He’s… my man.
My Jotnar.
“Ari… please…”
CHAPTER 78
I’m falling. A second ago, I was sprinting.
How could this happen? How is this possible?
The ground crashes into me. That’s how it feels. My elbow is dragged along the gravel. I roll and turn. Looking at what used to be my house.
Ari’s scream tears through the wooden walls. I’ve heard his naked laugh, his secretive whisper, his moans of pleasure. But this… this is something else.
My eyes widen as he pushes through the doorway, shoulder splintering half of it. He pauses. His eyes look in my direction, but they don’t meet mine. They are empty. Hollow shells that no longer contain my Ari.
He folds forward, scratching at his legs. I scramble backward on my back. Ragged bursts of frosty breath escape his twisted mouth. Every part of my body shakes in terror.
“A… Ari?” I call out, my voice breaking.
His spine arches. It snaps. The sickening sound echoes in my ears. One of his shoulders juts out, stretching into an unnatural angle. His leather rips. The other shoulder follows.
“No… but… please, Freya…” I whisper.
I know my plea is pointless.
Ari’s skin pales. Not human-pale. Pale as frost.
Blue-white. Like moonlit glaciers. Cracks spider across his arms. Not wounds but veins of ice pushing outward, crawling beneath his skin. Like lightning.
He lifts his head. His eyes glow white from within, staring in my direction but right through me.
“Ari!” I call out, desperately hoping he will recognize me.
His jaw distends, stretching downwards. Sickly cracks ring out as his bones fracture. I scramble to my feet. I have to fucking run.
He unleashes an unholy sound—a high-pitched screech blended with a deep rumbling, a mountain collapsing. Metal on metal. It’s like the stories of dead warriors who never made it to Valhalla or Folkvangr. Maybe Ari is a draugr. Undead.
He grows. Bones lengthen. Joints snap. Flesh seems to harden before stretching again like wet cloth. He’s huge. His fingers thicken, reshaping into brutal frost-chiseled daggers ready to tear at flesh.
Ari turns his head suddenly. Neck bones cracking in a gruesome cacophony. He looks to Sigurd’s hall. A howl escapes his lips as his legs snap and he falls forward. They squirm, like waves are crashing within. They grow in an instant. Ripping his pants.
He raises himself, naked. His form is unnatural, shocking. Between his legs is not the normal shape of a man. Just rugged flesh, carved from stone and ice. No sex. No softness. No Ari.
A towering giant. Bigger than Asbjorn. Bigger than Vidar. His muscles still grow. Bulbous and horrendous. A monster. A troll. A… a Jotnar.
Ari steps forward, shaking the ground with each monstrous stride.
I follow him, keeping a safe distance. Or… I don’t know how fast he can move if he wants. Frost slithers beneath his feet, leaving grass blackened and dead. Killing it. I know I’m in mortal danger. Everyone is. But I’m not leaving him here. Not like this. He stops, shaking his head in his hands. Maybe Ari is in there, battling for control of his own body.
He roars at the moon, or at the world, or at the gods. Then he runs. Sprints. Full speed. Faster than I could imagine. I gasp as I realize what he’s doing. He doesn’t stop, crashing into the wall of the longhouse. The wood shakes. The world shakes. I thought he would break through, but he stumbles and lies at the bottom of the wall. He claws at the wooden planks, leaving grooves with his enormous fingers.
Like he wants something in there… Like he…
It dawns on me. Of course!
The hammer! Sigurd said a southern queen had given him the ringandthe hammer. It must be connected. The hammer’s magic is starving—it yearns for its other half. It was the ring all along. But one thing was missing. Ari’s Jotnar blood. The final ingredient.
