Chapter 35
Every single one of the jelmadag’s eyes blinked, narrowing on me. He tilted his head, watching me closely, like I was no longer prey but a worthy opponent. An equal.
The crowd was still going strong, pumping their arms, hanging over the railings.
A steady stream of people filled the aisles, flocking to the lower levels. Rowdy elves, or maybe patrolling Eyes. Ryder’s yells were muffled by the beast’s steam, which was now enveloping me in a hazy cloud.
“River!” Louder, more frantic.
I turned towards Ryder’s voice, waving my hand to see through the thick, hot vapor. A shadow floated into the bowl of the arena. Tricks of the light, of the flickering hellish flames.
A wisp of silver parted the steam, right past my nose. With a gasp I stumbled back, and an agonizing roar tore through the dome.
My spine stiffened. As the haze dispersed, I dared a step closer to the jelmadag—who lay in the dirt in a snarling heap of starless twilight. Pure, unbridled fury stared back at me. A sword pierced his neck.
“Who did this?” I asked out loud.
I whirled to find Ryder standing a few paces behind me. He wasn’t alone.
Flóki left his side, stalking towards the injured beast—towards me. So that’s who’d snuck their way into the ring.
Ryder grabbed the elf’s arm, yanking him back. “C’mon, man.”
The fracture in my heart that was just starting to heal shattered all over again.
I didn’t want to cry—then I’d have to admit that I’d fallen for him, his tricks.
“What?” Flóki shoved off his grip. “Just trying to help.”
I fisted a handful of hair, tugging my braid loose. “I told you in the tunnels, Flóki, I don’t need your help, but let me make it even clearer to you: go away.”
“Alright.” Another metallic blur soared through the air—a throwing knife lodged in the jelmadag’s shoulder. The demon screeched in pain. My nerves pulsed with anxiety. “But only if you come with me.”
I scrunched my nose. “Not in your wildest dreams, dude.”
On a clipped inhale, I dared to look at the stands.
My knees buckled and the wind left my lungs at what I saw: pointed weapons, knives to throats, all black ensembles.
People bleeding and running, mimicking the screams from the night at Crescent Rock.
An undercurrent of terror pulsed through it all.
Not again, not again, not again.
My eyes darted around to find any sign of my friends, sweeping over the royal box.
A flash of sparkling steel, a glint of purple silk.
Gunnar impaled one intruder in the gut while Freyja kicked another in the chest. Their opponents stumbled over the edge of the balcony, landing face-first in the pit.
The queen and the rest of her royal, cowardly court held themselves flush against a wall. Kristjan held his clipboard over his head like a shield.
“River.” An accent, a lilt of the R that still managed to reach some aching part of me.
Acid roiled in my stomach, burning up my throat, just looking at him.
Putting up his palms, Ryder inched forward. “Listen—”
I waved my dagger at him, the blade singing its high-pitched tune that promised violence. “Straight through your heart if you don’t back the fuck up.”
He stopped, a dark strand falling over his temple.
“Well played, my friend.” Flóki wrapped an arm around Ryder’s stiff shoulders, giving them a gentle shake. “You got her right where we want her. Your brother will be thrilled.”
I forced my face to look bored even if the words were like a scythe to my gut. “Well,” I said, hardly able to control the tremble in my voice, “I see you brought your crew. What’s your next move, Flóki? Kill everyone here? They’re innocent.”
“It’s an easy choice for them, really.” Flóki twirled a knife along his knuckles, but it was his stupid, certain grin that made him the most dangerous. “Join us or die. It’s not my fault these people are too proud.”
“Good luck getting through the elven soldiers.” Behind him, in the stands between the scared, civilian huddles, the brilliant blue uniforms of the queen’s cavalry clashed against the shadows of Chthonia’s. “They’re much more experienced than your band of hooligans.”
“Okay, I’ll give credit where it’s due.” Flóki sucked his teeth. “But we only need to hold them off for so long.”
“W-what do you mean?” I stammered, throat tight.
“The sword is blocking that monster’s airway.” He gestured to the jelmadag, lip curled as if the demon were a disgusting, mindless beast and not a living, sentient creature.
Tail cracking the air like a whip, the jelmadag shakily sank back on his haunches, deadly promise in his dozen eyes.
“The steam is trapped,” Flóki continued. “It will start building in its gut. With no way out, it will explode.”
My lips parted in horror.
He grinned coldly. “This creature is a ticking time bomb.”
“Isn’t he a demon?” My grip tightened on my dagger, the dwarven scrollwork indenting my palm. “He’d be on your side. And you’re going to just… kill him with all the other victims?”
“Don’t get soft on me.” Bitter laughter coated his tongue. “There’s plenty more monsters where that came from.”
Despite the chaos, my world fell into silence.
Fight. A single word, an order. I gritted my teeth. Fight, demon.
I do not have access to my hellfire’s steam. I cannot fly. His tone, so heavy with defeat.
You have claws, don’t you? And fangs? Use them.
“How many minutes until this stadium gets leveled?” I asked.
Flóki’s arctic eyes turned an abysmal black. “Seven.”
No response from the jelmadag.
Look, I don’t have my magic to play offense, either. I barely know how to throw a punch or even hold a weapon. I’m probably doing it all wrong—I glanced at the demon, his belly roiling and swollen. A shiver kissed my spine—I know I’m doing it all wrong, but I refuse to go down without a fight.
“Let’s move.” With a flick of his chin, Flóki gestured to Ryder. “The crew will open that gate. There’s a tunnel we can take from the underground holding area. We’ll follow that to the fjord. By the looks of it… not many will be joining us.”
Desperation flooded my veins.
Is it because they fight in Chthonia’s name that you disregard innocent life so easily?
Did you even hear them? They treat you like a pest—they don’t care about you.
Muscles trembling, I repositioned my fingers on my dagger’s hilt.
If I am to die today, I won’t do it being the powerless pawn they assume I am. You might do the same.
Alas. The demon released a bloody gurgle. I will always be a monster.
Prove them wrong.
Something unnerving glistened in the creature’s gaze. Tears. Fear. Will.
A silhouette flittered in my peripheral. Ryder.
Spinning, I arced my dagger over my head, the steel screeching against his. “What a cute little bromance, you and Flóki. Did he lend you that blade?”
A guttural cry whistled through the arena, rattling hearts, weapons, bones. The jelmadag hissed, piping hot spit raining down around Flóki’s feet.
The elf cursed, swearing torture and death upon the demon. It took effort not to smile at his frantic yells, the blubbering fool.
Ryder drew in close. Arms shaking, weapons crossed, blades straining against each other’s, our heated breaths mixing in the small sliver of air. “Come with me.”
“Never,” I huffed, flinging my elbows out and pushing him off.
Those dark eyes narrowed, shadows eclipsing the ring of golden-green. A smirk curled his lips, cold and sadistic, and the veins along his throat pulsed black.
“What did they do to you?” I asked softly, so no one else heard.
Wincing, he took a stilted step closer, as if the effort physically pained him. “You promised me.”
Fingertips grazed my chin, cupped my cheek. His skin was cold, so cold. I focused on remaining lethal and still, but a tremble worked its way through me. “What?”
That frigid hand slipped around my wrist. My pulse raged beneath his thumb.
He sucked in a breath. “That you wouldn’t forget about me when…”
“When what?” I tugged on my arm. His grip remained firm.
I looked at him, really looked at him then.
This… this person. They were just a shell for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on—something that felt both vile and electric, tempting and taunting.
An undercurrent. I’d experienced it before with Finis, with Kistuleitarinn, and even in the Heimer Tofra with Ryder.
It was evil.
Nervous heat turned my skin to fire.
What else had Ryder said in that twisted world of enchantment? No, not there. It was in the front seat of his car, speeding through the redwoods earlier that summer: Demons aren’t born, they’re made.
It was what the jelmadag just reminded me of ten minutes ago, what the Coffin Seeker had taunted me with below the castle: that we were more similar than I cared to admit. That we were different sides of the same coin.
Oh, no. My palm cupped my mouth. Ryder.
That cursed magic claimed a piece of my soul.
Oh, God. I was going to be sick. He—
I needed you to see there’s still a piece of the old me, deep down inside.
He was turning into a demon.
“Are you scared?” he breathed, and it wasn’t his voice, wasn’t his smile, but when a soft sweep of his thumb traced over my skin, I still shuddered with longing that he mistook for fear. “Good—now follow my lead.”
Dropping his hand, he stepped back, the steamy air, the screams, the death filling the space between us, leaching the want from my skin.
“Don’t make this harder on yourself, River.
” With that phrase, with the way he drew out my name, as if it still belonged to him, I was catapulted back to that night at the Boardwalk.
He’d said something similar, as if those damning words might comfort me.
As if I’d actually listen. As if he wasn’t actively trying to capture me again.
I barked out a cruel laugh. “Oh, I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
He raised a brow.