Some fucking wedding day. The groom doesn’t show up and then the venue gets bombed.
The little attempt at humor falls flat though when the castle shakes again, though subtle now, the boom sounding far off. Either the attack is subsiding or the wards really do have me protected.
I sit down on the end of Death’s bed and try to think. Of course it’s bigger than king-sized and all black satin and velvet, with iron posts and skulls in the corners. Definitely didn’t get this at Ikea either.
Another distant boom sends the mirrors rattling against the walls and I get up, wondering if I should huddle under something just in case. I’ve had my fair share of earthquake drills, but when the actual earthquakes shake up Los Angeles a few times a year, I usually spend most of the time thinking about taking shelter but not actually doing it.
Another boom makes the walls tremble and my heart leaps in my chest. It’s been racing steadily this whole time and I have to remind myself to breathe in deeply, in case I fall victim to a panic attack. Somehow I’ve survived all of Tuonela without really having one, but now I feel utterly alone for the first time.
What if everyone dies? What if this is part of the uprising?
What will the Old Gods do to me if they find me? Gouge my eyes out like the old believers? Will I be sent to Oblivion? Or to Inmost for eternity, to be turned into a Deadmaiden for them? What horrors do they inflict on mortals engaged to Gods?
Okay, now I’m having a panic attack.
Suddenly there’s a tapping at the window.
I can’t help but scream.
I whip around and look, terror seizing me, expecting to see the eye of a giant at the window, saying “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I smell the blood of a social media manager.”
But no.
It’s Rasmus.
I don’t know how, but it’s fucking Rasmus.
He’s sitting outside the window, a window that’s hundreds of feet up in the air. His red hair is tousled by the high winds and he’s waving at me, like he just stopped by after dinner to see if I was home, wanting a beer and a chat.
“What the hell?” I say, rushing over to him. I fling the window open, careful not to hit him with it. “Rasmus?” I cry out, blinking fast at the wind in my eyes.
“Hanna,” he says, flashing me a triumphant smile. “You knew I was coming back for you, didn’t you?”
I stare at him. This can’t be real. I have to be hallucinating.
“How are you even…?” I begin, and then I realize he’s crouched on a gargoyle of a wolf just below the window. My fear of heights kicks in and I have to grab the window frame to steady me.
“Are you ready?” he asks, then he frowns at my dress. “You look ready for something else. Catch you at a bad time?”
I shake my head, trying to form the right words, the right questions. “I don’t understand. How are you here? How did you get up here? There are wards, aren’t there?”
“And shamans can break through wards,” he says with a cocky smirk. “The right shamans anyway. Like me.”
“So, what, you can fly now?”
He frowns, his blue eyes turning glacial. “For some reason I thought you would be a lot happier to see me. I’m rescuing you. And before you try and tell me that you didn’t need rescuing, you’re wrong. You do, and it looks like just in time. I’m here and I’m getting you out of this castle, out of this land, for good.”
“Are you doing all of this?” I ask, gesturing to the air around. “The attack?”
He gives me a secretive smile. “There will be plenty of time for questions later. If you want to leave, we need to leave now.” He clears his throat. “Come with me if you want to live,” he says in the world’s worst Arnold impersonation.
“But how?” I ask, peering out into the thickening fog. “You got wings?”
“Just trust me,” he says.
But that’s the thing…can I trust him?
I don’t have a lot of time to figure that out, because he turns his head and lets out a piercing whistle.
Suddenly a dark shape comes flying out of the mist, right at us.
I scream again. I can’t help it. My nerves are shot.
It’s a massive unicorn like Sarvi, silver-colored, beating the air with its long wings, my hair flowing back from the draft.
“You have a unicorn too!?” I exclaim.
“Actually it’s your father’s,” he admits. “He’s the one who learned how to master them while he was here.”
I gasp, clutching my chest. “My father! Where is he?”
“He’s waiting for you. Now come on.” Another sharp look. “Don’t tell me you want to stay here with Death. This isn’t your world, Hanna. It never was. You belong with us. With family. Back home where you belong.”