Descendant (5 page)

“And who are you?” Gunnar asked in a deceptively mild tone.

Tag faltered to silence, seeming to sense the perilous attention he’d just drawn down upon himself. Heather watched, stone still and not even daring to breathe, as Gunnar raised a hand and held it up, palm-out toward Tag, as if trying to sense a temperature or pressure change in the air surrounding the star quarterback. The elder Starling’s gaze fastened, unblinking, on Tag’s face. It seemed to Heather in that moment that Gunnar’s left eye reflected the light strangely. Almost like a cat in the darkness—there was a flash of greenish-gold light that flared in a circle, and then was gone.

Gunnar’s upper lip lifted in the shadow of a disgusted sneer. “Tobias,” he said, “check my son’s pockets, please. I’d like to know if he carries any rune gold that he might have unwisely gifted to this . . . this walking knuckle.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Toby did as he was instructed, hauling Rory to his feet and patting him down. He turned out his pockets with brisk efficiency, not stopping until he got to an inner pocket of Rory’s jacket, where he paused. A long moment passed, and when Toby turned around, Heather saw that he held five tiny golden
objects, acorn-shaped, in the palm of his hand. They gleamed with what seemed to be their own inner light in the dim confines of the train car.

Toby stood, tense and unblinking, while Gunnar Starling plucked one of the acorns from the fencing master’s palm and lifted the little golden orb up in front of his face. It seemed a bit dimmer than the others, but as he moved it closer to Tag, it seemed to flicker feebly and grow a tiny bit brighter. Tag put a hand up to his neck, where the collar of his jacket stood up, as if hiding something. Gunnar’s glance flicked from the acorn, to his son, to the hapless quarterback.

“Defiled,” Gunnar said in a low growl. “Debased . . .”

Heather saw the tips of his fingers grow white as he began to squeeze the acorn.

“As I suspected. You
are
a liar, my son. And a thief,” Gunnar said in a chill, dead-calm voice. “And a careless one at that.”

“Rory, man . . . ,” Tag started to splutter. “What the hell—”

“Dad, stop. Please!”

“You need a lesson in good judgment.”

The acorn glowed with a sullen, saturated light that turned bloodred.

And then it burst.

Tag clutched frantically at his neck—and then at his chest, as if his heart was suddenly about to explode from his rib cage. His mouth went wide in a silent scream, and his face turned a shade of deep purple. Heather whimpered as the blood vessels burst in the whites of his bulging eyes.

“Dad—NO!”

Rory staggered forward a step and then lurched awkwardly out of the way to avoid being crushed as Tag Overlea toppled stiffly forward, hitting the floor of the train car face-first without twitching a muscle to save himself. He bounced once and rolled over onto one side, his crimson eyes wide and staring.

He wasn’t breathing.

Silence spun out from where Tag lay on the carpet, as if a kind of void was opening all around him. An emptiness that, only a moment earlier, had been filled with a life.

“Jeezus, Dad!” Rory choked out finally, through teeth clenched in pain. “What in
hell?
I poured a lot of power
into that gorilla just to make him useful. Now it’s gone. Wasted!”

Heather couldn’t believe her ears. But then she also suspected that Rory was deathly terrified. Gunnar stared impassively down at Tag’s body. His fury seemed to have dissipated, vanishing in the wake of Tag’s departed life force.

“A weak, flawed tool is a reflection of the one who uses it,” he said, his words void of emotion. “Remember that and we can avoid any such unpleasantness going forward.” He looked back down at the fragments of golden acorn in his palm, then held out his hand for Toby to give him the rest of Rory’s stolen stash. He did, and Gunnar closed his fist, shoving them into the pocket of his coat. “And I’ll thank you, in the future, to leave the locked places in my study
locked
. . . for now, it is important for us to remember that we must be both united and committed beyond all other concerns to our nobler cause in this endeavor. I’ve placed a great deal of faith in you, Rory. And I will continue to do so, so long as you give me reason. What we are trying to do—right here, right
now
—is the most important, the highest cause you can dedicate your life to. This is something outside yourself. Do you understand?”

Rory swallowed noisily and nodded, his relief almost palpable. Heather felt the bitter taste of disgust in her mouth as she watched his gaze slide away from Tag’s prone form.

“Good.” Gunnar sighed gustily and ran a hand through the thick silver waves of his hair. “Maybe Rothgar can shed some light on just exactly how badly this plan of yours went awry. And who was responsible for blowing up the bridge. While we wait, I suppose I’ll have to make arrangements for that to be fixed.” He gestured to Rory’s broken arm. “But the problem remains this: even if we can circumnavigate the destruction of the Bifrost, without the Fennrys Wolf, we still have no available means of retrieving the Odin spear.”

“Which might be a moot point anyway,” Toby said quietly, “without Mason to give it to.”

When a spark of anger at the mention of his missing daughter flared in Gunnar’s eyes, Toby lowered his own gaze to the floor between his feet. But he didn’t back off. Heather had to admire him for that. In the
same position, she would have been running for the hills. She wished she was now. It had occurred to her, as Gunnar spoke, that she shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t have seen Tag die. She shouldn’t be hearing any of what was being discussed—even though she had less than no idea what the hell they were all talking about. She shouldn’t be there. Not if Mason’s father had any worries about her blabbing her story to anyone.

The logical conclusion was that Gunnar Starling wasn’t worried . . . because he’d already decided Heather wouldn’t be given the opportunity to blab. Just like Taggert Overlea, she wasn’t going to leave that train car alive.

T
he God of Lies closed his one good eye, and his head rolled in exhaustion on the rock slab beneath his head. “Tell me a story,” he murmured. Mason shook her head, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s been an age since I’ve had anyone talk to me. Just . . . talk to me, Mason Starling. Tell me a story.”

“You just told me not to trust you.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t
talk
to me. And if I’m not the one talking, you really don’t have to worry about believing anything I say, now, do you?”

She could hardly argue with that logic. And, in truth, now that the shock of finding herself where she did was wearing off, Mason was curious. If the “God of Lies” really was what he claimed to be, then she also knew
who
he was. And she thought that maybe he could help her understand what was going on. If only she could draw the truth from him. If earning his trust—or just plain entertaining him for a few moments—could help her find out what was going on, she judged it worth a try.

“What kind of story do you want to hear?” she asked.

“Oh, anything. Tell me about . . .” He paused, his bright eye rolling as if he searched the empty air for an interesting topic. Then his gaze fell on Mason again and he continued, saying, “Tell me about the medallion you wear. Is it yours? It’s a very interesting design. Unique . . .”

Mason’s hand drifted up to the iron disk, and she ran her fingertips over the raised, knotted designs on its surface. “It’s not mine,” she said. “At least it shouldn’t be. It might be . . . now.” Her throat tightened. She couldn’t bring herself to think of what had happened to Fennrys after Rory had shot him. Wounded him.
Just
wounded . . . it had to be. Any other possibility—she couldn’t bear to even contemplate. Mason realized that she’d fallen silent and the chained man was watching her.

“Who gave it to you?” he asked.

“His name is Fenn.”

The blue eye drifted closed again, and the lines of his face softened as he turned his head away from the torch burning nearest Mason. “And what kind of a person is this . . . Fenn?”

“He’s perfect,” Mason blurted out the word without thinking. But then she stopped, startled by her own sudden proclamation and a little embarrassed. She was pretty sure she hadn’t meant to say that. At least, not out loud.

The man on the stone slab laughed softly. “Surely not.”

No, he was
far
from perfect. He was damaged and fragile and, at the same time, too strong and stubborn for his own good. He was reckless and hard-edged and quick to anger. But never at her. He had done terrible things and tried to make amends and just wound up in even worse situations because of it. He didn’t play nice with others. He’d said to her on more than one occasion that he wasn’t good for anything . . . except her. For Mason, he
was
perfect.

“Well, no.” She could feel her cheeks warming at the thought of every imperfect thing she loved about him. “I mean . . . of
course
he’s not perfect. He’s just . . . Fennrys.”

“Interesting name,” the man said softly, his gaze drifting from her face.

“Yeah . . .” Mason cocked her head and regarded the man steadily. “He was named after a god. Well, more like a monster. You know . . . the
Fenris Wolf
. . .”

“Why would anyone name their child after a monster?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because they wanted him to be strong. Protected. Maybe they didn’t want anyone to mess with him. I mean . . . you tell me.” She crossed her arms and waited for his response to that. When he stayed silent, she leaned forward so that he was looking up at her again. “
You
should know, right? I mean—whoever named him, they named him after one of
your
mythical monstrous brood . . . Loki .”

“Ah.” The corner of his mouth bent upward. “So you know me.”

“I know
of
you,” Mason said, doing her damnedest to keep her tone conversational. “I’ve read the stories. When I was little, I had them read
to
me.” She shrugged. “And—in my current psychosis or dream state or pharmaceutically induced episode or whatever
this
is—I sort of recognize the trappings. The chains, the serpent . . . the super-charming demeanor.”

“You flatter me,” said Loki, the trickster god of the Norse, opening his eye and grinning up at her. The prank-playing, charming—yes, he was definitely that, even with only half a face—chief engineer of the eventual end of the world. The architect of Ragnarok. At least according to the myths.

“Also? The whole ‘for I am the God of Lies’ thing? That was kind of a tell. Although I suppose you could have been . . . y’know,
lying
about that. At any rate, whatever. It’s fine. I don’t believe you’re real anyway,” Mason said.

“Why not?” Loki asked. “Because if I was—real and here and in this place—then that would mean you’re really here, too? In this place?”

“That’s the thing, though—I don’t think I
am
,” Mason said. “I think something has happened to me. Something bad. I think . . . maybe I’m coping.”

Loki laughed, and it was a warm, inviting sound. “Coping is such a passive response, Mason. If I were you, I’d take that sword you wear so well and use it to start fighting my way out of here.”

Mason smiled back at him—she couldn’t help herself—but she shook her head and loosened her grip on the rapier’s hilt. She’d been unaware that she was holding it so tightly. “Right. Okay,” she said. “And because
you’ve
just suggested I do that, it’s highly unlikely that I will.”

Loki pouted comically. “You really don’t trust me.”

Mason snorted. “Should I?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so!” He rolled his head back and forth on the rough-hewn stone slab. It seemed as if the pain of his venom wounds was easing. In fact, it almost seemed as if he was healing slightly, before her eyes. “I
am
the master of lies. According to Odin’s press agent, at least. Arrogant bastard, may the winds of Jotunheim frost his pasty arse and tear his soul to pieces for his infernal ravens to feast on!
My
eye grows back, you bastard!” he shouted at no one. “You hear that?”

“Wow . . .” Mason blinked at the sudden burst of cheerful acrimony. “Pissed much?”

“Have I not reason?” The chains clanked.

“I guess you do.” Mason levered herself up to sit on the edge of the stone on which Loki was bound. If she was going to stay where she was, chatting amiably with a nefarious, chaos-loving ballbuster of a god, she might as well make herself comfortable.

It was funny, but something about the whole situation reminded her of the first few—entirely surreal—conversations she’d had with Fennrys. That thought, in fact
any
thought of Fenn, warmed her. Anyway, there was something about Loki she just kind of . . . liked. Found appealing. And Mason couldn’t really think of anything else to do in that particular moment.

“Where’s the real wolf?” she asked, a bit worried that the gigantic, god-devouring wolf—the one that, according to the myth, was supposed to be bound by unbreakable chains until Ragnarok started to roll—that Fenn had been named after might be imprisoned somewhere nearby.

“My terrible, monstrous pup?” Loki asked with a bit of a chuckle. “I can honestly say, I do not know. There was a time when I did. When I could hear his cries and whimpers as he fought against his chains and I would try to whisper soothing things for him to hear. Poor pup. I could feel his anguish in my bones. Not anymore. Perhaps I’ve just been here too long.” He looked at Mason, his gaze piercing. “What do you think, Mason?”

“I think if you’re trying to convince me to help you escape, you’re the one barking up the wrong tree.”

Loki laughed. “Why’s that?”

Mason shook her head in bemusement. “Aren’t you here because you want to destroy the world?”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

“You know it is. And from where I sit, I’m guessing they’re right . . . and that’s still somehow on your agenda.
I mean, you’re pretty sanguine for a guy who’s getting his face melted off on a regular basis.” She noticed that, in fact, his other eye seemed to have repaired itself somewhat. It was still a milky blue and there was no pupil that she could see yet, but at least there was an eye in the socket. “Your attitude is pretty telling.”