Chapter 2

Hoisting my backpack over my shoulder, I step off the airplane in front of the precious toddler cyclops who kicked my seat the entire trip from Oslo. I yawn. My back aches from hours of keeping my elbows close to my body to avoid touching the bogeyman seated next to me. I did not sleep. My eyes feel as dry as sand.

But I am finally here. JFK Airport. New York City.

For months, I had been feeling an intense longing that would not go away: a need to leave Norway and start over. Now, as I set foot on solid ground, my throat is thick, and I blink back tears.

I have arrived. It is time to start my new life away from my homeland. I am not wanted there.

Humans and monsters alike shuffle down a series of long corridors, headed for baggage claim. A recorded female voice comes over the loudspeakers every few seconds with a new announcement like "Welcome to the United States. Please have your passports available for inspection. As a reminder, phoenix shifters are required to delay self-immolation and rebirth until exiting the terminal. Rideshares are located on the lower level by gate A56. Acid spitting and fire breathing are strictly forbidden inside the terminal area."

I walk by a mirrored wall and catch a glimpse of myself amid all the other passengers. Dark eyes lined with black eyeliner. Straight green-black hair with long bangs. Pale skin. Skinny jeans, tight band T-shirt, studded belt, and Converse high-tops. My body form is unstable, though, my outline fuzzy around the edges.

Focus. Maintain your appearance. I look again, and now I appear more solid. Good.

After what seems like several kilometers of walking, we enter an enormous room full of hundreds of monsters and humans standing in lines that snake back and forth. Booths with glass walls, occupied by immigration officials, await us at the far end.

My heart palpitates, and I am hit with a sudden headache. My instinct tells me to turn around and get back on the airplane and go home. Flee. While I have traveled before, it has been with my cousin, never on my own.

But no. I can do this. I have a plan: Pass immigration. Get my bags. Go through customs. Take the train to Pennsylvania. Start a new, and hopefully better, college experience.

It is a good plan. I did not leave Norway only to immediately return.

A uniformed human with a strong New York accent says, "US citizens over to the right. Permanent residents to the right. Everyone else to the left. Move along, people. We haven't got all day."

Bleary-eyed, I get in line behind a family of centaurs from Italy—judging by their passports—and in front of a pair of humans from Peru. I fidget and yawn again. My body feels hollow, and my muscles are twitchy.

I am told that if a human travels in a natural manner, like walking or floating down a river, they do not move faster than their soul. As a result, those methods of travel feel harmonious and pleasant. But if a human travels by machine, their soul needs time to catch up, hence the sense of disorientation upon arrival at their destination. It can take just a short while for body and soul to rejoin if the human travels by car, which explains their need to periodically stop and stretch on long trips. After airplane travel, the soul needs longer to find its body. Humans call this feeling "jet lag," and it can take a day or more for the soul to return and the human to feel well again.

Since I do not have a soul, jet lag cannot be the reason for my physical discomfort right now—shortness of breath, tense stomach, overwhelming thirst. Maybe it is simply anxiety.

A speaker crackles. "Will the owner of a mythic broadsword please return to gate C3 to retrieve a lost item?"

The queue moves forward slowly, and eventually I make it to the counter with an immigration official—a human—sitting behind a clear partition with a little slot at the bottom. Biting my lip, I pull my passport out of my jeans pocket and accidentally drop it on the ground. Cursing my clumsiness, I pick it up, slip it through the opening, and hold my breath.

Before the official opens my passport, he points to a taped line on the floor in front of a camera and says in a bored voice, "Stand there."

With a rolling feeling in my gut, I follow his instructions. I assume the camera takes my photograph, although there is no outward sign that it did anything. As my headache comes on stronger, I return to the opening in the glass. The man is scowling at the computer.

"Is this your true form?" He taps on the monitor. "You're not showing up in the facial recognition database."

Scratching my ear, I move my weight from one foot to the other and sigh. "No. It is not my true form. Do I need to shift?"

The official makes an impatient noise and holds out an open hand, gesturing to the crowd behind me. "Shifters have two choices if they wanna enter America. Show your true form, or fill out the F3917 application."

"Can you give me the application?" Please do not make me transform in public.

He puts both hands on the counter and looks down at me. "Sure, but it will take seven to ten days to process, and you have to stay in the airport until it's done."

I blink at him. My stomach drops. My heartbeat speeds up. I paste on a smile and clasp my hands together. "Okay. I will comply."

It is not unusual for shifters to have to show their true form in circumstances like this—ones involving identification. I do not know why I expected anything different. I guess I had not thought it through. Or maybe it was wishful thinking. I am used to not having to prove my identity at home, and indeed, in some situations regulations require shifters to remain in human form.

Quickly, I move back to the line on the floor and shift into my true form. Everyone around me takes two steps back, but I cannot tell if they are simply surprised or if they are repelled. I always assume it is because they are repelled. After all, my human mother has told me how ugly I am. How horrified she was when she gave birth to a nokk instead of a human. I glare at them.

The immigration official gives a little cough and then recovers, moving near the camera and taking another photograph. After a second, he nods.

I shift back and return to the window, unable to meet anyone's eyes, my arms tucked tight to my sides. While monsters are integrated into society, and there is little overt prejudice, I am still an outsider.

But now the official is staring at my passport, scratching his chin, and muttering to himself. "Okay, that's a match, but … Hmm." He picks up a phone and dials. "Fran, could you please come over? I've got an irregularity with a Norwegian citizen's passport." He turns to me, seeming to want to keep going on other questions while we wait. I take that as a hopeful sign. "What is the purpose of your visit?"

"I am here for college. On a student visa."

"Where are you staying?"

"Pennsylvania." If I can make it into the country.

A uniformed banshee with a name tag that says "Supervisor" strides over and stands next to us. "What's the problem, Reggie?"

"This gentleman's passport"—Reggie indicates me—"has a blank where the name goes. I've never seen a passport without a name."

The banshee takes my passport and flips through it. She turns to me with a hand on her hip. Then recognition dawns in her eyes. "Ah. Norway. You're a nokk?"

"Yes." She must be able to tell by my eyes and my fingers. And my photo, I suppose.

"That explains it." She addresses Reggie. "He's clear on that front. Protocol S2524."

Reggie's eyes get big, and he looks at me. "Ohh. Okay. No names. I get it." He turns to the supervisor. "Never seen a nokk before or had to invoke that protocol."

"In twenty years it's only happened a few times," she says.

"Got it. Thanks, Fran."

"Yep." She gives me a nod. "Good luck, nokk."

"Thank you."

Reggie stamps my passport. "Welcome to the United States."

"Yes. Thank you." I move past him as quickly as I can, breathing more freely the farther away I get from that encounter.

The next area is the baggage claim, and my belongings are waiting for me—a small mercy. I rent a cart and hoist my bags onto it, walk through the "Nothing to Declare" part of customs, and then I am in the chaos of international arrivals. People are everywhere—humans, monsters—hugging, kissing, exclaiming.

No one greets me, but I was not expecting anyone. I wrap my arms around my stomach to stave off the loneliness, and after a moment, it dissipates.

Keep going.

I pass by a store full of American flags and T-shirts. I do not need those, although I do need to get a US telephone number. Thankfully, there is a store at the airport that can take care of this for me. The salesperson asks me what name to put down on my account, and I tell him the first one I think of, which makes him chuckle, but I refuse to change it after I blurt it out.

It is not easy being a nokk.

While I do not want to give my father my new number, he can still get in touch with me by email or traditional nokk magic, so there is no sense in withholding it. I text him that I have landed.

I do not get a response. He is probably out looking for his next victim.

I step out of the store, blinking rapidly and searching for guidance signs. There are so many people surrounding me that it is difficult to determine where to go.

But eventually, I see the sign for directions to the train station.

Excellent.

The train is waiting at the platform when I get there. I drop my luggage off in the vestibule at the end of the train car and find my assigned seat, which is on the aisle. Already in the seat across from mine, facing me, is a human child who looks deceptively cute, next to his mother, I assume, who is by the window. They are seated so they will be traveling backward, I believe. Remembering the toddler on the airplane, I am wary of being kicked, but the child's mother seems to be distracting him. I put on my headphones and begin listening to a rock playlist on Spookify.

The human child unabashedly stares at me, and for a moment I worry I have shifted back into my true form. But no, when I glance down, I look like a human. Mostly. I stare back until he looks away. Then I pick at my black-painted fingernails.

The train takes off toward Pennsylvania, and I settle in for the ride. I am not feeling well. Constantly moving, being away from a water source—it is getting to me. My headache has lessened, though.

I will be fine. I am sure.

My mind wanders to what my roommate will be like. In Norway, I lived at home when I went to university. I have not shared a room before.

I do not look up when the train stops at the first station, but when it starts again, a passenger comes walking down the aisle carrying a large coffee. The passenger trips, and the cup arcs out of his hand. Before I think about it, I am out of my seat at monster speed and hovering over the child to shield him. The scalding liquid ends up spilling on my back. Better me than the human child. I am more able to heal myself.

The passenger yelps, "Sorry! I'll go get napkins."

When the child's mother realizes what happened, her eyes grow wide, and she takes her child into her lap. "You saved Chris!" she says, checking the child over. He seems to be unharmed. Then she turns to me. "Oh my goodness, are you okay?"

"I am fine," I say, my skin burning. I focus to make it regenerate. While I am not the best at partial shifts, I make the pain mostly go away.

She starts clucking at me. "No, you're covered in coffee. Do you want to borrow a jacket? Or do you need something else? I'm just so sorry."

"It is okay. I will simply put on a different shirt," I say, and stand to go down to the baggage area.

She reaches out a hand to take mine, ignoring my webbed fingers. "The stains may not come out. Let me give you money to replace it, at least?"

"I could not accept."

"Can I buy you a drink? What do you like to drink?"

A vodka sounds nice, although the drinking age is higher here than in Europe. Or a big glass of water. I am also a true Norwegian and love coffee. "I am fine."

I walk down to my bags. I take out a clean shirt and change in the vestibule, then return. The passenger with the coffee cup reappears with napkins and four drinks in a beverage holder, three of which he passes to us, apologizing profusely. I accept the coffee, which is scalding hot, while Chris drinks what appears to be cocoa cooled with extra milk. Having satisfied himself that the damage is repaired, the passenger continues to his seat.

Sipping her own coffee, the mother smiles at me. "What is your accent? Somewhere in Europe?"

"Yes, I am from Norway."

"Are you going to be in the United States long?"

"Yes. I will be here for the school year. I am attending Creelin University."

"Oh! Creepin U! I mean, that's what people in town call it. I live in Creelin." She starts scribbling on the back of a scrap of paper. "I'm Kellie, and this is Chris, and if you ever need anything while you're in school, just give us a call, okay? My wife and I would love to have you come by for dinner sometime. Especially since you saved Chris from getting burned."

I take the paper as if it is an offering. "Yes, thank you. I will." I have no intention of taking her up on it, but it is a kind gesture. Also, it does not hurt to know local people, just in case.

She seems safe. I do not feel a pull to take her soul.

I have never felt that pull, but I am always wary and on the lookout for it. I do not want to be like my father.

"Can I have your number?" she asks.

"Um. Yes." I pull out my phone and tell her the number.

She texts me a "Hey, it's Kellie" message. "Do you mind me asking what you're studying at Creelin?"

"I am a music major," I say.

"How fascinating! Tell me all about it!"

And while Chris the child plays contentedly on her phone, Kellie listens as I tell her all about the kind of music I like to play. The kind I hope I will get to play when I arrive at Creelin—very modern music on the electric guitar. Not the traditional nokk music. Although I am officially signed up to play the violin, I brought my guitar as well.

I think I may have made my first friend in the United States. I need to be careful about making any more, though. After knowing what happened to my mother, I could not bear to indulge my true nokk nature. But hopefully I will not meet anyone who triggers that instinct.

We arrive at the Creelin train station.

"Would you like me to give you a ride to school?" Kellie asks, as she gathers up her belongings and her son.

"No, thank you. I am fine," I say.

"You're sure?"

I nod. "There are taxis."

"Be sure to text when you get settled in," she says. "Even if it takes a few days."

A lump forms in my throat. She is acting more motherly than my own mother. "I will keep in touch, yes."

I take a taxi cab to the university, get to the administration building, and find my room assignment. A chatty troll walks with me to the room.

Holding my breath, I open the door. There is no one inside, but it is nevertheless obvious that someone has already moved in.

I wonder who my new roommate will be. And what will it be like living with a human?