Page 144 of Fallen Gods

The crowd goes silent around us when we arrive. At first I think it’s because we’re dressed so extravagantly, but they’re looking behind us, awe on their faces.

When I turn, I no longer have to wonder about what’s captured their attention, because Odinfather has arrived.

And he looks every inch the God he is.

Chapter Seventy-Three

Rey

The whispers grow louder, and I know why. Father rarely attends events unless he’s the one hosting. He’s notorious for being secretive. I might be sick before the night ends.

Odin is in tall, polished boots that glint like obsidian, a tailored black suit that drapes like heavy armor, and a thick gold chain worked with runes across the front. His coat falls to his calves. It’s lined with fur, blood still splattered on parts of it, and I just know—he hunted down his own costume on purpose as a taunt to Sigurd himself. The runes may be turned off tonight, but even if they weren’t, they couldn’t hold Odin.

Every inch of him screams power. His hair is slicked back, and from his white beard dangle several intricate silver beads. One stands out among the rest, right in the middle, holding the lower part of his braided beard together.

A silver Mjölnir replica.

He’s dressed like the type of man who could whisper into the void and it would come across like a scream.

Mafia.

Norse God.

Predator.

And my father.

“Old friend.” Sigurd’s voice resonates as he steps out of the crowd to greet my father. People divide like the Red freaking Sea as Sigurd walks.

He’s wearing the head of an elk. Its skull is massive, the antlers stretching wide enough that they scrape against the tops of his shoulders and threaten to hook the torches lining the pathway from the parking lot to the field. Hollow sockets leer above hisown eyes, the bone bleached and cracked with age. Every ridge is etched with runes that seem to pulse faintly in the torchlight.

You’d think he was afraid Father was going to dismember him. I shouldn’t smile, but I do. You can take the hunter out of the Hunt, but you can’t take the Hunt out of the hunter.

Some things are bred into you.

Beneath the crown of antlers, Sigurd’s face is streaked with ash and white paint, crisp lines drawn down his jaw to sharpen the edges of his already brutally handsome features.

The sheer weight of their presence presses down on the crowd. Both look like they’re not playing dress-up for some student ritual. They look like the men who started it themselves and lived to tell the tale.

When Sigurd lowers his head, the antlers cut a stark silhouette against the firelit sky. I feel the sudden heavy need to bow my head. It’s strange, because I’ve never once felt like this before in his presence. Maybe it’s because tonight, I can’t help but acknowledge that Ymir was first.

“Ymir is formidable when he draws his own power in,” murmurs Reeve. Right. The runes being down tonight benefits him, too.

“The wind,” Reeve continues under his breath. “Nature cannot help but recognize its creator—it is more unnatural to stay still than it is to fall to your knees in worship of Ymir.”

Aric overhears Reeve. I can tell by the way his shoulders tense.

I don’t think the others do, though; I think they’re too entranced, like everyone else. Slowly, the music picks up again. My father and Sigurd walk together.

Mortal enemies.

Both of them killers.

They reach the front of the football field, where the rest of the alumni and parents are sitting at round tables arrayed before a massive stage. If it wasn’t for the scoreboard and the sponsorbanners hanging along the stands, I’d think we were assembling in an ancient stadium.

My father sits to the right of the stage while Sigurd takes the stairs and moves to the podium.

“Oh, shit,” Reeve mumbles. “Another microphone.”