by Bec McMaster
He'd never seen her like this before, and it made his cock harden.
"She hasn't killed me yet," Haakon pointed out, his voice rasping from the pain. There'd been no more blood, but his chest still ached, and breathing was hard.
The wrong thing to say.
She spun on him, her amber eyes alight with fury. "That is not the point! She could! She could steal you away in the night, before I even knew she was there. She could burn your spirit to cold ash, and there would be nothing I could do about it. I would wake to a cold empty body beside me, and—"
The sound she made almost choked him.
"Árja!" He managed to stand and grabbed her wrists, and she pulled against him, as though she needed to lash out at something. Blankets fell away from him, except for the one he held around his waist with one hand. Anguish stole away some of her fierceness, and he realized how frightened she was. Crushing her against his chest, he cupped his hand over the base of her skull, and forced her into his arms. "Árja, just breathe. Listen to my heart. Calm yourself. She's not going to kill me." He didn't know why, but he was certain of the fact. "Or she would have done so already."
If the queen had managed to curl her hand around his heart from such a distance, then she could have done it at any stage of the dream. No, this hadn't been intended to kill him. Not truly. This had been a warning.
A flex of power.
I can kill him whenever I want to, if you don't obey me.
If she killed him, then Árdís had no reason to return.
But the threat of it?
"You nearly threw yourself overboard," Árdís sobbed. "I almost slept through it."
"You always were a sound sleeper." Haakon pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
This fear of hers was overwhelming. But he finally understood it.
Words couldn't offer the full extent of the danger. Neither Árdís's, nor Marek's. He'd held hope after his visit with Marek—the queen wasn't physically strong enough to stand against any challenges, and relied on her brother, Stellan, to protect her thusly, so it had seemed simple.
Remove Stellan, and the queen suddenly had a weakness.
But whatever she'd done to him in that dream, from hundreds of miles away, proved she was in no way weak. He breathed in the scent of Árdís's hair, a mixture of his fragrant soap and her, and suddenly realized he had no way to counteract the queen's power. Her magic.
Magic was something he didn't understand.
But Árdís did.
"I don't want to lose you," she choked out, her fingers splaying over his chest. "I can't lose you. I can't."
"You won't lose me," he promised. "You will never lose me, or what we share. No matter what your mother can throw at us. I refuse to let her tear us apart."
"I hate this," she moaned, her fingernails leaving little white half-moons in his forearms. "I hate feeling so powerless."
"You're not powerless." He stroked her spine. "You're a survivor. And you have me at your side, always and forever. I promise you this: I will be there at your side, until you have no more need of me. I will guard your back, and protect you from anything your mother can throw at you. I will fight at your side, if you will it. And if you're too frightened to fight for me, then I shall fight for you. I will love you—"
A scalded sound broke from her mouth.
"—no matter whether you dare love me back. We were written in the stars. I knew it the first moment I laid eyes upon you. Fight for that, Árja. Fight for us."
She buried her face in his chest again, breathing hard.
These were the moments he cherished.
To be in her bed was glorious, but to hold her in his arms.... He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the warmth of her body steal through his aching muscles. The pressure in his chest eased, and he almost fancied he could feel something fluttering against his mind, gentle fingers trying to push their way in. Árdís. Her magic trying to meld with him.
"I love you," he whispered again. "I will always love you. And I know now you love me. Nothing is more powerful than that. Nothing."
Her fingers gave a little twitch against his chest, but she didn't say the words and he didn't push for them.
He didn't need to.
Not anymore.
Árdís looked up, her eyes glittering strangely. "You're right," she whispered, and suddenly it was the fierce dreki princess before him, and not merely his wife. "I'm not powerless. I'm not defenseless. Not anymore. And I am done with running from her and letting her take away the things I hold dear."
Yes.
Slowly, she drew back from him, her shoulders squaring. "If my mother wants to fight, then she has underestimated me. You are mine, Haakon Haraldsson, and I will fight anyone who dares try to take you from me."
Outside a spear of lightning slashed through the skies, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was the surge of her mouth crashing over his, and her fists curling in the blanket around his waist as she nudged him toward the bed.
His cock surged into her hands, and then his back hit the mattress as Árdís climbed onto his lap. Her amber eyes flared, and he found himself staring directly at the dreki within her.
His dreki.
"Mine," she hissed, not entirely human in that moment. And then she captured his mouth, her tongue pressing insistently against his, and Haakon decided not to argue.
Dreki or not, she didn't scare him.
He'd have preferred to stay in bed with his sated wife curled in his arms, but Árdís had other ideas. Slipping into her gown, she paced out onto the deck and he had no choice but to follow.
The skies had stilled into darkness, the wind and clouds long gone as if they'd never been. Unusual. The weather here in the Arctic was always unpredictable, but changes didn't happen this swiftly.
You are traveling with a dreki.
One whose command of the elements was leashed.
Haakon frowned. Manacled or not, her dreki rode just below the surface of her mortal skin. He could still feel the bite of her nails in his shoulders and back, and she'd been somewhat territorial in her affections. Not that he was complaining, but her dreki seemed to be chafing at the manacle's hold tonight.
A landscape of color caught his eye. A flicker of green on the horizon.
Haakon leaned on the rail as soft green light fused with the horizon. Hints of pink streaked through the colors, and he half imagined he could see the spirits of Árdís's ancestors. His breath caught, and though holding Árdís had seemed to heal him, the muscles surrounding his lungs clenched a little. He barely felt it. Wonder filled him. "The Bifrost Bridge," Haakon murmured, tilting his face back to stare up at the sky.
Or so his mother had always told him.
But tonight was different. He'd seen the lights many a time, but never like this. This was no Valhalla, but soaring shapes flickering on the horizon, as if something lured dreki spirits back into the mortal world.
"Árdís," he whispered, "what are you doing?"
Árdís stared up at the aurora borealis, her shawl draped over her shoulders and a faint green light shining in her pupils. The weight of portent chilled his skin. The very air felt thick and heavy to breathe, and he felt, for a moment, as though she was so very far away.
And that he should not interrupt her.
Lifting her palms up, Árdís let the shawl fall, her hands shaking minutely. Wisps of green light began to illuminate her pale skin, and writhe over her limbs.
Chaos magic.
Haakon swallowed hard, forcing his hand not to reach for her. The last time she'd manipulated the dangerous magic, she'd been comatose for hours.
But what would happen if he interrupted her?
"Haakon?" Tormund breathed, but he held a hand up and shook his head.
All along the rail, men lifted their faces to the sky, eyes widening.
He saw wings gliding through the aurora, as if a flight of dreki rode the horizon, calling to her. Ethereal. Unearthly. The sort of thing a man would remember
for the rest of his life.
Árdís began to glow.
Her magic fused into a monstrous shape, wings spanning out of her back, and then forming distinctly in the air above her. A dreki of pure spirit form, similar to what she'd conjured last time, but not as furious, or weighted. This was far more insubstantial, like a ghost.
"Árja?"
The shimmering dreki spirit hissed at him, but subsided when he glared at it.
Haakon's hands closed over her shoulders. "Árja, be careful. Don't overstretch yourself."
Her lashes fluttered open, and the unearthly green depths of her eyes blinked up at him, as if slowly coming into focus. He'd never before seen that look upon her face; a mixture of violence, barely suppressed; a fierceness he'd only ever encountered the day his little sister, Margit, stumbled across a bear, and his mother, still frail from the birth of little Arne, picked up a stick and faced it down. That expression said: I will die before I let you take what is mine, but it wasn't aimed at him.
"You were right," she whispered. "She uses my fear as a trap. It's time I was free of it."
She was glorious, and wild, and fierce.
A creature he could barely fit within the framework of his reference to the wife he'd once loved.
She was both utterly fascinating and terrifying, for this was not the woman he held before him in this moment, but the dreki princess in all her glory.
His dreki princess.
"Begone," she whispered, and the ethereal dreki soared above her head, and then swept into the night sky, racing counterpoint to the aurora. It fled south, ethereal wings trailing streamers of light.
Árdís shuddered, as if the effort had cost her.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, taking her chin and checking to see if her nose was bleeding again.
"Sending my mother a message. And I'm fine. It was easier this time. It seems I need a strong enough motive to be able to wield my Chaos magic, and my mother provided it." Árdís tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her shaking hand belying the words. "You were right. I cannot run. I cannot hide you, not now, when she knows who you are and what you mean to me."
The blood in his veins ran cold. "What message?"
Árdís's head turned unerringly toward the south and the soaring dreki wraith that fled across the velvet skies, and this time, her expression was like nothing he'd ever seen, nothing human, anyway. "I told her if she comes for you, if she tries to harm you in any way, then she will face me. And I will do my best to kill her."
This was what he'd wanted, but those damned protective urges rose. Haakon forced them down. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"
"I have challenged my mother for your life." Árdís's smile was chilling. "I have decided it's time I stopped letting her—and fear—rule my choices. This time, I am the one who makes the decisions. And I choose you."
He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. Words he'd longed to hear. "I'm glad. But next time, is there any chance we could discuss our moves before making them? I'm trying to let you do this, but it would be easier on my nerves if you forewarned me."
Árdís's smile softened. "Poor mortal man," she purred. "Have you only just learned what you're in for?"
Haakon's eyes narrowed. He'd wanted the dreki princess, after all. "I am more than well equipped to handle you if you prove unruly."
"Oh?" Árdís trailed her fingertips down his hip, her eyes promising a thousand pleasures.
"Don't make me throw you over my shoulder again," he whispered, and slid his hand into hers, to drag her back to their cabin.
Chapter 20
Amadea came awake with a hiss, her heart racing in her dreki chest.
For a second she thought she saw a ghost, but it was only a fragment of the dream lingering; a promise of doom unfolding with sweet, whispered malice. As she lifted her enormous head, surveying the Chaos bubble that held her innermost realm, she could see nothing, and yet the echoes of pure Chaos magic lingered like a sulfurous stink.
She'd heard Árdís's voice, ringing in her dream like a bell.
And she'd felt the girl's raw, unrestrained magic slam through her, burning a warning into her skin.
Chaos magic.
Her daughter had somehow learned to master the art of Chaos.
Forcing magic through her veins, Amadea transformed into her mortal shape, and stared at the white burn mark on her arm. A small print shaped like dreki claws.
A violent quiver went through her.
"Be careful what you wrought, my child," her grandmother, the mighty seer of the Zilittu clan that had birthed her, had once said. "You dabble with Fate and she is capricious. For your downfall will be a gift you spawn yourself. Your own blood will be the blade that ends your immortal life."
She'd thought all along it would be Rurik, the golden prince who looked far too much like his father.
Conjuring clothes out of Chaos, Amadea gowned herself in bloodred leather and strode toward the portal that led from her Chaos bubble to the court. Fear churned within her, but she did not dare show it.
The corridors were dark with fire flickering in the torches that lined them, though there was no sign of any of her dreki. They didn't stroll the court as they used to when her husband was alive.
Amadea finally arrived at the golden doors that led into the Hall of Mirrors. She could feel her brother within, his soul bonded to hers in the womb in a way few understood. He was the only one she could trust, and she needed him now to quell her fears. Amadea slammed her hands against the double doors, forcing them wide, and startling two of the three dreki within.
Stellan was already looking toward the doors when she entered, as if he'd felt her coming.
"What is it?" he asked sharply.
Mirrors lined the walls, images of the world outside flickering in them. Stellan pushed away from one of the mirrors, his eyes narrowing when he saw her warrior garb.
Amadea hissed at the pair of dreki warriors who guarded her brother. "Out."
The pair of them bolted, but she waited until the doors closed.
"What is it?" Stellan asked again.
"You've found nothing?"
The mirrors weren't foolproof, but her brother's elemental weavings of Fire were powerful enough to manipulate the images they showed. "No sign of her," he replied. "I swear I've scoured every blasted volcano on this rotten island. Every wave surrounding it. Every inch of every town or hovel. Something's shielding her from my view."
"She was on a ship. Norway. She has to be heading to Norway."
"Let's not make that assumption. She's played games before."
Amadea bared her teeth, her heart rabbiting in her chest as she paced. "She's got to be out there somewhere."
"Of course. We'll find her, Dea. She cannot simply vanish, and my sons are searching for her as we speak." His tone softened. "I told you it's not something to worry about. It wouldn't be the first time Árdís has disappeared, but she will be brought back again, and this time we can remind her of her place in the world. Word has been contained. None of the court knows what has happened, outside of those loyal to us. They still believe she's pouting within her Chaos bubble. We just need to manage the situation a few more days, and when she's back, she will mate with one of my sons and we can stabilize the power structure here at court. There's nothing to worry about."
Amadea rolled up her sleeve, revealing the stark burn scar on her arm. "Isn't there?"
His dark eyes sharpened, and he captured her hand, turning her wrist to view the burn.
Their eyes met.
"It seems my daughter has been keeping secrets," she snapped, tugging her sleeve back down. Nobody else could know. "If she learns to master Chaos magic then she's no longer a pawn, Stellan. She's a threat."
"She's never revealed a hint of it before."
Amadea turned away, wrapping her arms around her as she sought a soothing view in one of the mirrors. Each mirror had been spelled to reflect the skies outside, for there were no windo
ws in Hekla, and this one showed the smoking caldera that surrounded Krafla, the volcano that housed her exiled son, Rurik.
"I shouldn't be surprised," she admitted. "Our grandmother had the gift, and so do I. It runs in the matriarchal line."
Stellan's hands came to rest upon her shoulders, and he squeezed. "Chaos magic or not, the girl's untrained."
"So was I." A whisper, torn from her throat. She rested her fingers upon his, clinging to that small touch. "And I can still see the look on Grandmother's face when I killed her."
"You were protecting me. You had more to fight for than she did. And now you have both skill and cause."
"Your own blood will be the blade that ends your immortal life." Amadea pushed away from him. "Grandmother laughed at me before I took her life, because she could see my future. This future. Why should I not be worried?"
Stellan's eyes hooded, and he moved to pour them both wine. "We of the Zillittu make our own fate."
"Do we?" She pitched her voice lower again. "Three children you will bear. The blood of their father will stain your hands. We thought we would make our own fate and take our own court, but everything Grandmother ever predicted came true."
"Not exactly. There were four children."
She pressed her hands to her womb, the image of that Chaos-blighted abomination forever etched into her memory. "That thing was a monster. An abomination. And you took care of it, didn't you?" His expression shifted minutely. "Didn't you?"
Stellan came to her, capturing her arms and rubbing his palms down them. "I took care of it. I will always take care of you. We are one, Dea. First and foremost."
Twin souls, who could never be torn apart by their loyalties to mere mates... or children.
A psychic thought caught their attention; one of the dreki guards requesting entrance. Amadea snarled, but Stellan shook his head.
"He wouldn't dare interrupt," he pointed out. "Not unless it was important."
True. Amadea snatched her wineglass up and curled into her golden throne, glaring at the door. "Enter."
