One foot on the deck and the other on the dock, he held his palm out, expectantly.
Freyja took it, stepping onto the platform with a toss of her hair.
With her safely deposited, he repeated the gesture, his hand extended back towards the boat. Waiting. “You going to stay there all night, angel?”
Maybe.
Something splashed in the distance. My chin swiveled towards the darkness.
Maybe not.
Springing onto unsteady feet, I let him guide me off the vessel, legs wiggly at that first step on somewhat-solid ground.
He swung the duffel over his shoulder and headed for the glacier. “We leave at dawn.”
Freyja marched behind him, the dock groaning with the thud of their boots. Dawn?
“You know, some would consider this kidnapping?” I grabbed my backpack and scurried after them, a relentless chill in my bones. At their silence, and clear lack of concern, I added, “So what are we supposed to do now?”
The frigid night air stung my raw skin, a slash with every stride of my legs.
Gunnar slowed at the threshold between wood and snow. A fresh coating of powder dusted the ground.
He again held out his palm. Hushed words left his lips—whispers of a spell, of a dialect long lost. A ball of light ignited in his hand. With a gentle toss, it floated up into the air, hovering a few paces before him. My insides fluttered.
“Sleep.” He peered over his shoulder at me.
“You expect me to sleep after that?” I sputtered.
Using his magic to light our way, he headed inland, his pace slower, less urgent. “At this point, expectations aren’t something I have for you.”
“I could say the same,” I grumbled, my sneakers sinking into the snow.
Yes, it was pitch-black and freezing, but these were severely less dangerous circumstances than the open water filled with flesh-eating mermaids…and he was going to call forth his power now?! Freyja ripped apart the earth at the lighthouse—Galdur, they’d called it. I’d witnessed firsthand that there was more to it than party tricks like this.
Clearly, I was missing something here—but I couldn’t imagine they’d willingly share their secrets with a so-called prisoner. So, for now, I just waddled behind, trying not to faceplant on the slick ground, and came up with my own theories.
Maybe the elven magic behaved similarly to my Source and needed a conduit to act as an anchor? Or… maybe the type and intensity was different, depending on the elf, kind of like how Nephilim abilities worked?
Ryder would know. The thought rose, unbidden, with a ring of truth to it. Ugh. Stop it. I swatted it away as if it were nothing more than drifting snow.
The sky unfolded above us, wisps of color swirling between the stars, painting the deep blue canvas in vibrant glows of pink and purple and green.
Even if I wanted to escape—even if every fiber of me was fighting against this excruciating walk up the glacier—the auroras were a reminder: I’d seen them in the Pearl of Truth.
I was supposed to be here.
In this godforsaken, deadly, polar place.
Gunnar’s light grew brighter. It cast the cold world in a warm, yellow glow, sparkling up the slope to a near-vertical wall of ice. Holes punctured the face—footholds, handholds.
My knuckles went white. Oh no, were we supposed to climb that?!
Tripping over clumps of ash and wood scraps, some of the few signs of life littering the worn path, I jogged to catch up with the elves. They were peering inside the many cavities dotting the sheet of translucent blue.
“This one’s good!” Freyja called, her voice echoing off the hollow inside.
With a tilt of his chin, Gunnar led us into the heart of the ice, his Galdur glistening off the opaque walls. The duffel slid off his arm, thumping to the hard ground.
