AMY PENNZA
First edition published by
Scribble Pretty Books November 2019
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Copyright © 2019 by Amy Pennza
Cover design by Andreea Vraciu
Edited by Kimberly Dawn
All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
Formydaughter,Priscilla.Onedayit’llbeyournameonacover.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Amy Pennza
CONTENTS
Igripped the door handle and gazed at the forest zipping by the car window. My stomach did a lazy flip, like a slimy sea creature flopping over. Saliva pooled in my mouth. I swallowed and took shallow breaths through my nose.
It didn’t help. Any second now, I was going to lose my battle with nausea and barf all over the car.
“Is something wrong?”
The deep, masculine voice came from the seat across from me. Its owner pegged me with a look that was somehow both bored and irritated.
I swallowed again. “Just a little car sick, my lord.”
Harald Berregaard raised a white-blond eyebrow. “Car sick.” His eyebrow continued to hold at a precise angle above his icy blue eyes. The pale color was striking enough on its own, but it was made even more so against the stark purity of his long platinum hair.
He didn’t like it. At least that’s what the maids at Berregaard Manor whispered behind his back. “You’ll never see Lord Harald with his hair unbound,” they said.
They could be wrong. Servants whispered all kinds of things. Maybe he just didn’t like hair in his face. Maybe he thought the blond made him seem less warrior-like.
Or maybe he hated seeing the same coloring reflected back at him every time he looked at me.
His lips compressed in a tight, hard line, and I realized he was waiting for me to answer.
“Ah, yes.” I cleared my throat. The car hit a bump. My stomach sloshed, and I hid a wince. “A little car sick,” I finished weakly.
Disgust flickered across his features. He faced forward, dismissing me. “We’ll be there shortly.”
The creature in my stomach turned into a thousand tiny butterflies. The prospect of finally getting out of the car was great and all, but it also meant arriving at our destination. In the movies, road trips always end with a visit to a theme park or maybe the Grand Canyon.
This one? Yeah, there was no Disney World vacation waiting for me.
The car hit another bump. I clutched the door handle. Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Couldn’t we have just opened a portal?”
This time, Harald’s look was all irritation. When he spoke, his words were even and precise, each one like a verbal lash. “That you even ask such a thing is precisely why I’m sending you to the Academy, Elin.”
“I didn’t—”
“This penchant for cutting corners, for taking the easy way out, is most unbecoming.” His voice got lower and quieter as he spoke—a sign he was truly angry. Most people yelled when they were upset. Harald Berregaard got deadly quiet. At his most furious, he spoke in a menacing whisper.
I opened my mouth to defend myself, but he talked over me.
“I thought hiring an extra tutor might give you the push you needed.” Bitterness made his accent more pronounced, his English more clipped than usual. “Clearly, I was wrong. You are determined to remain unfocused, emotional, and flighty.”
Likeyourmother. He didn’t say the words, but they floated in the air nevertheless.
Anger surged in my chest—a welcome change from the nausea. I folded my hands in my lap and met his gaze straight on. Dared to lift
my chin a little. “I only asked why we couldn’t use a portal. I don’t think that makes me flighty.”
His expression didn’t change. He had too much control for that. But the subtle glint in his eye told me he’d noted the lifted chin and didn’t like it. His response was sharper than the longsword leaning against the seat near his knee. “The Academy is like any other quest. When a berserker accepts a quest, he doesn’t take shortcuts. This is one of first things you should have learned.”
“Then maybe you should have hired better tutors.” As soon as I said it, I wanted to stuff the words back in my mouth. But it was too late. My throat went dry. Now he was going to kill me. I couldn’t help glancing at his sword. A horrible scene flickered through my mind—him pulling the blade from the scabbard and chopping my head off. Maybe he’d display it from the gates of Berregaard Manor so passersby would know not to sass Lord Harald. Not that anyone ever did. Apparently, I was the only person stupid enough to do that.
I held my breath, waiting for him to lash out.
But he didn’t. He just stared, the weight of his displeasure like an icy hand extending across the space between our seats. The muscle ticking in his jaw was his only concession to rage.
Which was, of course, the reason he was revered by berserkers. As soon as their children were old enough to walk, mothers put a sword in their hands and told them, “May you be like Lord Harald, wise and restrained!”
Except my mother never told me that. She never got the chance.
The silence stretched. The fine hairs on my arms lifted as Harald continued to stare. My pulse thumped in my ears. Desperate to break the uncomfortable spell, I opened my mouth—
“My lord?” The driver’s voice came from a small speaker in the panel behind my head.
Harald answered without breaking eye contact. “Yes?”
“We’re approaching the gates.”
“Thank you, Nils.”
There was a soft click, which meant the speaker was off, and Harald and I were free to resume our staring contest.
His expression shifted. The scathing disapproval was still there, but now there was something else . . . something that might have been satisfaction. He settled back in his seat, and his tone became dismissive. Almost bored. “You’re insolent.” He gestured out the window. “The academy will remedy that.”
I followed the direction he pointed—and any reply I might have offered was snatched from my brain as a looming structure filled my vision.
Bjørneskalle Castle. Seat of the Rage Lords and home to the Berserker Academy. I’d seen it just once before, when I made my first offering to Odin as a child. Most of the time, places that seemed massive in childhood tend to shrink when viewed again as an adult.
Bjørneskalle didn’t suffer from that phenomenon. Twelve stories of weatherworn stone soared against a bright blue sky. The main keep was built into the shape of a rectangle, its two long sides decorated with twin spiraling towers—one taller than the other—and row after row of windows. Dozens of chimneys dotted the roof, their edges adorned with grimacing gargoyles. Window turrets poked from the four corners. Smaller stone structures nestled at the castle’s base. Halfway between the front gates and the castle proper stood a lone round tower. Unlike the others, this one was plain, with a sheared-off roof.
The Dragon Tower. My eyes widened as I took it in. Legend said it was the oldest part of the castle—even older than the keep itself. Seeing it, I believed it. The stone was darker, the individual blocks somehow rougher. Every berserker child knew the saga of the Dragon Tower. Ulfrik, the first berserker king, had built it for his dragon, Fridgeir—a fearsome beast that could fly high enough to reach Odin’s hall.
Some claimed the current berserker king still rode a descendant of Fridgeir. I was more inclined to think he traveled by private jet like every other celebrity, Mythical or human. But considering no one had seen King Magnus in over a decade, it was tough to fact-check the story.
The road curved, bringing the castle wall into view. It ran the entire perimeter of the castle until it connected with the cliffs that
made up Bjørneskalle Fjord.
Most walls are designed to keep people out. Not this one. The wall around Bjørneskalle was there to keep people in.
As the car rounded the final curve leading to the gates, a flock of birds lifted from the castle roof and wheeled into the sky. Black as night, they streaked across the blue like arrows. One broke formation, dipped to the fjord, and dragged a talon through the dark blue water, raising white spray in its wake.
“Ravens,” Harald said.
When I looked at him, he was watching me, his pale eyes emotionless once more.
“They alert the headmaster when someone approaches the gates,” he added.
Oh. Well, that was nice. Sort of like guard dogs or a security force—
“As well as anytime a student dies.”
Never mind.
I looked back out the window as my stomach resumed pitching and rolling. The road curved again, obscuring the gates and part of the castle. I focused on the horizon. That’s what my old nanny, Fiona, always said to do whenever I felt sick in the car. “Jistkeepyer gaze oan th’trees, lass. ’At willcalmyer bellyuntilIcangiea wee biscuitinye.”
That was Fiona’s solution for everything—biscuits slathered in butter and honey. Brownies were like that—forever baking and cleaning. If I scraped my knee during sword practice, she clucked her tongue and pulled a biscuit from her apron pocket. When reciting the sagas for hours gave me headaches, she pushed a biscuit at me. The time Harald banished me from the great hall for giggling at a mouse running under the tables, she tapped on my door at midnight with a basket of fresh baked biscuits, cheese, and ham.
It was the only time I saw her look angry. Her normally cheerful face with its upturned nose and layers of wrinkles had been scrunched into a scowl, her bright brown eyes narrowed and dull.
“What is it?” I’d said, taking the basket from her.
She’d shaken her head, her brown curls bouncing under her white cap.
I’d leaned against my doorframe, my arms folded. “Fiona.”
As if she couldn’t hold in her words anymore, she spoke in a low, aggravated burst. “Punishin’ a bairn for laughin’. It isnae right.”
“Berserkers don’t laugh.”
She snorted. Then her eyes softened. The anger fled, replaced with something soft and sad. “Och. Everyone laughs, lass. Some jist choose tae forget how.”
The car slowed, pulling me out of my memories. From outside came a long, dull groan—like a giant shuffling his feet along the ground. Then we picked up speed again. A square, stone tower slid past my window, and I realized the noise came from the gates opening for our arrival.
We were at an angle now as we drove up and up and up, the narrow road following the curve of the castle’s outer wall. Buildings passed, each one built from the same gray stone as the castle. A flash of green caught my eye, and I leaned forward so I could crane my neck toward the source.
It was a flat, square field tucked between two buildings, the outer edges bordered by wooden stands. Pennants snapped in the wind atop striped poles positioned at the corners. In the middle of the field, several pairs of swordsmen sparred. Male and female, they wielded long broadswords like the one at Harald’s knee.
Berserkers. Despite the chill of early September, most wore tank tops or sleeveless leather jerkins.
Yep, definitely berserkers. I rubbed my suddenly damp palms on my jeans.
As we passed, a young woman forced her opponent to one knee. As he struggled to recover, she spun and pinned me with a look. Even with the distance between us, her amethyst eyes were like two purple chips in her pale face. Her long black hair was plaited around her crown, then allowed to trail down her back in a ponytail even Beyoncé would envy. Whereas the others on the field wore black, her jerkin was a rich burgundy.
I tried for a smile.
Her expression didn’t change. Just before the field passed out of view, she whirled, black hair swinging.
I sat back in my seat. What was that?
I didn’t have time to analyze it, though, because the car slowed to a stop. Within seconds, Nils was at my door, one fist over his chest.
“Madam.”
I climbed out and gave him a look. I really wished he wouldn’t call me that. No one else at Berregaard Manor did. Of course, they weren’t the son of a disgraced berserker who abandoned his family and ran off with a siren. Nils was desperate to rehab his family’s good name, so he did whatever he could to ingratiate himself with Harald.
I could have told him that sucking up to me wasn’t a smart way to go about it.
Of course, now wasn’t the time. Not with Harald exiting the car. I settled for bumping Nils’ shoulder. “Hey, I thought you were coming to this place with me.” I glanced around the stone courtyard, then up at the castle towering above us. My teeth threatened to chatter, so I clenched my jaw.
Nils dropped his stern expression. For a moment, the boy I remembered peeked out of his brown eyes. For a couple years, I’d thought his steady, wholesome handsomeness was what I wanted. “I know, Eely,” he said, using my childhood nickname. “I wanted to.” He hesitated, then added under his breath, “Lord Harald said I need permission from my dad first.”
“Do you know where he is?” I whispered. I glanced over my shoulder. Harald rounded the back of the car, his black leather coat flapping around his ankles as he buckled his sword in place.
Color entered Nils’ cheeks. “Somewhere in the Caribbean.”
“With your stepmother?”
“With a harlot,” Harald said behind me.
I turned. He loomed over me, his face hard. A faint breeze stirred his hair, making long white strands whip against one leather-clad elbow. Without taking his eyes off me, he addressed Nils.
“Don’t worry, son. Your father isn’t the first berserker to be lured by a conniving female. A trait particularly common among that sex, I’m afraid.”
I covered my mouth like I was sharing a secret with Nils. “Someone must get a lot of left swipes on Tinder.”
His lips twitched.
Harald frowned, a mix of anger and confusion playing over his features.
Before he could question me, ringing footsteps drew our attention. A young man approached.
Or at least he appeared young. With most Mythicals, it was almost impossible to guess chronological age.
As he drew near, I was confident he was exactly as young as he looked—more boy than man, really. Fiona had taught me to look in the eyes. That old saying about the eyes being the window to the soul? It was pretty accurate.
This guy had young eyes—and a general attitude of someone trying to present themselves as authoritative but falling short. He was just a little too stiff. His stern demeanor just a little too forced. He was dressed like the swordsmen on the training field, in leather pants and a sleeveless jerkin that fell to his upper thighs. Like the black-haired girl, his was burgundy. And he must have never missed an arm day, because his biceps would’ve made Madonna jealous. His features were regular and even, his hair a light brown cut close to his scalp, his eyes an unremarkable blue.
When he reached us, he snapped his heels together, put a fist to his chest, and gave a short bow. “Lord Harald, it’s an honor to receive you at Bjørneskalle.”
Harald returned the salute, then clapped the boy’s shoulder. “It’s good to be back, even if just for a short time. Are any of the other lords in residence?”
“No, my lord.” The boy hesitated. “Term began two weeks ago. If I’d known you wished to see them, I would have—”
“Don’t mention it.” Harald waved off the explanation. His voice tightened. “My apologies for our tardiness. Elin was supposed to
train at home, but her tutor resigned his post.” He looked at me. “One of several to have done so.”
The boy turned to me. “You’re Elin?”
“Yes.”
“Welcome to the Berserker Academy. I’m Olaf.”
I waited for him to add “and I like warm hugs!” When he didn’t, I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”
My heart jumped into my throat. I looked between him and Harald. “Right now?”
Olaf spoke as if he hadn’t heard the panic in my voice. “You’re permitted one bag.” He glanced at Nils. “Your man here can leave it in the courtyard. Someone will fetch it later . . . after it’s been inspected.”
They were going to search my stuff? I did a quick mental review of everything I’d packed. Was it like the TSA, where you had to put everything in travel-size bottles? Whomever came up with that rule had no clue how much conditioner it took to tame hair like mine. The only thing standing between me and troll status was an arsenal of John Mitchell products.
Nils fetched my duffel from the trunk and set it on the ground.
“This way,” Olaf said. He turned on his heel and started toward the castle.
“W-Wait!” The plea burst from me before I could stop it. My stomach sloshed, and this time it wasn’t from car sickness.
Olaf stopped and gave me a perplexed look over his shoulder.
I looked at Harald, all my anger and resentment draining away at the prospect of leaving my old life behind and stepping into something entirely unknown. He was my only link to the familiar. “What about the oath-taking?”
“What about it?”
“You . . .” I licked my lips. “Aren’t you staying for it?”
He fiddled with the cuff of his coat, and his tone was absent when he said, “I’ve matters to attend to at the manor. Petitions and such.”
That was more important than watching me take a blood oath? Out of the corner of my eye, Nils lowered his head.
Stop now. Juststop. A little voice in my head urged me to shut up and walk away. But I couldn’t. I stepped closer to Harald, so he couldn’t avoid looking at me.
“It’s my first oath.” I swung a hand toward the castle. “I’m taking a vow to die if I fail out of this place.”
Harald put a hand on his sword hilt. A heartbeat passed . . . and another. It was like the courtyard held its breath. His handsome features remained unmoved. But his eyes glinted. “Then I suggest you don’t fail.”
It was like a punch in the gut. I sucked in a breath. For a second, my throat burned.
Then the burning . . . shifted.
All at once, there was a ball of energy in my chest a small, seething sun that built and built, destroying itself and then starting anew. Higher and higher. More and more. I gritted my teeth. My skin ached.
Somewhere in the distance, lightning struck. The sky behind the castle flared white-hot, the clouds forked with electricity.
My hair lifted away from my head, the platinum waves floating as if suspended underwater. My body was frozen. Thunder cracked.
“Elin.”
The voice came from far away. As if it, too, was underwater. But it was a kind voice. In some dim, foggy corner of my brain, I recognized it.
The ball contracted, becoming smaller and more concentrated. Moredangerous.
I clenched my fists. Energy sizzled along my veins. I stared at Harald. I couldn’t have looked away if I tried. He regarded me with his usual detachment, his pale gaze almost bored.
More lightning flashed. A second later, thunder boomed. The ground vibrated beneath my feet. The power was too much for me to hold. Like a snake flicking its tongue, it tested the air, seeking release.
“Elin!”
The voice again. Louder this time. I tried to turn my head.
“ELIN!”
Something struck my shoulder. I stumbled sideways. The spell broke. As if someone flipped a switch, the electricity shrank and dimmed. The ball imploded. The energy unraveled.
I staggered, and my hip bumped the car. I braced a hand against the door. My heart galloped in my chest, making my pulse pound in my neck.
Nils stepped forward, worry in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
My ears rang. I let my eyelids flutter shut for a moment while I caught my breath.
“Elin?”
I opened my eyes. For a second, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself at Nils. To feel the familiar comfort of strong arms and a broad chest.
But we weren’t in the barn at Berregaard Manor. It wasn’t a lazy summer day, and we weren’t sixteen anymore.
“Yes.” My voice came out as a rasp, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes. Thank you, Nils.”
His big hands twitched, like he might reach for me. But then he seemed to catch himself. He eased back and nodded.
A stony silence drifted over the courtyard. I straightened. Harald and Olaf watched me, twin looks of disapproval on their faces.
“I . . .” What could I say? I hadn’t attended a single class, and I already had a failing grade.
Harald let the weight of his stare bore into me for several more seconds. Finally, he looked at Olaf. “I leave her in your hands. You have your work cut out for you. As you can see, she has few redeeming qualities.”
Olaf inclined his head.
“Give your father my regards.” Harald swept his coat around his body and turned toward the car. Nils sprang into action and opened the door.
At the mention of his father, Olaf’s dour face brightened. “I will, my lord. He just celebrated his thousandth kill.”
Harald froze, his shoulders taut. Slowly, he faced Olaf. It was a moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice held a strange undercurrent. “Is that so?”
The light left Olaf’s eyes. He spoke in a halting voice, as if he wasn’t sure how to reply. “Ah, yes, my lord. Just last month.”
“Well.” Harald’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A long life to him, then.”
“Y-Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
Harald tucked his sword against his leg and climbed into the car. Nils shut the door behind him and turned to me, his eyes anxious.
“You sure you’re okay?”
The car window lowered halfway. “Nils.” Harald’s voice was sharp. “I don’t want to delay.”
“I’m fine,” I told Nils.
His expression said he didn’t believe me, but he put his fist over his heart and offered me a bow. “Farewell, Elin.”
I repeated the gesture. “Farewell, Nils.”
Even with Harald and Olaf looking on, he dared to give me a wink. He lowered his voice. “Give ‘em hell, Eely.” He spun and hurried around the front of the car.
I was still smiling when the feeling of being watched made my skin prickle. I turned my head.
Harald regarded me, his eyes cold. Being seated meant he was forced to look up to meet my gaze.
Nils started the car.
Fewredeemingqualities.
The lower half of the window reflected my face, showing my platinum hair and ice blue eyes. I lifted my gaze to Harald’s.
He faced forward, dismissing me.
As the car pulled away, I put my fist over my heart and made a mocking bow.
“Farewell, Father.”
The inside of the castle was just as impressive as the outside— and as big as I remembered. The ceilings soared overhead, and the walls were decorated with statues and gilt framed paintings. I could have spent hours looking at them.
Unfortunately, Olaf wasn’t interested in being a tour guide.
I lengthened my stride to keep up with him as he hurried up the steps leading to a set of massive wooden doors. The site of them jogged my memory.
TheGreatHall. Legend said it was the largest in Europe, its iron chandeliers lit with everlasting flames blown to life by ifrits. When I’d made my offering to Odin, I’d spent most of the time staring at the strange, mesmerizing light. My childhood visit to Bjørneskalle was largely a blur, but the Great Hall stuck in my mind like someone had placed a photograph there.
Olaf reached the top of the stairs and made a sharp left, bypassing the doors.
“Hey!” I panted as I gained the top two steps. He stopped and turned. “What is it?”
I gestured to the doors. “Aren’t we going inside?”
“In there?” He glanced at the doors, which were decorated with carved runes and rows of iron studs. “No.”
“But the oath-taking.” Surely something as important as a blood oath had to take place in the Great Hall?
But Olaf shook his head. “It’ll have to wait. The headmaster presides over all oaths, and he’s away right now.”
At the mention of the headmaster, an image of an old, bearded man popped into my head. Which was most likely inaccurate. Berserkers aged slowly—and not at all once they achieved immortality.
And the headmaster had to be immortal. How could he be in charge of the academy if he wasn’t?
“When will he be back?” I asked. “Is he on vacation or something?”
Olaf looked at me like I’d grown an extra head. “You talk like a human.”
I shrugged. It was either that or tell him he talked like he had a stick up his ass. Considering he was the only person I knew at the academy right now, I figured it was better to keep that to myself.
Our exchange must have loosened him up, because he cleared his throat. “Back at the car . . . Your, um . . . Lord Harald . . .”
“Yes?” I raised an eyebrow.
“He seemed angry with me. At the end.”
Ah. So Olaf wasn’t as dense as he looked. I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “It was probably because you mentioned your father getting a thousand kills. Harald’s a little”—I groped for the right word—“sensitive about his mortality.”
That was putting it mildly. “Obsessed” might be a better way to describe it. Or maybe “maniacal.”
Olaf frowned. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he just accept more quests?”
I shrugged again. “He does, as far as I know. I think he’s somewhere in the eight hundreds now. We used to have a big celebration after each one, but that stopped when—” I snapped my mouth shut.
“When what?”
I shook my head. They’d stopped when Fiona died. An ache bloomed in my chest. “We just don’t have them anymore.” I forced nonchalance into my tone. “There’s a helium shortage, you know. We could never find enough balloons.”
Olaf gave me another odd look, but his expression lost some of its sternness. And when he resumed leading me through the castle, he slowed his pace.
The corridor leading away from the Great Hall was broad, its walls dotted with artwork and the occasional door. Every dozen steps or so, it branched off into another passageway. Most were simple arches, but some were flanked by columns or even statues.
We’d walked for about five minutes when we came upon the fanciest one yet. An ornate archway was supported by two stone statues—tall, dour-looking men with long beards, each one clutching the hilt of broadsword in front of his chest. Instead of opening onto another hallway, however, the arch they guarded led to a set of steps.
As we passed, the little hairs on my nape lifted. I looked up.
The statute on the right turned its head toward me, its carved eye sockets glowing a dull blue.
I tripped, caught myself, and stumbled to a halt. “O-Olaf.”
He stopped, then followed my gaze. “Oh yeah. Those are the Norsemen.”
The who? He sounded awfully unconcerned. I swallowed. “The statute moved. It’s staring at me.”
“Well, of course. He’s just doing his job.”
I managed to jerk my eyes from the scary statue to the clearly insane Olaf. “The statues here have jobs?”
“Not all of them.” His tone held a mixture of tolerance and amusement, as if he was explaining a basic concept to a very young child. He gestured toward the steps beyond the arch. “The Norsemen guard the entrance to the headmaster’s tower. They only allow those with permission to enter.”
“What happens if you try to go in without permission?”
He frowned. “I wouldn’t do that.”
The statue seemed to decide I wasn’t about to try it, because he turned his head back to its original position, then seemed to sigh as he settled into place. The blue glow dimmed, then died entirely.
I released a shaky breath. “That was freakier than the Hall of Presidents at Disney World.”
Olaf’s expression was so perplexed, I waved a hand.
“Never mind. Let’s keep moving.”
He shot me another confused look, but he started forward again. I hurried past the statues and fell into step beside him. I didn’t breathe easy until we rounded a corner and they disappeared from sight.
As we climbed staircase after staircase and turned up and down corridors, I started wishing I had a loaf of bread handy. I stopped gawking at the paintings and tried to ignore the burning in my thighs.
“How much farther?” I asked, huffing and puffing on what had to be the hundredth staircase.
“Just up here,” Olaf said over his shoulder. Of course, hesounded fine. He even bounded up the last step and waited for me on a landing lit by a large mullioned window, its panes wavy with age.
When I hauled myself over the threshold, he pointed down a short hallway lined with doors. “Maja thought you’d be happier away from the other trainees.”
Away? As in isolated? Dozens of questions buzzed through my head. I settled on the one that seemed most important. “Who’s Maja?”
“She’s a third-year. And a Proven, as I am.”
So that’s why he’d puffed his chest out like that. He’d already made a kill. There was no blood oath involved, so it didn’t count toward his immortality. But it proved he was worthy of being called a son of Odin. From there, it was just a short jump—and a murder—to being a full-fledged berserker.
“Um, congrats,” I said. “Is that why you get the red jerkin?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then gave his head a little shake, as if that’s not how he expected me to respond. “Yes. It’s . . .” He plucked at the bottom. “The color is actually called dragonsblood.”
I nodded. “Well, it’s really nice. I like the black-and-red combo. Sorry, dragonsblood combo. Is Maja the girl with the long black ponytail?” I motioned around my head. “Lots of braids up here?”
“You’ve met her?”
“Sort of. She thought I’d be happier by myself?”
He looked away. Two faint spots of color appeared high on his cheekbones. But when he made eye contact again, his demeanor was as rigid as ever. “Because you’re a nymph.”
Anger rose in my chest. I shoved it down. After my little display in the courtyard, I couldn’t afford another misstep. “I’m half Fae. I didn’t think that was a disqualification for joining the academy.”
“It’s not. Of course it’s not.”
I leaned forward. “But?”
“What?”
“You were going to say but.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
His voice rose. “I was not.”
“Were.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Were. You were going to say but.”
He slashed a hand through the air. “Dammit, no, I wasn’t!” His voice echoed off the stone walls, bouncing around the narrow hallway and down the stairs.
Through the window, lightning flashed.
Our gazes locked. Shock glazed his eyes.
A heartbeat later, thunder boomed.
I raised an eyebrow.
Olaf drew himself up, then tugged his jerkin down in a crisp motion. “Your room is the second on the left.” Movements stiff, he gave me a berserker salute. Before I could react, he pushed past me and bolted down the stairs.
“Wait!” I descended the steps and hurried after him. “What about my class schedule? Who are my instructors?” My questions bounced off the walls.
He stopped. Barely turning his head, he muttered, “Someone will wake you in the morning. Instructors have already been assigned.” A sneer entered his tone. “We don’t really have classes here. But you’d know that already if you’d bothered to show up on time.” He swung
his head around and started down the hall, his boots ringing a sharp drumbeat against the stone.
I slumped against the wall. Great, now I’d ticked off my only friend in the place. Not that Olaf was a friend. He was barely an acquaintance. But his was the only semi-friendly face I’d seen so far. Maja of the black ponytail and stony expression certainly hadn’t rolled out the welcome mat.
There was also the small issue of her deciding to stick me in the attic due to my mixed heritage. I should have expected it, but somehow I hadn’t. Maybe living at Berregaard Manor had made me soft. There, no one cared where my mother came from. Hell, most of the staff were Mythicals with sketchy family trees—
That was it. I’d spent my childhood surrounded by servants. Aside from the string of berserker tutors Harald had hired over the years, every other being on the estate was part of the household staff. Humans thought their societies were divisive and stratified, but they had nothing on the creatures that made up the Myth. An accident of birth could mean a lifetime of sneers and snide comments.
And considering how long most Mythical races lived, “lifetime” took on a whole new meaning.
Dampness from the stone at my back seeped through my sweater and reached my skin. I straightened, then climbed the steps back to the landing. Sunlight poured through the window, making bright shapes on the stone floor. I did a slow turn in the hallway, my gaze wandering. For an attic, it wasn’t so bad. The ceilings were arched like those in a cathedral, and fluted columns were built into the walls around the doors. Lanterns were spaced evenly along the ceiling. I craned my head back and squinted. Were they lit by ifrit fire, too?
Nope. Just regular light bulbs. Apparently, not even the Rage Lords were wealthy enough to power their whole castle with neverending flame.
I went to the second door on the left and stopped. The wood was stained dark, but the spruce underneath was unmistakable. I
put my palm flat on the surface and closed my eyes. Immediately, images flashed through my head.
Men in bowl-shaped helmets and short red tunics. Running. Screaming. Rectangular shieldsdiscarded in themud. Yelling. Snow swirling.Throughthewhitehaze,agoldeneaglehoistedonapole.
I opened my eyes. The wood warmed under my hand. “The Roman Republic, huh?” I patted it. “You’ve seen a lot, old friend.”
Friend. A smile tugged at my lips. Maybe I had allies in the castle, after all.
I gave the door a gentle pat, then lifted the latch and walked inside.
And . . . whoa. “Spartan” was an understatement. Aside from a beautiful window that filled the space with light, the rest of the room was as stark as a prison cell. There was a large fireplace—nearly big enough to stand in—but the grate was dark and cold. One wall held a narrow twin bed covered by a gray blanket. I walked to it and ran my fingertips over the material.
Wool. Fabulous.
The opposite wall was dominated by an arched nook covered with a curtain that was half pulled aside. I walked to it and peeked in. Leather pants and jerkins hung in a row, each set black as night.
So muchfor cuteplaidskirtsandblazers withschoolpatcheson them.
On the floor were two pairs of boots—the kind that lace up the front like soldiers wear. I suppressed a groan.
My ankles were going to hate the academy.
There was no bathroom. That was probably down the hall somewhere. At least my tainted nymph blood meant I probably wouldn’t have to share it.
I went to the bed and flopped on my back. The ceiling was as ornate as the one in the hall. So there was that.
I turned my head toward the window. There was a simple desk and chair underneath it. If I climbed on the desk, I could look outside. From this high up, the view of the fjord was probably spectacular.
My stomach let out a long, low growl. I clapped my hand to my midsection and sat up. How long had it been since I’d eaten? I’d skipped breakfast, and my queasiness on the trip had prevented me from asking Harald to stop for lunch.
Not that he would have. He despised mingling with humans.
Still, if I’d known I was going to end up stranded in a dusty corner of the castle without so much as a water bottle, I would have pestered him to let me make a snack run.
A knock on the door shot through the room like a canon blast. I bolted upright so fast my head swam.
The knock rang out again—a sharp rapping that seemed to vibrate my bones.
“I’m coming!” I stood and strode to the door, irritation buzzing through me. Before I could open it, the knock sounded again.
I yanked it open. “What is—” My anger melted like ice in the sun. “Uncle Ash?”
The tall man in the doorway grinned and tugged at one of the brown curls spilling over his forehead. “At your service, fair Elin.”
Happiness was like a firework shooting off in my chest. I laughed and jumped into his arms.
He caught me, then staggered back and let out a grunt. “Oof, you’ve put on weight.”
I balled my fist and punched him in the ribs.
He chuckled. “Pax, shieldmaiden. Let an old jester have his fun.” He hefted me higher in his arms, walked us into the room, and lowered me to the ground. Before I could speak, he dashed back to the hallway and scooped up a basket I hadn’t noticed when I opened the door.
“You brought food!” I rushed forward and grabbed it from him. The smell of fresh-baked bread and roasted chicken wafted under my nose. My stomach rumbled again.
Asher turned from closing the door. “Of course I brought food. Good stuff, too. Not the swill these berserkers serve.” He walked toward me, his arms outstretched.
I set the basket on the desk, then turned and stepped into his embrace.
He murmured something in a low, lilting tongue that sounded like music. For the briefest second, I thought I heard bells tinkling. After a moment, he held me away from him and let his leaf-green gaze roam over my face.
“Ah, Elin, you wear beauty like a crown.”
Spoken like a true satyr. I shook my head. “How did you get in here? Shouldn’t you be humping a tree or something?”
He dropped his hands from my arms and drew himself up in mock outrage. “I believe the correct term is tree hugging. That’s what the Americans call it, anyway.”
I folded my arms. “You’d know about that. I tried to call you like a hundred times! That woman you were living with in Los Angeles said she didn’t know where you were.”
This time, his grin was self-deprecating. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets, the rolled cuffs of his button-down shirt showing the edges of swirling blue Celtic tattoos on his wrists and forearms. “She kicked me out. For no reason, I might add. She should have thanked me, considering I gave her the best sex of her—”
“Asher.” I held up a hand.
“Ah, right.” He made a zipping motion across his mouth, then tossed an imaginary key over his shoulder. An assortment of necklaces adorned his neck—metal and leather chains of various lengths. Underneath, more dark blue tattoos decorated his chest and collarbones. With his artfully ripped jeans, tousled hair, and headturning good looks, he could have come straight from a runway in Milan.
He was also barefoot.
“How did you get in here?” I asked again. “These people have swords.”
His form rippled. In a blink, the handsome man was gone. In his place stood a short, plump female with a wrinkled face and skin and hair the color of teak.
My breath seized in my chest, and a lump formed in my throat. I spun and looked toward the window. I had to swallow a couple times before I could speak. “Please don’t.”
Warm hands covered my shoulders and pulled me around. Asher tugged me against his chest. “Elin.” His voice was soft and filled with regret. The scent of pine and fresh rain filled the air. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize how much you still miss her.”
Stupid tears burned my eyes. “I . . . It didn’t occur to me that she might die.”
Asher’s chest lifted in a sigh. “Brownies aren’t like us, love.” He stroked my hair. “Even if we wish it were otherwise.”
I do. I clenched my jaw so the words wouldn’t burst from my mouth. It did no good to rail against something I couldn’t change. That’s what Asher had told me the night Fiona died. He’d walked into my bedroom without warning, dew threaded through his curls. Then he’d shooed the maids from the room, climbed on my bed, and enfolded me in a hug that smelled of sun and forest.
When I’d finally stopped crying around dawn, he smoothed his fingertips over my lids, taking away the puffiness.
“Why?” My voice had come out as a croak. “Why would she leave me?”
His eyes, usually dancing with merriment, had grown distant. A long silence had stretched, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he’d spoken, his voice quiet. And sad. “I wish I knew, child. I wish I could tell you why lovely things die . . . or choose to leave us.”
And I’d known he was no longer talking about Fiona.
Now, I stepped out of his arms and wiped at my eyes. “I’m sorry.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Some berserker I am, crying on my first day at the academy.”
He went to my bed and plopped on it, bouncing a couple times. “You’ll do fine.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The door likes you.”
“Yeah, well, no one else does. They assigned me this room because I’m part nymph.”
“This room?” He looked around. “Oh no, they all look like this. You know how berserkers are with interior decorating. Very correctional facility chic.”
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information
about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other
medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGESExcept for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH
1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS
OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project
Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a nonprofit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form
accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
