Page 3 of Fallen Gods
They’d be wrong.
In fact, the real reason I’m here is because of hownotspecial I am. Or at least, how unimpressive one person in particular found me.
My heart races as a flash of warm brown eyes crosses my mind. No, not warm. I run my finger across the faint scars on my knuckles and focus on the traffic.
Rowen’s knowing gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror, then flicks away. Typical. I stare at his thick blond waves brushing his shoulders, like staring at something solid will help me forget how splintered we are underneath.
I don’t remember when exactly Rowen became my closest friend. He just was—one day not there, the next day orbiting my life like a second moon. He moved in three years ago, probably right after graduating high school, but we never talked about hobbies or birthdays or any of the things normal people compare to feel less alone. Sharing space under my father’s roof was enough. Trauma bonds faster than time.
And now, after today, I’ll likely never see him again.
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach as beside me, my father snaps open a newspaper, like phones and social media don’t exist. Every few seconds, he clears his throat and adjusts his tie with his right hand—the one with the tattoos that tell the world exactly who he is,ifthey’re privileged enough to knowwhat the runes mean on all five of his murderous fingers.
Even to a casual observer, the markings look dark and menacing. Because of course they do. He likes the attention.
At the end of the day, I know what sort of hand those tattoos belong to. One of authority, terror, and power. I wonder what it says about me that my first daydreams were about cutting his fingers off.
Taking away his pride and joy. One. By. One.
I sigh again and look out the window, digging into my pocket to clutch the piece of paper there, crinkling it tighter and tighter.
We dodge through traffic. It feels like we’re going faster and faster. Too fast. I wonder if it would be better if we had an accident. Would it change anything? Probably not.
Legends don’t die.
And that’s exactly what my family is—legendary.
I know who we are. I know our bloodline. It’s been hammered into me since birth. Which is how I also know my father’s never going to give up. Not when I’m the only person in the position to get him what he wants.
A fact Iknowhe resents, because my father is neither patient nor kind, and having to give up even a smidgen of control, to rely on someone else to obtain his goal, well, that’s the definition of hell for him.
I smile at the thought. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s furious with this outcome. Maybe that’s my birthday gift—him needingme.
I shamefully take it.
I push aside the anger that he would risk my life in order to regain what was taken from us—what theystolefrom us—and cling to this one silly concept. That I’m needed by Odin himself.
He didn’t even know where the Eriksons were keeping Mjölnir until last year. Which is when I became the final chess piece and his only option.
He needs me. But he doesn’t need the people I love, which is why I’m sitting in this car.
“You have exactly one week. It’s all the time we have left.” My father finally speaks, his voice a low, rasping growl, edged with anger. Always.
I don’t flinch. Not outwardly. But inside? A storm rages. “I understand.”
I keep my eyes on the rain, watching as it streaks along the window in erratic patterns. It’s the only steady thing in a life drowning in chaos. The water beats down relentlessly, ruthlessly, but it will stop, will have its end. All things must.
The car winds up the steep mountain road, taking us deeper into the heart of the evergreen forest. My father used to tell me stories about the forests and the cold within, always warning me that an early frost never meant the beginning of something but the agonizing end of it, that it meant the Gods were stirring, screaming for vengeance.
I shiver and try to keep my hands still in my lap, take a soothing breath. I finally have a purpose—diabolical as it may be—and I can’t fail. I stare out at the towering pine trees, the rugged landscape shrouded by an eerie fog. Yet even through the driving rain, the fairy-tale mist curls among the trees, weaving over green moss and a brush of frost, and I realize: it’s beautiful here. Peaceful.
Better than Bellevue, at least.
I hate the filth, the bustle of the city.
I hate even more what my last name means there.
The forest thickens as we near Lake Stevens, home to the Eriksons—the family I’ll be forced to orbit at Endir, since they founded the university that will become my new prison.
