Hagalaz (Book VI of the Winter Fire Series)

By Laurie Dubay

An ominous sign burns bright in the autumn woods of Yew Dales. To escape unspeakable heartbreak, Jenna must seek the help of someone who holds the power to intercept fate, but the price will be higher than she can imagine. A grueling journey through the netherworlds leads Jenna to the source of her worst fears, forcing her to face the truth about those she loves most, and ultimately, herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurie Dubay
• Release date: Mar 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463984963

Laurie Dubay

Laurie Dubay, author of The Tomb and The Winter Fire Series, was born and raised in Haverhill, Massachusetts, and currently lives in western New Jersey. When she is not writing, she can be caught snowboarding, eating too much carrot cake, and binge-watching brain candy.

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Hagalaz

by Laurie Dubay

Copyright 2022 Laurie Dubay

Cover Art: Copyright 2022 Kat Patricia

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including recording, photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination, and used fictitiously.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

About the Author

To listen to music featured in the Winter Fire Series, check out our playlist!

Hagalaz

1

The rattle of cicadas is the symphonic pulse of high summer, but to me, it was an incantation. The conjuring of fall. Behold, they sang, the sun god is dying, but he will sleep in the soil and return stronger and more powerful. The leaves will weep and fall on his grave, the trees will drop their fruit on his altar, the ground will chill to preserve his flesh and the skies will weave a downy blanket to protect him until the gentle call of the goddess opens his eyes again. He will rise in flames at her summons, and the world will ignite once more.

I understood why paganism frightened so many. When gods dwelt in the very fabric of the earth, it was easy to get singed by their fire.

The strains of Loki's Gibson wound through the open windows of the suite as I filled my small backpack. He played on the lodge deck sometimes while the guests sipped their drinks and tried to tear their eyes away from him once in a while to gaze out over the early autumn sparks on the hill. I paused for a moment with my water bottle in my hand to identify the tune. It was #1 Crush by Garbage. Impossible. Where in the hell did he find that? I'd thought I was the only one in the world who knew that song, the only one who loved it, and now I was hearing it barestrung, as if he'd taken possession of it and stripped off the varnish to let the rich, dark grain breathe.

I dropped the bottle into my pack and went to my bedroom to get Sif's compact from my night table. I'd developed a habit of taking it with me whenever I left the immediate vicinity of the hotel, even if it was just to hike up the hill to meet Bren after a shift. Once the water park had closed, my mother and I agreed that I shouldn't take another job until I settled into school, picked a college, generally got my life in order, but Bren and the others had immediately rolled their positions into the resort's fall activities. It was harder for Mr. Neil to get employees once the schools opened, and they had been picking up a lot of the slack.

I listened for another moment as I zipped the compact into a tiny outer pocket of my pack, then went into the kitchen to grab a bag of chips from the cabinet. I deliberated between barbeque, my favorite, and salt and vinegar, Bren's, and ended up taking pretzels. I slung the pack over one shoulder, screwed my feet into my hikers by the door, and headed out.

The day was bright and the sky was the kind of deep blue that was less a color and more a cool, boundless breath. I let it pull me in, but couldn’t help myself in the end, stopped at the top of the deck stairs and looked toward the lodge. He was perched on the stool they always left there for him, his back to the mountain, his attention on the strings. No cigarette. September was more of a sweet, couples time at Yew Dales, the women subtler in their fascination, the men a little better at projecting casual security. But all that polite restraint was wasted on Loki, burned up before it reached him like a dry leaf falling on a campfire.

He lifted his eyes to me as I started down the stairs and I stopped again, mid descent, my hand feeling for the rail and grabbing on, an involuntary reflex meant, I supposed, to maintain my orientation. As soon as our gazes connected, every head turned in my direction and I hurried on, just catching his grin before I turned away. I hated when he did that, for more reasons than I could put into words. As I trudged across the grass and up the main run, keeping to the craggy tree line along the edge, I heard him drag the last notes of Crush into the first of Don’t Fear the Reaper. Slow, painfully slow, but unmistakable.

Jeeze, I huffed. When Pete, our bar manager, had suggested he play some seasonal stuff, I doubted this was what he'd had in mind.

I tried not to make eye contact with the people whizzing by overhead on the zipline as I hiked, eventually veering into the woods to avoid them altogether. They liked to wave and shout ecstatic greetings, and sometimes I played along, but today I just wanted to get to the top and meet Bren at the booth, pull him away from all this buzz and drop over the far side of the mountain to our ledge, where his motionless silence seemed more natural. We'd all learned to live with his frequent retreats, his turning inward, his focus on something none of us could see and his utter stonewalling of any question or concern, but tolerance was not the same as adjustment, and the eerie tension often caused us to bristle. For the others, this meant a chance to scatter, shake off and carry on, but I found I couldn’t leave his side, held on ever more tightly, in fact. A castaway clinging to a barrel.

As I crested the last swell, he stepped into my path. I jumped and sucked in a breath.

Sorry. He gave me a sheepish grin.

Did you get off early?

Right on time. He kissed me, slid the pack from my shoulders and set it down at his feet. Then he peeled off his staff windbreaker and stuffed it inside.

How was work? I asked.

He shrugged. Same. Nice day. Very excited people.

Yeah, I know I always love a good hurl through the air.

His expression sobered, but he kept the smile. When he started to reach for the backpack, I stopped him, pulled him closer to me. He kissed me again, and then again, until we gave in to each other and forgot everything else. I sank into his warmth, sighed when I felt his hand slide across my back, felt his heart quicken. An elated scream rose to crescendo and faded down the hill. As we drew apart, I entwined my fingers with his.

I wish you’d just stay with me like this, I said.

I'm always with you.

Not like this. Not always.

His eyes flicked to the ground, back up to me. I'm sorry. I know it’s been strange.

Why can’t you talk to me about it?

He shook his head. There aren’t words. It’s not like that. I just…need to figure things out.

Maybe I can help you.

You are helping me. He tugged at my hand. Come on. Our ledge awaits.

He picked up the backpack and tossed it onto his shoulder.

I'm not done with this, I said, letting him pull me along.

He laughed. You wouldn’t be you if you were.

We cleared the woods and crossed the summit, trailing along an overgrown deer path on the far side of the ridge until it dropped onto the rocky plateau we had claimed as our secret spot. We sat on the ledge and looked out over the vast green landscape, splashed here and there with a burst of red or yellow, orange the furious flush of wood coals. Soon, it would go up like a flash, throw off a violent rage of color, and settle into dust and bare bones, leaving the evergreens to witness and wait.

We'll be riding again before you know it, I said.

Bren's face took on a glow at this. He breathed in, heartily, exhaled on the day.

You miss it.

He nodded. But I like your seasons. They happen so fast…they're so distinct. Everything just changes and changes.

But it’s the same stuff happening over and over again.

Not really. He gestured vaguely to the valley. Those trees will all come back bigger and stronger versions of themselves. They'll never be the same.

But they'll still die. I mean, eventually. So what's the point of it?

His eyes narrowed as they swept the mountains, blue ghosts in the distance. That's…that's the question, isn’t it?

I watched him fall still for a moment as he contemplated, then he turned to me and smiled. You know, you’re kind of a cynic.

I gave him a wide-eyed look. A cynic? I thought about this. About the argument I’d just made for the futility of nature. I was just, you know, thinking things through.

Oh. Because it sounded like you were suggesting that death makes everything pointless.

Well…doesn't it?

Depends how you define death.

He had me there. Our concepts of death were as polar as fire and ice, and yet each was so incomplete, so inexplicable, that they might as well have been conceived out of the same ether.

No one's ever called me a cynic, I said.

Maybe you weren't one.

So you’re saying I've changed.

He turned to me and stared, then he pushed his hand into my hair, pulled me toward him. Is that bad?

He kissed me before I could answer.

You know, I said, my lips moving on his, you've changed too.

Good, he said. That's never happened to me before.

I drew back, searched his face. You want things to change?

He sighed. I want to learn. I want to grow. But this… he took my hand and pressed it to his heart. What's in here…what I feel for you is never going to change.

I quieted to take in his steady pulse, closed my eyes. I tried to speak and my throat tightened. I swallowed, tried again. Then why do I feel like things are slipping away?

Because you’re scared they will.

I opened my eyes. They have before.

He wound his arms around me, eased me against him. Things in your life took a different route than you expected. But it brought you to where you were supposed to be, didn’t it? Here. With me.

I slid my hands up over his chest, his shoulders, drinking in his strength. The breakup of my family had ripped my life apart, but not once since I’d met Bren had I wished for it to be different. Not once had I felt regret. The pain was real, and it probably always would be, but I would have lived it a thousand times if it was the only road to Yew Dales and all I’d found here.

I wonder how many cycles it took you all to get here, I said.

I felt him sigh again. Too many.

We watched the shadows shift and stretch as the sun slid into late afternoon. When the breeze began to chill and the distant voices straggling across the summit faded into silence, we sat in the wistful quiet, neither of us wanting to go. This was our time, when the rest of the world hurried away from the threat of dusk and cold and blindness, a moment ablaze with the fiery death throes of the day. When we finally rose and started down the hill, it was only to walk in the fever light, the leaves falling around us like live embers - red, yellow, orange - and smoldering in our path. The sun burned through the trees, winking around the trunks and throwing fans of candlelight across the forest floor. Squirrels rustled in the beams on their agile hunts while birds swooped above them and settled in the branches. They would doze in the peaceful dark of the woods tonight, trusting that the sun would rise again on the other side of the mountain…that all would be tomorrow as it had been today.

Bren pointed as a doe resting in a nearby knoll popped her head up to regard us. I smiled at her and turned to Bren, stopping in my tracks as I watched his expression fall. He pulled the pack off his shoulder, unzipped the small upper pocket and drew out the compact. It was vibrating. As he dropped the pack and opened the lid, I positioned myself behind him to get a better look. At first the mirror was just silver fog, but then it began to flicker with warm light, the rays illuminating our faces. I jumped as the deer bolted from her nest, her white tail swishing a warning, and caught a spark in my peripheral vision. I jerked my head to watch a leaf kindle and catch fire as it fell to the trail. I grabbed Bren and drew close to him, stepping away from the burning leaf, but another dropped nearby, and then another. All through the trees, the drifting leaves were alight as they rocked their way to the ground.

What's happening? I asked.

Bren looked around, his face stern with concentration as he drove the tiny embers away from us in a wide radius. When he returned his attention to the mirror, it began to flash, the light growing hotter and more erratic. I stepped back and shielded my eyes, squinting as the compact sprang from Bren's hand in a burst of radiation. It landed in the middle of the trail, its mirror facing the path ahead. We watched it strobe, the brilliance taking on hues of auburn and crimson and casting an oblong reflection on the rocky earth. Bren stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the shape, seeing what was happening a moment before I did. The oblong glow was changing, drawing into itself, taking on lines and angles.

What is this? I whispered. But before he could answer, the reflection cast into our path sharpened into an inscription…an image that looked like the letter H with a skewed middle bar.

It caught fire and began to burn.

I watched Bren's eyes grow fierce, heard the halt of footfalls. A moment later, Loki stepped around me and walked toward the flaming symbol. They stared at it, the two of them, fire dancing in their eyes. Finally, Loki lifted his dark gaze to Bren.

Hagalaz.

2

Bren and Loki regarded each other in the flush of early evening. I stood in the space between them, the weight of their silent exchange growing heavier by the minute. The scent of burning leaves hung in the air. The smoldering symbol on the trail had begun to char around the edges, as if it were branding our world with its import.

What is it? I asked.

The ground hissed, seemed to answer in a secret tongue. Finally, Loki said, It’s a rune. It means hail, but not in the literal sense.

I supposed the literal sense, to most people, meant a shower of ice. But when the hail had blown through Yew Dales in my first weeks with Bren, it had meant much more than that. It had meant the end of the carefree life they had all known here. It had meant the beginning of everything.

My shoulders tensed, my hands balling into fists as I looked at Bren. It's not good, is it?

He shifted his gaze to me. Then he reached out, hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me in.

I turned to Loki.

No. He said.

What does it mean? I asked, my voice low and shaky.

Loki stared at me, seemed to be weighing his response. It means Sif saw something catastrophic. As a sybil, she's ethically bound not to disclose those kinds of things.

Then what do you call that? I said, flicking my eyes toward the compact.

Bren swooped down and snatched the compact from the trail, snapped it shut and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans. When they looked at each other again, it was clear to me that Loki's measured tone had downplayed what the dread in their faces made plain.

I stole a last glance at the scorched earth as Bren led me away, knowing as I turned from it that those dying embers were the first sparks of a wildfire.

I knew where we were headed without anyone having to say it. Our steady, determined pace east and uphill held all the quiet urgency of a question demanding an answer. Ringsaker had always been the best place for Bren to communicate with Sif, and as we broke through the trees at the perimeter he wasted no time. He led me to the rocks by the stream, where Val had first taught me how to peer into the mind of another - his own, in fact - and motioned for me to settle on one of the large boulders there. Neither Bren nor Loki sat. Instead, they flanked me on either side. Bren's eyes flicked to my chest out of habit. He was going to tell me to take off my necklace and quickly remembered it was still hanging around his own neck, but the gesture told me I wouldn’t have to fight to be included. He yanked the chain off and grasped my hand, the ring steely and cold against our palms, and cast a glance at Loki. I felt Loki's fingers slide through mine and looked up at him, but he was focused on the water tumbling over the stones. The magical trill strummed my nerves like tiny fingers, but when I saw that he and Bren had already closed their eyes, I did the same, trying hard to control my breath and clear my mind.

At first I saw only darkness, heard only the rumble of the water, smelled only the dry spice of fallen leaves and the crisp tang of pine. I thought I must be too tense, too fearful of whatever was waiting to meet us in this inner world. I gave my head a brisk shake, reached back for what Val had taught me about connecting, and concentrated on Sif. On her golden hair, her warm smile, her eyes - rich maple syrup like Bren's…no, always blue when I saw her in a vision. They would be blue today. I remembered the scatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks, the five-pointed star with the mirror in the center she wore around her neck. The way she made me feel…welcome, safe…

…a ribbon of gold, a glint of light, an eye…two…troubled, and not blue at all but blooming with orange and sooty gray like twin firebombs. A hot breeze carrying the scent of Asgard - a scent I noticed most when I was there only in my head and the tangible sights and sounds of that gleaming world weren't a distraction. Copper and roses.

Mom. I heard Bren say.

Jenna's with you, Sif said, a tremble rising in her voice.

Yes, Bren said. What is it? What did you see?

Her eyes closed for a moment, softening the vision to just the luminous glow of her hair. These sights are best left untold, left to weave themselves into the tapestry as they will. I do not fool myself into believing there are exceptions.

And still you let the rune burn through, Loki said.

Because the demands of my heart are stronger than those of my gift. It’s a weakness I admit. And one you must accept if you choose to share in this knowledge.

I remembered when Sif crafted the necklace of gems for Frieda after she had seen what would happen to Dag. But in that first cycle - the one Loki and I had descended into - the necklace itself had played a part in Dag's fate. The dragon reared its head in my mind, the crimson eyes flashing and then fading into Sif's as she opened them again. My stomach shrank to a ball of ice.

A few beats of heavy silence held us still, the fireclouds in Sif's eyes rolling, and then Bren spoke.

If you're compelled to share what you've seen, then we will know it.

Sif's eyes darkened, seemed to focus on me, although I knew I must be feeling her attention more than seeing it.

Jenna? She said. You've learned on your own that disturbing the fates have consequences. You have a choice. You can withdraw from this vision if you wish, and I would advise it.

Yet here she was.

I wanted to. I wanted to release myself from this impending doom, to turn away, run away and hope that I remained oblivious like the rest of the world undoubtedly would. But Bren and Loki would never do that. They would face this, and know this, and I knew I would never be able to exist in that gap.

In this place where no physical sensation was real, I braced myself.

Tell us, I said.

She gave us a somber nod, then turned her back to us and lifted the pendant resting on her chest until the mirror in the center was level with our gazes. It filled the space, reflecting a ghost of Sif's face for a moment and then clouding over. A moment later, the fog relented into a fine mist, and through it I saw a stony cliff…natural, jagged, sheer…and a flash of blue sky. The vision panned out a little, revealing paddles of prickly pear growing between withered tufts of grass where the sun warmed the bedrock. I could see the top of the cliff, but although just as much of the descent was revealed, the base was out of view. It reminded me of the sheer western face of Mount Tammany. I had never scaled the steeps there. They were craggy, vertical bluffs that required equipment, and the one small one I had once freeclimbed with my father had nearly killed me. I felt a pang of nostalgia, a sudden yearning for those youthful woodland ventures.

I started as a hand reached up and grasped a jut of rock.

I heard humming…no, singing, getting louder and softer with a change in effort, sometimes cutting out. The sound of scraping, another hand reaching up, the strong, slick forearm flexing. More singing. It was Santeria by Sublime, a song my father and I always cranked up and sang into oblivion in the car…or on the deck…or even in restaurants if the opportunity presented itself, much to the embarrassment of my mother. The chorus cut out with a sharp grunt, and then my father hauled himself into view. His hair was glistening with sweat, a droplet running down his temple. His expression was pulled into a grimace. He was scanning the face above him, searching for another handhold. As he spotted something, he swayed back a little and tightened his grip, pressing himself against the rock.

Dad, I heard myself breathe.

As he peered upward again, I heard a clink that sounded like glass against stone. He picked up the song where he'd left off, shifted his footing. I spotted the hold he had sighted. It was a little high. He hunkered, spring loading his legs, swiped for it and missed. I heard another clink and as he looked down, my perspective aligned with his. I saw that he had a beer bottle tucked into his front pants pocket. It had come loose, was teetering on the hem. If there had been one swig left it might have settled in again, but instead it slipped free. A wave of vertigo washed through me as I watched the plummeting bottle fall and fall, finally landing in the crushed rubble below. I heard it shatter, but the pieces were lost in the distance. It had to be 80 or 90 feet, at least.

I felt a stab of terror.

My father panned back into view. He had been staring after the bottle, and turned now to find the hold he had scouted.

Dad, no. I said. I was suddenly aware of my body, my pounding heart, the firm grip on each of my slick hands. I wanted to close my eyes, but they were already closed. It was like a nightmare from which I was desperate to wake, but I couldn’t turn away, couldn’t escape, the horror rushing at me with merciless force.

As my father crooned another line of Santeria under his breath, eyeing the jut, I took in the sweep of his sandy hair, a little longer than usual, the beard he had grown, glittering with perspiration, the ruddy skin on the back of his neck. I noticed the small tear in the collar of his pullover, the dark stain of sweat reaching down between his shoulder blades, the strip of flesh above the waist of his cargos…growing wider as he took another swipe.

Dad! I screamed as he came up empty. He reeled backward, his hand outstretched, his feet scrabbling for a split second before he lost contact with the cliff. I was still screaming as he hung in the air for an interminable second, hung, hung and then began to fall, to recede, to fade until all I could see was a dark descent full of darker shadows. I felt the plunge in my stomach, in my staggering heart, and then nothing. Nothing but black.

I was suspended in it. Felt the agony of the seconds.

I wrenched myself into consciousness, yanked my hands free and leapt to my feet.

Daddy, no! I peered around frantically and then broke into a sprint toward the entrance to the circle. Bren stopped me cold, his body an immovable wall between me and my father.

Let me go! I struggled against his grip, my eyes wild. I need to find him!

He was saying something…some solid assertion that lost itself in the pound of blood in my ears, the high, tinny ring of panic.

I shook my head, yanking myself away from him until my arms felt like they would rip from my body, willing to leave them behind if it meant freeing myself from his restraint.

I felt an iron bulwark behind me, Loki's arms cinching around my chest. I sucked in ragged gasps of air as he tightened his hold. His voice was in my ear…something about time. I bucked against him, kicked at Bren, but I was caught in an ever-closing vice.

Jenna. Bren's bark was a rigid command, pierced the murk of dread and mania and reverberated in my core. I froze, snapped my head up to look at him. His gaze was severe, inescapable. He lowered his head until we were eye to eye, his fingers pressing deeper into my flesh.

Your father is at the college right now. He's in his office. He's standing at the window, drinking coffee and staring out at the parking lot.

What? I choked out. No. I saw…I saw…

The future, Loki said, his lips still close to my ear. The sun was high on the cliff in the vison, right? Look around. It’s dusk now. It can't happen today.

I locked onto his words, my eyes sweeping the woods, the trees bold lines of ink against the indigo.

I replayed snips of the vision in my mind. No, not today.

Soon. I said.

Bren searched my face, looking for my meaning.

The prickly pear was still green, but the grass was dead. It's always dead at that altitude this time of year. And my father's shirt… I sobbed out the last word.

I felt Loki relax behind me, but he held on.

His sh-sh-shirt was… I sobbed again.

Bren let go of one of my arms and pressed his hand against my cheek. The gesture summoned a stream of tears.

I ripped it when he picked me up in the kitchen. I threw flour at him when we were making pizza and he picked me up over his shoulder and I grabbed his shirt and it ripped a little and I heard it and let go but he tickled me and I almost fell. I-I...it has a Jeep on the front. Not the whole Jeep just the grille and headlights and I told him I'd sew it because he loves that shirt but I never did because he cheated on my mother and we left.

I was crying hard now. I started to slump and Loki pulled me against him. Bren stroked my cheek, released my other arm and held my face in his hands.

He has a Jeep. I peered up at Bren. "Did I tell you? It's green, the same green as the shirt. That's probably what he's looking at out the window.