I do not have access to my hellfire’s steam. I cannot fly. His tone, so heavy with defeat.
You have claws, don’t you? And fangs? Use them.
“How many minutes until this stadium gets leveled?” I asked.
Flóki’s arctic eyes turned an abysmal black. “Seven.”
No response from the jelmadag.
Look, I don’t have my magic to play offense, either. I barely know how to throw a punch or even hold a weapon. I’m probably doing it all wrong—I glanced at the demon, his belly roiling and swollen. A shiver kissed my spine—I know I’m doing it all wrong, but I refuse to go down without a fight.
“Let’s move.” With a flick of his chin, Flóki gestured to Ryder. “The crew will open that gate. There’s a tunnel we can take from the underground holding area. We’ll follow that to the fjord. By the looks of it… not many will be joining us.”
Desperation flooded my veins.
Is it because they fight in Chthonia’s name that you disregard innocent life so easily? Did you even hear them? They treat you like a pest—they don’t care about you. Muscles trembling, I repositioned my fingers on my dagger’s hilt. If I am to die today, I won’t do it being the powerless pawn they assume I am. You might do the same.
Alas. The demon released a bloody gurgle. I will always be a monster.
Prove them wrong.
Something unnerving glistened in the creature’s gaze. Tears. Fear. Will.
A silhouette flittered in my peripheral. Ryder.
Spinning, I arced my dagger over my head, the steel screeching against his. “What a cute little bromance, you and Flóki. Did he lend you that blade?”
A guttural cry whistled through the arena, rattling hearts, weapons, bones. The jelmadag hissed, piping hot spit raining down around Flóki’s feet.
The elf cursed, swearing torture and death upon the demon. It took effort not to smile at his frantic yells, the blubbering fool.
Ryder drew in close. Arms shaking, weapons crossed, blades straining against each other’s, our heated breaths mixing in the small sliver of air. “Come with me.”
“Never,” I huffed, flinging my elbows out and pushing him off.
Those dark eyes narrowed, shadows eclipsing the ring of golden-green. A smirk curled his lips, cold and sadistic, and the veins along his throat pulsed black.
“What did they do to you?” I asked softly, so no one else heard.
Wincing, he took a stilted step closer, as if the effort physically pained him. “You promised me.”
Fingertips grazed my chin, cupped my cheek. His skin was cold, so cold. I focused on remaining lethal and still, but a tremble worked its way through me. “What?”
That frigid hand slipped around my wrist. My pulse raged beneath his thumb.
He sucked in a breath. “That you wouldn’t forget about me when…”
“When what?” I tugged on my arm. His grip remained firm.
I looked at him, really looked at him then. This… this person. They were just a shell for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on—something that felt both vile and electric, tempting and taunting. An undercurrent. I’d experienced it before with Finis, with Kistuleitarinn, and even in the Heimer Töfra with Ryder.
It was evil.
Nervous heat turned my skin to fire.
What else had Ryder said in that twisted world of enchantment? No, not there. It was in the front seat of his car, speeding through the redwoods earlier that summer: Demons aren’t born, they’re made.
It was what the jelmadag just reminded me of ten minutes ago, what the Coffin Seeker had taunted me with below the castle: that we were more similar than I cared to admit. That we were different sides of the same coin.
