Chapter 35: Drinks with Erik
Less than 81 hours.
That was all the time I had left. The mission clock floated in my vision like a neon death sentence, ticking down with every step I took.
If Rulo was right and given the look in his eyes when he said it, I was betting he was, the creatures would hit the city tomorrow afternoon. That meant most of this precious countdown would be spent in the middle of an invasion.
Which meant my chances of surviving just got a lot worse.
No, scratch that. The mission's chances of succeeding got worse. And since "mission fail" meant I die, yeah… those two things were basically the same.
The streets were quieter now, shadows stretching long across the cobblestones as I made my way back toward the Mikaelson Inn and Tavern. Every step brought the same thought into sharper focus, this mission wasn't random.
It couldn't be.
It knew. The damn system knew I'd been stuck with Freya more than once. It knew she pissed me off. It knew I wouldn't choose to protect her unless my life depended on it.
And yet… that argument earlier? I hated to admit it, but it told me something about her. About my relationship with her.
Freya had that tsundere thing going. The kind of woman who'd act like she hated your guts one minute, then save your life the next, all while denying she cared. And yeah, I wasn't going to lie to myself… I was attracted to her. Physically, at least. If she walked up to me right now and offered to fuck, I'd probably agree before she finished the sentence.
Which made me wonder if telling Gwen to "wait" had been a mistake. My thirst wasn't getting any weaker, and with death possibly less than two and a half days away, maybe patience wasn't my smartest play.
By the time I reached the inn, my head was so full of all this crap, invasion, missions, women, that my temples were starting to ache.
The door swung open with a faint creak, letting in the smell of firewood and ale. Behind the counter, Erik Mikaelson, all eight feet of him, stick-thin and towering like a walking scarecrow, glanced up at me. His usual squeaky voice carried that strange undercurrent of bass it sometimes had.
I walked straight up to the counter. "Give me something strong. And keep them coming."
His long fingers twitched toward a bottle, but his eyes narrowed. "You already look tipsy. What happened?"
"Your damn daughter," I said flatly.
He tilted his head, a shadow of curiosity passing over his gaunt features. "Freya?"
"Yeah," I said, leaning my forearms on the bar. "Freya."
Erik's eyebrows, thin and almost invisible against his pale skin, lifted. "What did she do this time?"
I let out a humorless laugh and shook my head. "You mean besides being the most infuriating woman in the city? Let's just say she's perfected the art of making me want to put my head through a wall."
"That's… most people's experience with her," he admitted, reaching under the counter for a squat glass. The bottle he set down was unmarked, but the liquid inside looked strong enough to strip paint. He poured me a generous shot.
I downed it in one go. It hit my throat like a burning hammer and landed in my gut like molten lead. "Fuck… that's good."
Erik refilled the glass before I had to ask. "She's stubborn, I'll give her that. Has been since she was a child. But she means well… in her own way."
I snorted. "If that's her meaning well, I'd hate to see her on a bad day."
He gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "She doesn't make things easy. For anyone. But… she's still my daughter." He paused, studying me for a long second. "And it sounds like she's gotten under your skin more than you'd like to admit."
I gave him a look over the rim of my glass. "Not in the way you're thinking."
He smiled faintly, the kind of knowing smile that made me want to throw the glass at his face. "Of course."
"Don't," I warned him, pointing a finger. "I'm not some lovestruck idiot. She's just… part of a mission I can't fail."
Erik's head tilted slightly, that curious bass note back in his voice. "Mission?"
"Never mind," I muttered, tossing back the second shot. The burn grounded me. "Just… forget I said that."
He didn't press. Smart man.
I leaned back in my chair, glass dangling from my fingers, staring at the flickering hearth on the far wall. The alcohol was doing its work, taking the edge off my irritation. But it couldn't burn away the clock still ticking in the corner of my vision.
80 hours, 42 minutes, 5 seconds.
Which meant I had less than a day to prepare for an attack that could turn this city into a graveyard.
I tapped the rim of my empty glass, and Erik silently refilled it. I tossed it back without hesitation. The heat in my chest was starting to match the weight in my stomach.
I had to figure this out. Weapons, supplies, possible escape routes… and, more importantly, how to keep Freya from charging headfirst into the middle of the slaughter like I knew she would.
This wasn't going to be a fight. It was going to be survival.
And as much as I hated to admit it, I'd have to survive with her.