Oh, no. My palm cupped my mouth. Ryder.
That cursed magic claimed a piece of my soul.
Oh, God. I was going to be sick. He?—
I needed you to see there’s still a piece of the old me, deep down inside.
He was turning into a demon.
“Are you scared?” he breathed, and it wasn’t his voice, wasn’t his smile, but when a soft sweep of his thumb traced over my skin, I still shuddered with longing that he mistook for fear. “Good—now follow my lead.”
Dropping his hand, he stepped back, the steamy air, the screams, the death filling the space between us, leaching the want from my skin.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself, River.” With that phrase, with the way he drew out my name, as if it still belonged to him, I was catapulted back to that night at the Boardwalk. He’d said something similar, as if those damning words might comfort me. As if I’d actually listen. As if he wasn’t actively trying to capture me again.
I barked out a cruel laugh. “Oh, I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
He raised a brow.
Source thrummed in my heart. Let me out, it seemed to say with every beat. Welling in my fingertips, it spilled over the arena, hardly a shadow, a glimmer of movement in the corner of someone’s eye. It dissipated quickly; the place was bare of elements, absolutely by design. You got me this far, I told it—told myself. I can do the rest.
Lowering into a crouch, I delivered a sweeping kick to the side of Ryder’s leg. He fell to his knees, palms catching his weight. It wasn’t even that hard, but I had the element of surprise. I knew he would underestimate me. Everyone always did.
Next, a boot to his face—that one probably did hurt, judging by the amount of blood.
I toed the knife that’d slipped out of his grasp until it spun just out of his reach. He was too busy clutching his nose to notice.
Whirling on him, I hooked my arm around his neck, bringing the tip of my whistling blade to his throat.
His hands shot up, scratching, pulling, begging me to release him. I only squeezed harder.
“Now it’s my turn to ask.” Lowering my mouth to his ear, his pulse raging wildly against my muscle, I whispered, “Are you scared?”
I inched the blade deeper, a drop of tarry crimson dribbling onto my sleeve.
“Yes,” he finally croaked.
“Good, because now you’re going to follow my lead.”
“I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.” His pale lips twitched, muttering far below the threshold of a whisper. “I’d follow you in death, in darkness, in light.”
“Yeah, yeah, duty and all,” I said, but still, my fingers slipped on the hilt. I straightened it immediately, but those words, the desperation—they did their job exactly, breaking me bit by bit.
His back flush against my chest, life hanging delicately in my grasp, I watched the horror unfold in front of me: the jelmadag’s flames burning bright and blue, the tips so hot they turned colorless. Flóki loosely holding a knife at his side, waving it around like a dumbass, laughing and pointing at the poor creature. In the stands, Olivia holding her own against two merciless attackers, determined but weary. Eyes, clusters of them, swarming the royal box.
Two assailants in all black hopped over the railing, out of the luxury seating area, disappearing into the shadows of the stadium’s corridors.
A guttural scream ripped through the arena. “MOM!”
My heart stopped.
A hand flopped against the stone, rings sparkling in the faint light shining down from the circular window above. Hems from the colorful gowns of hysterical elves shielded the rest of the queen’s lifeless body from view.
Freyja tore apart the crowd, strawberry hair and violet chiffon flowing behind her, mowing down guards and hunters and courtiers alike—anything that stood in her way. Chest heaving, she stumbled to the edge of the balcony. Her bloodied fingers gripped the railing.
“You.” The word, a threat. Her finger pointed down at the pit—at one of us—a mark for violence.
She hopped over the barrier, skirts sailing behind her, landing in a lethal crouch.
