Godchild was born in the tangled roots of the World Tree
. Since then, the story has undergone countless transformations over three continents. From that initial seed on Scottish soil to plotting on trains across the Norwegian countryside to finishing a few (completely different) drafts in Seattle, the Ravenborn Saga has lived a dynamic life. And that means there are many people to thank along the way.

First, and always, my deepest thanks to my fabulous agent, Laurie McLean, at Fuse Literary. She has been my knight in shining armor every step of the way. Without her knowledge and encouragement, this book would still just be a scribbled page in a forgotten notebook.

Next, to my editor extraordinaire, Michael Strother, and the entire Simon Pulse team, for taking a chance on me and turning this story into a true work of art.

To my mother, for helping me leave the nest before I knew what it meant to fly; I couldn't have done any of this without you. To my father, for inspiring my love of books and adventure. And to my brother, for showing me what dedication truly looks like.

To Will Taylor, for helping me fine-tune both this book and my life. And being the sparkly unicorn to my . . . opposite of sparkly unicorn. At least in terms of writing.

To Interlochen Arts Academy, for giving me a boarding school experience worth writing about.

To Adam, for groggily listening to plot points on that aforementioned Norwegian train ride (and the rest of that trip).

To my Seattle writing team—Danielle Dreger, Kristin Halbrook, and Danny Marks—for keeping me on track. Or at least caffeinating me.

And finally, to you, my dear readers, for being a constant source of inspiration.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE

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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition March 2016

Text copyright © 2016 by A. R. Kahler

Jacket photograph copyright © 2016 by Stina Persson

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Jacket designed by Regina Flath

Interior designed by Steve Scott

The text of this book was set in Janson.