“It’s the darkness. It’s all-consuming.” A glimpse of that darkness flashed across his face, fluttering in my heart.
Suddenly I remembered the stairs in the courtyard, the ones leading down… The forlorn wails, the drafts of ice, the shadows seeping out: the ice dungeons.
“This is a horrible idea,” I said, even though that same dangerous spike of interest that had flared through me back then tempted me now.
“I’ll keep watch, distract whoever’s working.”
“And risk your job? Why?”
“You deserve to know what awaits you. Meet you beneath Töfratré at two forty-five?”
The back door flung open, crashing against the grassy wall.
“Riverrrrrr!” Freyja drew out my name in a way I found equally annoying and endearing. “We need you! Ragnar just bet against Zulkis you can turn water into wine.”
“Who?”
“The guy who drove me and her here, her boyfriend—at least, the one for this week,” Flóki hissed under his breath.
My head snapped towards him. That was uncalled for.
“What are you guys looking at, anyway?” Freyja said, stumbling over the gravel.
He shot me a look, like we were in on some secret.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, backing away from the statues, from the elf, from the darkness. Music and laughter floated over the threshold in a steady stream.
Grabbing Freyja by the arm, I dragged her inside. Surprisingly, I was met with laughter, not a punch to the gut—could have gone either way.
We wove through the crowd, which had swelled to at least quadruple in size; there were definitely some broken fire codes here, if they even had those sorts of things in troll country.
“Nice night to look at the stars,” Freyja teased.
I rolled my eyes, releasing my grip. “What’s Töfratré?”
“The tree in the courtyard?” She batted her lashes. “Why, you meeting him there later?”
“Frey!” Cheeks swollen and red, Ragnar waved us down. “Perfect timing.”
Gunnar shot me a playfully crooked grin as he scooted over to make room.
Four glasses of water sat in a perfectly straight line down the center of the table.
“You weren’t kidding, were you?” I groaned.
“This’ll be fun—this’ll be easy.” Sliding her arm around my shoulder, she whispered, “And I really need to drink something other than beer.”
Huffing out a breath, I slid onto the bench, my mouth set in a tight line. I took in the faces of those gathered around—their crinkled eyes, toothy grins and infectious laughter, reminders of why I’d begged Gunnar to come. To let loose. To have fun.
So… I leaned back and got to work on the impossible: making wine out of water with my mind.
But the biggest miracle? Managing to avoid Flóki for the rest of the night.
At least, until we got back to the castle.
I was waiting at the tree when I heard the whispers.
Two tall forms entered the courtyard, shafts of moonlight showering their silver chainmail and strawberry-blonde hair.
