Liesmith: Book 1 of the Wyrd

Seventeen

It's a different hallway.

"Sig? Sigmund?"

He's not here. Even with blurred Wyrdsight I can tell that much, the door to the study having opened back out into a much deeper part of the Bleed than it opened in from. Very deep, in fact, down past the mist and isolation, into the blood and bile.

"David?" I try, just on the off chance. He's not here either, but that doesn't mean I'm alone. The hallway carpet squelches under my feet, and my outstretched claws leave wet, glistening grooves in the walls as I walk toward the staircase. The house doesn't like that much; I can hear the wheeze in its breath at the wounds but fuck it. I'm well past the mood of being nice.

There's light coming from the staircase, red and flickering, accompanied by the greasy smell of rancid flesh, slowly roasting. Peering over the landing, I can see huge swathes of downstairs are on fire, and they don't look like they plan on being in any other state any time soon. I try to calm it, but it doesn't listen. Fire at all in Niflhel is unusual, but when it does take root it's Múspell all the way down. And the fires of Múspell burn eternal.

They're also hot, one of the few fires that can burn me, and the memory of the one other—of Baldr's hands searing on my skin—sends me back a step.

The last thing I told Sigmund was to head to the LB building. It's both the literal and figurative heart of town and the bastion of my temporal power. The Great Church of Me. Even deep in the Bleed it should still provide sanctuary for my allies, at least while I'm still alive. I hope. I also hope Sigmund has remembered this was the plan and has decided to execute it with or without my involvement. Traversing the Bleed will be tough for him alone, but he's a smart boy and Sigyn always was a warrior, back when she thought no one was watching. No one's watching now, so the most I can do is pray to whatever it is gods pray to that they make it, and hope like Hel I can meet them there. This part of Niflhel is dangerous, even for me, doubly so with Baldr on the loose. He was stuck in this place for a thousand years. Somehow, I get the sneaking suspicion he didn't spend all that time pining in his room.

I still need to think of a way to kill him. I can rip out his heart with my claws if I have to, but I doubt Baldr is just going to open his shirt and present me with the opportunity.

I've got another problem. It's more of a niggling suspicion, really. A half-formed notion I'm forgetting something, or maybe never knew it in the first place. And it's not like I was all friendly like with Baldr Back in the Day or anything like that—I was Dad's Bad Brother from Before He Settled Down and, ergo, not considered Healthy for the Children—but something about the version I've seen recently has just felt . . . wrong. Off. Baldr was a good kid. I remember, because it used to make me retch how sweet the coddled little shit used to be. I didn't think he had a mean bone in his entire body. This new Baldr, though . . .

Or maybe not. Maybe a thousand years in Hel really does change a man.

Maybe I have a way of finding out. Maybe I need to get down this fucking flight of stairs first.

The noise starts up when I'm about halfway down: a wet, fleshy smacking coming from underneath the boards. The door rattles with each impact, as if something on the other side is throwing itself against the wood, over and over again. Before, higher up in the Bleed, it'd felt pitiful, abandoned, alone. Here, it feels like rage. Like hate. It's not coherent enough to use the door handle, and not strong enough to break the door by force. Yet. I'm fairly certain I don't want to be around when it is.

Keeping close to the far side of the hallway and away from the roaring fire in the living room, it soon becomes obvious that I won't be getting out the front door. That picture of Mum? Yeah, well, apparently she's not keen on things leaving her roost. The door blinks at me with one huge, pus-filled eye, and wet, ropey tongues flail in my direction, but thankfully it doesn't have much reach. Gun still in hand, I shoot at it. The first shot—not bullets, just will that burns like magma—goes wide and buries itself in pale flesh the approximate color of the house's walls. Something black and oily squirts from the hole, and I have to jump back to avoid the splash. The motion, ironically, corrects my second shot. I really have pretty piss-poor aim, meaning doormum gets hit right in its hideous giant pupil. The eye pops with a wet sound, more black gunk spraying out in all directions, and for a moment the entire house shakes as it screams. I scream, too, mostly because I'm now covered in horrible goo. Horrible, flammable goo, if the reaction of the fire in the lounge room is anything to go by.