Descendant

“Neither did I, sweetheart,” Fennrys whispered. “Not this time . . .”

He’d cheated death so many times. And now, when a Valkyrie knelt on one side of him, and a god of death knelt on the other side of him, and he felt his life truly leaving his body, he thought, Okay. I’m content. If her face is the last thing I see . . . I’ll go.

But then, as his eyes began to drift shut, his head rolled to the side and he saw a white feather lying in a pool of his blood. The feather from the library. He’d tucked it away in his dagger sheath, and it must have slipped loose when he’d drawn the blade. The feather of his heart . . . slowly turning red with his blood.

Fennrys thought of how much he’d longed to hear Mason say the words “I love you” to him. As he slipped into darkness, he almost thought he heard her say just that. But then he realized he was wrong.

She hadn’t said “love you.”

She’d said “owe you.”

And she’d said it to Anubis. God of the dead.

XXIII

The sky was on fire.

Rory stood on the balcony of his father’s penthouse apartment, gazing out over a city that, far below, writhed in the grip of a twisted kind of chaos. In the room behind him, the frenzied monotony of the news reports droned on. He’d stopped watching an hour ago and had come out into the chill night air to see—to feel—for himself what was happening. He’d been about to go back inside when the fiery red glow had suddenly erupted from the Rockefeller Plaza’s observation deck, half a dozen blocks to the north, painting the low-hanging clouds in hues of blood and flame.

Roth hadn’t returned, and Rory hadn’t seen his father since he’d regained consciousness. His hands flexed on the balcony railing, one warm—flesh and bone and skin—and one cool. Silver and alien. Magickal. Terrifying . . .

Powerful.

The whole night was full of power. Saturated with it, soaked to the marrow.

Rory could sense it. He closed his eyes and pictured his father’s diary.

One tree. A rainbow. Bird wings among the branches.

Three seeds of the apple tree grown tall.

As Odin’s spear is gripped in the hand of the Valkyrie,

they shall awaken Odin Sons.

When the Devourer returns, the hammer will fall down on the earth, to be reborn.

Rory could hear the words, thrumming in his head. And he wasn’t surprised when his father suddenly appeared at his side, a silent shadow in the darkness. Gunnar Starling leaned his elbows on the rail, and his gaze drifted down to Rory’s gleaming fingers. He stared at them for a moment, and then he looked up and nodded to the crimson light emanating from the top of the Rockefeller Plaza tower, red as heart’s blood. As father and son watched, a jagged fork of blue-white lightning stabbed down into the center of the redness. Then another . . . and a third. In the distance, they heard the rumble of thunder. Like the sound of a god waking from slumber.

“It begins,” Gunnar said in a calm voice.

He turned to look at his youngest son, and Rory saw that strands of weird, golden light twisted and writhed in the depths of his father’s left eye. Gunnar smiled, and it was the most terrifying expression Rory had ever seen on the face of another human being.

“The beginning of the end . . . ,” Gunnar said, turning back to look out over the city. “And who was to know that all it would take was my daughter falling in love?” 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As this series continues rolling on down the road toward Ragnarok, I find myself in the joyous position of getting to say thank you, once again, to all the people who’ve helped drive this magick bus.

Jessica Regel, my wondrous agent who continues to have faith in me and my stories, is first in line for a suitcase full of gratitude. Keep on keepin’ on! You and Jean Naggar and the whole staff of JVNLA rock seriously hard. Please continue.

Next, of course, is my terrific editor, Karen Chaplin, and all of the industrious, creative crew at HarperCollins: editorial directors Barbara Lalicki and Rosemary Brosnan; Maggie Herold, my production editor; Cara Petrus and Laura Lyn DiSiena, my designers; and Andrea Martin. Thanks, also, to Hadley Dyer and everyone at HarperCollinsCanada for continuing to take such good care of me up here.

My mom and my wonderful family deserve all of the love and gratitude I can give—and then some. So does my awesome collection of friends, both brilliant and bonkers (frequently both). But especially, this time around, Karl (and Nathaniel, Michelle, Mike, and Casey!) for rain-soaked, badass fighting trailer goodness.

And, once again, thank you is not enough for John. I’m running out of ways to say how much it means to have you not only on board the magick bus, but reading the maps, gassing the sucker up, squeegeeing the windshield, and frequently getting out to push when I get the wheels stuck in the ditch. So instead, I’ll just give you the winky-face super-secret signal and hope that gets it all across.

As always, endless thank you to my readers, and to the fans and bloggers who get the word out about these books and make this whole crazy trip worth every mile. Keep those seatbelts fastened . . . the ride’s not getting any less wild!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo by John Rait

LESLEY LIVINGSTON is a writer and actress living in Toronto. She has a master’s degree in English from the University of Toronto, where she specialized in Arthurian literature and Shakespeare. She is the author of Starling, the first book in a darkly romantic series set against the backdrop of Manhattan and Norse mythology. Lesley has also written Wondrous Strange, which on the Canadian Librarian Association Young Adult Book Award in addition to being a White Pine Honor Book, as well as Darklight and Tempestuous. You can visit her online at www.lesleylivingston.com.

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ALSO BY LESLEY LIVINGSTONE

In this series

Starling

The Wondrous Strange trilogy

Darklight

Tempestuous

Wondrous Strange

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