Page 145 of Fallen Gods
But this isn’t the quirky professor or the bumbling college president who addresses the crowd. His voice is deep, somber.
He lifts up his hands. “In days of old, the Wild Hunt was more than a chase; it was a reckoning. It represented death and rebirth, the passage of one age to another.” Everyone goes silent. “Warriors offered themselves to the Hunt so their courage may be judged, their souls carried by Odin’s majestic riders into the next life.
“Here at Endir, we hunt not for death, but new beginnings and fresh starts. Tonight, we seek new bonds with one another and ask for courage to face what lies ahead.” I swear his eyes lock on mine as he continues. “And the wisdom to let go of what is weighing us down. So let us join together and call on our courage this school year! Let us release the ravens, our messengers of transformation, and begin this year’s Hunt!”
He holds out a hand to Professor Higgins. She walks up with a box covered with a black cloth.
Sigurd holds his hands wide and then makes a motion in front of his face, two fingers against his nose, one touching his chin and neck. “Join with me, please.”
Everyone mimics the ancient motion meant to honor the Gods and Giants.
Goose bumps race up my arms.
This feels like some very ritualistic shit’s about to go down. Father doesn’t lift a finger, but of course, I don’t expect him to. Sigurd’s mocking a tradition my father started.
“Be blessed in the Hunt,” Sigurd calls out. He tosses the cloth and opens the box. “Release the ravens!” He holds his handsto the sky. The stadium rumbles with applause as the ravens disperse into the air.
“Now, please take your seats,” Sigurd says. “The official dance soon begins.”
I steal a glance at Aric.
He frowns as if this isn’t something he was expecting.
Moments later, the band begins to play and conversation sparks up. People start to gather around their tables for appetizers and drinks. It’s then I notice that those who aren’t wearing costumes are wearing red masks. They look creepy as hell.
I glance around casually, calmly. At least half the campus is in red masks.
Chills run down my spine.
“Curious…” Reeve taps his chin. “Why certain ones are marked to wear the masks.”
Bile rises in my throat when Eira approaches in her creepy costume, one of the red masks on her face. “I’ll be presenting the dance of the Lure for you tonight. In ancient tradition, it’s a sensual dance presented to the Gods as a sacrifice for humans who gave their lives in service.”
She doesn’t wait for us to say anything. But like it’s been practiced for centuries, the people in red masks move around each table as music blasts through the outdoor stereo system. It sounds primal, ancient, full of pipes and horns and a steady, driving beat of drums. With each circle around the tables, they turn and face Sigurd, bow, and then do a movement with their hands above their heads like they are transfixed by the sky as it presses down onto them. They all bend backward, then twirl into a chaotic flurry, hands over heads. They all stop and let out a scream as the drums end.
The movements are addicting to watch. “Did they volunteer?”
“Handpicked.” Rowen suddenly pipes up. “Right? By Sigurdhimself?”
“Clever.” Reeve winks at me. “And yes, they just have something about them. Can’t you feel it?”
My mouth drops open. “Are they—”
“I can answer that,” Reeve interrupts. I’d really prefer he didn’t. “They’re chosen, important, special, though they just think it’s a program for the gifted. Soon they’ll all remember, and soon they’ll have the power to do a lot more. At least that’s the hope.”
Sigurd clears his throat into the mic. “Beautifully done, students. Now, if you’ll look to the tables, you’ll each find a rune, or what we like to call party favors from the Gods. Before the Hunt begins, choose yours carefully. Hold it close, whisper your wish, kiss the stone, and toss it into any of the surrounding bonfires. That fire represents your vow, your promise, your beginning here at Endir. A journey you and only you can take.”
The crowd quiets as flames from the surrounding bonfires leap skyward, sparks scattering like stars. Father hasn’t moved a muscle still, but I do see his jaw tense. Maybe because years ago, he did this for his people, for Asgard, for humanity, and Sigurd has hijacked it.
“From there, the tradition is simple. You’ll go together in groups or pairs—never wander alone, not tonight—and follow the marked trails into the forest. Which path you choose is up to you, but each holds its own challenge. Some of you will find feasts laid out along the way; some will stumble into games you must complete to keep going; others, perhaps, into shadows that don’t belong to the living. Ghosts, demons, spirits of the fallen—consider them part of the fun. Survive them, laugh at them, scream if you have to—but make it through.” He shrugs. “We do ask that no flash photography takes place. Let’s keep things as authentic as possible.”
“Don’t die!” some idiot yells.
A ripple of nervous laughter spreads through the students.
Father actually smirks at that and looks down. I wonder what it was like…before his obsession for knowledge made him into this. Before he was bound by it, controlled, owned. Was he ever free?
Sigurd pauses and looks around the campus. I wonder if he genuinely likes the way people adore him, hang on his every word. His grin is sharp as firelight dances in his eyes.
