Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Aric doesn’t respond. His eyes flick briefly to the lake as we pass. It’s turbulent, slapping against the shore. The sky is clear, no wind. The violence in it doesn’t make sense.
“How many feasts are we having?” I mumble, mostly to myself.
Reeve rubs his hands together. “Thought you’d never ask. The Hunt happens in three diabolical stages. Phase one—” He points to the middle of the field. “Behold, drink and be merry.” He holds up two fingers. “Two is usually when you have a significant other who’s agreed to go with you.”
Reeve turns a judgmental stare my way.
“Assuming they don’t dump you before the big event, you sit together and feed each other. Showing true trust in food is directly related to trust for the actual Hunt, which is phase three. This is basically your excuse to run through the forest. There are games set up on different trails, but the only part that’s mandatory is that whatever trail or adventure you stumble upon, you have to finish and cross the creek that feeds the lake at the end. The water is the final ceremonial cleansing of your sins in front of the Gods and everyone. Afterward, we end up back where we started for the bonfires and fireworks to officially kick off the school year—and, of course, to feast!”
I snort. “And here I thought it was just a myth about Odin releasing ravens.”
“It’s that, too,” Aric says quickly. “You know Sigurd. He likes to honor old traditions and mix in the new.”
At least a hundred students mill about, all in elaborate masks and costumes. The air feels thick, charged, like the entire campus knows what’s coming.
I spot a group outside the student union holding torches, thrusting them high as if summoning something. The flames illuminate carved masks, the distorted faces of wolves, stags, and ravens everyone seems to be wearing.
“The professors,” Reeve says casually. “Tradition.”
Tradition. They love that word around here.
And I’m a bit surprised Endir’s professors are shouting around a fire.
“We aren’t actually hunting anything, right?” I ask. “It’s just a party? A play on words?”
“Spirits. Ghosts. Trolls. And men who deserve worse,” Aric answers. “At least that’s what the Hunt used to be about. Right, Reeve?”
Reeve snaps to attention. “Yes, its original intent was exactly that.”
The tension among the three of us is suffocating.
Ziva elbows me. “You okay?”
I let out a rough exhale. “Fine.”
She raises her hand to pat me on the shoulder, then thinks twice about it. “Too pointy.”
“Cool, right?”
Eira lets out a snort. “When do we get to party?”
“After the ceremony,” Reeve says. “And after all the alumni and parents have arrived.” He turns to face us and starts walking backward. “Everyone needs to relax. Think of it as a game. A race through the forest. Get to the other side, and you win. Get caught, you pay a price.” He smirks. “Has anyone ever even looked up Odin’s Wild Hunt?”
Odin. He was a good hunter.
And then he trained me to be better.
I open my mouth. “Odin would lead the charge into the forests with his ravens chasing after spirits. Most humans disappeared or didn’t survive the night.”
“Survival is always key,” Aric adds.
The crowd goes silent around us when we arrive. At first I think it’s because we’re dressed so extravagantly, but they’re looking behind us, awe on their faces.
When I turn, I no longer have to wonder about what’s captured their attention, because Odinfather has arrived.
And he looks every inch the God he is.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Rey
The whispers grow louder, and I know why. Father rarely attends events unless he’s the one hosting. He’s notorious for being secretive. I might be sick before the night ends.
Odin is in tall, polished boots that glint like obsidian, a tailored black suit that drapes like heavy armor, and a thick gold chain worked with runes across the front. His coat falls to his calves. It’s lined with fur, blood still splattered on parts of it, and I just know—he hunted down his own costume on purpose as a taunt to Sigurd himself. The runes may be turned off tonight, but even if they weren’t, they couldn’t hold Odin.
Every inch of him screams power. His hair is slicked back, and from his white beard dangle several intricate silver beads. One stands out among the rest, right in the middle, holding the lower part of his braided beard together.
A silver Mjölnir replica.
He’s dressed like the type of man who could whisper into the void and it would come across like a scream.
Mafia.
Norse God.
Predator.
And my father.
“Old friend.” Sigurd’s voice resonates as he steps out of the crowd to greet my father. People divide like the Red freaking Sea as Sigurd walks.
He’s wearing the head of an elk. Its skull is massive, the antlers stretching wide enough that they scrape against the tops of his shoulders and threaten to hook the torches lining the pathway from the parking lot to the field. Hollow sockets leer above his own eyes, the bone bleached and cracked with age. Every ridge is etched with runes that seem to pulse faintly in the torchlight.