Gunmetal Magic: A Novel in the World of Kate Daniels

Tracy asked.
    “
Uldra
,”
Ghastek said. “They’re nature spirits from Lapland. They live mostly underground. I wouldn’t provoke them. Stay in the clearing.”
    The eyes stared at us, unblinking.
    A blast of icy cold ripped through the clearing. The
uldra
vanished as one. On the ground, the deer moaned, coming up out of its drugged state.
    Here we go.
    I reached into my backpack and pulled out a small leather satchel, a small plastic bear full of honey, and a canteen. No turning back now. I got up off the log and walked over to the center of the glade where a large stone waited. Ghastek’s and Tracy’s vampires trailed me.
    I brushed the leaves from the stone. The inside of the rock had been hollowed out into a stone basin, large enough to hold about three gallons of liquid.
    “When the draugr appears, don’t talk to him,” I said. “The longer we talk, the more time he has to lock onto our scent. We’ll have to fight to get clear anyway. No need to make things harder.”
    No response.
    “Ghastek? Do you understand me?”
    “Of course,” he said.
    “The Cherokee have set protective wards on the mountain. If we make it to the pillars by the road, we’re safe.”
    “You said this before,” Ghastek informed me.
    “I’m just reminding you.” This wouldn’t go well.
    I set the canteen on the ground and loosened the drawstring cord securing the pouch. It opened into a square of leather in the palm of my hand. Inside lay six rune stones chiseled from bone, and a handful of beat-up silver coins: two etched with a sword and hammer and four with the Viking raven.
    I cast the runes into the basin. They clicked, rolling from the stone sides. It took me a second to unscrew the canteen. Ale splashed on the runes, drenching the bone in liquid amber. The scent of malted barley and juniper wafted up. The bluish mist snapped at it like a striking snake.
    “Patience, Håkon. Patience.”
    I poured in the rest of the ale, emptied the honey into the basin, and stirred it with a branch. Magic spread from the runes into the honey and ale. I reached in and pulled the runes out, all except two: the rune of enemy binding and
Þjófastafur
, the rune that prevented theft.
    The mist hovered by me.
    I took a deep breath, grabbed the deer by the head, and heaved it onto the basin. Moist brown eyes looked at me.
    “I’m so sorry.”
    I pulled a throwing knife out and slit the animal’s throat in a single quick swipe. Blood gushed into the basin, hot and red. The deer thrashed, but I held its head until the blood flow stopped. The basin was a third of the way full. I stepped back and hefted the coins in my hand. They jingled together, sparking with magic.
    “I call you out, Håkon. Come from your grave. Come taste the blood ale.”
    Magic pulsed through the glade, ice cold and shockingly powerful. It pierced my skin, ripping its way all the way into my bones. I recoiled. Panic crested inside me like a huge black wave. Every instinct I had screamed, “Run! Run as fast as you can.”
    I clenched my teeth.
    The air reeked of fetid, decaying flesh. It left a sickeningly sweet patina on my tongue.
    The mist congealed with an eerie moan and a creature stepped forth to the basin. A thick cloak of half-rotten fur hung off his shoulders, shielding the chain mail that covered him from elbow to the knee. The fur had thinned to long feathery strands, smeared with dirt. Long colorless hair spilled from his head in a tangled mess. His skin was blue, as if he had an intense case of argyria.
    The draugr dropped by the basin, dipped his head, and lapped the blood like a dog. Death had sucked all softness from his flesh. His face was a leathery mask of wrinkles, his nose was a misshapen nub, and his lips had dried to nothing, baring a mouth full of long vampiric teeth. His eyes were awful: pale green, and completely solid, as if made of frosted glass. No iris, no pupil, nothing. Just two dead eyes behind an opaque green membrane.
    I gave him a couple of seconds with the blood and squeezed the runes. They warmed my skin, forging a link to the two left in the blood ale. “That’s plenty.”
    The undead raised his head. Blood dripped from his chin. A voice came, hoarse, like the creaking of trees in the wood. “Who are you, meat?”
    Not good. “I’ve come to trade. Fair trade: fresh meat for an answer.”
    The draugr dipped its head toward the blood. Magic pulsed from the runes. The creature let out a long sound halfway between a