“Toss their parts into the pit,” I order Pudge as I turn to stride away.
I barely notice the entrance to Niflhel I pass through or the bodies that writhe and reach for me—corpses turned to steel exactly as they were when they arrived and then entombed in the gates. Their suffering is but a drop in the bucket of theanguish in this place. I learned to ignore it soon after I entered Hel’s service.
A path opens before me as her subjects recognize my presence, dropping whatever they hold to dip into a deep bow, their faces hidden as they display the respect I deserve. My steps propel me along as my mind replays the final seconds of the males’ existence. They served me well as they faced the end.
Sooner than I want, I’m striding through the iron trees and statues that line the walk to Éljúðnir, Hel’s castle. My mistress is loath to admit it, but she yearns for the days when she could walk with humans in the sun. She surrounded herself with a pale replica of the most glorious cities in Midgard—the world humans call Earth—because she’s trapped here like everyone else.
Well, everyone except me. Since my heart beats, I can go wherever Hel sends me.
Éljúðnir would rival any palace on Midgard but for the fact it’s made entirely of shadows given form. In this strange place, the darkness belongs to Hel, so she can manipulate all of it. In the light of day, though, it would evaporate. All of the surfaces that feel solid here would disappear completely.
Not that it matters. Éljúðnir will never see the sun. It’s bound here too.
None of Hel’s drudges bother me as I stride toward her rooms, my gaze landing on a few of the statues I pass as I recall their days walking these halls with me. They’re why I haven’t let myself get close to anyone for a long time. Everyone who captured any part of my attention became an ornament forHel’s amusement as soon as she learned of it. A dozen or more wraiths I once called friends now stand sentry here—along with many others—their expressions forever stuck in the gasp of horror she ignited in them as they died.
Hel likes to capture that evidence of her power so she can gloat over it as she walks her home.
It’s why I tried to stay away from Finaan, terrified Hel would learn of myneedfor her. I couldn’t and eventually gave up trying. I’m not a noble male. I wouldn’t be here if I were. I learned long ago that I will only find joy in taking what I need, when I need it. I needed her, so I took her. That I did it in secret, keeping my obsession even from her, was the most I could do to protect her from Hel.
It’s been eight fucking weeks since Finaan disappeared from this world, along with the other elves. I felt her go, as if a fist wrapped around my still-beating heart to tear it from my chest, just as I heard Hel screech in fury. For a moment, I wondered if Finaan had taken that unwanted organ with her, dooming me after all these centuries to truly join the specters that surround me. But the fucker gave an angry pump, and then another, and I knew I still lived.
I’d grown too dependent on Finaan’s presence. I let her fill my days, watching her move through this world whenever I wasn’t compelled into my mistress’s service. My fierce skjaldmær never knew, and my beast took savage pleasure in that fact. She has no gods-damned idea that she belongs to me. But she is mine.
I know every part of her.
I’ve seen every part of her.
I’ve touched every part of her.
And, yes, I’ve tasted every part of her.
And she had no fucking clue.
Wrath reveled in it. The depravity of our obsession with her. The knowledge that she could do nothing to stop it. She’d need to discover us first, and we’d never let her. My powers are stronger in Helheim than they were in Midgard. And I used those powers whenever I chose, however I chose, to make Finaan mine in every way that matters.
Hel’s latest drudge, a dwarf named Lit who’s lasted longer than I would have expected, swings open the doors to her rooms and I stride in. My liege sits on her throne—the only piece of furniture in the room—as she always does. She’s staring into a fire that burns perpetually, drawn from the pit to cast its flame into a room that’s already too fucking hot. But Hel likes it that way. Her frozen soul needs constant warmth.
“My mistress,” I intone as I close the distance between us and drop into a deep bow, rising only when she clicks her tongue at me. Like a gods-damned dog. “You summoned me,” I add in the reverential tone she demands.
“I should not have to threaten you when I call,” she clips out, turning her head to glare at me.
I stifle the shudder her appearance would trigger, even after all these years. Her right side calls to mind the females of my youth, her skin pale, hair the color of flaxseed, and eyes as vibrantly blue as the sky on a clear day. Like the other gods, her strong chin, high cheekbones, and perfectly-proportionednose give that side of Hel a classic beauty that would have inspired the tunes of many bards. I might have loved her for her looks alone if I’d known her then.
And if that were her only half.
Her left side is rot, pocked skin in various stages of decay, with a gut-churning mix of color disturbing the pitch-black that dominates. None of it has peeled off, although it looks as if it was moments away from giving up and abandoning its fetid host when it was fixed in place. The hues could have been drawn from the pit—purple and blue, yellow, orange and red—but for the fact that the pit’s fire lives. This side of Hel is death and rot. And I will forever be disgusted and repelled by it.
I can swallow a lot. The wraiths’ waste and torment feed my soul. But Hel’s decrepit visage is too disgusting, even for me.
“Apologies, my liege.” I don’t say anything else because she couldn’t give a shit about my reasons. None are good enough to disobey her. If she wants to punish me, she will. I stopped offering excuses ages ago.
She watches me for a long time, and I thank my fucking stars that she needs me alive. She tired of my bullshit within the first century, but she’ll lose too much if she kills me. It’s part of the reason I’ve had more freedom than most in this accursed place.
It doesn’t mean she can’t make my existence even more of a soul-eating misery if I piss her off badly enough.
Finally, she returns her gaze to the flames. “It’s too cold in here,” she murmurs. “Fix the gods-damned fire.”
Every fucking time. Her room is an inferno but never hot enough for this realm’s queen. One of her peons appears, as if he melted from the walls to stand before us, and launches himself toward the flames. “Apologies, mistress,” he mutters as he uses an enormous fan to drive it into a conflagration, the blaze of a thousand trees shoved into this little space.
