The being turned and looked up at Sæmundur. Countless rows of tiny, sharp teeth shone in its predatory smile. The creature took a deep and ceremonial bow, speaking in a low voice.
“Master, what is your command?’
Tólf
Her apartment was a mess. Drawers hung open, cabinets had been raided, clothes were scattered on the floor. Garún had managed to stuff everything she needed into her backpack. It was astonishing how few of her possessions were truly necessary and how easily she could leave them behind. She only had a hard time deciding to leave her painting supplies, not because they were valuable, but because she wanted to paint. But taking anything would mean leaving behind something she could possibly need. She told herself she was coming back. But she wasn’t sure.
The secret compartment had been emptied out and securely hidden. There was only one thing left to do. She went into the bathroom, shut the door, knocked twice and went back out. Without looking behind her, she closed the door shut behind her back. She stepped back into the bathroom, while simultaneously opening the door again behind her back. An uncomfortable shiver passed through her. She’d entered the strongroom.
At first she’d kept the delýsíð paints there, but she used them too much and didn’t like entering the room too often. It might not have been a smart move, but it made her feel safer. This place was unnatural. The shelves were empty and laden with dust. The only item in the storage room was a blue-tinted jawbone, sitting on one of the shelves. Garún lifted it up, touching it only with her fingertips. She stuck it in the back of her waistband. It radiated an unnatural chill.
She headed down from Starholt, kept to side streets and roads with less traffic. The audioskull emitted soothing electronic tones. It was a long walk all the way downtown, but it was way too risky to take the train. The cold night wind kept the streets mostly empty. Winter was in the air.
Occasionally the music flared and Garún hid herself as automobiles passed her, most likely unmarked police autos, or police officers walking their evening route. She wanted to fetch Mæja, but knew it was foolish. There was no time. She headed down by Elliðaár, smelled the scent of salt and seaweed from the marbendlar’s dwellings in the river. She avoided Hverfisgata, but moved alongside it by Skútuvogur and Vatnagarðar, then by the shoreline. She stopped by the sea wall and looked over the city. The brooding, obsidian towers of Skuggahverfið loomed over the low clusters of buildings. The protected dwellings of the rich and powerful, the only ones who could afford a view over the walls. Above it all, Haraldskirkja towered in the distance, with the buildings of the háborg around it like fortifications. The electric lamps were faint and scattered. The city pretended to sleep.
An exaggerated laugh echoed through the downtown streets. She heard yelling occasionally, no way to tell if they were celebrating or enraged. Fárday night was about to turn to dawn and those who remained downtown had become seriously intoxicated. A drunken couple clumsily groped each other by a crumbling concrete wall. A group of teenagers lounged under the gigantic high seat pillars on Ingólfstorg Square. Nobody paid Garún any mind.
Garún was let in before she could knock on the door to Hrólfur’s apartment. They were waiting for her inside. Once they were certain Garún wasn’t followed, they let themselves breathe easy for a moment.
Diljá was standing by the window, her blond hair framing a deadly serious look on her face. She didn’t reach out, which told Garún everything she needed to know about the seemingly calm situation. Things were in uproar. Katrín sat on a worn chair by her side and smoked. Her hands were too calm, her prim posture too straight, the ivory cigarette holder between her fingers held like a weapon. It was clear as day that she didn’t want to be there. It seemed as if they had been arguing just before Garún entered. Hrólfur was sitting by a dining table, along with Styrhildur and Hraki, the three of them looking defeated. She exchanged cursory feelings with them, validating her reading of the room. She felt their support. Next to the skinny, middle-aged man the siblings looked as if they were just kids. And Garún supposed that they still were, to some extent. They all looked exhausted.
“What did you do, Garún?’ said Katrín, before any of them had a chance to greet each other.
“Well, aren’t you being direct? For once in your life.” Garún dropped her backpack on the floor, taking a seat next to Styrhildur. “It doesn’t suit a lady to ignore pleasantries.”
“Don’t …’
Katrín was about to follow up with something more, something Garún suspected would actually be honest.
“Cut the shit, Garún,” she continued in a strained voice. “What the fuck did you do? Did you really put delýsíð on the signs and banners?’
Garún glanced over to Diljá. She shrugged in response. Garún tried to read her. What had she said, exactly?
“It’s your fault those people are dead,” said Katrín quietly.
In the silence that followed, her words could just as well have been shouted in rage.
“I didn’t see you at the protest, Katrín,” Garún said through gritted teeth. “Big words for someone who didn’t have the guts to actually fight for change.”
“You know I couldn’t be there.”
Her voice betrayed a hurt Garún found exhilarating to hear.
“Garún’, said Hrólfur, “is she right?
