Descendant

carry him out of there, because in light of what had happened to Cal, that just seemed like, so what? Fennrys should have stayed. He should have been able to do something for the kid.

“But even if we had . . . Mase . . . I’m so sorry. I saw the cracks on his helmet—it must have come off in the crash—but even if he’d still been wearing it when he went over the side of the bridge . . . it wasn’t a survivable fall.”

“But . . . we died,” Mason said, a desperate hope in her eyes. “And we’re here. What if—”

“I don’t think it’s the same thing.” Fennrys’s heart felt like something was squeezing it. He would have rather punched himself in the mouth than have to say these words that made Mason look like she did in that moment. “Cal was in an accident, Mase. That’s all it was.”

Mason bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes closed. Twin teardrops spilled over her lids, leaving tracks that gleamed in the moonlight. Fennrys reached out and pulled her into his lap, enfolding her in an embrace. She sagged against his chest, her knotted fists pressed against him, and he held her, smoothing her dark hair while tears ran silently down her cheeks.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes, Rafe appeared, walking toward them out of what was now full dark. He was back in his human form, his suit immaculate, not a dreadlock out of place. He seemed composed and calm, but his dark eyes held a weight of regret that hadn’t been there before. And a dangerously simmering fury.

Mason lifted her head off Fennrys’s chest and brushed the side of her hand across her cheeks. Rafe frowned when he saw that she’d been crying. He glanced at Fennrys.

“You told her?”

“Everything. Ragnarok, her death . . . Cal. I think that’s everything.”

Rafe shook his head. “It’s enough. How’re you holding up, Mason?”

She lifted her chin and said, “I’ll live. I mean . . .”

The ancient death god held up a hand. “I know what you mean. Good.”

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she offered.

Rafe nodded tightly. “I’m sorry about your ride.” Looking back over his shoulder toward the black expanse of the river, he sighed. “I wanted to get you off this rock, but for the time being, I think we’d best head back to shelter.”

“Couldn’t we wait here for a passing boat?” Fennrys asked. “Maybe flag a coast guard vessel—”

“No . . . ,” Rafe said, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the wispy, blurred blanket of silvery mist stretching out over the water. “It’s not safe to be out in the open. Especially with that fog rolling in. I don’t trust fog.”

Mason suddenly paused and took a step toward the water. “Guys, I think that fog just called my name.”

XVI

Heather lay sprawled on the bed in her dorm room, weighing the two crossbow bolts that Valen had given her on the subway, one in each hand. The golden one was featherlight, slender, and the metal grew instantly warm to the touch. It almost seemed to writhe against her skin, tingling with energy. The little leaden bolt, in contrast, was shockingly cold and heavy, and made her fingers ache. Heather slotted that one into the tiny crossbow and cocked the trigger. In the back of her mind, she suspected that she might have already figured out what the weird little weapon was for—especially if the guy who’d given it to her was who she thought he was—but she still had no idea under what circumstances she would ever actually use it.

But Heather was bored. Bored with being cooped up, bored with studying. Not that she’d been studying for school—she hadn’t been to class since she’d gotten back to the academy—more like she’d been trying to find out as much as she could about the differences between the Greek and Roman gods . . . while trying to decide whether she believed she’d actually met one of them three days earlier on a subway ride from Queens to Manhattan.

So she’d retrieved the crossbow from where she’d hidden it in her underwear drawer and started messing around with it.

“Yeah,” she muttered. “Because in the last couple of days, I’ve either crossed over a very scary line . . . or I’ve just completely lost my mind.” She stood up and struck a gunslinger pose, pointing the strange little weapon at a picture of Cal that hung on her wall beside her door. The one she still said good night to every night when she turned out her light. Even after he’d broken up with her. Even after he’d . . .

I wish I could get you out of my head, she thought.

“What do you think, Cal?” she murmured, closing one eye and sighting down the crossbow at his smiling face. “Am I crazy? If I am, it’s probably your fau—”

Suddenly Heather’s door slammed open, crashing against the wall, and a slender, wild-eyed, purple-haired girl burst through. Heather’s finger squeezed the trigger, and the leaden bolt shot from the crossbow and buried itself in Cal’s picture—right in the middle of his chest.

“Holy—” Gwen Littlefield flinched violently away from the projectile that had hit its mark less than six inches from her aubergine-dyed locks. She froze, pressed up against the open door frame, her eyes white-rimmed with shock.

“Oh, hell no!” Heather exclaimed, just as shocked as Gwen was. “I don’t believe this!”

After a moment, she recovered herself enough to throw the crossbow onto the stack of mythology texts that lay open on her bed and cross the room to yank the other girl out of the way of the door. She glanced up and down the hallway to make sure there weren’t any other students around and slammed the door closed, breathing heavily. Then she stalked back into the middle of her room and rounded angrily on the other girl.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped.

“Looking for you,” Gwen gasped, the breath heaving in her lungs. It looked as though she’d been running, and her hands and the front of her shirt were stained with dirt. And . . . blood. “I need help.”

Heather could feel her own eyes growing wide at the sight, and she edged back toward the door. “With what? Dumping a body?”

“Relax . . . it’s only dinner,” Gwen panted, following Heather’s gaze to the deep red stains marring her pale skin, almost to the elbows. “They’re serving liver in the dining hall tonight. I needed to do a reading, so I stole some before they could cook it.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” Heather said. “Guess it’s Pizza Eatsa for me tonight. Again.” She edged farther toward the door. “I’d invite you along, but you’re probably not that hungry—”

She made a break for it, but Gwen was faster and got to the door first, jamming her shoulder up against it and holding the solid oak closed with surprising strength.

“Out of my way, Littlefield!” Heather yanked hard on the brass doorknob to no avail, mentally kicking herself for having forgotten to lock it after her last stealth trip to the girls’ bathroom down the hall. She’d just been so preoccupied with trying not to be seen by any of her fellow dorm mates while she holed up in her room.

The thing was, she didn’t actually need to go out for a slice. The only other living person Heather had seen in the last three days had been the Pizza Eatsa delivery guy, two nights in a row, and there were undoubtedly leftovers in at least one of the boxes sitting on her desk. Since the incident on the train, Heather had locked herself in her room, only gone out after hours, ignored the calls and texts to her cell phone, and kept the curtains drawn.

Toby Fortier had said to get back to the school. He’d said it was safe. Protected. Heather knew that it was a huge risk. That coming back to Gosforth—where Gunnar Starling was actually the head of the board of directors —was essentially hiding in plain sight. But she just didn’t know what else to do.

And Toby had promised.

It was easier than she’d thought it would be to stay in the dorm undetected. Quite a few students had been called home by their parents because of the strange fact that over the last day or two, New York—a place that