Page 36

Náli met his gaze only briefly, long enough to see the determination there – a chilling sort of determination not entirely human – and then scanned the others’ faces. Erik, he quickly saw, was going to be the sticking point.

Erik turned to face Ragnar as he clinked to a halt, wind catching his cloak and hair in a dramatic display that looked purposeful, but which Náli knew wasn’t: Erik didn’t try to look like a king from a fairy tale, but managed effortlessly all the same.

Ragnar tossed his head to shift his hair off his face, that familiar smug gleam in his eyes, despite his captivity.

“Cousin,” Ragnar greeted. “It’s good to see you again, finally.”

Náli didn’t know why Erik had never learned how to play Ragnar’s game. The man didn’t have a nonchalant bone in his body, unfortunately, and so he’d never been able to shrug, and cut cunning looks through his lashes, and thus thwart his cousin’s attempts to rile him. He always got riled, and Ragnar always enjoyed it, even in chains.

This morning was no exception.

“Do you understand how lucky you are?” Erik asked, voice a low, displeased rumble. “If it were up to me, I’d have your head and be done with it.”

“Aw. Would you do it yourself? I bet you’d enjoy that.”

Leif gave a sharp yank on the chains he held, and snatched Ragnar’s head back. He made a choking sound – and then emitted a whine that couldn’t possibly have come from a human throat.

Náli felt his brows go up, and saw his surprise echoed on Oliver and Tessa’s faces.

“Erik,” Náli said. “Perhaps it would be best if we got things over with.” When Erik turned to him, he added, “If the plan’s still moving forward, that is.”

Erik worked through a moment’s obvious anguish, then jerked a nod and stepped away, trailing a large, proprietary hand across Oliver’s shoulders as he went.

Leif said, “Are you ready?”

Náli’s next breath was a little tighter and more difficult. “Yes. Do you have him well in-hand?”

Ragnar grinned nastily. “Frightened, little witch?”

Snow crunched as Mattias started forward.

Náli schooled his expression to one of boredom, and held up a hand, staying Mattias. To Ragnar, he said, “Only that your stench will rub off on me if you stand too close. Oliver. Tessa.”

The cousins stepped forward so that the three of them stood in a close triangle. Their breath steamed through parted lips, as quick and anxious as his own.

“I need a strand of his hair,” Náli said.

“My – ow!”

Leif leaned in and dropped a few golden strands into Náli’s open palm, which he then wound round the torq.

“Oliver,” Náli prompted, and Oliver took the ring from him, so that Náli could draw his ceremonial dagger, and carve blood from his own palm. The sting of it was old and long-familiar; the scar tissue had built up over the years, and he had to press harder and harder each time with the tip of the knife to break the skin.

Blood welled up in bright pearls, and he gathered it on his finger to swipe on Oliver and Tessa’s palms.

“Now.” Still bleeding, he sheathed his dagger and gripped the torq again. They all did, blood to shiny silver. “Just as we discussed.” He met their gazes in turn, and found their blue eyes brimming with determination. “Good.”

He closed his eyes.

The well beckoned; it dragged at the diamond around his throat, and hooked its cold fingers between his ribs. Dead voices rushed up to the very forefront of his mind, dozens, hundreds, overlapping in ugly, pained whispers.

No. He gritted his teeth and gripped the torq hard. Pushed back against the inexorable tug of his birth magic, of his homeland, his curse. He felt the sweat bloom on his brow, and under his arms; his chest ached; the chain around his neck pulled with strangling pressure. His awareness was nothing but water, that awful, murky white water down in the well…

NO. He needed something to catch onto – something that could drag him out of his spiral.

A sound cut through the veil: a trilling purr. A sound of pipes that vibrated like a happy cat. A sound he’d never before heard in the well. Cool air rushed across the back of his neck, and something solid pressed at his side.

Valgrind.