Transcendent (34 page)

And he knew what she'd done to him.

“It was all a lie,” he said, his voice scrapped thin and raw. “Wasn't it?”

Heather nodded, unable to speak the words that would tell him that
yes
, everything he'd felt for Mason Starling—all the wrenching heartache, all the moments of bliss when she smiled at him, all the things he'd wanted with her—had been a mirage.

His fingers convulsed on her skin as he held her by the wrist.

“It didn't
feel
like one . . . ,” he whispered.

His other hand went to the place on his chest above his heart where the lead bolt had hit him. There would be a mark there, Heather knew. One that might not ever fade.

“Why?” Cal asked her.

“Why what?” Heather glanced at him from under her lashes, not quite able to make eye contact.

Cal shook his head, weary. “There's another bolt. Isn't there?”

She swallowed noisily and nodded.

“Why didn't you use it, too?”

Heather knew what he meant. Why hadn't she made Cal love
her
instead?

“I don't want the lie,” she whispered. “No matter how beautiful it is.”

With a shocking suddenness, the bright-burning passion was gone. The fight was suddenly gone, banished from the heart of the one she'd been about to choose. Uncertainty, sorrow, bitter regret . . .
these
were not the things that drew her spear. But suddenly, they were the only things in Calum's heart.

She would not choose him. She couldn't.

The red mist of battle lust cleared from her mind and her gaze roamed over the chaotic field beneath her. She saw Heather and Cal—her friends—heads bent toward each other, nodding over a weapon held in Heather's white-knuckled hand. And then Mason understood just exactly what had transpired. She descended slowly from the sky to stand before them and willed herself to become Mason again. . . .

And nothing happened.

The helmet, the armor, the spear . . .
none
of it disappeared. Mason remained a Valkyrie. But she was Mason, too. There was a moment of confusion, and then she understood. She was too far gone. Too much the Valkyrie to
not
choose. Not far away from where she stood, battles still raged. Draugr and Dragon Warriors battered ceaselessly at each other while the Einherjar still stood, waiting for her to choose. Roth and Gunnar swung battering fists at each other. And Rory and Fennrys were fighting to the death.

Fennrys's death.

With each blow he landed, Rory's silver hand seemed to shine brighter—even though red blood coated his knuckles. Mason didn't understand it. As the Wolf, Fennrys should have
been virtually unkillable. His strength was immeasurable, his ability to heal almost instantaneous. It was the reason Mason had begged Rafe to turn him in the first place.

Rory was just . . . Rory.

But he wears a hand made for a god. A
silver
hand . . .

Suddenly, Mason heard Loki's voice echoing in her head. She remembered his words in the catacombs under Gosforth:
“Silver,”
he'd said, taking the rings off his fingers so he could touch his son.
“Anathema to werewolves.”

Wolfsbane. Poison. A truth that had translated down through folk and fairy tales. Kill a werewolf with a silver bullet. Or a silver fist. And then Mason realized something else. In one hand, she held the Odin spear. But in the
other
, her fist was still knotted closed around the iron Janus Medallion that Fenn had tossed her on the ship. And it still pulsed with all of the magick that Loki had poured into it, to cage the Wolf inside his son.

Mason had used the medallion before—Fennrys had taught her how.

Make it happen in your mind, and make it happen in the world . . .

She poured all her will and all her heart into the iron disk and sent its magick out toward the Fennrys Wolf, pleading for Loki to help her help his son.

“Please,” she whispered. “Help him find the
man
within the beast . . .”

Because Rory's silver hand was killing the Wolf.

But Mason knew it couldn't kill Fennrys.

Time spiraled out and away from her. She saw her brother howl with cruel laughter and lift his arm high. Then the talisman in her fist blazed with eldritch light. She saw the Wolf's eyes flash in answer to her plea.

Rory unleashed another devastating blow, aimed at Fennrys's head . . .

And Fenn caught that fist in his hand.

Fennrys heard Mason's voice in his mind.

“Come back to me,”
she whispered.

Sweetheart, I can't. I'm so tired . . .

“Please, Fennrys. Together. We can do this.”

Mason . . .

“I love you.”

With those words, he reached deeper inside of himself than he ever had. He found his father's magick—Loki's magick—and he grasped it with his mind. And he felt it suddenly flood his heart and limbs, transforming them. Changing him.

And chaining the beast within him . . .

Forever
.

He gritted his teeth and thrust out his hand, catching Rory's clenched silver fist in the iron cage of his fingers. In his human shape, the silver was nothing more to Fennrys than cold, hard metal. He lurched to his feet, the sensation of his broken ribs grinding against each other nothing more than background noise in his mind in that moment.

He smiled in Rory's astonished, furious face.

And then shoved him to his knees in the crimson-stained mud.

Mason's breath caught in her throat.

Fennrys was on his feet and Rory was on the ground. But she could feel, through the fading bond of Loki's magick, how weak Fenn was. How hurt. If Rory fought back, she wasn't at all certain Fenn would win. She glanced at Heather, and at the crossbow she still held in her hand.

“There's another bolt?” she asked.

Heather nodded and fished the golden arrow out of her purse. She loaded it into the crossbow with swift, precise motions, and handed it over to Mason.

“Just . . . speak a name.” Heather nodded at the weapon.

Mason understood. All she had to do was tell the crossbow who to make her brother love. And her mad, vicious, damaged, humanity-loathing brother would finally know what it felt like to care. To feel. To
love
. It was the worst possible thing she could think of to do to him.

She raised the bow to her lips.

“The
world
, Rory,” she whispered in a voice like judgment, “love the
whole damned world
. . .”

Then she aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The bolt struck Rory in the middle of his back, and Mason thought she'd never heard such a cry of anguish in her life. He fell to the ground, thrashing and kicking, his eyes white-rimmed, as a sudden, overwhelming deluge of emotion crashed over him like a tidal wave. His mind hadn't changed, she knew, only his heart, and he clawed at his rib cage as if he would tear that heart out rather than suffer a moment more of it beating. He screamed, rolling into a tight ball of agony, feeling every moment of every awful thing he'd ever done and knowing, for the first time, how truly rotten to the core he was.

He wouldn't be able to hurt anyone ever again.

It was over.

No . . . it isn't
.

Mason looked down and saw that she still hadn't changed back. She couldn't. She had to choose. And so long as she didn't, the world—the one she'd just compelled her brother to love with all his sick, twisted heart—remained in peril. But once she chose, that same world would end. She almost sobbed with frustration . . . and then it struck her.

The most valiant combatant on that whole field had been the Fennrys Wolf.

And the one he'd fought so valiantly with . . . had been himself. Fennrys had fought the Wolf within—for her. He was the one who'd fought for her. He'd already died for her. . . . He deserved to be chosen. To be the warrior. And he would keep the Wolf at bay.

Which means . . .

Mason felt a thrill of excitement run through her as she hefted the spear in her hand, felt its weight of destiny, and threw.

“NO!” her father roared as the ancient weapon left her hand. “The Wolf must remain the Wolf!”

Which means no Ragnarok
.

The Odin spear's iron blade glowed white as it flew through the air. It struck Fennrys in the very center of his chest, igniting like a flare, and then passed through him to stick in the ground, leaving only the mark of a glowing brand in the middle of his chest. Fenn stood there, a look of mild surprise on his face, as he pressed his hand to the mark.

“I guess I've died enough times already,” he said in a ragged voice, “that this kind of thing doesn't even affect me anymore. . . .”

Mason felt a wave of relief flood through her as the chain mail and armor she wore faded from her like mist in a breeze. She turned toward her father and saw the golden twist of light in his left eye flicker and dim. “There can be no fulfillment of the prophecy if the Wolf and the Warrior are one and the same,” she said quietly. “Sorry, Dad. No Ragnarok today.” She turned and looked back at the ranks of the Einherjar who stood waiting, and spotted Taggert Overlea where he stood, his letterman jacket exchanged for leather and iron. “Hope that's not too much of a disappointment for you, Tag.”

He shrugged and said. “No, I'm cool.”

“I thought you might be.”

“You don't know what you've done,” her father rasped. “You don't—”

“I know
exactly
what I've done,” she said, her voice cracking like a whip. “You can hardly call me a chooser if the choice isn't mine to make. I made it. You can live with it. Or not. That's
your
choice.”

Laughter drifted down from above them, rich and musical.

Mason looked up to see Loki standing on one end of the Bronx Kill Bridge span, his face stretched wide in mirth, and Heimdall standing on the other, a thundercloud frown on his brow. In between the two of them, the Norns stood like statues, painted faces impassive.

“Better luck next time, Guardian!” Loki called to Heimdall, his eternal nemesis. “Or probably not. Not if these mortal wonders stay so fierce. Ye gods, they're more beautiful every time. And more entertaining!”

Heimdall's fist closed around the horn that hung from his belt, but Loki's smile disappeared, replaced with a warning scowl that made even Mason take a step back.

“Go back to Asgard, Watcher,” he said in a voice like thunder. “Go back to your brooding and your scheming and leave these children to their world. You and I will meet again on another Valgrind. And maybe
then
we will end each other. Or the next time, or the next.” He turned to address the Norns. “And go you with him, twisted fates. I'll join you soon enough and then we can all sit and toast to our departed brothers and sisters and wait for the next ending of the world!”

Heimdall shifted his gaze to Mason, and she returned his stare, unblinking.

As he faded from sight, along with Loki and the Norns, she wondered if she would ever see the Guardian of Bifrost again. And she knew that he'd better hope that day never came to pass.

“I
still owe you a debt,” Mason said as Rafe crossed the field to meet them.

The ancient god nodded once. “I haven't forgotten.”

Mason bit her lip. She wished he had, but she knew that wasn't how this kind of thing worked. “My life?”

“That would do it,” he said with grim reluctance.

“How about mine instead?” Toby said from right behind her.

Mason turned to see her fencing master standing there, bent with age, gray and weathered. “Toby?” She put a hand on his arm.

He ignored her, speaking directly to the god of death. “A lot more folks in this city are going to be finding their way into the Nether Realms after this day.”

Rafe's dark gaze narrowed.

“And you're down one ferryman.”

Mason shook her head in alarm. “Toby—”

“I can handle a boat,” he said.

Rafe's mouth quirked in a half smile. “I know that.”

“And I have more than a passing acquaintance with death.”

“Your soul will belong to me,” Rafe said quietly.

Toby shrugged. “You can have it. I've already gotten enough good use out of it.”

“You will be at my beck and call.”

“I've worked on a clock before.”

“And you'll pay your bar tab on time.” Rafe pulled a flask out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to the fencing master.

Toby took a long swig and Mason watched the color flood back into his seamed, sunken cheeks. His rheumy eyes grew brighter and he stood taller. The gray began to fade from his beard.

“Are you sure about this?” She put a hand on his arm.

He nodded. “Oh yeah. It's the first thing I've been sure of in a long time. Other than
you
. Mason Starling, I pledge my life and soul to you to do with what you will.”

She nodded, flooded with such overwhelming gratitude and affection for her coach that she could barely speak. But she managed to swallow the knot of tears gathering in her throat and said, “And I give that life and soul over into the keeping of Anubis, Lord of the Dead, as payment in full of a debt owed.” She watched as Rafe's eyes flashed and he grinned. “He'd better take good care of you, if he knows what's good for him.”

“The best, Lady.” Rafe gracefully inclined his head. “You can take that to the bank.”

“That's it?” she asked looking around. Fennrys had dropped to one knee on the trampled ground and she needed to go to him. She needed to hold him in her arms and make sure everything was all right between them. “Are we done?”

“Yeah. We're done,” Toby said. “It's over, Mason. We won.”