I blink at him. What the nasty man doesn’t know is that unlike my sisters or other witches, I don’t need to vocalize to hurt him. I’ll save that surprise for later. For now . . . sprites?
Yes, very nasty creatures. Confounding spells are their favorite.
My eyes widen. Ahhh. I’ve been hit with a confounding spell, that’s why I’m not scared. And why I can’t focus. Mr. Prissy Pants is still looking at me, lip curled. Then I remember he asked me a question. I nod agreeably, even though I’m not in the least agreeable.
The tape comes off with a ripping noise, stinging my lips, but I don’t mind. I just have one burning question. “Who the hell are you?”
His lip curls. “Trust a witch not to recognize her betters. Cyril Mikhailov, Ninth in line to the bruin throne. Duke of—”
“Has the royalty around here always gone in for kidnapping witches, or is it just a recent fad?”
His lips press together. “I’ve no interest in you, believe me. You’re just the bait.”
“Bait?” I frown at this. I’m not a worm. No early bird for Mr. Prissy Pants.
His sneer pulls me back from la-la land. “Don’t you have any idea who your boyfriend is, little witch?”
“A total fucking badass who’s going to tear you apart?” I guess with a grin. I try to clap my hands at my own cleverness, but the chains rattle ominously and yank at my shoulders.
He smiles thinly, but there is no amusement in those dark eyes. “He’s Fenrir, you stupid cunt. And I’m going to catch him.”
Despite the spell, my breath turns to ice in my throat and I go very still. He waves a bit of glowing rope under my nose. “I’m ready. The Firebird King himself gave these to me—the legendary Fetters of Fenrir—for services rendered in getting your sister back to him.” He grins.
I frown. “But Ana got away.”
“Well, yes, she did.” His smile slips a little. “Thankfully, that wasn’t my fault and the prince is a generous man.”
Sure, he is. I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes.
This is awkward. Because those aren’t the real Fetters. The real Fetters are currently in a chest in Ana’s room, where Tyr moved them one night for safekeeping, hoping Mother’s wards would act in much the same way as the Firebird Prince’s magic, hiding their presence from anyone looking for them. Like, say, the gods.
I wasn’t supposed to overhear, but such is the risk you run when you leave a door ajar in our house.
Obviously, for reasons of his own, the Firebird Prince—excuse me, Firebird King—lied to the nasty bruin man, probably hoping to get him killed trying to trap some legendary monster. My sprite-addled brain is trying to remember the name.
Oh yeah.
Fenrir.
The legendary monster who’s supposed to be responsible for the end of the gods, Asgaard, the nine realms and everything? The one who causes Ragnarok. Basically, the Norse version of the apocalypse.
This guy thinks my Styx is Fenrir. That’s hilarious.
I want to giggle, but even with the confounding spell making me loopy I can’t quite dismiss it. Can I?
The duke continues, oblivious to my internal debate. “Not that I told His Majesty why I wanted the Fetters, of course. Purely an academic study. He warned me Odin might sense them once they left the palace, but the All-Father won’t care once I present him with your boyfriend as a prize.” His eyes gleam and this time I recognize the expression. Greed.
Fenrir is described in all kinds of vague ways. Yes, it’s normally accepted that he’s wolflike or something similar, but he’s also said to be unspeakably monstrous, a creature unlike any other.
He eats souls, kind of like witches do, the only other creature I’ve heard of that does. I always found that curious. Of course, Fenrir eats souls to send them to the underworld . . . mostly. Legend has it Fenrir has an insatiable appetite. That’s how the world is supposed to end, actually. He eats it.
I think of what Seph told me, about the one time she saw Styx shift. It gave me nightmares. Still does.
But Fenrir?
He used to give me nightmares, the one tale that always scared me as a kid. Like Seph, I wasn’t easily spooked, but Fenrir is like the monster under the bed, FTC-style. I still remember Jett and Ana scaring each other with stories about him when they were supposed to be sleeping when I was tiny. All you see before he eats you are these great glowing eyes.
I shudder once, then shake my head firmly.
No. My Styx is not Fenrir. Mr. Prissy Pants here is a knucklehead.
I look up, ready to tell him so, only to see him reach into his coat and pull out a knife.
8
I trail her to the service elevators and out to the back dock of the hotel. There the scent trail vanishes.
Thankfully, I don’t have to rely on my nose alone. Despite my efforts to maintain some distance, the bond between Carly and I has grown stronger every day. Crouched on my heels, I simply close my eyes and reach for her soul. It’s much easier than when I found her in the ice cave months ago. Like a lighthouse peeking through the storm of life around me, I see it, pulsating in and out.
I try to make sense of what I’m feeling from her, my brows furrowing. She’s scared, but also not. I catch an odd mixture of bemusement, shock . . . and pain.
My eyes fly open. Across the way, a driver getting out of his truck gives me a friendly smile that falls off his face the instant his gaze meets mine. He stops in his tracks, then spins around to scramble back up into the cab. A moment later, brakes squeal as he peels out of the loading area.
I leap off the dock, smelling burned rubber and fear, landing lightly on the balls of my feet. The beast inside me wants to break free, but I slap him down. For now.
She’s well outside of town but not far. An hour, maybe less.
Once I’m closer, I’ll unchain the beast. My lips pull back in a snarl that isn’t entirely my own. It’s been a long time since I’ve killed firsthand and suddenly I’m ravenous.
Cloaked in a swarm of shadows, I move through the morning-bright city, barely noticing the people flowing away to my right and left, like a river of life parting for a dark ship of death.
In this moment, that is exactly what I am.
Death.
Because it doesn’t matter why they took her. It doesn’t matter what they want. The only thing that matters is they touched her. They hurt her. For that, there can be only one sentence.
A cold smile twists my lips as I leave Odda behind. For the first time in millennia, I shake off my human form entirely and embrace my true essence. There is no Styx. There is no beast.
There is only one.
The blade winks at me as the bruin duke draws closer, his gaze flat. I know I can defend myself if I have to, but my stomach knots in an old, familiar fear.
I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to do it, Mama!
Words I never spoke out loud but were trapped in my head for far too long.
Years ago, when I was very small, not long after my mother scattered me and my sisters through the ages, someone broke into my adopted mother’s house in Laurel Canyon. I don’t know when or where my real mother and Georgia became friends or how she became convinced to take me in, but Gee was a good woman. She was a trifle absentminded, not one to cuddle or read stories to an already-introverted six-year-old. She was kind, though. Beautiful and voluptuous in that pin-up way that was so popular at the time. The men who broke in sure thought so.
There were three of them when I came downstairs, rubbing my eyes at one o’clock in the morning. Gee liked to party, but she usually tried to keep the noise down. And I thought I’d heard screaming. So, I padded downstairs in my ruffled nightgown with my doll tucked under my chin to see what was going on.
I was halfway down when I saw them.
They were shoving Gee back and forth, laughing and ripping at her clothes. I dropped my doll on the stairs. Her china head shattered and everyone looked up at once.
Gee’s frightene
d brown eyes found mine. One of the men cursed and started up the stairs, his face dark. She snatched at the back of his shirt.
“Go back to bed, Carly baby,” she called out, her voice shaking.
The man said nothing, just kept coming up the stairs. His eyes were pale blue, like marbles. I stood on the stairs and watched him come even as Gee started screaming at me to run.
I didn’t run.
I ate his soul.
He was still five feet away when I did it. When he collapsed without touching me, rolling back down the stairs, the other men let go of Gee. One of them kicked at his friend, then looked up at me, a frightened look on his face. “What’d you to do Tom, you little shit? What’d you—”
He didn’t get the rest of the question out, because I ate his soul, too. The last guy thought about running, but it was too late.
I remember how quiet it was after that. Even the mockingbirds went silent. Gee looked around at the men on the floor, then up at me. She was scared shitless but trying not to show it. Gee knew about magic, she was actually a very weak witch herself, but she’d never seen anything like what I did that night. “Carly, honey. It’s okay, come on down here now. We gotta figure out what to tell the cops.”
She needn’t have worried. I can’t remember what story she came up with, but I never contradicted it. Because I didn’t speak again for almost six years.
Not until Mom brought Jett and Ana forward. My sisters coaxed me out of my shell, but it took a long time.
I knew what I’d done hadn’t been wrong, I did. But it scared me so much I swore never to do it again. Not because it felt bad. Quite the opposite.
Eating souls felt so wonderful I was terrified that if I started again, I’d never stop.
I look up at Cyril now. Despite the knife in his hand, I still don’t want to take the step that I know will save me. Surely there is another way.
There has to be.
“If you’re planning on slitting my throat, I may as well give my magic a shot,” I try instead, making sure my voice trembles ever so slightly.
Cyril hesitates, his eyes narrowing. Huh, maybe he’s not such an idiot after all. “I’m not going to kill you, at least if your boyfriend cooperates.” He might be telling the truth, but I don’t trust this one. He makes my instincts prickle, like the hair on the back of a riled dog.
Even so, I drop my gaze, deciding to try and scare him instead. What are my words again? I frown, my brows drawing together. “One for sor—”
Too late. The duke’s blade presses against my throat. “I wouldn’t chance it,” he says smugly. “Your boyfriend will be here soon and you might end up blowing us all away.”
“I thought Fenrir couldn’t die.” My brain is starting to function a little more clearly. Maybe the sting of steel biting into my skin helps. I will kill this son of a bitch if he tries to hurt Styx. “Isn’t he supposed to be the essence of death?”
“I don’t plan on killing him either, so who cares?” my captor sneers. “I only want to deliver him to Odin.”
“Odin?” I try to roll my shoulders to ease the strain, but it only makes them ache more. “What is Odin going to do with him?”
He gives me an impatient look. “Are all witches this ignorant?”
“I’m a colonial, remember? Indulge me.”
“Fenrir is the guardian of death. You know that much, surely?”
I try to shrug again, then wince as I realize I cannot. “I guess. He’s kind of the counterpart to the three-headed dog in Greek myth, right?”
The duke’s lip twists. “Cerberus?”
“That’s the one. Or Fluffy if you’re partial to Harry Potter.” I smile at my own joke, but Cyril gives me a disappointingly blank look before continuing.
“No. That’s not really a proper comparison at all. Fenrir was the ferryman, the river and the guardian all in one. Odin’s son died in that war, and who do you think guided him over the river?”
I blink. “He blames Fenrir for doing his job?”
Cyril snorts. “Blames, hates, despises. Take your pick. Why do you think Odin commissioned the Fetters? That is why your boyfriend abandoned his post after the war.”
“What about Hel? I thought she was the ruler of the underworld,” I counter, trying to wrap my head around fragments of lore I can recall. The gods were never really one of Mom’s favorite topics of discussion, and what I remember of Fenrir mostly involves a lot of nightmares about bright shiny teeth that sent me huddling under the covers.
Cyril lifts an eyebrow in disdain. “She only mans the gate, Helheim. Hel can’t even enter the underworld without Fenrir. No one still living can.”
I take this in. “So Fenrir is the true god of Hel?”
He laughs. “Fenrir is not a god. He’s—”
Footsteps interrupt the bruin. They rumble through the cavern. A chill starts at my toes and creeps up my body inch by inch, like a sheath of ice. Cyril twists to my side, knife held poised at my throat, a fistful of my hair clenched painfully in his other fist as he stares at the entrance to the cavern. His jaw is tight, teeth grinding together as we wait.
Small rocks and bits of rubble pelt us from above. Then all goes quiet.
I hold my breath as something stalks into the room.
“I didn’t hurt her,” the duke says at once. Those cultured tones have taken on a note of panic. His eyes are fixed on a point far above a man’s height, even a man Styx’s size. My own confounded gaze can’t make sense of what I’m seeing, only a mass of black and dull silver spikes filling the archway, limned with pulses of gold. “But I will if you don’t comply.”
The blade presses more tightly against my throat. Cyril’s hand is shaking, badly. A flash of heat lets me know I’ve been cut, not deeply, but a warm drop of blood slides down my skin. A low, throbbing growl seems to shake the walls around us. The solid stone walls.
What kind of creature is this? Its eyes shine as brightly as the sun and I wince, unable to lift my hands to shield my face, tears instantly streaming from my eyes. That molten gaze leaves me and returns to the duke. My fingers curl into fists as I fight not to panic, the lingering effects of the sprite’s confounding instantly erased by the power of those eyes.
Styx’s eyes. Transformed, yes. Transformed and terrible, but it’s him.
I am a monster, you know.
But I didn’t know. I had no clue.
I have a feeling I’m not going to be killing anyone today.
The creature steps closer. Cyril instantly falls back against the wall, his grip on me loosening.
“What are you doing?” he whispers. The first scream makes me jump, the second feels like it makes my ears bleed. The knife clatters to the ground, the phony and useless Fetters dropping from the bruin’s limp fingers.
I feel more than see my captor start to shift. He’s still shrieking in agony, though I can’t tell what is causing him so much pain. The monster is standing motionless in the center of the cavern.
With a roar that still sounds like half a scream, fully in his bear form now, Cyril leaps for Styx, for this nightmarish creature Styx has become.
Metallic fur bristles and sparks along the beast’s spine. He meets the attack with an ear-splitting roar of his own. My hands try to slap over my ears instinctively but are stopped short by the chains. The maddening sound rolls off the rock walls, growing louder and louder until it feels like my head is going to explode.
I slump in my chains, helpless tears running down my face.
Cyril is caught midair.
It’s as if the horrible roar has frozen time itself, his body twisting and roiling, endlessly shifting back and forth. Half bear, half man, blackened lips rolled back over human teeth as he faces the monster.
Its powerful shoulders ripple as an impossible mouth opens. At first I’m reminded of a wendigo, all those lines of serrated teeth circling back into a cavernous throat. But it’s not at all like that—it’s worse. So much worse. I can believe these are the jaws of a be
ast that is meant to devour worlds. They make short work indeed of one unfortunate bruin.
It’s over in two bites. Cyril is nothing more than a few drops of blood that fall to the stone floor, raising motes of dust.
The sudden silence is surreal. Then I realize I’m still chained to a wall. Alone.
With it.
After a chuffing growl of unmistakable satisfaction, the creature stalks over to me. Chills cascade down my spine, tightening my already-abused muscles and making me cry out.
Beast/Styx looks down at me, those glowing, golden eyes somehow easier to bear, then I realize they’re darkening with every step he takes. I can’t hear a thing except the seemingly far-off beat of my own heart as he bends down, hot, sweet breath that smells of blood brushing the top of my head. He snaps at my chains, snipping the links like sausages.
Both relief and agony slam through my abused shoulders, making me cry out again as my arms fall to my sides. He growls softly, then tugs at one of the broken chains dangling from my wrists. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to be gentle, but it feels like he’s wrenching my arm from its socket.
I whimper and hold up a shaking hand. “Easy. I get it, I can follow you.”
The creature is smaller now, though still enormous, and without the magic befuddling my eyes, I can see him clearly as I limp down the passage. This is not a good thing.
I can see why Seph still has nightmares.
It’s not at all like a lynx, nor a wolf, but some madly insane combination of both—if wolves and lynxes were made of some alien, shifting metal and covered with fur that bristles at the slightest movement, as if both fur and creature were alive and not entirely in sync. It hurts my head to try and make sense of it.
Everything hurts.
Now that I’m no longer confounded, every ache and pain throbs to life, demanding belated attention. I stumble over the rocky threshold to the cave, blinking out into the bright, crystal-clear Norwegian sky of midmorning.
Magpies & Moonshine (Toil and Trouble Book 6) Page 5
