Past the gate, a long walkway stretches into campus, surrounded by ancient-looking buildings. No one else is in sight, but the school is cloaked in heavy fog, so I can’t see in very far. Skallagrim gives me an eerie, ghostly impression.
“Edith,” Bea says, tugging at my sweater.
I turn around to see what she’s staring at.
Wolvesprowl toward us.
Shit.No wonder the cabdriver couldn’t wait to get out of here. I grab the cold gates, stinging my palms like icicles, and try to pull themopen. No matter how hard I pry, they won’t budge. I throw a panicked glance over my shoulder.
The wolves are getting closer.
“Come on, open up!” I shout, yanking the gate desperately.
With a groan of metal, the gates slowly start to open.Tooslowly. They hardly seem to move at all. I face the wolves, pulling Bea behind me, and stare into their glowing yellow eyes as they snarl at us.
Unlike humans, animals only show their teeth for one reason: violence.
I back away, keeping Bea behind me.
We bump against the gates. There’s nowhere else to go.
Damn it, I did not come all the way to Iceland just to die here. Especially not like Mom. The wolves growl louder, their hackles raised and their jaws snapping—
Suddenly their ears prick, and their attention shifts.
Two riders are approaching on horseback.
The first is older, with a face carved from stone and his posture just as rigid. He makes a sudden, sharp noise, rumbling deep from the back of his throat. I stiffen as if I’ve been scolded. Apparently, the wolves feel the same. They tuck their ears and bound away, back into the hills and out of sight.
“Thank God,” I say, unable to hide my relief. “We couldn’t figure out the gates—”
The wrought iron gatesfinallyfinish grinding open.
The older rider barely glances at me and Bea before riding past us without a word.
Only the second rider slows his horse. He has a strong jaw and broad shoulders, but there’s something gentle about his eyes. He can’t be much older than me. His brown hair is the same shade as his horse’s, the color of milk chocolate. Instead of a varsity jacket, he’s decked out in leather armor, looking like the handsome hero from a fairy tale.
“The gates should have opened on their own,” he says, his voice lowand deep as he stops right beside me. “They’re enchanted to open for anyone with seiðr who wants to enter.”
Seiðr. He says it so casually.
But magic is something that belongs in books, not real life. Even after three weeks, I can barely believe it.
Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe Helga was wrong. Maybe I’m not a berserkr after all and can go back home.
The young rider searches my face. “Seems you don’t want to be here.”
“Can you blame me?” A small laugh escapes. “We just arrived and were almost eaten by wolves.”
He smiles, a dimple forming.Oh. Make that very handsome. That smile of his sends my stomach swooping. He’s way hotter than Jason or anyone else at Saint Vincent’s, and he actually seems nice and respectful.
I peer up at him through my lashes. “So, who can I thank for saving us?”
“What?” he asks, completely clueless.
“I was asking for your name.”
“Oh.” He’s dead serious. “I’m Amund.” He peers down from his horse like he’s expecting me to share my name, too.
