I shoot him my best death glare. "Not everyone has vampire-enhanced agility and legs that go on for days, Thunder Thighs."
"Indeed," Erik adds dryly from somewhere behind us. "Though your strategy appears to require some practice."
He's not wrong. My dismount attempt quickly turns into an X-rated circus act as I somehow manage to wrap my legs around Rhyland's head. Thirteen feet is a long way down, and my man's giant frame has become my personal fireman's pole—except I'm pretty sure real firefighters don't end up with their thighs accidentally choking their rescuers.
"Ifyou're done using my face as your stripper pole," Rhyland growls from somewhere between my legs (and oh god, this position is definitely not appropriate for divine company), "we can schedule a private performance later."
I flail around like a drunk octopus, trying to untangle myself from my compromising position. My foot catches in his jacket, my other leg is somehow hooked around his neck, and I'm pretty sure I just kneed him in the ear. It's like a game of Twister gone horribly wrong.
"Though I gotta say, Angel," he purrs as I continue to struggle with this damn marshmallow suit that's intended to suffocate me, "I'm enjoying this new dismounting technique of yours."
My face feels hot as I try to salvage what's left of my dignity. I swear I can hear Gullfax laughing his golden ass off at my predicament. Even Erik seems he's trying not to choke on his amusement.
"Not my fault you're built like a redwood tree," I mutter, my face burning hotter than the sun as I try to extract my leg from behind his ear.How did it even get there?"A little help here would be nice instead of just enjoying the show!"
His hands finally grip my waist, but I swear he's taking his sweet time helping me down, enjoying every second of my mortification. By the time my feet touch the ground, I've given him a full-body massage with my failed attempts at dismounting.
Gullfax's mental laughter booms through my head while Erik's trying (and failing) to hide his amusement behind his hand. Great. I've just turned this into an erotic comedy show for both immortal and equine audiences.
"Glad my suffering provides quality entertainment," I grumble, trying to massage feeling back into my mutinous legs.
"Don't worry, baby," Rhyland whispers in my ear, his voice pure sin. "I've got some special exercises planned to help with those sore muscles. Lots of stretching involved."
"Odin awaits,"Gullfax's voice echoes in my mind before he takes off like a golden meteor. His hooves barely touch the ground as he disappears quickly, leaving us in a cloud of dust.
"Well," I turn to my boys with what I hope is a confident smile, "according to our fancy four-legged Uber, the big man himself is waiting. Guess it's time to meet the god who makes Thor call him daddy."
Thejoke falls a bit flat as the reality of what we're about to do sinks in. We're about to have a sit-down with the All-Father himself. No pressure or anything—it's just the most powerful god in Norse mythology. The guy who sacrificed his eye for wisdom and hangs out with ravens who spy on the Seven Realms.
Totally normal.
I finally take in our surroundings and holy moly—if I thought the aerial view was impressive, it's nothing compared to seeing this place up close. The palace of Ásgard rises before us—soaring spires of polished gold and gleaming silver pierce the sky, their surfaces etched with runes that pulse with ancient power. Huge columns that look like they were carved from pure starlight frame a courtyard larger than a football field, and fountains that seem to flow with liquid light cast rainbow reflections across walls that weren't built by mortal hands.
"Damn," I whisper, trying to pick my jaw up off the ground. "And I thought Vegas was flashy."
The steps leading up to the entrance are carved from what looks like pure crystal, each wider and glowing with internal light. When we reach the gargantuan double doors, I'm sure my jaw is permanently unhinged. These bad boys look like they were forged by giants—their surfaces etched with scenes of ancient battles and victories that seem to move when you look at them too long.
Talk about making an entrance. The gods didn't skimp on their home improvement budget.
I lean into Rhyland, my voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like we should knock. Or, like, announce ourselves. Do they have a magical doorbell we're supposed to ring?"
Ever the pragmatist, Erik strides forward and places his palm against the gleaming surface. The doors swing open with a groan that shakes the ground beneath our feet, revealing a cavernous hall.
The moment we step inside, I'm gobsmacked. If I thought the outside was impressive, the interior is like someone took every fantasy palace ever imagined and said, "Hold my mead." The ceiling soars so high that it might contain its own weather system, complete with constellations that spin and dance overhead like a living planetarium. Chandeliers that would make the Palace of Versailles look like cheap motel lighting cascade down like frozen waterfalls of crystal and starlight, each one probably worth more than the entire global economy.
Columns that look carved from captured moonbeams rise around us, their surfaces etched with runes that pulse with power. The floor beneath our feet is some otherworldly stone I've never seen before—darker than a midnight ocean but shot through with veins of living gold that seem to shift and flow. It's like walking on a moving river.
Tapestries hang between windows tall enough to park a Boeing 747 vertically, making me question everything I know about textile production. They ripple and move like they're alive, their scenes shifting and changing as we watch—probably telling the entire universe's history.
The whole place screams, "Gods live here," in a way that makes my mortal brain want to curl up in a corner and contemplate its own insignificance. I mean, how do you even dust something like this? Is there a cleaning service? Do they have Roombas?
Great, now I'm imagining tiny Valkyries with feather dust—
"Welcome, dear ones."
I nearly give myself whiplash, spinning at the melodic voice like a kid caught doing something terrible. A woman stands there—though 'woman' seems inadequate to describe her. Her golden hair falls in gentle waves around a face that manages to be both fierce and kind, like a warrior queen who also bakes delicious cookies. Her eyes are summer-sky blue and seem to hold the wisdom of ages within their depths.
"You must be Danica," she says, her voice warm but with steel undertones—the perfect blend of maternal warmth and authority. Her gaze shifts to Rhyland, and a smile curves her perfect lips. "Rhyland, welcome back."
