Stay away, the demon spat, writhing against the stone. No amount of water can withstand these temperatures.
With a prayer to whoever might be watching, I clamped my hands around the hilt of the sword lodged in his throat. Another call of my name—closer, more frantic.
Heat like I’d never felt, like the flare of a thousand suns, branded my palms.
Gritting my teeth, my tears vaporizing before they could even fall, I yanked as hard as I could.
Trapped steam rushed out of the beast’s open maw as I slowly drew the blade out of his neck. An agonizing whistle roiled in his throat, like a teakettle left on too long. It dragged over my senses. The whole blade finally spilled out, thumping to the ground.
My arms were boneless, as if they’d melted off, but I swung the sword, bringing it down into the small space between his wings. The feathered limbs unfolded, quivering in the air.
Chest heaving, I dropped the scalding metal handle. I turned my hands over. Blisters bubbled along the joints. They stung, but they weren’t in nearly as bad a shape as they should have been.
Arms wrapped around my waist, swinging me back.
“What are you doing?!” I twisted, kicking my legs, bucking my hips.
“Saving your ass!” Ryder said. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Around us, glass shattered, stone cracked, and the screaming—it was feral, panicked.
Death coated the air.
I glanced over my shoulder. Through the mess of my hair, I saw a purple lump on the floor, strawberry strands of hair splayed around it. No.
Palm curled, arm rising as if he were uprooting invisible plants from the ground, Flóki stomped towards Freyja. A knife glistened in his other hand.
And yet she still cursed him, despite being sprawled on the floor, with a weapon headed straight for her neck.
“Let go of me!” My voice was desperate, ragged.
It was unclear if Ryder was ignoring me or just couldn’t hear me, but I didn’t have time to ask politely—my friend was about to be murdered in cold blood. My heel struck his shin.
He yelped in pain, loosening his grip just enough for me to wiggle out of it and run to the blood-streaked sword still lying in the open.
Skin sizzling, elbows screaming in pain, I lifted the weapon, buckling at its weight.
I’m not sure what propelled me forward—determination, supernatural ability, a blessing from the gods—but a heartbeat later, I was halfway across the pit.
Cyclones of dirt and sand and rock rained down upon Freyja’s body with the steady flicks of Flóki’s fingers. A dusty forearm blocked the crown of her head, but it wasn’t enough. Her face was absolutely ruined. One eye black and blue, the other squinted open, blood pooling from her nose. A streak of silver flashed above Flóki’s head. The knife.
I was close enough to see the horror in Freyja’s eyes, but I wasn’t close enough to stop it.
“NO!” I screamed.
Mustering every scrap of strength and magic I had, I threw the sword—I was too many feet away, too white-hot with rage. But still I hoped, and it was stupid, but once the hilt left my hands, hope was all I had.
Sunlight glistened off the metal, and as Flóki brought his blade down, mine slammed into his back. Immediately, he fell to his knees. I did the same.
Freyja pushed up onto her palms. Her lips moved, shaping words I couldn’t hear.
A lump formed in my throat, my chest. My hands shook in my lap.
Wind rustled my clothes, batting the hair out of my face, but I couldn’t see through the tears. Just a warmth, a shadow, a flicker of night.
Get on. A rasp of the jelmadag’s voice thundered in my mind.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. All I could do was stare. Red. Bubbling. Blood. Weapon. Red.
