Hold on, the demon warned, and we shot through the dome’s single skylight, glass falling like stars as we disappeared into the open sky.
Chapter 36
I killed a man.
Those were the only words I could hear, think, feel, as we scattered the clouds and soared above the vast Icelandic fjords.
Flóki’s seized muscles, the bob of his head, the way his body sank to the floor. I shut my eyes, but under my lids, the images only grew stronger.
The jelmadag was silent—quiet thoughts, quiet wings, quiet breaths. Crisp air burned my lungs, cooling some of the hellfire, my Source roaring through me to shield its burn. As I sank into his mane, the blue-tipped flames tickled my face. I needed to get to Jarðarbæli.
Somehow, I was sure the demon knew that. But perhaps even more so, that I needed this: to let my tears fall, to fly even without my wings, to simply exist, no expectations.
I killed a man.
Chapter 37
We landed in a valley blanketed in moss, ancient layers of rock and lichen scattering at the beat of the jelmadag’s wings. I slipped off the creature’s side, landing on an onyx sandbank. My muscles flinched at the impact. Frigid wind ripped off the rugged slopes, some of the peaks so high they kissed the circling dark clouds. The air pulsed with power, feral and raw.
“Þórsmörk,” the demon offered. “Land of the Gods.”
Solid name. The mountains themselves were so breathtaking it was almost holy. Shallow grooves meandered through the vale, carrying the runoff from the ice caps.
Crouching on the damp bank, I peered into a glistening stream. My haggard reflection stared back. Mouth tight, lip split, brow bones bruised—murderous. I cupped my hands in the bone-chilling water, unable to stand the look of myself. I splashed my face, scrubbing at the dirt smattering my cheeks, picking out the dried blood beneath my fingernails.
Just like the blood of Flóki.
I shot backwards, tripping over my feet, my chest tightening, nearly cutting off my breath. I was exactly what the Coffin Seeker had claimed I was. A murderer, a kindred spirit in death?—
Do not be so hard on yourself. The jelmadag let out a steamy exhale. We all do what we need to do.
“I’m just like them.” I bit back a sob. The grief had sunk its teeth into me, and now that it had latched on, it’d soon tear me to shreds, the sharp ache of it clawing at my heart, my stomach. “My instinct was to kill.”
“Your instinct was to protect.” A black tongue darted out, lapping up a shiny beetle. “You would be wise not to confuse the two.”
“I suppose,” I grumbled.
Turning to face the demon, I spotted a gaping hole in the mountainside. The mouth of a cave, etchings in the stone—indecipherable, at this distance, aside from the obvious circle with the four-pointed star in the center. The Empyrean symbol for earth.
I tossed my chin in its direction. “That it, then?”
“Þórsmörk, Land of the Gods and Throne of the Earth.”
Jarðarbæli. Gaia’s lair—more like tomb, after what Kistuleitarinn had done. Pretty sure I caught the pale glint of a femur from where I was standing.
Wiping my hands on my thighs, I walked around the jelmadag’s midnight silhouette, the soil squishing beneath my tread.
“I dare not go any closer,” he said.
Halting, I tossed over my shoulder, “What will you do?”
“Go home.” Home. Even the wildest of beasts had a place where they belonged, a place they dreamed of. “But first, a farm. I’m hungry.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Will you fight for them?” I asked, Flóki’s evil grin still at the forefront of my thoughts. “Despite what happened in the arena?”
“I will do what I am ordered to do, Angel of Water,” he replied diplomatically.
“Got it.” My shoulders fell. “Well… thank you for not eating me, and not taking me to them.”
