River of Shadows (Underworld Gods #1)(2)

People assumed that because I rarely saw or spoke to my father that we didn’t have a close relationship, but the strange thing is that, despite the distance, I felt closer to him than my mother. It’s like we had our own silent language, or some kind of magnetic tie between us that kept us connected throughout my life. I always felt him with me, felt his love, even when we were technically estranged.

That’s the part that hurts the most, though. After high school, when my mother moved to Seattle with her now-husband George, and I was still in LA, I thought about going to Finland. I thought about asking if my father would come to LA. I thought these things, but along with the thoughts of I should stop eating so many donuts and I don’t need to watch Howl’s Moving Castle again, and I certainly don’t need another succulent for the patio, they never came to fruition. I just thought them and moved on, making the mistake of thinking there was plenty of time. I decided that a year from now, when I turned twenty-five, that’s when I’d finally take a vacation from work and go and see my father. I thought that’s when I’d start making him—my family—a priority.

I never thought he’d die. Not now, frankly not ever. He didn’t seem the type, and if you’d met him you’d know. My father was like an unstoppable force. He was the life of the party, popular to the bone, full of life and zest. People loved him and he loved people. My father had this way of making you believe in magic, in that anything in the world was possible, and that you could be anything you wanted to be.

And now he’s…gone.

There has to be a mistake, I think to myself as the plane slams down onto the runway. I grip the armrests tighter, warily glancing out the window at the snow that’s blowing across the slice of bare pavement on the runway.

We bump along for a while and finally come to a stop.

I let out the breath I was holding as the flight attendant starts speaking in Finnish, so fast that I can’t understand a word of it. I have a very rudimentary grasp of the language from what my father taught me as a child, and I’ll admit it was only because Finnish inspired Tolkien’s Elvish language that made me stay interested in it.

It doesn’t take long for me to exit the plane, considering how small it is and it was only half-full to begin with, February being Lapland’s off-season. I still have to wait for my carry-on bag though, since they made me check it because of the diminutive overhead bins, and it’s while I’m waiting at baggage claim in what must be the world’s tiniest airport that I feel a burst of cold at my back.

For a moment I’m disoriented, dizzy, and the skin on my scalp prickles.

I turn around to see a middle-aged woman staring at me, short, with a graying blonde bob and round, weathered cheeks that shine like apples. She’s smiling, though her dark eyes aren’t.

“Welcome to Sampi,” the woman says to me in a thick accent, and though I’ve never met her before, I immediately know it’s Noora. In fact, I can hear her name being sung in my head, as if from a robin on a branch, and I have to blink a few times to right myself. Jet lag is no joke.

“Sampi?” I repeat. Dear god, don’t tell me I got on the wrong flight.

“It’s what we Sami people call Lapland,” she says. Then she extends her hand, like an afterthought. “I’m Noora. But you already knew that. I’m sorry we couldn’t have met under better circumstances. You meant the world to your father. There wasn’t a day where he didn’t talk about his dear Hanna.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

I shake her hand briefly and manage to hold myself together, only because I’m still a bit confused.

“How did you know what flight I was on?”

Noora gives a half-smile. “You said you’d be here for the funeral tomorrow, and there’s not many flights coming up here. Lucky guess.” She reaches out and tugs at my black wool coat. “This might be fashionable, but this won’t keep you warm.”

I’m about to point out that she’s dressed only in a thick wool sweater herself, but decide to keep my mouth shut.

“Your father told me that you work for a clothing company,” she says, her attention still fixed on me, those dark eyes of hers sharp as tacks. “Something to do with the internet.”

“Social media,” I tell her, raising my chin slightly. I’m 5’10” and Noora is a lot shorter than me, but whenever I have to explain my job I feel like I’m suddenly very small. The minute someone hears that I’m in fashion, and then hears that I’m in social media, they tend to make an assumption about me pretty fast. “Social media manager,” I add. “It’s basically how we do all advertising and marketing these days.”

She nods and finally looks away to the baggage carousel, breaking eye contact. I feel a strange rush of relief, like I can breathe again. “I told your father we could use someone like you for the resort, but he always brushed me off, saying that the right people would find the place. He was right, in the end.” She lifts her arm and points as my rose-gold hardcover suitcase appears on the belt. “There it is.”

This time I don’t have to ask how she knew. Not many rose-gold suitcases up here.

I stride over to the carousel and pick up my bag, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. I’ve always been someone who can pick up on vibes (my father used to call me an empath, my mother says I’m “too damn sensitive”) and Noora has vibes up the wazoo. But she did take the time to meet me here, and perhaps the strange energy I’m getting off her might be because she’s grieving as much as I am. My father moved up north to open his resort five years ago, and though I’d never heard him mention Noora, it’s possible they were really close, maybe in ways I don’t want to imagine.