Mist (7 page)

“I do not believe the situation will become so dire.”

“Well, that changes everything. We’re safe.”

He was silent, but she couldn’t tell if it was because he was insulted or simply couldn’t provide a satisfactory response. She relaxed her grip on the wheel and pressed lightly on the brake.

“I still don’t understand why the Jotunar got here first,” she said, as much to herself as to the elf. “The only advantage the frost giants ever had over the Aesir was their sheer numbers. The reason they were such a threat during Ragnarok was because—”

Mist broke off, drawing in a sharp breath. Because they had a leader who would stop at nothing, not even the darkest and most deadly magic, to attain his ends.

The realization hit her like a Jotunn’s fist, so terrible that she almost slammed on the brakes in the middle of the freeway. Her guts twisted in panic, and the tattoo began to burn again. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t already thought of it, that Dainn hadn’t mentioned even so much as the possibility.

Because he’d deliberately hidden it from her.

“Where is Loki?” she asked.

Dainn seemed unmoved by her alarm. “That is the other task Freya has set me. She suspects he may be here with the Jotunar.”

“And you didn’t bother telling me this rather obvious suspicion before?”

“It was clearly not obvious to you.”

The elf ’s complete lack of concern made Mist want to knock his head against the dashboard. “Of course the Jotunar couldn’t create or open these gates or bridges or what ever they are by themselves,” she said, feeling like an idiot. “Not if the Aesir couldn’t.”

Her hands began to tremble on the wheel. She remembered what she’d told Dainn not long ago: that only a minor god could break the wards she’d set over Gungnir.

And for all intents and purposes, a minor god was exactly what Loki was. Minor, but in name only. If he had sent Hrimgrimir with just the right spells . . .

She pressed the Volvo to its limits, reaching eighty as the car crossed over Highway 101. She flew along the Embarcadero Freeway and raced down the Twentieth Street exit ramp. She screeched right on Twentieth, crossed Third on a yellow light, and made a hard right on Illinois.

The Volvo was sputtering when she pulled into the driveway. She set the brake, practically tore the belt buckle apart, and jumped out. Dainn was right behind her as she unlocked the front door.

She knew immediately that Eric wasn’t home. A dozen strides along the main hallway and a sharp right at the kitchen carried her to the door of the ward room.

Only it wasn’t warded any longer. The Rune- staves painted on the wall above the door had broken to pieces, reduced to a chaotic series of black slashes like smears of rotted blood.

Mist plunged through the door. The case was open.

Gungnir was gone.

3

Mist spun to the nearest wall and slammed it with her fist. Paint fell in flakes at her feet. Dainn ran into the room.

“Loki’s piss!” she swore, lapsing briefly into the Old Tongue, which was made for insults, even against oneself. “Short-wit, incompetent . . .”

Dainn stopped before the open case, his gaze locked on the empty space where Gungnir had been hanging before she’d left around midnight. All the other weapons were untouched: two dozen swords, axes, daggers, and knives, each lovingly forged by her own hand, displayed in oak and glass cases built into the walls. The opened case had held knives of all shapes and sizes, eight weapons with hand-carved grips and edges sharp enough to rend flesh like tissue. Each knife was unique, but no one of them appeared substantially different from any other except in subtle elements of design and embellishment.

Whoever had taken it had recognized it for what it was with no trouble at all. The simple Rune- spells that had been meant to hide its true shape had been snapped apart like the thinnest of threads.

“It will do no good to curse yourself now,” Dainn said with an almost unnatural calm. “Hrimgrimir has deceived us both.”

“I’m not stupid,” she snapped. But she
had
been. Very, very stupid to keep Dainn in the park answering questions, believing all the while she’d actually defeated Hrimgrimir, while the frost giant made a run for Dogpatch to steal the Spear.

Dainn paced slowly around the room, touching this case and that as if he could draw vital information out of the wood and glass and steel. Returning to the door, he ducked his head outside and stared up at the fractured Runes.

“I smell nothing of Hrimgrimir here,” he said.

Mist slowed her breathing and closed her eyes. He was right. There was a certain stench about Jotunar, whether fire or frost, that had nothing to do with cleanliness or grooming habits. She’d smelled it in Golden Gate Park just before Hrimgrimir had attacked.

“According to what you told me, Hrimgrimir wasn’t the only Jotunn who came to Midgard,” she said. “Maybe one of the others . . .”

He stared at the wood-paneled floor under his oversized sneakers. “I fear not,” he said.

A surge of adrenaline sent currents of fire racing through Mist’s veins. Without pausing to question the impulse, she ran into the kitchen, calling for Lee and Kirby, her Norwegian forest cats. They weren’t exactly watchdogs, but they were far from ordinary. Maybe Dainn, with his elvish connection to nature and animals, might be able to see something through their eyes.

But the cats, usually afraid of nothing but the rare California thunderstorm, refused to put in an appearance. On the edge of panic, Mist blundered unseeing right into the kitchen table. On the table lay a folded scrap of paper.

Eric. The frantic energy drained from her body, leaving her legs shaking and her heart struggling to work its way out of her stomach. He had been taking a shower when she’d left; he must have gone out and left a her note of explanation.

Her relief lasted all of five seconds. Eric could be foolishly impulsive at times, was generally fearless and always up for a little risky adventure. What if he had glimpsed someone stealing something from the house, naturally assumed the thief was human, and gone after him?

Mist reached for the paper and unfolded the note with shaking hands. The Runic script seemed to pulse on the page like entrails spilling hot from a dying warrior’s belly.

My apologies, sweetheart,
the note said.
I had hoped to enjoy you one last time, but it was not to be. I will cherish your gift. You may be sure I will use it well.

The final symbol was the figure of a coiling snake. It came alive as she watched, hissing and seeming to laugh with its gaping, serrated jaws. Then it was still again, and Mist dropped the paper onto the table. It burst into flame and disintegrated into black ash.

“Eric,” she whispered.

“Loki was here,” Dainn said. He stalked up behind her, breathing in deeply like a wolf scenting the air. She spun to face him.

“If you’d told me as soon as I found you—”

He backed away, watching her face as if he expected her to attack him with her bare hands. “I made a mistake,” he said.

But so had she. She’d been so much worse than the short-wit and incompetent she had called herself before. Eric was no devoted lover prepared to spend the rest of his mortal life with her. He had deceived her from the moment they’d met.

Of course, she’d had no reason to think he could be anything but what he claimed. He had been affectionate, affable— the very opposite of Loki Laufeyson. But even if she’d suspected the gods were alive, she would never have looked beyond Eric’s smiling blue eyes, his big-hearted nature, his easy confidence.

Hrimgrimir had been no more than a distraction. It had always been Eric. Eric Larsson, also known as Loki Laufeyson.

“How did this happen?” Dainn asked.

Mist stared at the pile of ash, flinching at the question as if the elf had bellowed the words in her ear.

“Why didn’t Freya
know
Loki was already in Midgard?” she retorted. “Why did she only suspect?”

“So much is . . . still unclear to us.”

“But Eric—” She broke off, unable to find the words.

Dainn ran his fingers through the black powder. “He was your lover.”

“No! It was . . .” She swallowed, remembering all the good times. Every one false, Loki’s joke on one he might have vanquished with a snap of his fingers. Just the previous morning, in the gym, she’d told him he was getting to be almost as good with the sword as she was. Andwhen they’d made love . . .

“I knew him as . . . Eric Larsson,” she said.

“How long was he with you?” Dainn asked.

Mist’s throat tightened until she could hardly breathe. “Six months.”

Dainn frowned, obviously asking himself the same questions she was. If Loki had been in Midgard for months, he had deceived the Aesir more thoroughly than he had ever done in a long life of deception.

Loki Laufeyson. Scar-lip, Slanderer, godling, trickster, purveyor of chaos and conflict, shape-shifter, foremost of Jotunar, father of monsters, mother of Sleipnir, once ally of the gods and now their greatest enemy. Myth called him evil, but he was so much more than any mere word could define. The codes of morality, Aesir and mortal, were not his to live by.

The destruction of the other Homeworlds wouldn’t have quenched his need for revenge—for the slaughter of his son Narfi in punishment for the gentle god Baldr’s death; the binding of his other son, the great Wolf Fenrisulfr; the torment he himself had endured when the Aesir had bound him under the serpent that perpetually dropped venom into his eyes.

He
was the one who wanted to use the Treasures against the Aesir.
He
wanted a second chance at Ragnarok. And he had come to Mist to . . .

That was pretty cursed obvious now. Loki must have known all along that she’d had Gungnir in her possession. That was clearly the reason he had come to her in the first place, introducing himself as someone she could learn to love. In all the time they’d had been “together”—and there was no way of knowing if he’d been in Midgard even longer than the months she had known him—she had been absolutely convinced his feelings for her were real.

I had hoped to enjoy you one last time.
Loki had always been notorious for having insatiable sexual appetites, and with Eric—
oh, Eric
— the sex had always been fantastic. Eric had made her feel comfortable because he wasn’t threatened by her strength and had never considered himself her superior, but she seriously doubted that her sexual skills were enough to make Loki delay his plans.

Why had he waited so long to take Gungnir?

“I didn’t know,” she stammered.

Dainn rubbed the ashes of the note between his thumb and forefinger. After a few moments of reflective silence he glanced around the kitchen, his gaze passing over the stove, the old-style TV, and the cartoon Thor bobblehead until he found something that seized all his attention.

Mist followed his gaze. The little framed photo of her and Eric in Strybing Arboretum—both of them smiling, for all the world looking like the perfect couple— lay on the ugly linoleum Mist had never bothered to replace when she’d bought the loft, the glass cracked into three pieces.

Dainn bent to pick it up. He studied the picture for nearly a minute and then set the frame facedown on the top of the TV.

“He always chooses a fair disguise,” he said, his manner as calm as ever. “You could not have been expected to know who he was.”

And, just like that, Dainn absolved her of any wrongdoing and forgave her rank stupidity. But she couldn’t forgive herself. Or Freya, for not knowing what she was up against.

Dainn’s hand on her arm jerked her out of her bleakest memories. “Do you pity yourself?” he demanded. “Do you think your burdens are greater than those of every man or god who has made mistakes before you?”

She met his gaze, ready with a furious reply, but he cast her a look so dark and savage that she was stunned into speechlessness. For a dozen charged seconds they gazed at one another, and Mist felt her muscles knot as if she were in the presence of Fenrisulfr himself.

And yet Dainn’s long fingers felt warm and strong and almost familiar, like a caress in a dream of dulcet melodies and soft spring breezes and all the good things that never quite materialized in the mortal world.

Abruptly she pulled free, and Dainn let her go. His eyes cleared, and suddenly the darkness, the breezes—and Mist’s contradictory joy—were gone.

“I can understand why Loki wanted to make an issue of fooling me,” she said bitterly. “He’s always enjoyed his nasty little games. But why did he choose today to abandon his disguise? He knows the Aesir can’t get to Midgard, right? Did he know that someone from the other side had shown up to find the Spear?” She swallowed a laugh. “Hrimgrimir obviously wasn’t worried about you, so why would
he
be?”

She could see she’d gotten to him, but he only stared down at the table. “Some Alfar could cause him considerable inconvenience if they wished to.”

“But not you. No, either he thinks the Aesir will be on his tail any moment, or—” She inhaled sharply, remembering again that dark, smoldering, almost violent look in Dainn’s eyes. “Maybe you’re a lot more dangerous than you look.”