CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE
BRIN
Brin stared at his mother with narrowed eyes. She stood before him wearing the leather and furs he was used to seeing her in, but despite the well-developed illusion, things weren’t quite right. A patch of the fur shawl was the wrong color. The corner of her lip was misshapen. Because he was already suspicious, it was easy to see the inconsistencies.
“I know my mother,” Brin spoke, facing her. “And you’re not her.”
She tilted her head to the side, and there was an extra wrinkle on her cheek that had never been there before. As if whoever had sculpted the illusion had gotten in a rush.
“You’d ignore your own mother?” she replied in Old Norse, her accent as thick as his. She held out her hands. “Come, son. I’d like a hug.” She took a step forward and he took one back on instinct.
“Stay back, Phantom,” he growled. “You’re no mother of mine.”
“Brin—”
“My mother slipped away peacefully in her sleep. She didn’t go to Valhalla.”
Her face twisted. “Come to your mother, Brin,” she growled.
Brin pulled out his dagger, prepared to fight this phantom so he could return to the others.
“Games. Illusions.” He pointed to the sky. “Your tricks won’t work on me!”
The ground began to rumble, as if in answer. The phantom lunged, and without hesitation despite the phantom wearing his mother’s face, Brin slammed the dagger into her gut. The illusion broke apart and shattered, leaving him standing there holding his dagger. No blood even coated the metal.
“I’ll have no part in your phantoms,” he growled. The ground rumbled again.
Turning toward the car, his eyes traced over Eirik and Vidar, but there was no Muni. Muni was gone, and the other two were calling for her.
Brin panicked.
Where was his Lady Raven?
He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Muni!”