Gunmetal Magic: A Novel in the World of Kate Daniels

was really worried.
    Kate opened the pouch, took out rune stones—small squares of worn bone, each with a rune etched on it in black—and tossed them into the basin. They scattered and clinked on the stone, like dice in a plastic cup. She emptied the canteen onto the runes, and I smelled hops and barley. Beer. Kate squeezed the honey bear, squirting a stream of amber-colored honey onto the runes.
    Roman leaned toward me. “Those are Norse runes.”
    I looked at him.
    “Not Slavic ones,” Roman said. “Just thought I’d point it out.”
    He looked like he could barely contain all of the excitement.
    “Now,” Kate said.
    I took a deep breath, grabbed the deer by the head, and pulled his throat toward the hollowed out receptacle in the rock. The deer gave me a panicked look. “Sorry, boy.” Kate raised her knife and cut its throat. The deer kicked, but I clamped it down. The scent of blood, hot and fresh, washed over me, kicking my senses into high gear.
    Kate shook the runes, holding them loosely in her hand, and I saw tiny bursts of lightning between her fingers.
    “I call you out, Håkon. Come from your grave. Come taste the blood ale.”
    A sibilant sound came, made of old bones crunching underfoot, leathery mummified muscles creaking, and eerie evil whisper. I smelled the sickening stench of decomposition, the earth, the dust, and the liquefying flesh, as if someone hadthrust my head into a grave. Magic washed over us, dragging freezing cold in its wake. Frost slicked the ground by my feet.
    Out from beyond the clearing, the mist streamed at us, thickening as it came. It moaned, like a living thing, its voice full of torment, flowed into a manlike shape, and faded, leaving a
thing
in its wake.
    Six feet tall, it was made of dried gristle and that particular, leathery flesh one usually saw on vampires, except his was tinted with blue-gray. Not a cell of fat could be found on its sparse frame. It wore chain mail and metal pauldrons, and neither fit him well—they hung off him, slightly askew, obviously made for a much thicker body. The draugr raised his head and looked at me. Its face could’ve been used as an anatomy model—each muscle in it so clearly drawn under the thin layer of skin, it looked revoltingly alien. Its cold eyes stared at me, pupil-less and flat.
    The undead lowered its head and started licking the blood and beer mixture.
    Nausea jerked my stomach. There was something so wrong about this unnatural undead thing sucking up the blood of a creature that had been alive a few moments ago.
    “You’re done for now,” Kate said.
    The undead raised his head, its face bloody. His mouth moved, and I saw the leathery cords of his facial muscles slide and contract. Ugh.
    Its voice was chilling, hoarse, and ancient. “I know you. I know your scent.”
    Kate stared it straight in his face. “I brought you blood ale for a boon.”
    “Foolish meat. Foolish, foolish meat.”
    The draugr went down for the ale.
    “No,” Kate snapped.
    The draugr leaned on the stone. “I’m Håkon, son of a jarl, scourge of the seas, devourer of flesh. What is it you want, meager meat?”
    “I want to see your shield,” Kate said.
    The draugr turned his head. “My shield?”
    “The shield you bore when you sailed here from Vinland to take the gold from the Southern Tribes.”
    “The
skrælingar
,” the draugr said.
    “Yes. The
skrælingar
. You took two ships and came looking for it, remember?”
    “I remember…” The draugr’s voice carried. “I remember everything. Birds with wings that covered half the sky. I remember
skrælingar
magic. I remember the arrow in my back. I remember my corpse left to rot.”
    “Do you remember your shield?” Kate insisted.
    The draugr dipped his head toward the ale.
    Kate clenched the runes. “If you want the ale, you will let me see your shield.”
    An evil cold fire flared in the draugr’s eyes and dripped from his face in burning tears. “I will devour you. I will lick your bones clean and crush them between my teeth. I will suck the marrow…”
    “That’s nice,” Kate said. “The shield.”
    “Fine, meat. Here it is.”
    The earth by the stone bulged upward, split, belching roots and smaller rocks. A curved wooden edge emerged, rising higher and higher, until the entire round shield broke free of the ground. In the middle of it sat an oblong, ridged yellow scale, pinned to the wood by metal bars. It was two feet long.
    Two feet. What kind of snake had