Free The Lost Sun by Tessa Gratton

believe I didn’t notice whenever she climbed up here with me.
    Her nose is tucked into my ribs and her knees are curled up so she sleeps with her hands folded in the center. I stare at the curve of her neck, at the costume pearls encircling it. Her delicate jaw and pale lips, the line of her nose, the limp dark curls hiding her ear. Her lashes are short and straight, almost flat against her cheek.
    The thin pink sweater covering her shoulders and arms cannot be warm enough. I’m cold, even though I have this fever heating me from the inside. With only a little hesitation, I putmy arm around her. It’s a relief like lowering a sword I’ve kept at the ready for hours. Then she snuggles closer. One hand grips at my shirt and she sighs.
    I think my heart stops beating.
    There are stories of old heroes being born and reborn to discover loves from past lives, to suffer and struggle for them again and again. Sigurd Dragonslayer and the Valkyrie Brynhild, Ivar and Ohther, Starwolf Berserk and Lady Kate.
    In that moment on the roof of the Spark, I imagine ages and lifetimes pile atop us, spinning us into the pull of destiny.
    Astrid’s eyes snap open. They’re as pale brown as hundred-year-old photographs. “Is it dawn?” she whispers, though from the light she must already know.
    “Yes,” I whisper back.
    “It was very cold in the car, without you.”
    “I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to disturb you.”
    “I don’t mind. I climbed up here because you were so hot.”
    “It is the berserking, boiling in my blood.”
    “And the insomnia, too.”
    I nod. And shift away, taking my arm back to sit up. I can’t hold her and think of berserking at the same time.
    Astrid sits, too, pulling her knees up to her chest. “If you welcomed it, would you still be plagued by sleepless nights?”
    “I believe so,” I answer, not looking at her. “My father rarely slept. It’s one of the reasons they say we have such limited time to live, even if we’re never defeated in battle. We burn up our energy and life in half the time because we never sleep.”
    “Has there ever been a berserker who did not die fighting?”
    “Yes.”
    Her finger, soft as a butterfly wing, skims down my tattoo. It continues down to my jaw, drawing a line toward my chin. My body flares to life, threads of fire ripping out from that center of madness.
    She turns her hand over so her knuckles rest against my face. “Soren,” she breathes.
    I push myself off the roof of the Spark and my feet hit the frosty grass hard. “The sun will be bright soon,” I say.
    More slowly, Astrid slides after. I offer my hand to assist, but she ignores it. “Yes,” she says, brushing off her dress, “and Baldur the Beautiful awaits us.”
    The land is flatter than ever and filled with nothing. It’s as though vegetation has been burned off, and all that grows now on the rocky plains are stubbly patches of grass. The sky rises away, pale blue, and enormous clouds billow in rows like ocean surf. The only trees cling to the edges of trickling creeks.
    We brush our teeth and change into fresh clothes in the public restrooms at a commercialized trading post, built to resemble a long building from an Old West town. They have fountain drinks, syrupy coffee, and doughnuts. We fill up the gas tank, too, and Astrid has a five-minute conversation with the attendant about the attributes of the ’84 Spark versus the ’92 with its Deutsche-made engine while I hover nearby, keeping my tattooed cheek averted.
    Back in the car, we pass turnoffs for the Lakotas Buffalo Reservation and several pioneer homesteads turned into kingstate monuments. There are bronze National Historic Site markers every five miles or so along the road. The quiet, the utter lack of people on the road, makes me feel watched. I continue glancing in the rearview as I drive, searching for pursuit.
    “They aren’t coming after us, Soren,” Astrid says.
    I frown. “We’re missing from