Rithy waves a hand. “You wear one every day. Just make it worse.”
“Worse?”
He pushes past me, rummaging through my things like he lives here. “More eyeliner. Smudge it down your cheeks. Here—” He grabs my face, eyeliner in hand, dragging it under my eyes. “There. Hot clown territory.”
I laugh. “That a compliment?”
“Only if you make it sadder. Which you’re great at these days.” He studies me for a second, and the humor fades. “It’s good you’re going. Better than staring at the walls.”
I want to argue, but I don’t. He’s right. I dig through a pile of old tour clothes and find the leather waistcoat from theGlass Mythrun, a white dress shirt rolled to the elbows, too many rings, too many bracelets. The old pocket watch from my grandfather, Dad’s gift, the one I only wear when I need grounding, hangs heavy at my chest.
Rithy tilts his head. “Now you’re a hotexecutiveclown.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, the sound cracking on its way out. “Perfect. That's exactly what I was going for.”
The mansion’s already vibrating when we arrive, music pounding through the glass, bass rattling the marble. Bodies everywhere: costumes, glitter, smoke machines. The label execs really outdid themselves. There’s a pool full of people dancing and at least one couple is definitely fucking under the surface.
“Probably got ahold of that dodgy Molly he always passes around,” Ronan mutters, nodding toward some guy laughing at nothing.
I huff a laugh and reach for my phone out of habit. The first instinct is to take a picture, show her the chaos, make her laugh, but I shove it back into my pocket instead. That’s when I see them. Six Valkyries sweeping up the stairs, feathers, armor, glittering wings. The girls from Råvind. And someone else I recognize but can’t place.
Ronan’s grin explodes when he spots Freja. “You look fucking ridiculous,” he says. “That’s it, we’re leaving. Get your wings, we’re done.”
She smacks him and laughs, already pulling him in for a kiss.
I can’t help teasing. “So which Valkyries are you all supposed to be? I'm a little familiar with the mythology, sort of my thing.”
Freja salutes me with her drink. “Skuld,” she declares. “The future.”
Signe chimes in, “Brynhildr, obviously. Shieldmaiden.”
Mina grins. “Eir. The healer.”
Liv’s sipping a cocktail, glitter in her hair. “Mist. The gentle one.”
Ingrid smirks. “Gondul. She decides who lives or dies.”
The last girl hesitates and it makes me narrow my eyes on her.
“Mara,” Freja says, nudging her. “She came up with the idea. Bit shy, but she loves this stuff. Go on, tell them who you chose.”
That’s where I recognize her, the girl in the ponytail who was setting up the piano, the shy one who ran into me with the cables.
Mara tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I picked Kara,” she says softly. “She’s my favorite. The Valkyrie who carries souls with song. I like the idea of music saving people.”
She laughs, embarrassed. “It reminds me of a lot ofRiven’sstuff, the mythic feel, like it’s written for gods that might still be listening. I love when myths blend with music.”
“At least someone else appreciates it, Ronan just thinks I'm being dramatic.” I say. He smirks, I huff a laugh and the girls give a collective giggle. But Mara, she just looks right at me.
She smiles, shy but bright. “I do.Appreciateit.”
We talk awhile. She’s smart, funny, easier to be around than I expected. She plays acoustic, writes her own stuff. Says she loves that I put Greek imagery in rock. I tell her it’s just a habit, the only gods thatever listened were the broken ones. She laughs at that, a tender laugh that feels too close to something I’m not ready for.
Then she touches my arm. Just lightly, and I flinch. The reaction is instant, like touching fire. My stomach twists. All I see is Kasia. Her fingers on my wrist, her laugh. The way she looked at me the night she finally let me in, how she felt, the sounds she made under me, above me. I clear my throat, mumble something about needing air, and slip out before anyone can stop me.
The Uber is coated in a film of cheap tequila and regret. I pick up a bottle of vodka on the way back, the good kind, one that burns on the way down. I know she'd approve and that'll make it sting more. I want it,the pain.Anything to distract from the gnawing fucking ache. The driver keeps talking about L.A. traffic. I nod at the right times.
In the hotel, I take the bottle to the balcony and sit on the cold concrete, city lights stretching out below me. The noise from the party still clings to my skin, but it’s fading.
