Odin smiles slightly. He closes his eye for a moment, as if my begging is too much, and then says, “He’s already here. We fetched him when Heimdall saw you coming.”
At least he is not at the fight in the clearing, but still…“You knew?”
“We knew that you would not want to return home without your warrior, so, yes, we knew.” He smiles softly. “We are gods after all.”
I follow his gaze to Frank, who is standing in the back of the room. He’s wearing this ridiculous red outfit. Red leather pants with matching jacket is just not cool unless you’re a 1980s pop star. Especially when it comes to the too-tight pants. A giant man with a bright auburn beard and muscles that would make any professional wrestler jealous holds Frank by the arm.
“Thor,” Odin says, “would you mind bringing our visitor a bit closer?”
They walk through the tables. Many of the warriors-pixie, were, elf, and fairy-seem to hiss and recoil as the pixie king walks by.
“They all want to attack him. We don’t fancy evil in here,” Odin explains to me. “But it’s necessary.”
Beliel or Frank or whatever walks up to us. Thor lets go of the pixie’s arm and looks at his own hand.
“I feel like I could drink four kegs of ale,” Thor says to me and then turns to Odin. “Or just have a nice beheading.” He laughs with a hearty ho-ho-ho. There is a piece of fuzz in his beard. I thought gods would have immaculate beards. His good mood seems to shift and his eyes grow softer. He adds, “Good luck, warrior queen. Heimdall sends you luck as well.”
It takes me a second to realize that when he said “warrior queen,” he meant me. I nod and say, “Thank you, Thor.”
Beliel lifts an eyebrow. Just that movement seems deadly.
“You will fight with swords,” Odin says.
Swords?
Fight?
“You can’t be serious,” I say, moving backward. This is the guy who killed Nick. This is the guy who wounded my father. I am so bad at swords. “I can’t fight with swords.”
Odin’s hands spread out flat on the table, framing his plate. His eye does not waver. “I am indeed serious. I am also sorry. Are you sure you want to do this, Zara White, queen of pixies, creator of alliances?”
If I don’t, then Nick has to stay here. There’s no choice.
“Yes.” My voice is hard and strong and confident.
Beliel laughs and actually rubs his hands together.
“Fun,” he snarls. I glare at him and he laughs. “Oh… scared…”
The warriors begin to mutter and talk. It becomes a massive roar in two seconds. Still, I can pick out individual words and sentences in the din.
“She won’t last thirty seconds.”
“One minute tops.”
“I don’t think I want to witness this. It is not sport.”
Odin raises his hand. Everyone is instantly quiet.
“Move the tables,” he orders.
Giant men and a few women leap up and move the tables to the sides. The tables look like they weigh two hundred pounds apiece, but they make easy work of it. Some Valkyries roll out a red mat on the open area. Then the warriors tip the long wooden tables on their sides, making the center matted area more like a pen.
Nerves clench up in my stomach. I am glad Nick is not here. I wouldn’t want him to see me get trounced or witness me screwing up his one chance to get back home. No, I will not get trounced. I do not have the luxury of being trounced.
I glance at the pixie king. He smiles. I finally understand the meaning of the expression “wicked grin.” It grows larger as Thor tosses him a blade. He catches it in his hand by instinct, it seems, because his eyes never stop staring at me.
“Do you need one or do you want to use your own?” Thor asks.
“My own,” I answer.
This gets appreciative muttering. I hope that means I’ve chosen correctly. I unsheathe my sword, feel the weight of it in my hand. It makes me think of Astley, which braves me up a bit. We step inside the matted area. I’m wondering if this is a fight to the death or not. My head is full of questions. How do I attack the guy who overcame Nick? What kind of chance do I honestly have here?
The pixie king silently nods at me.
I silently nod back.
“You may begin,” Odin announces. “Valiant fighting to both.”
The pixie king bows and immediately rushes toward me. I wince and duck. The sword soars through the space where my head was a second ago. Crud. He’s coming at me again. I roll. A split second later the sword slams into the floor. The entire hall reverberates from the blow. I was just there. He barely missed.
I am still rolling, clutching my sword to my chest. He comes after me. His foot lands on my chest.
“You’re not making this much fun, princess,” he hisses. The weight of his boot pushes the air out of my rib cage.
“It’s queen now, thank you,” I grunt back.
“You fight like a human.”
“And that’s an insult, right?”
He grinds the boot in a little deeper. “Right.”
For a second neither of us moves. I swear he’s gloating.
Someone in the audience yells, “Do not torment her. Get it done and be quick.”
I guess that’s a supportive comment. Maybe?
He leans closer. That wicked grin spreads further. He lets his glamour go. He is all blue and wildness.
“The goody-goody king has turned you, but he has not achieved his full power, nor have you.” He says this low enough that I’m pretty sure I am the only one who can hear it.
“And you know this how?” I try not to get embarrassed, and act tough instead. Only problem? I’m no good at acting.
His nostrils flare. “I can smell it. That means you can still be taken, that your full power can be taken by another.”
I get what he means. And I do not like it. My fear, all my fear, suddenly hardens and morphs into something totally different: anger. It burns through my pixie blood. It pulls its way into my organs, feeding me. Anger. Passion. This-this monster pixie man-this so-called king is the one who let my father’s pixies loose to ravage our town, the one who killed Nick, the one whose people caused the death of that entire busload of Sumner students, the one whose people might be killing Issie and Devyn and Astley and Cassidy right now.
I smile at him, all Southern charm and sweetness.
His weight shifts. I use his split-second of confusion to thrust my hips up and out. My legs bend so I can use my feet to push up off the ground. The power of it sends him stumbling back.
The crowd roars its approval.
I whirl around, thrust my sword at him. I nick him in the arm. Blood pours out, dark and foreign. It’s my blood too, but it’s not. We may both be pixies, but we are different, totally different.
“You talk too much,” I say. “Why do the bad guys always talk too much?”
“Because we like to prolong the win,” he says, slashing his sword toward me. “It’s sexier that way.”
“Point to remember,” I say, “bad guys are never sexy.”
He is so much more skilled than I am. He attacks low with a double thrust, but I leap high, turn in midair, and land behind him.
“Nice,” he says, whipping around to meet my sword blow with his own. “But not good enough. You’re never quite good enough, are you, princess? Always trying to save people-your stepfather, your wolf-but never quite doing it.”
“Well, it seems like you aren’t either,” I huff out, trying to catch my breath. “You tried to kill Astley and me how many times? But you keep failing and failing and failing.”
“Not this time.”
He increases the speed of his attack. His sword flies high and fast. It is all I can do to parry it. I move backward from the force. I have to super-react to every move while he looks as calm as all get-out. It’s like he barely has to use his muscles to make the big sword thrust and slash. And me? I am a suck-a-saurus.