Page 123 of Storm of Fury
“Why would the Keepers stay in mortal form?” Tormund asked, trudging through the snow behind her.
“Foreign territory perhaps. Or perhaps they cannot sense her when they’re in the skies. Perhaps they’re reduced to tracking her the way we’re doing.”
“Perhaps.”
It was the most words they’d shared all morning.
Bryn tipped her flask to her lips, watching him stand outlined against the sky. A fight brewed within her, but he’d already won it. She’d expected him to make some sort of demand upon her last night—to insist that what they shared was worth fighting for—but he’d merely squeezed her fingers and promised he’d help her find her way home.
What did you expect?
That he would beg?
Bryn squeezed the pendant around her throat. Perhaps a little part of her had wanted him to beg her to stay—to make her choice for her. It was easier this way. Cleaner. Neither of them would part with their hearts broken.
But an angry, jagged little piece of her felt cheated.
He’d given her everything she’d ever wanted, but the taste of it was as bitter as poison.
Sýr floated out of the gloom, her ghostly wings brushing against Bryn’s cheek as she soared to the next tree, and then looked back at them as if questioning whether Bryn would follow.
She’d spent her entire lifetime following that call, her life bound to Freyja’s.
But for the first time, her feet felt as heavy as her heart.
Sýr cocked her head, then preened under her wing.
“We’d best move out,” Tormund called, slinging his pack over his shoulders. “The snow’s getting heavier, and we’re going to have to seek shelter for the night soon.”
Bryn let go of the pendant and screwed the lid on her flask.
One last night together.
She’d recognized how close they were to finding their prey. The Keepers moved slowly, as if having trouble tracking thedrekiprincess. For all that she and Tormund were mortal—or near enough—they seemed to be gaining ground.
Tomorrow they would have them, and then what?
She would have to make a choice.
“Did you have anything in mind?” Bryn muttered.
“That,” he called, pointing toward a rocky overhang, and the shepherd’s hut that perched upon it.
* * *
“I’ll get the fire going.”
Bryn rubbed her upper arms, nodding briefly as Tormund moved toward the cold stone fireplace. It was barely a hut—wind howled through a crevice near the door—but the stone walls were thick and would keep the worst of the snow at bay, and the shelter outside would protect the horses.
“As much as I appreciate your intentions, I think it’s going to take more than a fire to keep warm tonight.” The storm had blown in as they climbed the bluff, until her cloak threatened to strangle her.
“If you’re asking whether I intend to share my bedroll,” he called over his shoulder, “then you have the subtlety of Thor’s hammer.”
“Mjölnir?” She tossed her own bedroll in the corner and unknotted the ropes that bound it. “Perhaps I was merely commenting on the cold. Perhaps you’re the one who lacks subtlety.” Bryn screwed up her nose. “This hut stinks of wet sheep.”
“Not the worst place I’ve stayed in. Haakon has a talent for finding the smallest, shittiest hellhole in every town we ever visited and insisting we stay there.” He struck his flint, and a tiny flame caught.
“Why follow him all these years?” she asked, shaking out her bedroll. “Haakon said you’d traipsed at his heels to the end of the earth and back. He said he told you to leave him a thousand times or more and you wouldn’t. Why?”
