Oh, if only creatures of the light could see the extent that dark creatures canfeel. Just how much we worry and care.
“You can’t come with me,” I say to them. “Not to a furies’ nest. Even if you could, I would ask you to stay here and watch over the keeper.”
“No, Darkness,” Anarchy whispers. “There must be another path. If you need information about your father’s operations, there must be another way to get it.”
“There isn’t. My mother had a wealth of knowledge, but that information is over twenty years old. Taiven didn’t share the inner workings of his empire with anyone but his generals—correct, Lucian?”
My brother nods, although it’s a reluctant movement.
“And Halle’s knowledge is as dated as my mother’s,” I say, which leaves only her brother.
“What about Jonah?” Anarchy persists, turning to the jotunn.
He shakes his head. “Veda is right. Only James can predict what Taiven will do next.”
“But the furies?—”
I reach for Anarchy’s hand before she can continue. “They will only harm me if I deserve harm.” I pin her with a determined look. “If that means they say I deserve death, then I fucking deserve death.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My pack doesn’t argue with me much longer before they capitulate to my wishes.
There’s a part of me that thinks they only let the subject go because of how tired I must look. I guess it’s hard to argue with someone whose eyes are closing and who can’t stop yawning.
I can’t remember the last time I slept. If I count the hours since coming to the Underworld, it could be as many as thirty-six, although the passage of time here is very difficult to measure.
Halle ushers Orlan and the hellhound out with a promise to bring food, since hunting in this place seems fraught. Not to mention, wildlife seems scarce. A fact I quickly ascertain with a brief expansion of my senses.
She promises that Orlan will come back, since he will have to transport me to Mount Greylock, but it seems my pack doesn’t quite trust her because the three dark elf brothers casually declare that they’re going with Halle and Orlan “to help with the food.”
The fire is warm and the rug beside the keeper is soft. I barely keep my eyes open while Anarchy relocates herself to sit next toLucian on the other side of the fire, and Jonah announces that he’ll find water.
An hour later, I’ve eaten, hydrated with as much water as I could drink, and settled down on the fur with my pack standing guard.
Five hours after that, I wake to a quiet I wasn’t expecting, finding myself alone inside the longhouse.
I’m tucked in next to the keeper, a fur around both of us.
With a start, I listen for his breathing, my hand darting out beneath the fur to press against his chest.
I exhale my relief when I register his steady breathing.
Thank the dark saints.
The gash above his eye looks like it might be healing. The cut on his cheek has faded. But when I check his chest, the wounds there are still disappointingly deep, even if the blood has stopped flowing.
I make out Anarchy’s quiet voice outside the longhouse, along with Lucian’s and Jonah’s. They’re talking about a time long past. Or, rather, Anarchy and Jonah are. Lucian seems to be mostly listening.
I don’t want to leave the keeper, but I force myself to rise, reaching under my coat—which I somehow slept in—to tear a strip off the hem of the gauzy dress.
I will need to protect my eyes if it’s daytime on Mount Greylock. It will also help with the brightness of the snow immediately outside the longhouse.
Pausing at the door, I consider the wall of weapons that sits on the left of it.
There are blades of all kinds, each one appearing sharp and well-maintained, along with multiple bows and several quivers of arrows.
But above them all is a war hammer with a block-shaped head carved with runes.
