Descendant

The Soul Eater’s black eye sockets fixed upon his breast.

Fennrys’s heart was hammering in his ears. He could feel his pulse, thundering along the sides of his throat and in his wrists. A fire ignited in his chest, searing, terrible, glorious. The life in him fought back desperately against the will of the Soul Eater as she drew his very essence up toward the surface of his skin. His heart would burst from his chest any second and he would die spectacularly, messily, a pile of meat and bones left to decay and then crumble to dust. . . .

And he didn’t want that to happen.

Because of Mason Starling.

The monster beneath the scales heaved itself toward him with ungainly grace. He stared into those sightless eye sockets and couldn’t tear his gaze away from the un-gaze of the black, empty pits. There was ageless hunger there. Never to be sated. The demon goddess, old as death itself, reared back on her grotesque haunches in front of Fennrys and reached for him with her taloned hands. For a moment, it could have been for a gentle embrace. Then pain—worse than anything that had gone before—flared like a sun. Burned his lungs to cinders and ash.

Mase . . .

The Soul Eater’s claws slashed through the front of his jacket, tearing it to ribbon strips of leather, as she lunged forward, eager to rend the beating heart from his breast . . . and then her hand, furred and pawlike, stilled, hovering. Her sightless visage wavered with an expression of uncertainty. Questing. She reached out again and, with shocking delicacy, plucked from the breast pocket of Fenn’s jacket the feather that he’d tucked away there at the doors of the library.

He’d forgotten he’d put it there.

Pale, tinged with silver and blush, infinitely fragile, yet strong enough for flight . . .

A thing of purity.

The Soul Eater’s snout quivered, and holding the feather as if it was made of precious crystal, she backed away toward the scales. With her other hand, she plucked up the pristine, sun-white Feather of Truth—Ma’at—that had lain on a small obsidian table and placed it on the left scale dish. Then—and if Fennrys had thought that he’d still possessed functioning lungs, he would have held his breath—she placed Fennrys’s mourning dove feather in the right scale. The finely balanced dishes seesawed, the delicate arms wavering up and down. . . .

And the balancing of the scales . . .

Perfectly even.

A soft gasp escaped Rafe’s lips.

And the Fennrys Wolf’s knees gave out and he fell in a heap on the cool, alabaster floor. For a long moment he hunched there, palms pressed to the smooth stone, the breath heaving in and out of his lungs, his heart—still nestled deep inside his rib cage where it should be—hammering, sending the blood surging through his body. He was alive.

Oh, Mase, he thought, savoring the sound of her name in his mind. That was a close one, I think. . . .

After a moment, Rafe dropped to one knee in front of Fennrys and put a hand on his shoulder. “I was right about you,” the ancient god said. “You do deserve a second chance. Maybe even a third.”

Fennrys mustered a smile. He’d been clenching his jaw so tightly, struggling to remain impassive, brave, in the face of what he’d been certain was his doom—finally—that it made the muscles of his cheeks ache.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “I mean it.”

Rafe helped him back up to his feet, and Fennrys saw that the demon Ammit, the Soul Eater, was nowhere to be seen. The mourning dove feather still lay on the scale dish, opposite the feather of Ma’at.

“It’s not . . . it wasn’t a cheat, was it?” Fennrys asked quietly.

Rafe shook his head. “You can’t cheat Ammit.”

He walked toward the dais and plucked the dove feather out of the dish. The scales wavered only slightly. He handed the feather back to Fennrys, who tucked it into the scabbard of the short sword Maddox had given him. His jacket was ruined, shredded by the demon’s claws and he stripped it off, leaving it behind on the steps of the dais, like an offering.

“Not that I’ve ever seen something like that happen before. . . .” Rafe glanced back over his shoulder at the gaping hole in the floor beneath the scales. A deep, sonorous rumbling sounded forth—snoring. The demon slumbered once again. And Fennrys fervently hoped that it would be a long, long time before some other hapless soul awoke her to judgment.

Rafe led the way around to the back of the raised platform where a door Fenn hadn’t noticed before, set into the hieroglyphic-adorned wall, now stood open. Above the door lintel, there was a painted depiction of a goddess, kneeling in a classic Egyptian pose, one knee on the ground. She had pale hair and her arms, outstretched on either side, bore feathered wings. A gentle golden light poured forth from beyond the door, and Fennrys felt hot, dry air on his face. But he could also hear the sound of rushing water. When they stepped through over the stone threshold, the temple room behind them vanished and Fennrys found himself standing in the water at the edge of a wide, shallow river, surrounded by tall, feathery sedge grasses—stands of papyrus. In the far distance, sand dunes shimmered in the heat.

Fennrys turned to see Rafe standing beside him, the pant legs of his sleek suit wet to the knees.

“This isn’t the River Lethe, is it?” Fennrys asked, instantly fearing for his memories again.

“No. Just a nameless bit of water. I think the ancient Egyptians figured that when you’ve lived one life on the banks of the mighty Nile, you don’t need special rivers in the next. Now . . . follow me.” Without hesitation, he waded forward, deeper into the river, where Fennrys saw a roiling disturbance ruffling the surface of the water. “If Hel can call in favors,” Rafe murmured under his breath, “so can I.”

Suddenly, a geyser of water shot skyward from the middle of the river, and the blazing desert sun turned it to a curtain of shimmering, rainbow-hued light. Just beyond that, Fennrys saw a woman, hovering above the surface of the waves on iridescent wings. She had long silver hair and held a staff in her hand. And she was smiling at him, the expression touched with wry amusement.

“I’m beginning to feel a bit like your personal chauffeur service, Fennrys Wolf.”

“Lady.” He bowed his head, recognizing the same bright figure who had transported him out of the Asgardian Hel at the behest of its mistress. It hurt to look at the shining silver figure, she was so bright and so beautiful. “I thought Iris was a Greek goddess,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth to Rafe.

“Iris . . . Isis . . . it’s only one letter of difference. Remember how I told you some of the Beyond Realms blur and overlap? Well . . . some of the gods and goddesses who dwell in them do, too.”

“Lord Anubis,” Iris/Isis said, turning her smile on her fellow immortal. “A rainbow in a desert land is a rare and precious thing. You know that.”

“And beautiful, dear lady. Never more beautiful.” He bowed gallantly, and her eyes sparkled. “But rainbows everywhere else seem to be in some danger these days. Rainbow bridges shattered, rainbow windows broken . . . and if darkness descends to blot out the light, they will cease to be entirely. Don’t you agree?”

Fennrys glanced up to see her smile fade to seriousness.

“Whither goest?” she said, suddenly all business.

“Back into Asgard,” Fennrys said, taking a step forward. “To bring Mason Starling home.”

The rainbow goddess’s expression became distant, and her gaze drifted over their heads as if she saw things that they couldn’t. “You are too late,” she said. “The Valkyrie is almost made.”

“Almost?”

“The raven has shown her the spear,” the goddess continued. “She will take it up. How can she not? And all will be lost.”

“You said ‘almost.’” Fennrys surged forward through the drag of the river current. “There’s a lot of leeway in a word like that.” He locked eyes with the goddess. “Please,” he pleaded. “I need to go to her.”

“Much evil has been done in the service of love, Fennrys Wolf.” The shining goddess smiled down sadly at him. “Do not be one of those who sacrifice all else for its sake. Ammit has seen into the deepest corners of your soul and judged you worthy. Anubis deems you deserving of second chances. I . . . see you as poised on the edge of a knife blade. I would have you cut your own heart out when the time comes to choose between the girl and the world.”