The Raven (A Jane Harper Horror Novel) (12 page)

I decide on protection simply because if it’s granted, I might have time to figure the rest out before I die. Or become a Draugr. “So,” I say to nobody in particular, “here’s the deal. I don’t know anything about you. I’ve never really cared. And if you’re real, you know all this. But this thing we’re trying to stop, it’s bad, right? You’re supposed to care about the people you made. And the animals. So I’m not just asking this for myself. I’m asking for everyone. Everywhere. Cut us some slack. Help us kill these things. Of course, I guess you technically created the parasites, too, which was a sucky thing to do, but still, you’re supposed to love us, right? We’re made in your image or something? So keep us safe. I’m not going to promise I’ll be a better person or that I’ll go to church. You know I won’t. But I’ll kill them all if you let me, and I’m pretty sure I’ll save a lot of people who do believe in you.”

I stop, feeling uncomfortable, but knowing it’s unfinished. “Amen,” I say.

“Amen,” repeats a voice from the doorway.

I turn to find Helena standing there. She grins at me, blue eyes radiating kindness. Why’d she have to be nice?

“So was that a blasphemous prayer or what?” I ask.

She comes in, pulls up a chair in front of me, and motions for me to lift my leg. After a moment’s hesitation, I do. I have no reason not to trust her. Personal issues aside, she’s now my comrade in arms. If she’s anything like Jakob and Willem, she takes that stuff seriously.

“Your words were honest.” She lifts my pant leg and starts unwrapping my bandage, which is wet with blood. “I think that’s what matters.”

“Are you religious?” I ask.

“My father was a Baptist minister,” she says.

“I don’t think our fathers would have been friends,” I say with a grin, remembering how my father referred to all Protestants, regardless of denomination, as “Jesus freaks.” I always found that humorous, since they all believed the guy was the son of God.

“What about you?” I ask. “Do you believe in God?”

“Most of the time,” she replies.

The Viking warrior-princess side of Helena fits Willem, but the conservative, wholesome side doesn’t. Willem likes his women a little rough around the edges. More like—well, more like me. Of course, her rockin’ body probably makes up for any personality issues. Still, I can’t help but dig for answers. While she finishes unwrapping my leg, I ask, “So how long have you known Willem?”

“All my life,” she says. “Though we weren’t allowed to see each other for a long time.”

Wha?
I try to think of scenarios that fit, but nothing comes to mind. “He never told me about you,” I say.

“Well, he spoke plenty about you,” she says with a smile.

What. The. Hell.
I’m so totally confused I don’t even notice she’s applied new antibiotic pads until she starts rewrapping my leg.

“It will heal,” she says when she notes my attention. “Not nicely, but you’ll be fine. No signs of infection, yet.”

“Are you a nurse, too?”

Her smile fades. She heard the edge of annoyance in my voice. Not that I did much to hide it.

“Have I done something to you? Offended you in some way?” Her questions are so innocent and tinged with hurt that my rising defenses are laid to waste. She’s just too fucking nice!

I decide to be honest. If we’re going to be fighting side by side, there shouldn’t be anything left unsaid. “I guess I’m jealous,” I say.

She looks stunned. “Of
what
?”

“You and Willem.”

She stares at me for a moment, then remembers my leg. She tapes the wrapped bandage and then meets my eyes again. “Jealous of what? I spent a lot of time with him and Jakob lately, but you could have, too. From what they said, you chose to drink away the past few months.”

Okay, now she’s pissing me off. “How would that have worked? Unless you’re batting for both teams, I don’t—”

“Batting for both teams?” She looks mystified.

Right
, I think.
I’m arguing with a conservative Greenlandic blonde who spent a lot of her time at sea with her Baptist whaling father.
I’m about to explain when she lets out a “pfft,” which becomes full-on laughter a moment later. I guess she figured it out, but her reaction confuses me. Rather than ask for an explanation, I wait for her laughter to subside.

It takes nearly thirty seconds. Her face is flushed from laughing. Her perfect white teeth mock me as she tries to speak. “You—you think—” More laughter. “You think Willem and I—” And more laughter.

“Spit it out,” I say, as serious as a warden asking a death row inmate “Any last words?”

She puts a hand to her chest, like that’s going to help, and takes several deep breaths to control her laughter. “Ahh, ha, Willem.” Her smile widens, and she nearly breaks into laughter again. “Willem is my half brother.”

Say what now?

“Jakob is my father,” she says. “He had an affair with my mother. That’s why I couldn’t see Willem. My father knew about the affair. He didn’t leave my mother, but he didn’t let me see my brother, either. I saw them occasionally. It’s a small country. An even smaller whaling community. But only in passing. It wasn’t until my father died that I really got to know Willem and Jakob.”

“Well,” I say, “I’m the biggest idiot on the planet.”

She pats my knee. “You are everything Jakob and Willem said you were.”

“Short-tempered, foulmouthed, and impulsive?” I say.

“Among other things,” she adds. She rolls down my pants. “That should be okay until tomorrow.”

“Might not need to worry about it after tomorrow,” I say.

She stands and throws my bloodied rags in the room’s small trash can. “My father and brother said you were brave, that you fought with ferocity and cunning, and that you come from a family of warriors, whose memory you not only respect but also draw upon for strength. Before you arrived, I saw…fear and uncertainty in their eyes. But the moment you stepped aboard, they have been at peace. Confident. Jakob named you Raven for a reason. The title might have been a superstitious response to your appearance”—she motions to my clothing and cloak—“but it is a title you have earned since. As for Willem, well, he’s just—”

There’s a knock at the door.

Just what? I want to know.

But finishing the sentence is impossible. Willem appears in the doorway. He looks happy to see Helena and me together, which now makes sense. “Am I interrupting?” he asks.

Both Helena and I both offer a too-quick “No.”

He squints at us for a moment, then says, “Malik made dinner. It’s ready now.” He looks at me. “Going to be an early morning, so we should eat quickly and get some sleep.”

I want to say something about what I’ve learned, but he’s all business.

“Let’s go,” he says, then steps out of the room.

Helena heads for the door and looks back at me.

“I’ll be right behind you,” I say.

She nods, offers a smile, and leaves.

Alone again, I turn to the ceiling and say, “One more favor. Don’t let him die. If he does, I’m coming for you when I’m done with the Draugar.”

Threatening God might not be the best idea, but Helena said honesty was good, and if God exists, he knows what I’m thinking anyway. “Amen,” I say and head for the door.

T
he mess hall, which is basically a large square room on the main deck with three long tables and an assortment of chairs that look like yard sale finds, is full of loud voices when I arrive. In attendance are Willem, Helena, Talbot, Nate, and Malik, who is laying plates of food on the table.

“You can’t really believe that,” Nate says as I take a seat next to Willem.

Willem smiles at me, and I don’t see any of the weirdness between us that I’d imagined before. He’s just happy to see me, so I return the smile.

“I do,” Talbot says. “And rightly so.”

I ignore them as Malik steps up beside me and puts a plate down. It’s covered in some kind of broiled fish—of course—carrots and some kind of mush that I can’t identify as anything other than maybe dog shit. My grumbling stomach sours.

“You don’t look pleased,” Malik says.

“That pretty much sums up every dining experience I’ve had in Greenland,” I say.

“We should have brought along some microwave diners,” Willem says with a chuckle that earns him a slug in the shoulder. The physical contact feels good. Well, for me, at least. Willem rubs his shoulder.

Malik produces a ladleful of creamy yellow liquid that glistens with flecks of oil and tiny green bits. He drizzles the sauce over the carrots and fish, but leaves the brown glob alone. “Try it,” he says.

I pick up my fork, scrape off a chunk of sauce-slathered fish, and pop it into my mouth. I’m not expecting much, but I have to eat. The flavor hits me two chews in. It might very well be the best food I’ve had in Greenland, which isn’t saying much, but this is good compared to anything in the wider world, too.

“Wow,” I say. Then again, “Wow.”

Malik smiles wide. “I like to cook.”

I now view my plate through different eyes, but I’m still suspicious of the brown slop. I point at it with my fork. “What’s this?”

He looks confused that I’m even asking. “Chocolate mousse.”

I take a quick forkful. The dark chocolate is like silk in my mouth. I close my eyes and savor it until—

“Raven, what’s your take?”

I’m not sure who’s even spoken until I see Talbot’s raised eyebrows wrinkling his forehead. “It’s good,” I say.

“Huh?” Talbot says. He twitches his mustache twice. “What’s good?”

“The food,” I say.

Talbot throws his head back like he’s been punched. “Dadgumit, girl, we’re not talkin’ ’bout the grub!” The Texan’s accent is thicker than usual. I knew a guy from Massachusetts like that. He was able to curb the accent most of the time, but when he was telling a story, it came out clear as day. “Snowblowers” became “snow blowahs,” “boys” became “bowies,” and “that stinks” became “wicked pissah.” It seemed some Texans undergo the same conversational
transformation, though I reckon not many of them would believe they had much in common with a Yankee.

“He thinks they’re aliens,” Nate says, serious but also smiling. He’s already started to make himself part of the crew, helping when he can, taking part in conversations, and generally acting like he belongs.
Kid adapts quickly
, I think. He’s going to need to.

“Only thing that makes a lick of sense,” Talbot says.

Nate shakes his head. I watch in amusement while eating my food.

“Look, that these things, these parasites, came from outer space is essentially impossible. First, how’d they get here?”

“Asteroid,” Talbot says. “Maybe a spacecraft.”

“Spacecraft,” Nate says, his voice oozing disgust. “They’re what? Inch-long worms?”

I give a nod, confirming the face.

“Inch-long worms capable of controlling mammals,” Talbot says, thrusting his finger into the air. “And they’re intelligent.”

I nod again, shoveling in a mouthful.

“It’s far more likely that they evolved, on Earth, which is why they are perfectly adapted to warm-blooded hosts. There are parasites, just like them, all over the planet that can control the actions of fish, reptiles, and insects. That there is also a species that is capable of controlling mammals, even people, isn’t only possible, it’s plausible.”

“Actually,” I say, licking my fork clean of mousse, “the toxoplasma parasite alters the minds of mammals.” I take another lick. “Damn, this is good. It’s common in cats, and the rats and other animals they eat, but it’s equally common in people. Fifty percent of the world’s population is host to the parasite.”

Nate pumps his fist. “GreenpeaceNate FT-dubs!”

“
Kid
,” I say.

“For the win!” he says, defining his “FT-dubs” comment. I was referring to his entire display, fist pump and all, but decide to let it go. I’ve been thinking about this argument for a long time, weighing all possibilities, and am interested to hear Talbot’s and Nate’s diverging points of view.

“So what’s this toxojumbo do?” Talbot asks. “If it’s altering the human mind of half the world’s population, where’s the evidence?”

I lay my fork down beside my polished-off plate. “People with the highest concentrations of toxoplasma are schizophrenic. The parasite is doing something to people’s minds. We just don’t know what or why. Could even be a less evolved, or even more evolved, variant of what we’re dealing with.”

Willem is unfazed, but both Nate and Talbot look surprised. As do Malik and Helena. I’m momentarily stunned that the crew isn’t already educated on the subject, with the exception of Nate, of course. Still, it’s all guesswork. Everything we’ve come up with so far could be wrong.

“I still say it’s aliens,” Talbot says, crossing his arms. He looks like a gunslinger in a saloon who has just been accused of cheating at cards. In a flash, the man could produce a pair of pistols and clear the room of the living. I don’t think he’s used to being so wholeheartedly disagreed with.

“Actually,” I say, “I haven’t written that off yet, either.”

Talbot looks at me. He seems pleased but also wary, like I might be setting him up. He’s got a good sense of who I am, so he knows that’s a possibility, but it’s not actually what I’m doing. “Never mind how they got here,” I say. “If they’re from some other planet, we have to assume that we might not understand how they got here even if it were explained to us.”

Nate sighs. “Now you sound like him! Hashtag, crazytown.”

“How do you explain their ability to preserve flesh for thousands of years?” I ask.

Nate just stares at me. He can’t. I’ve been thinking about it for months and haven’t come up with anything.

“How do they communicate with each other?” I ask.

“Bees,” he says, but I cut him off before he can tell me about how bees shake their asses and transmit the location of a new pollen source.

“Bees can’t speak English. Or Old Norse. They can’t lay traps. Most bees live fifty days tops, not a thousand years. And they sure as shit can’t take the head of my friend, stick it on a mummified girl, and then fucking speak to me. Evolution falls short when you consider all that, especially if they were trapped on Greenland for thousands or even millions of years.”