“Someone had to wake those tired bastards up.”
“Why not you? You seem like a great candidate.”
He shot me a sheepish grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment?—”
“Don’t.”
Ignoring me, he curled my fingers around the glass. “Elves are forbidden from calling upon the old gods.”
“Okay, so?” In my hand, the vial grew warmer, lighter. “It’s not like you’re in the camp of following the rules anyway.”
“True.” He chuckled, and it drove a chill up my spine. “But I’d be dead faster than you can say Terrordome.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How so?”
“For you, elven law is a courtesy. For me, it’s a curse. Did you know,” he said, his palm squeezing my knuckles tightly, “that in our home realm, these fights used to be routine?”
“No,” I said, unable to hold back the shiver from his lingering touch. “And, honestly”—the war horn blared again, rattling my ear drums, pricking at my skin—“is now the best time?”
“We’d fight to honor the old gods and the mortals who ruled us, but mostly to break free of our chains.” His eyes locked on the ground, as if he were tracing the footprints of his ancestors.
“For a pardon, a mercy, or a wish,” I whispered, reciting what he’d told me at the healing pools.
He nodded, gaze snapping back to mine. “There was an uprising. When the elves escaped to this realm, they cursed the incantation. None of the Huldufólk can speak it; really speak it,” he added with a wink, as if he knew what I was thinking, “without being struck down.”
“How?” I rasped, the word drowned out by the cheers, by the haunting bellow of the instrument.
He shrugged. “Maybe they worked something out with the gods.”
I tugged my hand back, out of his grasp. “And is that what you’re aiming to do—make a deal with a bunch of ancient deities now that they’re finally up?”
That wicked grin gave me all I needed.
“Why would they care about making a bargain with you?” I scoffed. “No offense, but they’re gods. And you’re… you.”
“They were cast out of their realm—multiple times.” His pupils flared, darkness taking over. “They have nowhere to rule. We can change that.”
“Who’s we?” As soon as it left my mouth, déjà vu rocked me, and I wasn’t standing in an ancient tunnel beneath the Terrordome with Flóki, but on the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk with Ryder and Leif, cold and confused and demanding answers, before a demon whooshed out of the shadows.
Tilting his head, Flóki put his neck on display. A serpent coiled in grayscale behind his ear. The mark of the syndicate, of the hunter. “Look familiar?”
Seeing that tattoo… It ripped open the wound, the betrayal, heartache, pain flowing out of me like blood. But the design was missing a key component. “Where’s the N and the S?”
Flóki’s face twisted in disgust. “I’m not a Night Stalker.”
Right. He was worse. He was poison, just like the one in my hand—just like that fringe group that attacked the werewolves and tried to siphon my powers and vowed to unleash hell on earth. Was that really why Ryder was here? Not out of love, but out of duty?
And had I fallen for it, again?
Flóki stepped forward, so close his breath tickled my face. “You take the lichen now, and we can guarantee safe passage to Chthonia. Otherwise… things may get a little messy.”
Of course.
Of course he would be working with the enemy.
Air ballooned in my chest.
“Go to hell.” I threw the vial to the ground, the glass shattering. “Without me!” I added as I stalked into the arena without a second glance over my shoulder.
