Logan's POV
Garm, the harbinger of my doom, lets out a cavernous yawn, revealing a throat of pure molten fire. Then, with a dismissive snort, he tucks his massive, blood-matted head into his forelimbs and seems to melt back into the darkness by the gates, vanishing until he is little more than a deeper shade of black and the faint, fiery glow of his sleepy eyes.
Hel watches the hound fondly, like a pet owner would smile at a content dog. "He sleeps a great deal these days," she muses, her dual-toned voice echoing softly. "I suppose there is not much for him to do but sit and wait. Perhaps your foolish escape attempt will provide some stimulation for him." Those cold, dead eyes slide back to me. "Well, child of the moon goddess? What are you going to do?"
What am I going to do?
