I stalk over to the stereo like a predator hunting prey, searching for whatever button will end this bullshit. Screw it—I reach behind the system and rip the cord straight from the wall. Blessed silence fills the room, though everyone is still cackling like hyenas at a comedy show. Even Erik is failing miserably at hiding his amusement behind his bourbon glass in his corner fortress of solitude.
"You finished with your little performance, dickhead?" I snarl, fighting the urge to throw the stereo at his face.
"What's wrong, Rhy-Rhy?" Lucian grins like the cat that ate the whole damn aviary. "Don't tell me the God of Thunder's grandson can't take a little AC/DC tribute? The song's practically your origin story now! I've got a whole playlist ready—' Electric Avenue' is up next!"
I level my most lethal glare at the smirking prick, but Dani slides between us, still fighting back giggles as she wraps those arms around my neck. "Come on, Thunder Buns," she grins up at me, eyes sparkling with mischief.
I barely have time to roll my eyes, already knowing this is going to be like throwing raw meat to a starving lion. Lucian's going to be all over this shit like—
"Thunder Buns?!" Lucian howls, practically vibrating with glee. "Oh, Dani-girl, you beautiful, sassy genius! I'mSOusing that from now on. Hey, Rhy-Rhy, can I be Lightning Cheeks? We'll be the Electric Ass Avengers!"
I shoot him a glare, but it just bounces off him like everything else. This asshole's got the self-preservation instincts of a fucking lemming.
"Besides," Dani continues, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck in a way that makes me want to purr, "now every time I hear that song, I'll think of my sexy demigod Viking—talk about a playlist upgrade."
Fuck. How's a man supposed to stay pissed when my woman's looking at me like that, all sass and sunshine? My anger melts faster than Lucian's brain cells in a crisis, and I can't help but capture those smart-ass lips in a quick kiss, drinking in her laughter.
"You're welcome, Captain Scowls!" Lucian preens like a peacock on steroids. "See? I'm providing a valuable service here—making your woman laugh while roasting your consecrated ass. I should start charging for this serv—."
"Lucian," Erik interjects, his refined tone barely masking his exasperation with our resident pain in the ass, "I would strongly suggest reconsidering your current course of action. Though I must say, your persistent ability to challenge the depths of your own idiocy remains... fascinating."
"Oh, I'm sorry—did I interrupt your morning routine of color-coding your ammunition and practicing your brooding face in the mirror? Don't get your tactical panties in a twist, Sergeant Serious. I've got a whole playlist ready—'Mission Impossible' for when you're skulking around, 'Smooth Criminal' for your fancy-ass walk, and 'Ice Ice Baby' for that frozen stick up your ass!"
Erik's eyes roll skyward, his refined features screaming, 'I cannot believe I'm related to this walking disaster' as he gives Lucian that signature arctic glare—the same one he's perfected through years of enduring our brother's verbal diarrhea. Meanwhile, Seraphina's angelic composure shatters completely as she dissolves into very unheavenly snorts of laughter, and Dani vibrates against my chest, desperately trying to contain her own hysterics. Fucking perfect. My dipshit brother managed to corrupt an actual angel and turn my mate into his personal laugh track.
"Alright, enough—playtime's done," I snap, my voice carrying enough authority to cut through the bullshit. "We've got a magical stone to hunt down in Zephyria and shit to sort out here before we leave."
The room's atmosphere changes instantly, like someone flipped a switch. Even Lucian's smart-ass grin fades as everyone straightens up, and the reality of our situation settles over the room like a heavy blanket.
Let's just hope Dani and I can pull this shit off and be back before shit hits the fan here. With my luck lately, that's a pretty fucking tall order.
Danica
20
Theair here is so frigid, my nipples could probably cut through reinforced steel. They're staging a full-scale rebellion against the cold, turning into icicles beneath my multiple layers of clothing.
I yank my fur-lined hood tighter around my face, trying to create some kind of barrier between my delicate skin and the elements that are clearly trying to murder me.
The landscape stretches out in every direction, an endless expanse of white that makes the Arctic Circle look like a tropical paradise. Everywhere I look, it's just snow, ice, and more fucking snow—like we've stumbled into the world's largest freezer.
I'm bundled up tighter than a burrito thanks to Rhyland's little pre-quest REI adventure (because apparently "hey, it might be chilly" translates to "buy every piece of winter gear known to man"). I've got so many layers on, I'm pretty sure I could survive a nuclear winter—but even that's not enough to keep the chill from seeping into my very soul.
I feel like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man's more fashionable cousin, waddling through the knee-deep snow in my expensive yeti suit. If I fall over, I'm pretty sure I'll just roll away like a puffy tumbleweed, never to be seen again.
Rhyland and Erik trudge ahead through snow deep enough to swallow a small car, their boots crunching through the frozen crust with each step. I have no clue where precisely in Zephyria we landed, but judging by the way my nose hairs are turning into icicles, I'm guessing we're somewhere in the "holy-shit-that's-cold" region of the realm.
Thealtitude isn't helping either—each breath feels like I'm trying to suck air through a frozen coffee stirrer. Between the bone-crushing cold and the oxygen-deprived atmosphere, my lungs are probably plotting their resignation as we speak.
Rhyland's recent field trip to Cloud City left him with a mental map of the place—well, if you consider "there's a big pointy thing and a light bridge" a map. Armed with his vague descriptions and Seraphina's geographical Cliffs Notes, I tried to piece together a destination in my mind before opening the portal.
Before our arctic adventure, Lucian pulled his version of responsible adulting—shoving property papers in my face and insisting I sign the deed to his mansion, with vampires unable to cross the threshold without the owner's permission (hello, most obvious vampire rule that we somehow forgot about until now).
It was pretty clever of him—like adding another lock to an already fortress-level security system. With Emily and Sable turning the place into Fort Knox with their witchy protection spells, this deed transfer was just another middle finger to any uninvited guests. And by guests—specifically, one designer-wearing psychopath who thinks a "restraining order" is just a suggestion. Nothing says "stay out " like magical wards and good old-fashioned property law.
The snowflakes swirling around us are so thick that they're practically a white-out curtain, obscuring anything more than a few inches from my face. The wind howls like a pack of rabid wolves, tugging at my clothes with icy claws. Visibility is a joke—I can barely make out my gloved hands, let alone any mystical landmarks.
Just as I'm about to start questioning my life choices, a familiar warmth blooms in my chest. My power unfurls like a miniature sun, chasing away the chill from the inside out. The sudden reprieve makes me sigh in relief—even my magic has had enough of this frozen hellscape.
