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)
I shake the thoughts away, looking at myself in the mirror. “Chill, Rey, just chill.”
I leave the bathroom and stop at the paintings again.
“It really would be nice, though,” I repeat to myself. “If love stories like that were real.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Rey
When I get down to the lake, a game of beer pong is in full swing, distracting me from my usual fear of open water. I laugh when I realize Reeve has teamed up with Eira, then am floored to see their opponents are none other than Aric and Rowen.
Days ago, I would have used this as an opportunity to search the enemy camp without supervision—but days ago, I didn’t have a partner in crime. I’m finding that maybe I don’t like working alone as much as I thought—plus, it’s nice, having someone on your team for once, however short-lived it may be.
“Unlikely alliances,” I joke as I sidle up next to Aric.
“Just setting our alibis, like you said,” he murmurs. “As soon as I mop the floor with them, we’ll go get that rune.”
“Reyyyyyyy!” Eira slurs. “Come play with meeeee!” Oh Gods. Looks like she’s been losing.
“Care to sub in?” Reeve asks me. “Don’t worry, Stjerne. Appearances aren’t what they seem. I might look lazy at times, but I never lose.”
His eyes lock on mine as if daring me to call him on it. Then, with zero effort, he tosses the ball. Perfect arc. Perfect drop. Right into their cup.
Okay. Game on.
It takes a few throws before I’m realizing this is actually…fun. Rowen and Aric make an unsettlingly good team. Reeve and I trash-talk them all the way to the last cup. His shot.
“Focus!” I smack him on the chest. “Don’t let down the team!”
He rubs his chest like I actually hurt him. “Stop hitting me and I will!”
Then he turns around, throws the ball sloppily over his head…and it lands with a satisfying plop.
The crowd explodes.
“Victory!” Reeve bellows. And I must admit, this feels pretty great as we high-five.
“Good game,” I murmur as I shake Aric’s hand. Any moment now, we’ll be able to slip away as the next game draws an audience.
But Reeve seems to have other plans. His eyes gleam as he raises his arms, commanding attention. “Before we continue!” People start chattering around us. “It is time to honor an old Endir tradition. Helmet!”
Chants ripple through the crowd until it’s an unsettling roar. The lightness that had bubbled into my chest during the game is gone.
Helmet!
Helmet!
Helmet!
Someone emerges from the house with it: a massive, blackened helmet. It takes two people to carry—how heavy is that thing? It’s streaked with blue paint and battle scars, dented like it’s seen multiple wars and lived to tell the stories. The thing radiates wrongness. The closer it gets, the tighter my chest feels until it hurts to breathe.
The air is permeated with the smell of incense and blood mixed tightly together. The rumbling timbre of Aric’s voice carries from his spot next to Rowen. I can’t decipher what he’s saying, but I feel each word like a hammer against my chest.
No, not a hammer.
A drum.
A war cry.
Reeve hoists it high into the air, voice booming like a priest at some ancient ceremony. “Every new student honors the fallen Gods and Giants. Tonight we welcome Rey Stjerne to do the honors by drinking of Ymir’s helmet.” He leans down and shakes his head. “Don’t worry—it’s not really Ymir’s helmet. Just some relic dug up in Asia a few hundred years ago. Dude must have been massive, but let us keep our Endir folklore.”
He lifts his arms to the crowd once more while I’m having an internal meltdown just hearing him reference Ymir’s name. Sigurd would impale him with his sword before letting drunk college students drink from his helmet. “Let’s hear it!”
Cheers. Stomping. The ground vibrates under my feet.
My laugh is too sharp. “This kind of feels like hazing.”
“No,” Reeve purrs, eyes catching the firelight as he shouts. “It’s Endir tradition.”
I suddenly feel Aric behind me. “Just another ancestral thing from Sigurd. Add it to the list.”
I elbow him. “Dug up in Asia, huh? How sanitary is this thing?”
He laughs, and it wraps around me like a warm hug I don’t deserve. Genuine. Gods help me, it’s beautiful.
Dark hair falling in uneven waves, mahogany eyes sparking even in the shadows, that strong, stubborn jaw catching the glow of the patio lights—he’s all sharp edges and impossible perfection, carved from something too ancient and too dangerous to ever belong here, to ever stay hidden or contained.
The crowd pushes me forward, pulling me from my haze. My hands close on the helmet’s cold edges, and sorrow punches into my chest so hard I stagger. Justice. Rage. Loss. It’s screaming. Can’t they hear it?
Aric leans close, whisper warm against my ear. “Skål, little Valkyrie.”