“Part human, part angel. You probably know it as Nephilim.” He paced around the statue, every so often stopping to run his fingers over the dips and grooves, like it were a work of art, and not a creature that once lived and breathed.
“What are you doing?” I gestured to the troll, its mouth contorted in an infinite scream, fear apparent even in its stone stare.
“Hm? Oh.” Brushing his palms together, he took a step back. “Sometimes I wonder if this is just a shell, and their souls are still trapped inside.”
“So,” I laughed breathlessly, the horror and revulsion warring in me against the absurdity, “somewhere along the line, Einar became a demon?”
“All demons have some angel lineage, River. They’re different sides of the same coin.” He tilted his head, the silver hoops along his pointed ears reflecting the soft light. “It’s funny. People are so afraid of Chthonia—but don’t they know Earth has some of the biggest monsters.”
My heart turned leaden, heavy in my chest. “Why do you say that?”
“Because here, that’s what they choose to become.”
After the teratorn attack, Ryder had told me that demons were the souls of corrupted angels, but I had been so wound up by everything else at the time, I hadn’t fully digested the details. I also hadn’t realized that applied to Nephilim—beings that were born of this world.
“What—” Despite the high, a chill ran down my spine. “What was it that turned him?”
“Bloodlust.” His eyes, all pupil now, pierced me like daggers, roving over every inch of visible skin. “Elves. Female, specifically.” Bile shot up my throat. I was going to be sick. “Don’t look so scared. You aren’t his type. He preferred them when they weren’t breathing.”
I glanced back at the building. Shadows flittered behind the small, circular, windows, but they were stained glass—no one could see us or hear us—and his words pressed in like the night, drawing goosebumps all over my skin.
“So, this demon,” I said. “He’s still alive.”
Flóki nodded.
“Why?” A rush of anger slurred my words. “Why not give him the death he deserves?”
His cold fingers lightly touched my shoulder. “Because sometimes information is more important than justice.”
Flinching, I shuffled out of his reach. “Hard disagree.”
“Kistuleitarinn’s older than Hildur—older than this kingdom. He’s witnessed the rise and fall of many royal families, the bloody fights for the throne. He’s lived through the Cross-Realm War, and the ones that came before that. Some say he came from a completely different realm.” A vein pulsed in his neck. “And some say he has the gift of Sight.”
“So, what?” I said, crossing my arms. “The queen uses him as her own personal oracle?”
He folded his lips. “You didn’t hear it from me.”
My mind was racing. The coincidence… it was weird. What were the actual chances that the only person who’d successfully been to Jarðarbæli was a demon who happened to be trapped in a cell beneath the castle I was staying in?
For a moment, nothing but the wind blowing over the frozen dirt and grass filled the quiet space. And in that silence, a wild idea took hold…
“No,” I said out loud. “It’s not worth it.”
“It could be,” Flóki answered, as if he knew where my mind had strayed. “He’s seen things, knows things, and like I said, he literally can’t escape. He’s a captive audience.”
“Isn’t his cell going to be, like, heavily guarded?” I couldn’t believe I was asking that.
“They gave up on stationing Eyes there long ago. Too many things down there with a thirst for blood.”
My pulse shot up.
“The entrance…” He dipped his chin, like he was weighing the words. “Different story.”
“Well, that settles that.” I scuffed my heel in the dirt. “There’s no way I’m sneaking past an elven guard and not getting caught.”
“Lucky for you, I’m part of the royal army,” he crooned. “And I happen to know every hour a new soldier takes up position. I can distract them.”
“That’s an awfully short shift.” Conveniently short.
