Chapter 87
The rocks were heavy on top of her as she came to, coughing and sputtering. Dust coated her mouth and throat when she pulled in a ragged breath. The sound of Westley calling her name grew more and more frantic.
I’m fine, she mumbled. It was slightly concerning that she was muddled, even in her thoughts.
Relief and anger filtered through the bond. Fuck you. Where are you?
I’m in a meadow surrounded by wildflowers, she shot back.
You’re insufferable.
I’m under some rocks, Prince.
Are you able to move at all?
I’m trying. Solveig shifted, pushing against the weight that pressed on her back. She heard the low rumble of the hound beneath the debris and shuddered, trying to get more range of movement. Pain shot through her leg as she yanked it out from beneath a rock.
You’re hurt? Westley asked, his mind bursting with alarm.
Only a little.
I don’t trust your word. That could mean you were skewered through the chest. He would bring up the time she had been lightly stabbed. The sword hadn’t even gone all the way through her.
I lived, didn’t I?
His sigh was audible—he was close. She tried to move around, but the weight was too heavy.
I see the rocks moving, hang on.
Solveig heard his footsteps and his grunts of exertion before the weight on top of her began to shift. She helped as best she could from underneath. All at once, the weight was alleviated, and her lungs filled with dusty air as she took in a deep breath—as deep as she could manage while coughing.
Westley knelt beside her, supporting her as she limped out. When the comfort of his arms wrapped around her, she melted into his embrace.
“I told you it would work,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
“You’re an ass,” he said, laughing with relief, holding her closer.
When the adrenaline died down, Westley dressed Solveig’s wound. His fingertips on her skin sent charges of electricity through her body. She wished he didn’t have to stop.
They got their bearings, and after another argument or two, Solveig and Westley followed the path of the vision—the one she’d been right about. The air grew still, too still, as they approached obsidian doors that hadn’t been opened since her last visit.
“This isn’t what I was expecting,” Westley said, taking in the entrance to her father’s prison.
“If you weren’t expecting a prison in the middle of Hel to have dark, ominous doors, what did you think we were looking for?”
“Smartass. I guess I wasn’t expecting the entrance to be so obvious.”
Westley reached to place his hand on the stone, but Solveig stopped him. Only she could open the doors. She stepped forward and placed her palm on the door, her wound still bleeding freely, unable to heal itself from the obsidian.
Blood flowed down her hand and into the stone—payment for entry.
The doors hissed open, leading them into a dark tunnel and sealing them in with an inauspicious thud. She exchanged a wary look with Westley as they made their way deeper into the pits of Hel.
Down they went, reminding Solveig of a nightmare she’d had. A never-ending cave of darkness.
But when the path opened into her father’s prison, the cave was brighter than she remembered. A lot of things were different from what she remembered. A column of light descended from above, illuminating an empty crystal podium in the centre of the room.
What is this here for? Westley asked.
Solveig had no answer. She was drawn to it, as though it called to her. Her hand moved of its own accord, stretching towards the light, but before she could reach it, Westley gripped her wrist, pulling her back.
She still couldn’t take her eyes off it.
What are you doing? It could be a trap!
There is strange magic here. I recognize it.
Before Westley could stop her again, she touched the cold black crystal. The light above it shimmered and a mirage appeared, stunning them.
Is that . . . Westley’s thoughts trailed off as he took in the weapon.
I think so, but it can’t be . . .
Mjolnir. Westley whispered the name of Thor’s hammer in her mind with such reverence. She felt his confusion and wished she could speak. But if the hammer is real—
She shook her head. This one is not real.
I know, but if it exists that means— Westley looked at her with wariness. The gods are real? Are they alive? Like I was raised to believe? He took a step away, but Solveig didn’t let him get far. She took his face between her hands.
Some of the gods are dead and some are— The magical gag prevented her from speaking the next words. She had to rephrase. Powerless. They cannot control anything as they once did before Ragnarok.
That wasn’t in the books.
The words are not allowed to be written.
Solveig—
Trust me, West, please.
I do, but I don’t understand.
I know, and I’m so sorry I can’t be more forthcoming. Trust that everything I’ve told you is true.
But you’ve left things out.
Because I had to.
Westley nodded, his apprehension lingering. He leaned his forehead against hers.
How amazing would it be if the hammer was real? he asked, some of the tension between them easing.
It would be incredible. It’s a lot bigger than Booth’s hammer, she quipped.
That’s true. You’d be unstoppable. She could see the awe and love in his eyes.
Only if I could wield it.
“Do you think you could?” A deep voice rumbled from the darkness of the cave, making Westley and Solveig jump, hands flying to their weapons.
Chains rattled alongside heavy footfalls. A figure came to stand right at the fringes of the shadows.
“Do you think you could wield it, Solveig Tordottir?” the voice asked again.
Solveig dropped to one knee, Westley immediately following suit as an ethereal being came into view.
Larger than a Giant, her father stood tall, his head almost scraping the ceiling of the prison. His thick blond hair was matted into braids, a film of dirt coating his skin. Muscles bulged through the rags he wore—the same clothing that Solveig had last seen him in.
Plain clothes not befitting his stature.
His feet were bare as he stepped out of the shadows, the rays from the ceiling reaching towards him.
Unmistakable even with the state of his appearance, he turned his face to greet the light. Solveig risked a glance at Westley to see his eyes widen with recognition.
Thor.
“You have brought me the sun, daughter.”
Westley’s head whipped towards her. He’d find little resemblance between them—only the shape of her face. Her father’s colouring was deeper than hers, golden, even in the dark.
“I have waited quite some time for your return,” he said before his gaze fell on Westley. Her father inhaled, breathing in their scents. “And you brought your mate, though you have not yet bonded.”
“Yes, Father,” she said, bowing her head.
“A strong Fae male. I am proud.” There was no affection in his golden eyes.
Solveig refused to let that irritate her. “Thank you.”
What’s going on? Westley asked, his mind racing with trepidation he wasn’t able to hide from her.
Please trust me, she replied.
“He should not trust you,” Thor boomed, inserting himself into their private conversation. How he was doing that, Solveig didn’t know.
“Why not? She’s my mate,” Westley finally spoke, his emotions swelling.
He was wary, but not of her.
“She did not tell you who I am.”
Westley scoffed and Solveig stiffened. “She was bound, I presume, by you.”
Solveig got to her feet, tired of kneeling. Westley stood beside her, but she took half a step in front of him as if she could shield him from her father. He would have none of that, standing at her side.
“Have you come to release me from my chains?” Thor asked.
“No, I’ve come for information and information alone,” Solveig said firmly.
Thor could never be removed from his chains. He was dangerous. It had taken them a while to recognise the corruption rooted in her father’s soul.
The myths painted him as this almighty being—the saviour of the realms, the good that balanced evil. But legends were not truth.
Maybe he was, once. But Ragnarok had changed all the Aesir who’d survived. Thor had become cruel and cunning, full of pride and the belief that he should rule the world.
When the truth of his character was revealed, Solveig and her mothers had trapped him by wielding his own magic against him. They’d taken a page out of legends and used a trick Loki had played on Thor. They transformed a beast into Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged horse.
So jealous was Thor of Odin’s horse that he meant to catch it for himself, leading him directly to Hel.
His magic was sapped the moment his feet touched the shore, and they were able to incapacitate him.
Should his chains ever be removed, Solveig suspected that whatever power Ragnvald had—whatever force allowed for the use of magic on the once-dead realm—would unleash Thor’s power as well.
That could not happen—the gods could not be trusted.
Thor scoffed. “What information do you think I have?”
“We think you are the key to the dark magic Ragnvald is using.”
“Ragnvald.” Thor screwed up his face like he was trying to recall the name. “Ragnvald. Ah yes, my beloved King of Hel.”
“Cut the act, Thor,” Westley snapped. Apparently his patience had run out. Solveig couldn’t blame him. Being kept in the dark for any purpose was never a good feeling.
“My, my. No more respect from our devout prince?” Thor laughed without humour. “How many prayers have you whispered to me over your centuries? How many acts of horror have you committed in my name?”
Westley bristled, and Solveig had to put a hand on his arm before he could do anything to jeopardise this mission.
He’s baiting you, she said, though Thor had already proved able to hear their silent conversations.
I know.
“Since you have not yet mated, you are useless to me,” Thor said, licking his lower lip. “Even if I bait you into attacking me, only someone with my blood, Solveig’s blood, would be able to release me. So no, I’m not baiting you—it’s only for my own enjoyment. I’ve had so little, you know.”
Solveig’s mind emptied. Stupid, stupid. She couldn’t think of it, could not allow the thoughts to cross her mind and hoped Westley was doing the same.
Thor was wrong.
Though they hadn’t mated, Westley had tasted her blood, and recently.
She tried not to think about it, but her body reacted, the threat to her mate too severe to hide her reaction.
Westley stiffened as her thoughts trickled into his head—her blood flowed through his veins.
She tried not to move her hand to the fresh marks Westley had given her, currently concealed by the collar of her leathers.
Thor’s brows rose and a cruel smile played on his lips.
“Very interesting indeed.” He stepped forward but didn’t get far.
It wasn’t the chains that stopped his approach.
A golden blade wrapped around the base of his neck, halting him. True terror filled his eyes as the blade pricked his skin. There were very few weapons that could pierce the skin of a god. And if he died in Hel, he would cease to exist, eliminating one of the last of the Aesir—the race of the gods.
A dark fist curled around the dagger’s ornate hilt. Thor stepped fully into the light and with him, his handler.
“Gerrie?” Solveig asked, confusion flushing out all other thoughts. “What are you doing?” Her father may be evil, but she didn’t want him dead.
Gerrie’s eyes were guarded as she fished something out of her pocket with her free hand. It was a vial of gold liquid with a single drop of red at the bottom.
“Forgive me, Solveig,” she whispered, downing the contents.