“Good to know.” I took a sip, my gaze darting around the room at the trolls, on high alert for that second lethal shoe—or the chandelier—to drop.
Siebel rolled a silver coin between his fingers, sliding it to the middle of the table. “Bets that angry one won’t make dawn.”
Some of the others nodded, tossing their money into a pile.
My brows pinched together. “What do you mean?”
“Trolls can’t be caught in daylight,” Siebel downed the rest of his horn, “or they’ll turn to stone.”
“Most make it back to their caves by sunrise, but the unlucky few…” Gunnar trailed off.
“The belligerent few,” Freyja chimed in.
“Check out the statues in the back when you have a chance.” Eva gestured behind her, towards a door with a girthy troll standing beneath the rays of the sun carved into the wood. “All petrified trolls.”
“That sounds horrifying,” I said, reeling in my jaw, which had dropped to the floor, “and I will definitely be avoiding.”
Freyja barked out a laugh, leaning into an elf I didn’t know, twirling a finger around his long copper hair. I may not have bet on the troll, but I would’ve put all my money down on the laugh I just heard being a hallucination…if a tight smile wasn’t still tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“It’s not as bad as they make it out,” a raspy voice quipped across from me.
I locked eyes with Flóki. Despite his obvious charm, even one word from him had a chill running down my back. “Sounds pretty bad?—”
Vicious force slammed onto the tabletop, knocking over our drinks and sending sticky booze dripping through the cracks. Squishy palms pressed down, nails indenting the surface.
I flinched back from the troll just as he grinned at me, baring a smile with rows of square teeth that could crush a skull. He then slowly and deliberately met each one of our stares head on. “Which one of you is takin’ bets on old Zulkis here?”
Siebel leaned back, crossing his muscular arms. “What’s it to you?”
“Here’s a bet, elf.” The troll’s voice rumbled through the long hall like an echo in a deep, dank, cavern. “Which one of you is goin’ to end up as my midnight snack?”
Just like that, four pairs of hands slid to their waistbands. My sheath tickled against my ankle, hidden on the inside of my boot. One look at Gunnar told me this was normal.
Siebel rolled up his sleeve. “How about we wrestle for it?” His tone was casual, fearless. Reckless.
Zulkis let out a low chuckle, close enough that his hot breath blew my hair back. “Now you’re talkin’.”
Ramming his elbow onto the surface, he flexed his massive hand, leathered like a mitt and tinged a gray green.
Patrons bustled around, pushing to get closer, their empty horns clattering against the wood, their chants as powerful as their fists. Eva paled, her eyes widening at the growing crowd.
Gunnar gestured to her with a hand parallel to the ground, slowly lowering it. Stay calm.
Flóki swiveled around, pulling a joint out of his pocket. “As I was saying.” He stood. “At least the trolls in the back don’t pull this kind of shit.”
Without a second glance, he wound past the crowd and slipped through the back door.
I looked at the rest of the group. Gunnar, Eva, Freyja, the elf next to her: everyone was preoccupied with Siebel and Zulkis as the match began. The two locked in, veins popping in their necks, their temples, their wrists.
Nobody batted an eye when I swung my legs over the bench, strode across the busy pub, and followed Flóki outside.
The lot was bigger than I’d assumed, rows of string lights holding back the darkness. Silhouettes dotted the night, still as statues, their contorted faces raging up at the stars. I stalled.
Trolls that didn’t make it.
They were statues.
“Geez, it’s like an open grave.” I walked over to Flóki, shoes crunching in the compacted dirt. “Kind of morbid, right?”
