Transcendent (10 page)

“We had a little chat. It didn't go well. You know how he holds a grudge.”

At Rory's command, the mammoth ice creatures started forward again, heaving large heavy tables and chairs in Mason and Roth's direction and wreaking messy, dangerous havoc.

Mason caught a flash of movement out the corner of her eye and turned to see Toby and Cal, along with Heather and Daria, darting toward them in a tight group. Their movements were covered by Maddox and Rafe, who worked in tandem with chain and sword to harry one of the Frost Giants and drive it back, with only minimal success. Mostly, it just looked as though they were annoying the hulking creature with their swift, darting feints. But Mason knew that if it managed to connect with one of its ponderous blows, that would be it. Every time one of the massive ice fists landed, chunks of concrete flew like missiles.

And Rory threw back his head and laughed.

“Guys? I have a bad feeling about this,” Heather said, crouching down beside Mason and nodding at Rory. “Judging by the
last
time I saw your douche brother, he should be whimpering for his mommy by now.” She shook her head. “
That
guy? Looks like he's having way too much fun.”

“Yeah. We should definitely spoil that fun,” Fennrys snarled, dripping wet and scorchingly furious. “Hey,
Aqualad!” Fennrys barked at Cal. “I could use a lift. . . .”

“No problem, Teen Wolf,” Cal said and flung out both hands toward the Prometheus fountain—almost as if in supplication to the Titan god—and the water in the pool beneath suddenly gathered in a wave that surged up and over the terrace, gathering beneath Fennrys, who bunched his legs under himself and braced against the water's sudden density. Cal made a hurling motion with his hands and the solid column of water flung Fenn through the air like a hydraulic catapult. Mason and the others watched in awe as he transformed, midair, into the huge golden wolf with teeth and claws that were far more effective than any weapon he might wield.

At least, they should have been.

Mason sucked in a horrified breath as the Fennrys Wolf opened his jaws wide and clamped down just above the wrist of her brother's outflung arm, expecting to see Rory's hand sever in a spray of blood and shattered bone. Instead, she heard the Wolf yelp in pain as Rory threw back his head and howled with laughter. In gleeful madness, he flung Fennrys to the ground like a rag doll, then brought his gloved fist down in a vicious arc toward the top of the lupine's skull.

If he'd moved just a fraction faster, he would have done it, too.

But the Wolf twisted frantically and rolled to the side, the swiftness of animal instincts far superior to his adversary's human reaction time, and Rory's leather-clad knuckles only made contact with the patio stones.

What's happened to him?
Mason wondered, horrified.

Rory lunged again and picked up the golden wolf scrambling at his feet by the scruff of the neck—one-handed—and hurled him into the outdoor patio bar that had been shuttered. The metal slats covering the bottle shelves caved in with the blow and the Wolf howled in excruciating pain.

Heather murmured,
“Holy
. . .”

“Roth!” Mason turned to him, frantic. “What the
hell
has happened to Rory?”

“Witchmechs,” he hissed. “Those bloody dark dwarves didn't just give him a new hand to replace the one that Fennrys shattered . . . they gave him a new hand meant for Tyr.”

Mason blinked, stunned for a moment. “Tyr—the Norse
god
, Tyr?—the
wolfsbane
god?”

“Yeah. That one,” Roth spat. “That hand is made of silver and it's full of big-time magick.”

“Shit,” Toby swore. “Fennrys! Fall back!” he called out. “Fall
back
! He'll kill you!”

The Fennrys Wolf yelped in pain again as another blow from Rory sent him sprawling across the terrace. Mason couldn't see any other options. She reached for the hilt of her sword . . .

“Don't.”
Rafe's voice cut through the chaos as the god vaulted the stone barrier and dropped lightly to the ground beside her. His expression was deadly serious.

“Fennrys is getting his ass kicked out there, Rafe!” she said. “For us!”

“I noticed.” He pegged her with a pointed stare. “Doesn't matter. Whatever you do, you
cannot
risk manifesting as a Valkyrie in the middle of a pitched battle, Mason.”

“Why?” she pleaded. “
Why
can't I use all this power to do something good?”

“Because in a fight, the temptation—the chance that you'll give in to the urge to choose—is too great.” There was compassion in Rafe's eyes, but there was also steel. “I know you're tough, Mason, and I know you're brave and you're strong . . . but trust me. The Valkyrie? She's stronger. Her only
purpose
is to choose. Under normal circumstances, she—
you
—would simply choose the most valiant of the combatants on the field. Whoever that is . . . dies a glorious death, goes to join the Einherjar in Valhalla. Only, in this case—in
your
case—there's a bonus round.” The death god's eyes were black, hard, and glittering as obsidian. “In this case . . . the touch of the Odin spear transforms the chosen warrior into the third Odin son, whose prophesied destiny, according to the Norns, is to lead the Einherjar
out
of Valhalla, alongside your two brothers.”

“And when that happens?” she asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Ragnarok.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait for Rory to finish pulverizing Fennrys?” she demanded. “He's one of yours now, Rafe. Don't you care?”

Her eyes filled with hot tears of frustration. The circle of Frost Giants made certain that none of the wolves could reach
the newest member of their pack. Cal was looking dangerously tapped out, and Toby and Maddox were woefully outmatched by Rory's ice thugs.

Her friends, all fighting gamely, were going to lose.

And Fennrys was going to die if they didn't do something.

He leaped again and Rory swung his fist in a roundhouse blow that caught the Wolf on the shoulder and sent him tumbling out of control across the unforgiving concrete. He smashed into another shuttered outdoor servery, and again the metal slats crumpled jaggedly inward on impact. Mason felt a hand on her shoulder and turned.

“Listen to me,” Daria said. “I can get us out of here if I can call forth the Firebringer . . .” She paused, gasping for breath. “But I need . . . a spark.”

“What are you talking about?” Roth demanded.

“You Vikings weren't the only ones weaving magicks into city landmarks back in the day,” she said, referring, no doubt, to the Hell Gate Bridge.

Mason followed her gaze and looked up at the golden Promethean effigy above the Rockefeller Plaza fountain. It was big, impressive, and carrying fire. It might just be what they needed to fight all that rampaging ice. . . .

“Do it,” she said.

“I told you . . . I need a spark.” Daria's shoulders slumped and Mason saw that she was pale and shaking.

“She's tapped out from the Miasma.” Rafe frowned. “She needs a power source to act like a pilot light. A talisman or something—anybody got anything like that kicking around?”

“The medallion around Fennrys's neck would probably work,” Mason said, “except it's around Fennrys's neck.”

Roth grunted in frustration. “If I had any of Dad's stash of runegold on me, that would probably work,” he said. “But I don't.”

“Stash of
what
?” Mason looked at him.

“Acorns—golden ones—carved with runes,” Roth explained. “The Norns gave them to Gunnar and they channel magick. I only just found out that Rory was peddling runegold magick like drugs to some of the meathead jocks at Columbia—”

“Wait,” Heather said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small golden orb. “You mean this thing?” The acorn in the palm of her hand glowed with a warm, gentle light in the darkness.

“Uh . . . yeah.” Roth blinked at it. “That's exactly what I mean. That's got a protection rune on it.” He glanced at her sharply. “Is
that
what's been shielding you? Where did you get it?”

“In a Cracker Jack box,” Heather snapped. “None of your business. Will it work as a spark?”

Roth hesitated. “Yeah, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I'd have to carve off this rune and replace it with another. You'll be vulnerable. To all of this.” He circled a hand in the air. “The Frost Giants, the Miasma. It's still powerful enough that it'll probably turn you into one of them.” He nodded his
chin at the Sleepers strewn about the courtyard.

“Do it.” Heather thrust out the acorn.

“Heather—no.” Cal shook his head, reaching out to grab for her wrist. “It's too risky. You need that to keep you safe.”

“Tell you what,” Heather countered. “How about
you
keep me safe.”

At the far end of the plaza, the Frost Giants were roaming mindlessly, committing random acts of wanton destruction. The courtyard looked like a war zone. The Fennrys Wolf was cornered, hemmed in by Rory, who stood there hurling taunts and waiting for the golden-furred beast to charge at him again.

Rafe's other wolves were nowhere to be seen and Mason knew the ancient god wasn't about to call them back, just so he could sacrifice his pack on their behalf. She could hardly blame him. She'd already asked an awful lot of a being who, for all intents and purposes, had very little to do with the burgeoning mess her family had conjured. Well, hers . . . and Calum's. She glanced over to where Cal was crouched beside his mother and saw that the fire had returned to Daria's eyes. They were fixed on the younger of the Starling boys and there was hate in Daria's gaze. Pure and potent. Mason looked back at Rory and realized, in that instant, just how much he looked like pictures she'd seen of their father when he was young.

Heather offered up the acorn once more. “Mrs. A,
can
you use this?”

Daria nodded.

“Then do it.”

Cal's mother looked at Roth, who looked at Mason, who nodded curtly. He reached over and carefully plucked the little gleaming nut from Heather's palm. He used the razor-sharp edge of his hunting knife to pare off the marking on the acorn, replacing it with another. To Mason's untrained eye, the runes just looked like random scratches. But they were obviously much more. The moment the protective rune was gone, before Roth was even done carving the second mark in its place, Heather's eyes had rolled up into her head and she'd slumped over, unconscious in Cal's arms.

Daria barely glanced at her. “We'll have to leave the girl now. She'll only slow us down.”

“Mom?” Cal said tightly. “The ‘girl' has a name. It's Heather. You know that, because I dated her for about two years. She just gave us a fighting chance to get out of this mess alive and we are not leaving her behind. I'll carry her the whole way if I have to.”

“You're not back together, are you?” Cal's mother frowned at him in displeasure.

“Heather is a friend,” Cal said. His jaw muscles tightened and his scars twitched a bit. “You don't leave friends behind and you don't forget them. At least, you try not to.”

It was, Mason thought, a sentiment very close to something she herself had said to Cal back on Roosevelt Island to get him to come back into Manhattan with her.

“I never thought that girl was right for you,” Daria muttered.

“Again. Her name is
Heather
. And I don't care what you think.” He stood there, holding Heather cradled in his strong arms like she weighed the same as an empty set of clothes would have.

Daria lost the staring contest and her gaze slid away. “Fine,” she said, shaking back her disheveled hair. “Do what you have to do. Just . . .” She held out her hand to Roth. “Give me the runegold. And give me some room.”

She closed her eyes and spoke a handful of low, passionately voiced words. Then she gestured to her head and heart and down to the earth with the acorn . . . and the others suddenly felt compelled to give her the room she'd asked for—because all of the breathable oxygen in a ten-foot radius vanished—sucked into the incantation Daria cast with the runegold spark, leaving them all breathless—and a pressure wave bloomed out an instant later. When she opened her eyes, they were black.

“Take it.” She held out the acorn, the rune pulsing red on its golden surface, to Cal. “Give the Spark to the Firebringer and bid him wake!”

Mason watched as Cal gently put Heather on the ground, vaulted over the concrete barrier, and sprinted toward the fountain. Without stopping, he ran out
over
the surface of the water—which turned suddenly solid beneath him, rising up like a series of glassy steps in a sweeping curve—toward the statue's hand that held the ball of gilded flame. Cal sprinted up the steps and dropped the carved acorn in among that frozen-in-time burst of sun fire and shouted, “Prometheus! Wake
up, brother!”

Then he got the hell out of the way.

“Well now, there's something you don't see every day,” Mason said.

Her mouth went dry with fear, as the flame in the golden god's hand suddenly flared like rocket fuel set alight and Prometheus's massive feet splashed into the fountain as the statue's muscles rippled and the ancient Greek Titan stood tall and cast a searchlight gaze around at the courtyard.

Toby and Maddox came pounding back to join the rest of the group when the cluster of Frost Giants they'd been staving off seemed to suddenly realize that they had company on a similar scale. When a ball of blue-gold fire slammed into the ground at one of the Giant's icy feet, roaring up to flash melt the creature into a column of water that held its shape in the blast of heat for only a moment before turning incorporeal and drenching the ground in a tidal surge. The creature's companions roared, howling like the bitterest north winds, and rushed toward the golden colossus.