Descendant

XI

Death holds no fear for me. I shall conquer it as I conquer all things.

Fennrys had been joking when he’d said that to Mason. On the High Line, under a full moon, after she’d stabbed him and they’d kissed and she’d realized that maybe, just maybe, she might be kind of falling for him . . .

But in that moment, Mason realized that—even if he hadn’t known it at the time—he’d also been speaking the truth. She knew now that he had, in fact, conquered death—after a fashion. He’d been to Asgard and made it out again. And even though she might have wished with all her heart that he was standing there, by her side, in that very moment . . . she was proud of him.

He’d made it out of there.

And she would too.

Gripping the iron medallion he’d given her as tightly as if her life depended on it, and choking back the surge of panic clawing up from her chest, Mason squeezed her eyes shut and pictured Fennrys standing there in the hall with her. She pictured the torches flaring with clear golden flames . . . haloing his yellow hair as he smiled at her. Before she really even realized she was moving, Mason was suddenly about a third of the way down the vast hall, the sound of the closing doors still echoing in her mind. She was almost at a dead run by the time she reached the end, where a raised dais stood with steps leading up to a throne that looked as though it had been carved from the trunk of a thousand-year-old oak. Resting against one arm of the gnarled and knotted throne was a spear. And perched on the blade of the spear was an enormous midnight-winged raven.

Mason wondered fleetingly if it was one of Odin’s fabled companions as the creature ruffled its oily, ragged-edged feathers and hopped up onto the back of the throne, where it hunched, glaring at Mason with one unblinking, ruby-red eye. It was probably far more likely that—judging from the state of the place—it was just some random bird that had made its home in the rafters of the deserted feast hall. When it opened its massive black beak to croak at her in a voice harsh as the north wind, Mason couldn’t tell if the sound was a welcome or a warning. But she slowed her steps nonetheless and turned her attention to what she figured must be the Odin spear.

For a supposed object of magickal power, it was about as unimpressive as the rest of Valhalla. The long, slender blade of the weapon was etched with symbols—reminding her of the markings on Fenn’s medallion—but the designs on the spear were almost entirely obscured, coated in a thick layer of dark, flaking rust.

It was only when Mason got closer that she realized that it wasn’t rust.

It was old, dried blood.

Just . . . get it over with, she thought, shuddering. Grab the damn thing and get out of here. Then it’s back to Manhattan so you can find Fennrys and apologize for being such a bitch to him after the tournament. After that, you can hunt down your idiot brother, find out exactly what the hell he thought he was trying to pull with that insane train business . . . and then you are going to punch him in the face for shooting Fenn in the shoulder.

Mason wasn’t sure which of those things she was looking forward to the most. But both combined to fill her with a sense of urgency. As she ascended toward the massive throne, though, her steps faltered. This was the seat of a god. She wondered where Odin had gone—where all the gods had gone—and wondered if humanity was better off for their departure. She suspected as much. If what the other gods had done to Loki was any indication of how they dealt with unfortunate situations, then she didn’t want to meet them. She just wanted to go home.

The raven on the throne cawed loudly, three times.

The blade of the Odin spear began to gleam with a sullen crimson light that modulated and seemed to match the hammering of her heartbeat as she took another tentative step forward, wondering what was wrong with her all of a sudden. The spear was her bus ticket out of there. It sang to her in her mind—a surging, insistent battle song that compelled her forward—so why then, beneath that urgent, crashing music, could Mason hear the clanging of warning bells loud in her ears?

She stared at the weapon resting against the great chair, propped up there as if its owner had simply forgotten it and would return any second to reclaim it. Mason hesitated, remembering something that Fennrys had said to her when he was mentoring her with her fencing technique. Something that hadn’t been a joke. He said that you never just pick up a weapon. You become the weapon you pick up.

Mason did not want to become that weapon.

But what choice did she have?

The medallion tingled and grew warm in her palm, as if the magick within it was responding to the magick of the spear. Mason felt another desperate stab of longing. She wished Fennrys was there with her so bad it hurt. The red glow of the spear blade grew brighter. She reached out with her other hand and felt the waves of bloodred enchantment emanating from the Odin spear. It was the only source of light and heat in the entire gloom-filled hall.

Her hand hovered inches above the carved wooden shaft.

Just take the damn spear, she told herself. You don’t belong here. Only the dead belong here. You need to get out of this trap, out of this tomb, and go home. . . .

Her hand spasmed, fingers cramping, but she couldn’t make herself move any closer. The soaring roof of the hall seemed to be contracting, closing in on her. The darkness beyond the weapon’s red glow was suffocating.

Suddenly, a booming crash echoed through the empty hall behind Mason. She spun around to see the massive doors at the far distant end of the hall swing wide. They crashed into the walls on either side of the archway, and the cold, pale light of the sunless Asgard sky poured into Valhalla. And standing there, silhouetted against the brightness, was the one person Mason desperately wanted to see. . . .

But not in this place.

“Fenn?” she whispered, horrified, but he was too far away to hear her.

No . . . , she thought, dread carving her suddenly hollow. He can’t be here!

Framed by the massive doorway arch, Fenn’s head was down and his shoulders hunched forward as if in great weariness. Backlit as he was, she couldn’t see his face—or any defining features, for that matter—and yet she knew, instantly, just by the way he moved, who it was that had entered the hall of the gods.

The fingers of Mason’s hand were clutching the iron medallion so hard that the edge of the disk had cut into her palm. She felt the blood, slick on the carved runes, and thought, What have I done?

She remembered Fennrys telling her—at the cafe in Manhattan, when they’d been attacked by monsters— that it was the power of her thoughts, the strength of her will, that made the magick of the talisman work. She’d done it then, used the magick to make a reality of what was in her mind. And her heart sank to think that, in her desperation to see him, to have him once more by her side, she’d done it again. She’d wished Fennrys back to Asgard.

Which meant she’d wished that he was dead.

Mason heard the small, soft wail of anguish that escaped her lips. Rory had shot Fenn on top of the train. She flinched violently as the images assaulted her memory: the sight of Rory’s face contorted in vicious rage . . . the flare of the gun muzzle . . . Fennrys’s shoulder, bursting crimson as the bullet tore into him and he toppled off the top of the train car . . .

Mason squeezed her eyes shut, remembering how she’d just stood there, watching as Fenn’s body tumbled along the rail tracks, legs and arms pinwheeling like a thrown rag doll’s . . . and then the brightness of the Bifrost portal had swallowed her whole and she’d left him behind for dead.

Dead . . .

The Fennrys Wolf started toward her down the hall, his first few steps staggering and clumsy. From that distance, Mason couldn’t see his wounds, but she knew they were there. They must have been terrible. A flood of guilt and bitter despair threatened to drown her where she stood.