“Uh.” Gunnar’s face pinched. “I was thinking more because it’s super remote?”
“No, Fritzy is right,” Eva said. “Monsters find their homes there, and Jarðarbæli has some of the worst.”
Gunnar palmed his face. “The goal was to make her feel better, guys.”
Our next turn sent us rattling down a narrow alley at a pace that didn’t fling me back into my seat—a speed I didn’t think Siebel knew existed.
I chewed the inside of my lip, willing my heart to slow, too. “Do you actually know of anyone who lived to provide the details, or is this just based on rumors?”
“Kistuleitarinn.”
The elves sucked in a collective breath.
“What?” Eva squinched her face at Fritz. “Why would anyone listen to him?”
Gunnar’s brows dipped, lines indenting his forehead. “Kistuleitarinn is a known pathological liar—among other things.”
Disturbing as this all was, I had to ask. “Who’s Kistuleitarinn?”
Fritz’s throat bobbed. “The Coffin Seeker.”
My heart thudded in my chest. But before I could question Fritz further, before I even had time to digest what he’d said, Siebel eased us to a stop.
At first, I thought we’d pulled up to an empty lot, until I realized the building was under a mound of grass shaped like a hill. Faint wisps of light crept through the crack beneath the black doors.
After hitching the e-brake, Siebel got out, the cold turning his beige cheeks pink. Eva, Gunnar, and Fritz followed. From my perch, I watched a second car pull up behind us. Three elves leapt down. Freyja caught my eye and offered a sarcastic wave. Beside her, I recognized one of the others—Flóki.
Legs dangling over the seat, I prepared to lower myself onto the strip of lawn. “Where are we?”
“In the Valley of the Glaciers, on the outskirts of Álfaborg—our elven capital.” Gunnar offered his hand, helping me land firmly on my feet. “We’re in the Troll Quarters.”
“Trolls?” My gut did a somersault. I knew nothing of trolls other than what I’d seen in comics and on TV, which didn’t paint the best picture. “So, are… are they not like the giants Fritz was talking about?”
“Oh no.” Gunnar whisked past me, the fire in the braziers at the foot of the path flickering over his features. Shooting me a sly grin, he said, “They’re much, much worse.”
Chapter 23
Hollowed-out horns slammed onto the table, amber liquid spilling over their tops and fizzing on the wood. Half a dozen hands shot to the center.
“Skál!” the elves cheered—the same thing everyone in this pub seemed to be chanting—clinking their mugs, er… horns, together.
The frothy liquid had barely touched my lips when a shoe whizzed past my nose. It knocked a decorative shield off the wall, the metal clanging on the floor.
“Hæ!” the barmaid waiting on the group next to us yelled, her thick red hair spilling out of her bun and over her hairy, rounded ears. “Do that again, you’re goin’ back to the bridge you crawled out from under!”
A rather beefy troll rose from his seat, his heavy fists slamming onto the table, the light from the candelabras flickering over his ruddy skin.
“I’ll do what I please. Now get me another ale, skessa.” Pushing his thick neck forward, he let out a burp that was so loud, so foul, I was surprised everyone around him didn’t pass out.
Squinching my nose, I slapped my palm over the lower half of my face.
“Disgusting,” Freyja muttered.
“Get it yourself, ya stupid brute,” the waitress spat, wiping her warty hands on her apron.
More growls, more shouts. More bickering back and forth, more things sailing through the air. I glanced up at the gabled ceiling. An iron chandelier hung from the beam above us, its loose chain swinging. Great.
An elbow nudged my arm—Gunnar. “Don’t worry, this is completely normal for a Friday night at Wild Aven Tavern.”
