Finaan #2
“Why are we even keeping him alive?” Mikkael demands, prompting a low growl from his dragon.
The canny male—a descendent of the AEsir prophet god H?nir, I’m told—whips his head around, one eyebrow quirking up.
He and Z embark on some argument about Wregen, Mikkael throwing his arm out occasionally to gesture at the trapped male, then yanking it back in, his fists clenched.
But Z must win because after a minute or two, the male flings his chin down in anger, muttering “Fuckin’ A.” He glares at Wregen, whose lips are lifted in the barest hint of a smile. “We need to take him.”
“Why?” I demand, because it makes no sense. “We don’t know how he found us. What if he leads Beron straight to the next place.”
“I am connected to you,” Wregen butts in, his voice low.
His expression wavers for the briefest moment, the corners of his lips dipping down as he seems to weigh his next words.
But then the arrogant asshole returns, and he throws his shoulders back, a half-smile emerging again.
“Helheim lives in your souls,” he explains with a shrug.
“I followed that link. I will always be able to follow that link. The next time, though, I will bring Konungr Beron and his forces with me. He wants nothing more than to quash your little rebellion and prove to the peasants that he alone rules this land. You can protect your secrets only by taking me with you.”
My stomach stills, as if every creature that had been buzzing within me calmed at the same time.
And fuck me if a spark of joy doesn’t erupt in the place of all those bugs.
My thoughts are a jumbled mess as I wrangle with the reality that some depraved part of me wants him with us.
I do my best to smother that insanity as I join the others in staring at him in silence.
The need to read his powers and possibilities—the way I can with every being across the worlds except him—twists my stomach in frustration. I don’t know enough about Wregen, and I hate being useless on something that matters this much.
“Fuckity fuck fuck,” Fhord mutters, repeating the curse that appears to be his favorite. “It would explain how he got so close.”
Sifa nods, glaring at the bastard still trapped under Z’s claw, then turns to Mikkael.
“Z can carry him,” she declares with a grimace.
“You brought him and your dragon argued for his life. He’s yours until we decide what to do.
” Turning around, she yells at the crowd gathered around us.
“We leave within the hour with every trace of our presence.”
We all react immediately, spinning on our heels to do our part. We’ve gotten good at this, bouncing between the island that Fhord named Lumaria and here. We’re determined to protect at least half of us if Beron manages to attack that paradise by boat. And we can’t risk exposing this spring.
Other than the caverns Beron controls, no place on Vanatia’s mainland offers the living waters available here, which dragons need to survive.
Lumaria is the best source of those waters—its connection to Yggdrasill, the tree of life, is much more direct—but it was attacked once and could be again.
When we get there, the dragons, their riders, and that half of the fighting elves will come here.
As Sifa ordered, we’re lifting off less than an hour later.
I’m riding with her on Astarot, as I usually do.
I’m not sure what led to our decision on how to split the elves among the dragons, but from our first flight, we’ve always divided ourselves exactly the same way.
Two of the male elves are behind me—my body enough of a barrier to appease Fhord’s savage.
I’ve only seen his enormous wolf once, when he shifted in Lumaria to show us so we’d all know what to expect.
But in those few seconds, I realized without a doubt that Fhord’s wolf is as fully committed to—and possessive about—Sifa as Fhord is.
It's sweet. And I’m jealous of them too, as much as I hate myself for it.
As we reach our flying height and Astarot settles in, I find myself looking for Wregen.
Z’s carrying Mikkael and the three elves who always ride with them, plus Wregen in his claws.
I should have known he’d take the extra weight without complaint.
He might be the strongest beast here. He’s certainly the most loyal, which is impressive, because dragons are shockingly loyal beasts.
My thoughts spiral into dangerous areas, as they often do when I look at Wregen.
The seed of hate that took root when I first saw him grew every day I spent in Helheim.
It curls within me, twisting my gut and racing up and down my spine when I think about everything I’ve seen.
He delighted in his cruelty, laughing as he made miserable lives in Helheim even worse.
He forfeited his soul ages ago, choosing Hel and her realm over the living world.
And as he does with every other being he touches, he’d only cause me pain and distress.
I can never … I would never … let myself chase those fantasies.
Still, I’ve had the most depraved thoughts about him.
They didn’t start right away. For a long time, I simply noticed him.
The cut of his jaw. The smirk he wore when he tortured one wraith or another.
The hard planes and rippling muscles his shirts never tried to hide.
The bounce to his leg when Hel called for him or interrupted something he was doing.
I made sure he couldn’t see me watching, because nobody in Helheim wants to draw Wregen’s attention. Only misery follows his focus. I’ve studied him a lot, though.
He was the only other life in that place. That had to be the reason.
That’s what I told myself.
It wasn’t because he fascinates me.
Or because—despite the hatred that burns whenever I see him—he turns me on like no other elf I’ve encountered, in any world.
One day, almost as if a flip was switched, my interest in him took a dark turn.
He erupted in my dreams. And they were explicit, erotic fantasies.
He used me in every way imaginable and I wanted more.
I craved more. I needed more. They were so realistic, sometimes I even thought I woke with his taste in my mouth, my tongue coated with evidence of his presence. Of his release.
I didn’t, of course. I’m a light sleeper and I would never have slept through some of the things he did in my dreams. It was Helheim messing with me, as it did with every being trapped in its clutches.
But fuck if I wasn’t more alive in those dreams than I ever felt walking Hel’s halls.
I drag in a deep breath, ripping my gaze away from Wregen as I try to douse the fire pulsing in my core. I haven’t had a dream like that since I got to Vanatia, and I almost miss them. Maybe with him this close, they’ll come back.
Not that I want that.
Shaking my head, I turn to look around us.
We always fly high, far above the sight of any elves who might still be serving Beron.
The air is light up here but we can’t risk being seen.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we reach the shore and then soar over the water toward Lumaria, dropping a bit lower as land disappears behind us.
The dragons would see a boat long before we’d be visible to its passengers.
Hours after we took off, as my ass and back are starting to scream at me, the fog that conceals Lumaria appears before us.
It’s always the oddest feeling entering it, the island’s magic repelling us as it tries to convince any visitors to turn around.
But it doesn’t last long. The dragons power through, and within seconds the island emerges from the mist.
I breathe in the crisp air, as astounded as I always am by the utter majesty of the place.
It’s almost dreamlike in its beauty and brilliance.
A perfect cone sits in its center, the shifting greens of trees and bushes moving up its sides to the snowy peak.
The land below is a rainbow of hues, emerald grass dotted with teal bushes and flowers in every color imaginable.
They’re not cultured, but neither are they haphazard.
It’s as if the island itself laid its treasure out in the most pleasing array possible, with red blooms flowing into orange, then yellow, green, blue, purple and back to red.
The most stunning part, though, is the water.
A large lake lies at the base of the mountain, the center of the city Fhord and the others built when they decided to create a home here for rebels.
It’s the blue of a summer day as sunset approaches, deep and rich.
And it’s both the source and destination of a river that surrounds the mountain in a near-perfect circle.
A few streams and ponds appear around the rest of Lumaria, but the lake is its beating heart.
We spiral in gentle spins toward the field where dragons always land. Well, most of us do. Z looks as if he’s testing how fast he can twist as he drops. Mikkael and the others on his back are laughing but this isn’t about them. Even from this distance, I can see the nausea in Wregen’s face.
Serves him right. The bastard thinks he can drag Hel back into our lives, or us back into hers. Fuck no. We’re going to have fun making sure he regrets leaving Helheim.