Page 120 of Fallen Gods

Helmet!

Someone emerges from the house with it: a massive, blackened helmet. It takes two people to carry—how heavy is that thing? It’s streaked with blue paint and battle scars, dented like it’s seen multiple wars and lived to tell the stories. The thing radiates wrongness. The closer it gets, the tighter my chest feels until it hurts to breathe.

The air is permeated with the smell of incense and blood mixed tightly together. The rumbling timbre of Aric’s voice carries from his spot next to Rowen. I can’t decipher what he’s saying, but I feel each word like a hammer against my chest.

No, not a hammer.

A drum.

A war cry.

Reeve hoists it high into the air, voice booming like a priest at some ancient ceremony. “Every new student honors the fallen Gods and Giants. Tonight we welcome Rey Stjerne to do thehonors by drinking of Ymir’s helmet.” He leans down and shakes his head. “Don’t worry—it’s not really Ymir’s helmet. Just some relic dug up in Asia a few hundred years ago. Dude must have been massive, but let us keep our Endir folklore.”

He lifts his arms to the crowd once more while I’m having an internal meltdown just hearing him reference Ymir’s name. Sigurd would impale him with his sword before letting drunk college students drink from his helmet. “Let’s hear it!”

Cheers. Stomping. The ground vibrates under my feet.

My laugh is too sharp. “This kind of feels like hazing.”

“No,” Reeve purrs, eyes catching the firelight as he shouts. “It’s Endir tradition.”

I suddenly feel Aric behind me. “Just another ancestral thing from Sigurd. Add it to the list.”

I elbow him. “Dug up in Asia, huh? How sanitary is this thing?”

He laughs, and it wraps around me like a warm hug I don’t deserve. Genuine. Gods help me, it’s beautiful.

Dark hair falling in uneven waves, mahogany eyes sparking even in the shadows, that strong, stubborn jaw catching the glow of the patio lights—he’s all sharp edges and impossible perfection, carved from something too ancient and too dangerous to ever belong here, to ever stay hidden or contained.

The crowd pushes me forward, pulling me from my haze. My hands close on the helmet’s cold edges, and sorrow punches into my chest so hard I stagger. Justice. Rage. Loss. It’s screaming. Can’t they hear it?

Aric leans close, whisper warm against my ear. “Skål, little Valkyrie.”

Cheers. It means cheers.

Chills run down my spine.

I want his mouth to linger just a little bit longer.

Sadly, he backs away. I turn and look inside. The liquid there reeks of strong alcohol—mead, whiskey, and something metallic,copper-sweet. Blood? I gag at the thought, but the crowd’s chanting, and I realize this at least gives me the opportunity to get back into the house and find the rune.

So I tip it back. The mixture burns down my throat, spilling over my chin. The helmet’s weight bows my arms, like it wants to crush me to my knees. Wow, how’s that for symbolism.

The cheering heightens. Aric steadies me with a hand at my back, sending tiny sparks up my body that should be cold but instead only fuel the heat. My knees nearly buckle from his touch. His eyes lock in on my mouth, his tongue swiping his lower lip like he’s imagining it’s mine. I may not survive him tonight.

The crowd surges, chanting his name now. Aric groans but lifts the helmet with one hand. He tips it back, grimacing like he’s drinking molten glass.

“Delicious,” he mutters, wiping his mouth. “Straight from Sigurd’s finest collection of horrors.”

Nice touch.

“Speaking of,” I whisper so only he can hear. Then, louder, “I’m not feeling so well. Beer before liquor and all that. I think I need to go inside.” Just for good measure, I push out just enough with my Aethercall that the crowd collectively moves on to more interesting things.

And nobody even seems to notice as we make our way back to the house.

Once inside, though, Aric stops in the living room. “Hey. C’mere,” he murmurs. We fall back, him into a chair, me into his lap. His hands catch my hips, grip tight, frost blooming under his fingers. My breath escapes in a gasp, his groan low and guttural.

“Wait,” I say. “What about the rune?”