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Living forever isn't one of them, but compulsion is. We can't—and won't—force the will to bend to our whim. Only the Forsaken would dare. But we are capable of muddying the waters enough to hide our presence in this realm.
"Adaxiel." Reaper lifts amber eyes to me as I approach the table. His long hair is pulled back from his face, his distinctive ears carefully hidden within. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he could almost pass as human. Almost. "Any luck?"
I shake my head, sliding onto the bench beside Adriel, who grunts before scooting over an inch to make room. "Nei.Nothing."
"You're sure this is the place?"
I turn a look on Adriel, who merely holds my gaze, his mangled eye covered in a patch, his good eye unflinching. "Ja," I say quietly. "This is the place. Abigail was certain of it."
"She could be wrong," Malachi suggests.
"Abigail is never wrong," Damrion says before I can answer. "If she says the girl will appear here; the girl will appear here. We wait."
Malachi shrugs like it makes no difference to him and goes back to nursing his beer. Adriel grimaces and leans his head back against the wall, closing his good eye. He isn't sleeping though. Not even close. At rest, he's still one of the two most dangerous men in this room, second only to Reaper.
"What did Abigail say again?" Reaper says, curious gaze flickering between me and Damrion. His brown skin gleams under the light, his power flickering around him no matter how he masks it. His strength is the one thing he can't hide.
Luckily, those who are observant enough to notice it simply chalk it up to some inexplicable part of his beauty. They assume they're just dazzled by his looks. It's ironic really. He's the deadliest warrior the Fae have ever known. And humans take one look at him and swoon at his feet.
He fucking hates it. Which means Malachi finds it hysterical. Naturally.
"The prophecy is in motion. The sisters have manifested. Beware, a shadow lies over Heart," Damrion and I repeat in unison. It was a hell of a Foretelling, one not easily forgotten. As soon as Abigail's eyes turned white two weeks ago, a chill went down my spine.
The human Seer—a tiny little slip of a thing who sees things before they happen—has been in Eitr, our small fortress deep in the mountains, for the last few years. She's a runaway who insists she's supposed to be there. We sent her on her way several times in the beginning, but as soon as we'd drive her back into town, she'd find her way back to Eitr.
Fully grown explorers can't even find us. But a tiny little slip of a girl found her way to us three separate times. It was enough to give us pause. We stopped trying to send her back to her fosterhome at all when she predicted the arrival of Stephan, a former Navy SEAL who stumbled his way into Eitr after a bear attack.
Like Abigail, he never left. There are others like them, humans who found their way to us and made Eitr home. Most are warriors or healers or those who simply don't fit neatly into the human world…those like Abigail with gifts that defy human explanation.
Valkyrie blood runs through most of their veins.
Even in death, the Valkyrie still serve, gathering the ancestors of their offspring to us. The Blooded have been coming more frequently over the last few years, as if they sense the same shift in the wind we've sensed. As if they know the time has come.
Valhalla is rising…and so are her enemies. If my brothers and I can find the five Valkyrie destined to fulfill the prophecy, we do more than simply restore Valhalla. We give the dead hope of escaping the Forsaken with their souls intact…hope they haven't had in three centuries.
We've been searching for the five Valkyrie written into the Tapestry of Time since the day we were cast out of Valhalla. Three hundred years. Trapped in a realm that lost our memory to myth long, long ago.
"You really think she's here?" Malachi asks, his expression brooding, contemplative as he scans the bar. "In this bar?"
"Abigail believes so," Damrion says quietly. "That's enough for me."
"If she told you she shat gold, it'd be enough for you," Adriel snorts.
Damrion's face falls into a scowl.
Once, Damrion and Adriel were closer than blood brothers. And then Adriel was captured during the battle forÁlfheimr. He spent years in captivity, tortured by theJötunn. Damrion made the call not to send a rescue party, convinced theJötunnwouldn't keep the captives alive afterÁlfheimrfell.
He's never forgiven himself for that decision. Neither has Adriel.
If Damrion says right, Adriel says left on principle. It's been the same way for two thousand years. The animus between them has only grown since Abigail arrived.
"Now that'd be a useful skill," Malachi says before Damrion can snap back at Adriel. "Mylyststålhas seen enough sap to last five lifetimes."
To keep up pretenses, all of the Fae take turns felling trees and clearing land around Eitr. Anyone who stumbles upon our little village leaves believing we're simple mountain folk who eke out a living on the land. The truth is far more complex than that. But we do what we must to keep humans complacent.
"Only five?" A smile ghosts across Reaper's face. "Just last week, you said seven."
"I'm not in the middle of the woods freezing my nuts off now. I'm feeling generous." Malachi grins.
