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 Mjolnir 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.
You’d think he was afraid Father was going to dismember him. I shouldn’t smile, but I do. You can take the hunter out of the Hunt, but you can’t take the Hunt out of the hunter.
Some things are bred into you.
Beneath the crown of antlers, Sigurd’s face is streaked with ash and white paint, crisp lines drawn down his jaw to sharpen the edges of his already brutally handsome features.
The sheer weight of their presence presses down on the crowd. Both look like they’re not playing dress-up for some student ritual. They look like the men who started it themselves and lived to tell the tale.
When Sigurd lowers his head, the antlers cut a stark silhouette against the firelit sky. I feel the sudden heavy need to bow my head. It’s strange, because I’ve never once felt like this before in his presence. Maybe it’s because tonight, I can’t help but acknowledge that Ymir was first.
“Ymir is formidable when he draws his own power in,” murmurs Reeve. Right. The runes being down tonight benefits him, too.
“The wind,” Reeve continues under his breath. “Nature cannot help but recognize its creator—it is more unnatural to stay still than it is to fall to your knees in worship of Ymir.”
Aric overhears Reeve. I can tell by the way his shoulders tense.
I don’t think the others do, though; I think they’re too entranced, like everyone else. Slowly, the music picks up again. My father and Sigurd walk together.
Mortal enemies.
Both of them killers.
They reach the front of the football field, where the rest of the alumni and parents are sitting at round tables arrayed before a massive stage. If it wasn’t for the scoreboard and the sponsor banners hanging along the stands, I’d think we were assembling in an ancient stadium.
My father sits to the right of the stage while Sigurd takes the stairs and moves to the podium.
“Oh, shit,” Reeve mumbles. “Another microphone.”
But this isn’t the quirky professor or the bumbling college president who addresses the crowd. His voice is deep, somber.
He lifts up his hands. “In days of old, the Wild Hunt was more than a chase; it was a reckoning. It represented death and rebirth, the passage of one age to another.” Everyone goes silent.
“Warriors offered themselves to the Hunt so their courage may be judged, their souls carried by Odin’s majestic riders into the next life.
“Here at Endir, we hunt not for death, but new beginnings and fresh starts. Tonight, we seek new bonds with one another and ask for courage to face what lies ahead.” I swear his eyes lock on mine as he continues.
“And the wisdom to let go of what is weighing us down. So let us join together and call on our courage this school year! Let us release the ravens, our messengers of transformation, and begin this year’s Hunt! ”
He holds out a hand to Professor Higgins. She walks up with a box covered with a black cloth.
Sigurd holds his hands wide and then makes a motion in front of his face, two fingers against his nose, one touching his chin and neck. “Join with me, please.”
Everyone mimics the ancient motion meant to honor the Gods and Giants.
Goose bumps race up my arms.
This feels like some very ritualistic shit’s about to go down. Father doesn’t lift a finger, but of course, I don’t expect him to. Sigurd’s mocking a tradition my father started.
“Be blessed in the Hunt,” Sigurd calls out. He tosses the cloth and opens the box. “Release the ravens!” He holds his hands to the sky. The stadium rumbles with applause as the ravens disperse into the air.
“Now, please take your seats,” Sigurd says. “The official dance soon begins.”
I steal a glance at Aric.
He frowns as if this isn’t something he was expecting.
Moments later, the band begins to play and conversation sparks up. People start to gather around their tables for appetizers and drinks. It’s then I notice that those who aren’t wearing costumes are wearing red masks. They look creepy as hell.
I glance around casually, calmly. At least half the campus is in red masks.
Chills run down my spine.
“Curious…” Reeve taps his chin. “Why certain ones are marked to wear the masks.”
Bile rises in my throat when Eira approaches in her creepy costume, one of the red masks on her face. “I’ll be presenting the dance of the Lure for you tonight. In ancient tradition, it’s a sensual dance presented to the Gods as a sacrifice for humans who gave their lives in service.”
She doesn’t wait for us to say anything.
But like it’s been practiced for centuries, the people in red masks move around each table as music blasts through the outdoor stereo system.
It sounds primal, ancient, full of pipes and horns and a steady, driving beat of drums. With each circle around the tables, they turn and face Sigurd, bow, and then do a movement with their hands above their heads like they are transfixed by the sky as it presses down onto them.
They all bend backward, then twirl into a chaotic flurry, hands over heads.
They all stop and let out a scream as the drums end.
The movements are addicting to watch. “Did they volunteer?”
“Handpicked.” Rowen suddenly pipes up. “Right? By Sigurd himself?”
“Clever.” Reeve winks at me. “And yes, they just have something about them. Can’t you feel it?”
My mouth drops open. “Are they—”
“I can answer that,” Reeve interrupts. I’d really prefer he didn’t. “They’re chosen, important, special, though they just think it’s a program for the gifted. Soon they’ll all remember, and soon they’ll have the power to do a lot more. At least that’s the hope.”
Sigurd clears his throat into the mic. “Beautifully done, students. Now, if you’ll look to the tables, you’ll each find a rune, or what we like to call party favors from the Gods.
Before the Hunt begins, choose yours carefully.
Hold it close, whisper your wish, kiss the stone, and toss it into any of the surrounding bonfires.
That fire represents your vow, your promise, your beginning here at Endir. A journey you and only you can take.”
The crowd quiets as flames from the surrounding bonfires leap skyward, sparks scattering like stars. Father hasn’t moved a muscle still, but I do see his jaw tense. Maybe because years ago, he did this for his people, for Asgard, for humanity, and Sigurd has hijacked it.
“From there, the tradition is simple. You’ll go together in groups or pairs—never wander alone, not tonight—and follow the marked trails into the forest. Which path you choose is up to you, but each holds its own challenge.
Some of you will find feasts laid out along the way; some will stumble into games you must complete to keep going; others, perhaps, into shadows that don’t belong to the living.
Ghosts, demons, spirits of the fallen—consider them part of the fun.
Survive them, laugh at them, scream if you have to—but make it through.
” He shrugs. “We do ask that no flash photography takes place. Let’s keep things as authentic as possible. ”
“Don’t die!” some idiot yells.
A ripple of nervous laughter spreads through the students.
Father actually smirks at that and looks down. I wonder what it was like…before his obsession for knowledge made him into this. Before he was bound by it, controlled, owned. Was he ever free?
Sigurd pauses and looks around the campus. I wonder if he genuinely likes the way people adore him, hang on his every word. His grin is sharp as firelight dances in his eyes.
The torches blaze higher, drums resume their beat, and the cheers rise again.
“Let the Wild Hunt begin!”