Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
For some strange reason, I had hoped that perhaps fate, if there is such a thing, would have brought me straight to Hanna. But of course, that was a foolish thought to begin with. The portal Hanna went through would have dropped her out somewhere else, not here.
I close my eyes and test my connection to her, but it comes up blank.
My heart twinges in response.
It can’t mean anything. Perhaps this place dampens my power.
I try to reach Lovia, Tuonen, even Ahto, but again, there is nothing.
“Are you all right?” Torben asks quietly from beside me.
I open my eyes and glance down at him, surprised by his concern.
“I can’t feel any of them,” I admit in a hush.
He nods solemnly. “Neither can I. It’s this place. It’s laced with wards and black magic. Don’t take it to mean your family isn’t out there.”
I nod, my jaw clenching. “I’m worried about Hanna.”
“You shouldn’t be,” he says. “I’m not.”
I frown at him. “How can that be? You’re her father.”
“And she’s a Goddess,” he reminds me. “She’s the prophecy. You don’t become that for nothing. She’s somewhere and she’s fine. We’ll find her when the time is right.”
And now, I feel bested by the shaman. I’m the one who should have such steady, stoic feelings here. I’m the one who is supposed to be an unstoppable, hardhearted God.
That’s what you get for having feelings for her, I tell myself, my chest tightening, revealing that my heart has grown so much softer than I’d like.
Hanna—fierce, clever, mortal-born, but with a lineage and a purpose that still mystifies me. She made me feel things I am not supposed to feel—hope and longing, frustration and tenderness, all muddled together. There is something in me—something old, stubborn, and proud—that resists admitting love, but I know I cannot bear to lose her. Not now, not when so much is already lost.
I push these thoughts aside. I have a more immediate goal I need to focus on: Ilmarinen, Louhi’s consort, the shaman she left me for. I have never met this mortal—I would have killed him and probably prevented this whole uprising if I had—but rumor has it she was siphoning him for his magic, letting it fuel her own power. Louhi was clever and had a demon’s power all her own, but she needed mortal magic, mortal blood, to amplify hers enough to take over my shadow self and raise the Old Gods.
Ilmarinen is supposed to be a sad excuse for a man, like a dog she kicks around, and I have a hard time believing she took him with her if she already gained the power she needed. If he still lives in this forsaken palace, he may have crucial answers. If she has discarded Ilmarinen, that might mean he’s still here, drained of power, somewhere in these halls.
I summon a few generals to accompany Torben and me inside. Three of them follow, their minds heavily influenced by my power. They carry rifles and lanterns, spreading a weak golden glow over the black stone walls and warped floors. This palace is a labyrinth of twisted corridors, many caked with frost and something darker—old blood, perhaps. Rusted chains hang from walls, hooks that once held tapestries now covered by dangling cobwebs. An odor of stagnant rot lingers, as if the place itself is decaying already.
“This is pleasant,” Torben says dryly, his breath steaming from his lips. His eyes dart around warily. “I’m guessing Louhi never bothered with housekeeping.”
“She had servants for that, though it’s curious how quickly this place has crumbled.” I trace a claw-like fingertip along the wall, where old carvings depict strange scenes—twisted faces, ominous symbols. The place was crafted to unnerve, to impress upon any who entered that they are in the domain of someone powerful and cruel. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find Ilmarinen quickly. I have no desire to linger here longer than necessary.”
Torben nods and gestures to a corridor branching off to the right. “This way feels…heavier,” he says. I trust his instinct; he can sense magic resonances. If Ilmarinen is a conduit of power, Torben might feel it.
We move down a spiral staircase carved from volcanic stone. The generals’ boots clink softly on the steps, lanternlight striking facets of black crystal embedded in the walls. My nerves feel taut—something is wrong here, some old echo of suffering that puts me on edge. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that everything is in jeopardy: my realm, my family, Hanna. It has all slipped out of my control, and I cannot abide that. I am the God of Death. I rule the afterlife. I am supposed to be on top, unchallenged, and yet here I am, sneaking through my ex-wife’s palace, praying I can find some half-dead mortal who might help me.
I hate feeling powerless. I hate that without Hanna at my side, without my loyal subjects, I feel hollowed. The desire to see her again is sharp, almost painful. It’s not just because she was useful to me, either. She’s something else. She touched something deep within me I thought long dead. If I let myself think on it too long, I might lose my composure, and I cannot afford that now.