Ilías’s death had made sense to him at last, and with that had come a measure of peace.
Yet here he now sat, plans in ruin, and even more bereft than in the days following Ilías’s death.
Jonas had lost his brother—his shadow, his better half. He’d lost the Bloodaxe Crew—better than most of the true kin he’d known in his life. And he’d lost her—the one he’d thought could change him. Could make him a good man.
And for what?Eisahad escaped, and now the Klaernar refused to pay his reward. Jonas failed to see how that was his fault—he’d delivered her right to them.Theywere the fools who’d allowed her to escape. Whispers had reached him—she’d killed their gods damned kommandor. A small corner of his heart had smiled at that, but he quickly stomped it down.
She deserved to be in a cell—deserved whatever brand of cruelty the Klaernar dished out. But like the serpent she was, she’d slithered free.
And Jonas was left with nothing. Utterly…nothing.
He should feel something. Sad or angry or…anything. Instead, there was this blasted numbness, as though he was caught between life and death. Draining his horn of ale, he slammed it into the stand and gestured to the barmaid. As she swished over to him, he caught the hopeful glimmer in her eye.
“Hello, Jonas,” she purred, replacing the empty horn with a fresh one. “Thirsty tonight, are we?” She trailed her fingers along his shoulder. “Do youhungerfor anything?”
He sighed. In a moment of weakness…desperate to feel something…he’d taken the barmaid to bed. The woman had been eager to please him, and yet, it hadn’t been enough. She’d mewled like a cat in heat, her every move so…wrong. Jonas had been forced to flip her on her stomach so he could imagine it washerhe fucked.
And even then, there was no pleasure to be found. It was an empty, joyless thing. He’d been relieved just to kick the woman out.
Another thingshehad ruined for him.
“Just the ale,” he growled, shaking the barmaid’s hand free. Scowling, she retreated.
Jonas drank deeply, eyes surveying the crowd in search of a worthy foe. Who would challenge him enough to wake his battle lust? Who would slake his need to feel alive?
A burst of laughter a short distance down the long table caught Jonas’s attention. A group of warriors, four-strong, heads bent in a less-than-quiet conversation. Drunk, clearly, but they had the look of battle-hardy men.
“Heard it was a draugur, rose from the dead.”
“Draugur don’t roast a man like a spring rabbit,” barked a second man, slamming his ale down. “Galdra, it was—one of those Ashbringers. Burned more’n twenty Klaernar without breakin’ a sweat. Look, ‘ere’s the etching.” The man rummaged around in his sack, pulling an item out and flattening it on the table. “Says ‘ere:Reward: Slátrari—ten thousand sólas. Companion—twenty thousand sólas. Must be brought in alive.Pretty thing, she is.”
“She’s one of ‘em!” chimed in a third man. “One of ‘em Galdra. Heard he freed ‘er from the Klaernar. Helped her escape the city.”
Jonas knew in an instant who they spoke of. Anger roared to life deep in his chest. So she’d had help to escape the Klaernar, then? Curiosity prickled through him, and he found himself rising. Found his feet moving toward the group of warriors.
They scowled at him as he approached, snatching the birchbark away from his eyes. “What you want, warrior?” asked a bald man with a scar running from forehead to chin.
“Might I have a look at that?” asked Jonas, nodding at the drawing.
“You want them sólas for yerself, huh?” asked the man’s companion—red bearded, with thick biceps. “What if we don’ feel like sharing?”
Jonas fished in his pocket, tossing a handful of sólas onto the table. “For your next round.”
The bald-headed man hesitated, then gave his companion a curt nod. Scowling, the warrior passed the birchbark to Jonas.
He stared at it. Blinked to clear his vision. But there was no mistaking who stared back at him from the etching.
Jonas’s vision tunneled as he stared into the eyes of Reynir Bjarg.
Below, the nameSlátrari.
First came denial. It was impossible. Not his good, honorable headman. Rey, who had always demanded honesty from his Crew. Five years, Jonas had known the man. There was no way his Bloodaxe brother was Galdra, let alone the gods damned Slátrari.
But below Rey’s likeness washer. Curly hair. Large, dark eyes. That tiny scar on her cheek. The spawn of Myrkur, who chewed people up and used their bones to pick her teeth clean.
Doubt crept in. Jonas allowed himself to consider the possibility. Allowed himself to remember the accounts of the Slátrari chasing them all the way north. All those evening walks Rey liked to take. And then there was the morning the Bloodaxe Crew had chosen to fight for Silla on the Road of Bones. When Silla’s lies had been exposed to the Crew, and Rey—who held honesty above all else—had deflected their questions. Had protected her.
Wouldn’t that confounding incident make sense if Rey, too, were Galdra?
