The Winter Knight

The Winter Knight Jes Battis Contents Dedication ~ 1 ~ ~ 2 ~ ~ 3 ~ ~ 4 ~ ~ 5 ~ ~ 6 ~ ~ 7 ~ ~ 8 ~ ~ 9 ~ ~ 10 ~ ~ 11 ~ ~ 12 ~ ~ 13 ~ ~ 14 ~ ~ 15 ~ ~ 16 ~ ~ 17 ~ ~ 18 ~ ~ 19 ~ ~ 20 ~ ~ 21 ~ ~ 22 ~ ~ 23 ~ ~ 24 ~ ~ 25 ~ ~ 26 ~ ~ 27 ~ ~ 28 ~ ~ 29 ~ ~ 30 ~ ~ 31 ~ ~ 32 ~ ~ 33 ~ ~ 34 ~ ~ 35 ~ ~ 36 ~ ~ 37 ~ ~ 38 ~ Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright Dedication To my mom, who gave me the Middle Ages. To my students, for showing me endless possibilities. And to the Book Man—Chilliwack’s oldest independent bookstore—for offering me a whole world of stories to discover. ~ 1 ~ Hildie She felt it hovering like a moth above the great fireplace. Hildie squinted at the musicians as they tuned their instruments. The cellist was arguing with the pianist about canons, which had something to do with infinity, but Hildie was distracted and couldn’t follow the conversation. The musicians were safe. Their deaths were curled tightly within them—dark threads better left undisturbed. Someone else would die tonight. Hildie could see death coming but couldn’t stop it, which made the investigation all the more bittersweet. She heard her mother’s voice. I need a status update. Hildie exhaled. Her mother was First Valkyrie, the boss. She already watched Hildie with an attention bordering on paranoia. She was even more fixated tonight: a death was about to bloom in Morgan Arcand’s centuries-old mansion. The haunted house was on university grounds, which meant a lot of bystanders who had no idea that they’d just walked by a reincarnated knight on the way to the sashimi. It would be hard to keep things out of the public eye. But Morgan had her tricks. Hildie tapped her earpiece. “Update: the snacks are amazing at the dean’s fall semester party, and this dress I got from Winners looks like a trash bag.” Knights were myths stuck on repeat—a battle song that just kept streaming. Stories that kept being told in different times and bodies. Valkyries had a wild family tree, stretching back to the time when this whole place was covered in boreal forest. People loved reading stories about King Arthur and Morgan le Fay, but the reality was a lot more complicated. Arthur was in prison, Morgan was a university dean, and Hildie spent most of her time untangling blood feuds and breaking up fights on the beach. When a knight died under suspicious circumstances, it was her job to separate the facts from the stories. And everyone had a long story. Myths loved places hemmed in by water, like Vancouver. They shimmered in the depths. This place used to be called Terminal City, because it felt like the edge of the world. Hildie could hear Grace’s disapproval over the Bluetooth connection. I told you to buy something strapless from Holt Renfrew. “Have you seen their plus-size section? It’s just a sign with a sad face emoji. Besides it’s a crazy runesmith’s party, not the Junos.” Don’t call her crazy. She hates that. Beautiful people were handing their beautiful coats to staff at the door—probably grad students who’d been roped into this for extra money. Hildie found a space behind a pillar with an old woman’s face carved into it. She seemed to be sticking her tongue out. Maybe it was one of Morgan’s guises, or just some bit of medieval weirdness. She pulled up the dean’s file on her tablet. Some of it was redacted—instead of black lines, those sections were just blurs on the screen. Everyone had secrets, and Grace restricted access to the more sensitive information. Sometimes, Hildie thought her mother simply didn’t trust her. Maybe she was right to withhold. Here was what she knew: Morgan Arcand (no middle name). Aliases: Morrígan, Morgana, Sheela na Gig, the Very Black Witch, Queen of the Outer Islands. DOB: sixth century? Age of current myth: [blank]. (Guess she didn’t want anyone to know.) Family: Igraine of Tintagel (paternity disputed); Arthur (half-sibling). Appearance: sometimes thin, tall, and pale; other times short and thick; occasionally a stone. Runesmith. Always dangerous. Current occupation: dean of arts. Her known associates were essentially everyone. A squire couldn’t take a piss in this city without Morgan Arcand knowing about it. She’d thrown herself into academia for the last few decades, and that made things quiet. Rumor had it that she was gunning for the job of university provost, currently held by Mo Penley. Short for Mordred, but you didn’t want that name attached to your school’s strategic plan. They were two old conservatives butting heads for control of knowledge, control of how their stories might be framed. Hildie spotted them talking to each other, near the entrance to the kitchen. She ignored the smell of puff pastry and moved closer to hear their conversation, but the party noise swallowed whatever they were saying. Morgan wore a green Balenciaga gown with a chain of intricate gold knots around her throat. Hildie remembered that her nan—the previous First Valkyrie—had once described Morgan as a difficult knot. She felt a flash of grief, but pushed it down. Penley was leaning in close, whispering in Morgan’s ear. He was tall and pencil-thin, with graying blond hair. His tiepin was a small dagger that gleamed under the lamplight, and he wore a suit effortlessly, as if he’d been born in a double-breasted jacket. His eyes were cold—like an empty hearth. Morgan gave him a long look and walked away. Penley went upstairs, pausing briefly at the banister, as if he’d stopped to study something. Hildie made a note to investigate the second floor. This was the oldest house in Vancouver, and