“Hi. Long time no see,” said Lilja over-enthusiastically, as she moved over towards Garún. She tried to hide her discomfort as she felt Lilja reach out and feel her surface emotions. She wasn’t really feeling sociable, but it would be incredibly rude to just block her off.
“Yeah. I’ve been busy.” Garún replied in turn by reaching out and feeling Lilja. Giddiness. Contentment. Joy. A thin trace of underlying smugness. Not good.
“You don’t say? There’s been talk about that,” Lilja said, and smiled.
Garún wondered what Lilja herself had felt. If she had managed to obfuscate her own deeper emotions.
“What do you mean?”
Garún’s voice was lined with a cold edge, but it was contaminated by fear.
Lilja was a huldukona and reminded Garún of the huldufólk from the old tales. Too beautiful and too dangerous. Ravenous for drama and disaster. Lilja had never liked Garún, although she’d always tried to hide it.
“Oh, you know. The exhibition you’ve got going on is spreading like wildfire.”
Garún relaxed. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Lilja leaned in closer, smiling in a conspiratorial tone.
“And haven’t you also started tagging all over town? Every week I hear about thaumaturgical graffiti that’s driving everyone crazy.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Oh, well. Suit yourself. Dangerous to do such things.” She put up an insincere look of worry. “You could end up at the Nine for that. Especially if you’re a blendingur.”
Garún didn’t reply. She didn’t like the way Lilja had said that last word. It had not been meant in a nice, neutral manner. It had not been said like a regular word. She let her silence turn cold and angry. Tempered her anger into a sharp weapon. A calculated, ruthless strike.
Lilja went on, mindlessly unaware of Garún’s body language. If she had reached out to her right then she would have recoiled, as if touching a burning hot stove.
“But you know me. I’m known for my discretion.”
She winked at Garún, as if they were just two friends bonding. Right.
“Hold on a minute. I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Garún was stopped at the top of the stairs by a heavyset man. He was way too muscular for his height and it looked as if his suit was about to burst at the seams.
“Closed upstairs. Private party.”
His voice matched his appearance, heavy and slow. Everything about him resembled an unmovable boulder.
“Is Viður in there? Tell him it’s Garún.”
The slab of a man walked up to the door with heavy steps and knocked. A skinny huldumaður opened it immediately and looked down at Garún. His nasal septum was completely eroded. The grunt said something to the huldumaður, who sighed and told her to wait a minute. They stood there silently, the bouncer staring ahead at nothing, Garún sipping at her beer. In a few minutes the huldumaður returned and said Garún could enter. She squeezed past the bouncer, who didn’t move an inch to let her through.
The top floor was thick with smoke. People lay numb and smiling on old sofas or piles of pillows, humans and huldufólk alike. On low tables were pipes and torn cigarettes, along with small piles of sorti, highland moss and white, crystalline delýsíð. A few couples were lethargically making out or perhaps copulating under thin sheets, others lay paralysed from an ecstatic high. People smoked and coughed, snorted delýsíð up their noses. Not many had their septums whole, on most of them it was burned off. The rich smell of sorti mixed with the mossy smoke and created a vile concoction, a thick and pungently sweet smoke that tore at her lungs.
Viður sat by himself in a small room that just contained two couches up against a small table. Dirty ashtrays and various kinds of pipe decorated the table, which was laid out with drugs like a buffet. Garún was unsure if he was in the process of packaging it or about to use it himself. He was lithe for a huldumaður, almost like a teenager, his hands delicate and smooth. Viður had avoided hard work his entire life – but that didn’t mean he was soft. He smiled when he saw Garún in the doorway.
“Well, well. Good to see you.”
He spoke slowly and she noticed his dilated pupils. He didn’t have a septum either. Snorting delýsíð had burned it away completely.
“Hello, Viður.”
She sat on the couch against him. He felt around for her emotions in the customary greeting, clumsily, sloppily, like a drunken man trying to give a handshake but turning it into a hug halfway. She in turn felt around his feelings in a curt, distanced manner. He was fucking wasted and felt like a goddamn mess.
“What the devil have you been smoking now?”
“A-hahaha-haha-ha.” His laughter was empty and erratic. “You can’t smoke a demon.”
“I know, I was just—”
“Unless of course you’ve got it in a bone. A femur, maybe. And you grind it into dust. And snort it.” He looked as if he was dumbfounded by what he was saying. He wrote something down. “Actually … that’s not such a stupid idea. But you can’t smoke it!”
He laughed again at the thought.
“Anyway.” She tried to bring him down to the ground with her. “I came because I need delýsíð. Liquid, same as last time.”
Viður shook his head. “Nope. All gone!’ He smiled like a naughty child.
“What do you mean all gone?’
“Nothing left. No liquid, no powder. Nothing. Crown found the last shipment. All gone.” He hung his head. “Poor lads. I hope they were hanged and not sent to the Nine.”
“Damn it, Viður!’ Garún stood up, agitated. “If they trace it to you then I’m as good as dead, if I’m in luck! Why didn’t you
