He nodded. “I only returned a favor.”
Bearing his weight on his knees, he brought his belly to the ground, positioning himself to spring.
“Wait.” My hand shot forward, as if I could stop him from leaving. “What’s your name?”
“I am a jelmadag, lesser demon of Chthonia, bound and born to serve the Scale of Six.”
“No, not what you are. Who you are. Your name. What people call you.”
“I—that—” Words had never been a struggle for this beast. “That is not part of my identity.”
I blinked. “You don’t have a name?”
All dozen eyes blinked back. Snowcapped mountains twinkled in their reflections, and the threads of a conversation I’d had spun together in my mind: Gunnar in his blue uniform, something undeserving twinkling in his eyes… a jumble of words spoken on an icy cliffside. People care about you. You’re what we call a Skært Ljós. God, I should have been nicer. Someone that makes things better. A bright light.
“Ljós.” It rolled off the tongue. “That’s your name. I’ll record it in that book I found about you.” I tilted my head. “I don’t know if it’s fate or coincidence that it was your page lying open on that table in the archives, but I’m glad it was.”
Darkness streaked before his snout, a crack of its flaming tail. “Meeting you has been… the most pleasurable experience I’ve had in one hundred years.”
Cheeks tightening on a smile, I sucked in a ragged breath and stepped back, giving Ljós some runway.
Wings shuddered and spread. Patches of feathers flittered off, dusting the ground. Warm gusts blew the loose moss and sand and the shorter layers of my hair out of my face as his paws left the earth.
And just like that, the demon left, becoming nothing more than a shadow floating through the sky.
Fingers wringing against my sweaty palms, I strode towards Jarðarbæli, ready to meet the ghostly double of myself.
It couldn’t be worse than who I’d already become.
Chapter 38
The cave was quiet.
Too quiet.
When I crossed the threshold, even the low howl of the wind surrendered to silence. The murderous pound of my heart echoed off the dank walls, my soles thudding on the damp soil like a war drum.
My gaze bored into the shadows, sweeping the corners for silhouettes, for ghosts.
For that alternate version of myself.
Skeletal remains were scattered on the ground like ivory chips, practically glowing in the darkness—which was thicker here, mustier, the surrounding mountains blocking the light and casting the place in near pitch-blackness.
“Hello?” my voice chorused, calling a dozen times, echoing deep into the heart of the cavern. I expected one to talk back, but when they all faded, it was only silence that answered.
A draft cycled through, spreading the scent of mildew and decay. Between its whispers, I swore there was a laugh, a watchful eye—a sense of knowing.
Shivers raked my spine, but I trudged deeper, because the only way forward was inward.
If I turned back now, the desolate Icelandic wilderness would eat me alive. Miles, I was miles away—I’d counted at least three ridgelines and one vast lava field on the way here—from any form of civilization.
Remote wasn’t even the right term for it; I might as well have been in a different world.
Since there was no alternative, I called into the depths of the cave again. “Hello?”
Soft light flickered in the blackness, dancing off the rock ahead. A low hum drifted to my ears. My heart leapt. There was someone else in here.
I broke into a jog, the path growing paler, messier, more densely littered with bones. A girl kneeled at an altar, her brown hair slicked behind her ears, her blue dress stained and torn.
