Chapter 1
White-hot pain burst through Westley’s abdomen, momentarily blinding him as it raced directly to his heart.
Solveig’s magic withdrew from his body, as did she, freeing him from her constraints as he collapsed to the ground. The pain of the wound was unbearable to the point of disorientation. His vision swam as he struggled to focus.
His body throbbed with the sting of the embedded dagger, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as blinding pain took him under, plunging him into darkness where only his regrets waited for him.
Westley hovered at the edge of the mortal village, blending into the shadows. Dressed in all black save for the mask he had yet to place on his face, he became night itself.
The familiar weight of Noren and Viggo flanked him on either side, with Brenna taking up the rear.
It had been a rough journey to Vanaheim from Idavoll. His parents had received word of the Southern Wilds raid, and they had no choice but to ride through the night. Just once Westley wished they would consider a new approach, but his parents were stubborn and they were running out of time.
They all were.
Idavoll’s cursed winter was bringing their people to the edge of extinction, leaving them no choice. They had to find this traitor, the Vanir general of Asgard. He was the key to regaining their magic and restoring their forest.
Westley stood poised and ready for the Southern Wilds to arrive, waiting for a sign from the gods, holding out for someone of importance—someone who would lead them to the Vanir general. The last few prisoners they’d managed to capture had given them nothing.
Nothing wasn’t an option for this mission.
Booth had been assigned to accompany him this time and was waiting for them back at their camp. His two Giant companions, Svend and Skarde, who’d come to the village to help, stood a few feet away waiting to grab one of the Vanir.
Fucking Booth Gunnarson.
He despised the half-breed. Westley wasn’t above committing horrific acts to save his people, and he had gritted his teeth through many orders from his father, but there were lines he would not cross.
Even if he hadn’t found all of them yet.
The Giants had no such qualms, and Booth in particular delighted in every ugly situation.
But Idavoll’s alliance with Jotunheim being so precarious, he couldn’t very well insist their half-Giant bastard heir stay away. Westley resigned himself to his fate, hating that he would have to stomach Booth’s vile form of torture.
Movement caught Westley’s eye, dragging his attention to the mortal village. The Vanir had just arrived, a larger group than their usual four to six. He smiled at their stupidity—capturing someone would be easy.
Thank the gods for their luck.
Westley studied them as they split into teams of two, scurrying off to do gods knew what.
He signalled to his companions and they donned their masks, allowing the night to swallow them completely. They took their positions near where the Vanir had stashed their horses.
Surprise rocked through him at what he saw.
Maddock was sitting on the ground, carving drawings in the dirt like a bored giantling. What the fuck was he doing there? Maddock was the liaison between Jotunheim and Asgard, mostly used for political dealings. To see him accompanying the Vanir soldiers was unsettling.
He’d have to speak to North about this development when he got back to Idavoll.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Viggo stood beside him, mask lifted.
“Ready for this?” Viggo asked gravely.
“It must be done.”
“Aye.” Viggo gave him a reassuring squeeze and replaced his mask. They took their positions as they waited for the Vanir to sweep through the village.
After a few hours, Westley’s body hummed with unease, the calm he normally cultivated on a mission nowhere to be found.
Each flicker of firelight from the mortal village caught his eye.
Every time the wind whistled through the tall trees, he checked to make sure all was well.
Animal sounds grated on his Fae hearing.
He began shifting on his feet as his heart rate picked up.
“West,” Noren hissed. “Stop moving, you’ll give us away.”
Westley tried to calm his movements, but the energy coursing through him wouldn’t abate, only heightening as time passed. Something wasn’t right.
“Do you think this is a trap?” he whispered.
“That’s always a possibility. Hasn’t stopped us yet,” Noren answered with a shrug.
Before he could respond, Maddock stood abruptly from his spot by the horses and threw something towards the rack of weapons nearby, causing it to topple over. The loud clatter shattered the stillness of the night.
The reaction was immediate.
Bright firelight filled the windows of the nearest houses, illuminating the sleeping village. Guards emerged from the shadows to inspect the noise, swords at the ready, as if they’d been lying in wait.
A pair of Vanir came into view, attacking the mortal guards. The scuffle escalated into an all-out brawl as more Vanir and mortals joined the rabble.
Westley cursed under his breath.
This was supposed to be a simple capture. Get in and get out. It wouldn’t be easy to go undetected with all the commotion. Given the number of guards posted around the village and the speed with which they’d responded, the mortals had been ready for this raid.
The sound of a twig snapping beside the Vanir horses drew Westley’s attention away from the fight. A sizable copper mare turned her head and reared like she was ready to attack, only settling when a gloved hand appeared and patted her gently on the neck.
A Vanir male lingered on the edges of the fray, calming the surly horse. Squinting, Westley could make out light brown hair and a stout, muscular figure.
Why was the witch hiding in the shadows and not out fighting with his kin? Had the Vanir traitor actually come to admire his handiwork as he betrayed his kind? The gods must have listened to their pleas.
Westley sent a brief prayer of gratitude to Thor.
Pinpricks of providence rushed through Westley’s veins. The male snuck around the horses, drawing his sword. What was he up to? If that twig hadn’t snapped, he wouldn’t have noticed him—he was nearly as camouflaged as Westley was. The gods were directing him—this was their target.
He gave the signal to Svend and Skarde, alerting them to the Vanir’s presence.
Westley was about to advance when Brenna’s bird call sounded from the other side of the horses. As he turned to see where she was pointing, a female with a blaze of fiery auburn hair flew into the centre of the village, swords drawn.
His heart hammered in a solid attempt to leap out of his chest while the rest of the scene around him fell away.
Goddess.
He tracked her every movement with a sudden awareness of each drop of blood in his body. She slashed through the mortals as though they were nothing to her, eyes set ahead of her.
Westley couldn’t take his gaze off her long enough to deduce what her target was. Her head snapped in his direction, like someone had called her name, and without hesitation, the fierce warrior beelined straight for them.
Was she Fae? The way she moved was graceful, but it was the speed with which she travelled that was extraordinary. She was across the village and reaching the treeline by the time Westley realized he’d been so distracted by her he hadn’t seen Svend and Skarde take the lurking male Vanir.
The female didn’t hesitate as she came upon them, defending their attack and dealing two killing blows within a matter of seconds. Westley took an involuntary step back as cold, hard fear slithered through his veins, replacing his momentary awe.
She knelt beside the injured Vanir male, trying to get him to stand on his feet to no avail. Westley still couldn’t move.
Viggo and Brenna snuck behind her but she was quick, deflecting their strikes, fighting them off. His companions were better trained than the Giants, evading her aggressive defence.
It was mesmerizing, the way the witch moved as if every step was choreographed, the outcome predetermined. She would be victorious—if only she didn’t have the male Vanir to worry about, Westley knew his companions wouldn’t stand a chance.
They managed to back her up against a tree, but the female would not let up. Her face was set in fierce determination, and he was rooted to the spot, fascinated.
Noren nudged his arm, jarring him out of his trance. The energy in his veins washed over him, flooding his body with renewed purpose.
“She’s the one,” he whispered. Noren nodded, moving as quietly as the wind behind the tree.
The female was gaining on Brenna and Viggo—he couldn’t let this go on any longer.
Westley reached into his pocket and brought out the needle, removing the cap with his teeth. Taking a deep breath, he snuck up behind the formidable female, swiftly stabbing her neck with the thin metal while she was distracted.
Every cell of his being lit up as she stumbled, falling back into his arms. He caught a glimpse of her eyes before they closed.
The warm copper pierced his heart, and he froze as a long-forgotten power woke in his veins.
“West . . .” Noren’s voice sounded faint in his ears.
“Westley . . .”
“Westley!” Noren’s shout pulled him out of his memory, his eyes flashing open.
He gasped as he came back to consciousness, hand flying to the blaring pain under his ribs as the stormy sky overhead swirled in his vision. The ground beneath him was hard and sticky, the scent churning his stomach.
Noren was still shaking him. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Westley brought his hand away, cold sweat trickling down his skin, his breaths coming fast and shallow. When he checked his palm, he thought he might pass out again.
It was clean.