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Agnarr has come.

“That’s a lie you’ve been told,” Gwyn begins. She seems to be the only one in the room capable of moving, and she doesn’t notice it. “For control,” she continues before trailing off. Despite my father’s dried blood on her hands, she holds a fistful of grapes, and though she’s realized everyone is frozen in place, she pops a couple into her mouth anyway. Speaking through a mouthful of fruit, she mumbles, “Well, fuck.”

“Hvar er hún?”Where is she?

Agnarr’s voice is far softer than I would have thought. Perhaps from disuse or perhaps the man I’d created in my head—feared my whole life—is nothing like what I’d imagined.

“Roman, do you know what he just said?” Gwyn asks, and I sense her body shift closer. I can smell her beneath my father’s blood. Rich, cinnamon apple—warm and inviting. She’s too fucking close.

It doesn’t matter that I would’ve been her sword only an hour ago. To use me as a shield after everything she’s done? Brazen fucking bitch.

“Oh, right, you can’t talk.” She huffs a laugh, and I think perhaps she’s having a mental break. But then I remember I don’t fucking know her at all; this could just be her default. Had any of it been true?

Crowding me, she keeps muttering to herself, no longer fearless. “Okay, uh, well. My commands aren’t working, and I’m sure he’s angry. Maybe I, well, I didn’t expect…I can’t do this on my own,” she whispers.

“Hvar er hún?” Agnarr yells again, and this time, his ferocity is similar to what I’d expected. His footsteps are slow as he approaches, lured past the pile of headless bodies, and his bare feet are just visible in my field of vision as they step into the pool of Bjorn’s blood. He’s an inch away from Margot, and I think of Kathleen. The woman who’d tried to wake Agnarr and instead had been his first drink. If his thirst isn’t quenched, if he still needs to drink, there won’t be anything I can do for my friend. She can’t see him since she’s facing me, but her eyes dart left and right, terrified. Her blonde hair is disheveled and there’s blood on her face, and she looks nothing like herself.

Gwyn has made fools of us all.

Agnarr kneels over my father. Waist length, white-blond hair settles into the blood, drawing the sanguine fluid through his strands. He’s shirtless, and he’s so thin I can count each rib. The shorts he wears look like something out of a Victorian era textbook, and I think perhaps they actually may be. I know Agnarr Slumbered before the compound was built, and Bjorn relocated him for protection, so perhaps his clothes are just that fucking old.

“Gamall fjandmaður,” he says in that same quiet way from before, though I believe his pronunciation is a bit different than my father’s was. I am much better at my mother’s tongue than Bjorn’s, so it takes me a moment to translate the meaning.Old foe.

“Hvar er hún?” Agnarr whispers, as if he’s speaking to himself. Gwyn’s breathing is far too loud, and I can feel her heat on my spine. When Agnarr’s thin face turns toward us, his eyes flicking over my shoulder toward Gwyn, I hate that a growl tears out of me on instinct. It’s the only sound I’ve made since Agnarr took control, and I wish I could fucking take it back.

He stands to his full height, nearing my own, and then walks slowly toward us. His feet leave prints as he approaches, each step making a sucking sound as flesh separates from the blood he tracks behind him. I can’t find it in myself to wonder what he’s going to do. Is he going to kill her? Kill us all? Does it even fucking matter?

As long as I get to watch Gwyn take her final breath, I don’t give a flying fuck what happens.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers against my back. “I can’t take him by myself, Roman. I—I’m sorry. In case he kills me, I never meant?—”

My legs buckle, and I sink to the ground by no choice of my own. I can’t see Gwyn, but I feel the sheer fabric of her dress as it grazes my back. Soft and flowing, it’s a caress, and I grit my teeth. She’s shaking, and I remind myself the only reason I care is because if Agnarr kills her, I doubt I’ll see my brother ever again.

Dully, I struggle with the thought. It’s surreal to even think it possible. It must be the shock of it all that makes me think Gwyn has given me a gift. If she’s given me anything, it’s likely a curse.

“Hvar er hún?” Agnarr asks, and when Gwyn responds, I’m grateful my surprised laugh isn’t able to spill past my lips.

“You’re like a broken record. Can you say anything else?” For someone shaking and sounding terrified only a moment ago, she seems thoughtless. Unbothered.

Because she’s a fucking liar. An actress for the goddamn ages.

She screeches as she stumbles forward, and I think Agnarr must have forced the movement. Why hadn’t he done it sooner? Why hadn’t he controlled her with the rest of us? Sitting on the ground, I have to strain my eyes to watch.

“Hvar er hún, dóttir?” My heart starts beating faster when I realize she wasn’t lying about being his child. No fucking wonder she’s as strong as she is. How could he possibly know what she is to him? Agnarr’s hand, pale and thin, gently caresses her bare shoulder, pulling the sleeve of her dress back up. The touch is tender, almost reverent, and I don’t know what the fuck to make of it.

Hopefully he kills her, and I can stop caring.

“Hvar er mamma þín?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she responds, and her honey eyes meet mine for only a second. Before she looks away from me, his hand is on her neck—lifting her. Her hands scramble to his, fingertips digging into his grip.

“Where is your mother?” he asks, accent thick but no less intelligible. Because of his waif-like appearance, I can see the detailed muscle in his biceps as it flexes, holding her aloft. Gwyn’s feet kick out as he strangles her, narrowly missing the side of my head.

“Dead,” she chokes out, and he instantly drops her. She flails, not even bothering to catch herself. Her torso lands on my legs, and her face smacks into the ground. “I killed her when I was born.”

“Dead?” he repeats as he looks down his thin nose at her. There is a faint likeness in their facial structure—oval faces and high cheekbones. He sneers, and I don’t see her in him anymore. He scoffs as he spits out the word in Icelandic. “Dauður.”

And then he’s gone.