Mist

18

The wind off the bay was so cold that even Dainn, with his ability to withstand Midgardian weather in all its forms, felt it cut through his thin shirt. He sat on a bench near the end of Hyde Street Pier, seagulls circling and crying above him. The snow had gradually grown heavier, melting on the pavement but beginning to gather on the deck of the old sailing ship docked at the side of the pier, deserted and waiting for spring and the flood of tourists who would arrive with better weather.

If spring ever came.

At the moment the Maritime National Historical Park was empty of visitors, and Dainn was free to do what he must without the risk of being seen.

He scrubbed the moisture from his face and stared out at the water. The seeking spell he planned to create was not of the usual kind; he was too drained and weak to hunt Loki down. He would let Laufeyson come to him.

The Slanderer had been frightened before, but Dainn didn’t believe for a moment that Loki would surrender to such a shameful emotion again. Quite the contrary; he would have been anticipating just such a meeting ever since he had learned that Dainn was Freya’s agent in Midgard.

But did he know how badly his attack on the loft had gone awry? He had clearly decided that Freya was not as great a threat as he had believed when he’d faced Mist in Asbrew, but Dainn had never sensed the presence of any spell to indicate that Laufeyson was observing the assault. Even with the proper vector to carry out the observation, such a spell was fraught with danger for its composer. And there were no Jotunar survivors to report what had happened.

Given their failure to return with their prize, Loki might have realized things hadn’t played out exactly as he’d intended. But if he thought his attack had succeeded, he would assume this meeting was in response to it. Either way, he would be prepared to deal with his most intimate enemy.

In every way but one.

Dainn closed his eyes and felt the bay surging beneath the pier. Alfar were not of the sea, and their magical connection to it was minimal. But the ocean was still of the natural world, and so Dainn hoped to coax a little of its restless energy into his service—drawing not upon its vast stores of life and unfathomable potency, but that small part of it that appeared to men, spent but not completely stripped of its power.

Salt spray spattered against the piles as Dainn raised his hands and sang of his need and the grave threat to Midgard and its inhabitants. A wave surged over the end of the pier, slapping him in freezing water.

An appeal to the fate of mortals did not interest even the muted force he summoned. It had never cared for the things of the land, and it had cause to hate the creatures who ruled it. Dainn accepted the rebuke and altered his melody, singing of Njordr, god of the sea and Freya’s own father. He sang of his service to Freya and the restoration of the Aesir and spirits of the sea.

Foam swirled up and danced in the air, slowly circling Dainn’s head. He opened his hands and let the foam settle in his palms. He wove it between his fingers, shaping the Rune- staves that spelled out Loki’s name.

The staves became distorted, resisting his control. He soothed them with another song and they leaped out of his hands like dolphins, hurtling skyward, disappearing among the snowflakes.

Dainn toppled from the bench. For a time he was aware of nothing but a distorted view of the bay, the waves agitated by more than the wind.

“You okay?”

A young woman bundled in a heavy coat leaned toward him from a safe distance, clutching an oversized handbag against her side. Her dark eyes were concerned but uneasy, and Dainn was aware that he must look more than a little mad.

“I saw you fall,” she said, backing away as he worked his hands underneath his chest and raised his head from the pavement. “Do you need an ambulance?”

Dainn made no attempt to move any further. He didn’t want to frighten a mortal who had been compassionate enough to help, and he wasn’t sure he could do so in any case.

“I am not injured,” he said, “but I thank you for your concern.”

She peered at him a while longer, evidently confused by the contrast between his current position, his clothing, and his voice. He was grateful that he had taken the time to tie back his hair in a way that still covered his ears.

“If you’re sure you’re okay . . .” the woman said.

“Yes.” He winced at a sharp pain in his shoulder. “Thank you.”

The young woman accepted the dismissal and quickly retreated. Dainn lay on his stomach, gathering his strength to rise. If even one of the Jotunar was to come after him now with the intent to kill, he would be helpless to defend himself.

But he didn’t think Loki wanted him hurt. Not by anyone but himself.

Dainn pulled himself up by clinging to the bench, his breath forming white plumes that streaked away on the wind. His shoulder ached in the joint where he had fallen. He took a few steps toward Hyde Street and the deserted Visitor Center, paused to catch his balance against the wooden railing, and continued along the pier until he reached Jefferson Street. He took the next bus to the Ferry Building, barely earning a glance from fellow passengers who had undoubtedly seen almost every kind of peculiar, bizarre, and deviant human being that could exist in a major city.

Something more like a wheeze than laughter caught in Dainn’s throat. The sight of a Jotunn in his true form might shake them out of their complacency. He hoped by then it would not be too late.

The motorcycle Mist “borrowed” was an unprepossessing model of the kind urban motorists purchased to make themselves feel just a little more daring and rebellious when they left their Fiestas, Elantras, and Infiniti crossovers at the curb. It had been years since she’d ridden one, but now it felt as natural as galloping over the battlefields with her Sisters, determining which gallant warriors would live or die.

In so many ways, nothing had changed.

As she sped toward the Tenderloin, weaving among cars and buses struggling to deal with the ice and snow, she wondered if she was on a fool’s errand. The last thing she could afford was to waste time with Vidarr, and if he didn’t have the information she needed, that was probably what she’d be doing. Vali was right; he wasn’t going to start being reasonable just because she needed him to. She had no illusions that her glamour was going to work on him.

But the only viable alternative was trying to formulate a seeking spell, building it piece by piece as she had the ones she’d used in the gym. Maybe it would work, but she had a feeling she was finally paying the price for her previous magic. Her mind felt as empty as a gas tank after the kind of car chase she remembered seeing in a Steve McQueen movie.

She just had to hope that, if it came down to it, she’d still have a few fumes left.

Parking on the narrow side street closest to Asbrew— the same one where’d she found the Jotunar beating upon Ryan—she set the brake and continued to the bar on foot. From the way the passersby, reputable or otherwise, stared after her as she passed, she knew her glamour was at work. A couple of the men drifted along in her wake until she turned and confronted them with a glare that sent them running with their tongues firmly back behind their teeth and their tails between their legs.

At first she thought Vidarr wouldn’t see her. The doorman—a new one—was less than encouraging. The bar itself, usually busy at this hour, was nearly empty. That was a bad sign. But Vid finally emerged from the back room and stopped before her with legs braced, meeting her gaze with no hint of welcome.

“Well,” he said, “what is it?”

“I need your help.”

He stared at her as if she’d spoken in the tongue of the Dokkalfar, the dark elves who, like most of the Dvergar, had attempted without success to remain neutral during the Last Battle.

“My help?” he asked, his mouth twisting with mockery. “I seem to remember you didn’t take my advice about the Jotunar who invaded my bar.”

Curse the arrogant bastard. She didn’t have time for this. “We got rid of them, didn’t we?”

“ ‘We.’ ” Vidarr wiped his mouth as if he’d tasted something foul. “You mean that nidingr is still with you?”

Nidingr, the foulest insult one of the Norse—or Aesir—could call another, reserved for cowards, oathbreakers, and those without honor.

But Mist didn’t try to defend Dainn’s reputation. Speaking of him at all would make things worse.

“Look, Vidarr,” she said in as humble a voice as she could manage, “Hrimgrimir and a couple other Jotunar attacked the loft very early this morning and almost hurt a couple of kids staying with me.”

He didn’t look very surprised, and certainly not upset. “Huh. I never knew you liked kids,” he said, as if that were the primary subject of her statement. He cocked his head. “Wonder what Scar- lip wanted with you so soon? He seemed pretty scared of the bitchgoddess when he left. And he has Gungnir already.”

Since Dainn had always been convinced that Freya had come to help Mist in Asbrew, Mist saw no reason to suggest otherwise. And telling him about Ryan was out of the question. “We knew his fear wouldn’t last,” she said. “Loki reacted a little more quickly than we expected. He was obviously testing to see if we’d be ready for another attack.”

“I guess you weren’t.”

He wasn’t giving her any choice but to tell him part of the truth. “Dainn killed all three of the Jotunar.”

Vidarr’s brows shot up. “Him? How?”

“With one of my swords.”

“It seems our little traitor has more secrets than you suspected.”

“The point is that he killed them. But I don’t want Loki to think he can get away with this again.”

“So why are you coming to me? Why not ask Mama to help you out again?”

“She has plenty of other things going on right now. This is something I can take care of myself.”

“How?” Vidarr said, idly scratching his jaw. “You going to negotiate with him? Threaten him with Freya’s big tits when she’s not even around to watch your back?”

“I’ve got magic of my own, Vid, a lot more than you’d be willing to believe.”

“The elf teach you?”

“That’s not important now. I’m the one who has to handle Freya’s end of the fight until she’s able to come herself.”

“And the traitor? If he’s so good at fighting, why isn’t he with you now?”

“He has other important things to do.”

“I’ll bet.” Vidarr leaned against the pockmarked wooden counter and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I don’t care what magic you think you have, you’re committing suicide. You’ll never be able to stand against Loki if you challenge him on his own ground.”

“Where is that ground, Vid?”

“What makes you think I know?” He barked a laugh. “Don’t tell me. My idiot brother. He thought I wouldn’t notice he was sneaking around.” Vidarr leaned toward Mist, his eyes almost as chill as Hrimgrimir’s. “I don’t know what he’s doing for you, but he’s simple as a child, and he’s always been in love with you.”

Gods, no, Mist thought. Not him, too.

“Vali isn’t as simple as you think,” she said. “Maybe he has a better idea of what’s going to happen if people like you stand on the sidelines.”

Vidarr clenched his hammer fists. “You’re walking on the edge of a very sharp blade, Mist.”

“Look, Vid. You know Loki isn’t just planning to bring more Jotunar into Midgard. What’ll happen when Fenrisulfr shows up? The monster you were supposed to kill, remember?”

Vid hawked and spat somewhere behind the bar. “After he killed Odin. You know cursed well—”

“You can still do it.” She took a step toward him, trying again to moderate her tone. “We’re facing the possible end of this world as we know it”

“What makes you think I care?”

She could hardly believe she’d heard him correctly. “Come again?”

“Why should I care what happens to this bloody world?”

“You’ve been living among mortals as long as I have,” she said. “Are you telling me you don’t give a damn about the people of Midgard?” She stood a little taller so that she could look directly into his eyes. “Why did you let Loki take you prisoner, Vid? To suffer that kind of humiliation—”

Vidarr’s face went very still. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Coward” was, like nidingr, a slur worthy of einvigi, single combat. But Mist was well beyond caring.

“I’m saying you didn’t try to interfere when Loki was trying to kill me.”

“I saved your ass,” he snarled. “Maybe Loki was confused by the trick you pulled, but he wasn’t going to stay that way for long. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be dead, or worse.”

And Loki had swept him aside like so much refuse.

Vidarr seemed to sense her thoughts. “I didn’t make any deals,” he snapped. “Loki threatened to kill everyone in Asbrew. I had to make him believe I was giving in.”

Mist let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Then you do care.”

“These people are my customers. While they’re in Asbrew, I’m responsible for them.”

“But not for all your future customers out there?” she asked, waving her hand toward the door.

The tension in Vidarr’s shoulders eased, but there was no lessening of the hostility in his eyes. “You’re so gullible, Mist. Look at what Loki was able to do to you for six months.”

“That’s right. He managed to live in the same city as Odin’s son and fly completely under your radar.”

“You were living with him. He stole Gungnir right out from under your nose.” He laughed. “Why Odin would ever trust you with anything bigger than a toothpick I’ll never know.”

Mist wondered why they’d ever called Vidarr the Silent God.

“Okay,” she said. “You win. This is all my fault. But we can’t change what’s been done. If we don’t show some fight at the beginning, we’re setting ourselves up for a pounding before we can do anything to counter Loki’s forces.”

“You think you have the right to give orders?”

“I’m not trying to give orders. I didn’t ask to be Freya’s daughter. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Vidarr cut the air with his hand in a gesture of angry dismissal. “Quit your whining. If you want my help, get rid of the elf.”

“You know I can’t do that, Vid.”

Vidarr turned on his heel and strode for the back room. Mist jogged after him.

“If you can’t stand up to your father’s greatest enemy,” she said, “just say it. You can go back to running this shithole and getting drunk with Vali while Midgard falls. You might not even notice.”

He swung around, his heavy blond brows nearly meeting over his eyes.

“The only thing that’s stopping me from teaching you a lesson,” he said, “is that you’re a woman. You and Freya used female tricks to defeat Loki, but they won’t work on me. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

Mist knew it was much too late to be humble, and her kind of persuasion obviously wasn’t working. “At least tell me where he is, Vid,” she said. “You don’t care what happens to me, so you have no reason to keep it to yourself.”

“I told you my price.”

“And I won’t pay it. What else will you accept?”

She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them, but she knew it was too late when Vidarr favored her with the kind of grin some women actually found attractive.

“Gungnir,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me. I want the Spear.”

“Odin left it in my care, and he said—”

“You let Loki steal it.”

“And you let Loki take you prisoner!”

The hostility between them was as thick as Thor’s beard. Vid set his jaw in a way that told Mist he wasn’t going to back down.

But giving up Gungnir to a man who despised her, wouldn’t fight, and had already fallen to Loki once . . .

She reminded herself that important thing was to find Dainn and worry about the rest later. “All right,” she said. “It’s a deal. But I have to get it back first, and I don’t have time for any more of this crap.”

Vidarr stared at her a moment longer and then walked behind the counter. He pulled a folder from a shelf underneath and slapped it on the counter.

“I didn’t get very much yet, but the guy I sent to look had some luck and found records of a recent lease of an office building on Battery Street. Found the name of the lessee and where he lives now.”

Mist didn’t touch the folder. “And?”

“He didn’t make much effort to hide himself. Lukas Landvik, esq.”

The tone of his voice seemed to suggest he found the name funny, but Mist saw nothing humorous about it. “The address,” she said.

Vidarr extended himself so far as to write it down for her, and she headed for the front door.

“Mist!” he called after her.

She kept walking. “What?”

“I’ll offer a little advice. Don’t think just because Freya and that traitor are behind you that you’ll win. You take one wrong step and you’ll fall, and take everything else with you.”

She paused at the door. “You act as if it all depends on me. It’s not my personal war, Vid. I’m only one of the foot soldiers.”

“You’re an arrogant bitch, Mist,” Vidarr said. “That’s what’s going to get you in the end.”

Turning her back on him, Mist flung open the door and strode through the bar. On her way to the motorcycle, she almost ran into an old man with a cane and a jaunty smile. She caught at him to steady him, but he only grinned at her as slipped from her grasp.

“Good afternoon, young lady,” he said. Before Mist could reply, he had walked past her, and when she turned to go after him he was gone.

Jotunn. Mist was certain of it. And she knew the message he was giving her: “We are watching. We know where you go. We will always find you.”

Loki would be waiting for her.

Freya, she thought, if you can hear me, if there’s anything you can do, now would be the time.

Once he was inside the Ferry Building and no longer shivering, Dainn found his way to the back of a small coffee shop, keeping his head down as he gazed into his untouched cup of espresso. At 3:00 p.m., the Ferry Building was only beginning to fill with early commuters bound for the East Bay and Marin. A few minutes after four, a man in a black trench coat arrived, sat next to Dainn at the table, and handed him a small white envelope. He stayed just long enough to watch Dainn begin to open it and then left as quietly as he had come.

Inside was a note card with gilded lettering on snowy white handmade paper.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND THE FITTING OF

LUKAS LANDVIK, ESQ.

AT THE ROOMS OF FREDKIN & ASSOCIATES

SUTTER STREET

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

AT 5 P.M.

At the bottom of the invitation was scrawled a single handwritten line: Don’t be late. —L.

Dainn tucked the note back in the envelope and put it in his pants pocket. It was only about a mile to Sutter Street from the Embarcadero. Dainn lingered a few more minutes and then started southwest along Market Street, lost among hundreds of workers and shoppers caught up in the last-minute Yuletide rush.

It was five minutes to five when Dainn walked into the shop. The showroom was elegant in its simplicity, with comfortable chairs placed in convenient locations, a few racks of expensive suits and handmade ties on display, and various other tasteful appointments meant to appeal to the discriminating man of means.

Almost immediately Dainn was approached by an immaculately dressed gentleman with a formal smile and quick, narrow hands. He took Dainn in from his plain loafers to the crown of his head with such subtle disapproval that most mortals would not even have noticed. His smile widened.

“Welcome, sir,” he said with the merest trace of a British accent. “My name is Javier. How may we assist you today?”

“I received this,” Dainn said, withdrawing the invitation from his pocket.

“Of course, sir,” the man said with barely a glance at the card. “You are expected. If you will follow me . . .”

Loki was in one of the fitting rooms in the rear of the establishment, a chamber every bit as impressive as the showroom. He wore unhemmed trousers and a dress shirt open at the neck. A tailor was obsequiously fluttering around him, chattering nervously as he measured Loki’s inseam.

He must have done something wrong, because Loki abruptly kicked him away. “If you don’t watch your hands,” Laufeyson said, very softly, “you may one day find yourself without them.”

For a moment the tailor was unable to speak. Javier fled the room.

“I see you haven’t lost your natural charm, Laufeyson,” Dainn said from the doorway.

Loki turned around. His face broke into a broad, welcoming, and entirely deceptive smile. He glanced once at the tailor, who rapidly followed his fellow employee out the door.

“My dear Dainn,” Loki said, coming toward him with outstretched hands. “How very delightful to see you. I am so very pleased that you contacted me. It has been centuries since we last spoke.”

Dainn stood unmoving, watching Loki’s approach with emotions so violently in conflict that he felt almost nothing at all. Centuries. Centuries during which Loki had been utterly unaware that Dainn had been alive in Midgard.

Now he greeted Dainn as if their last encounter had been one of tender feelings and good-natured sparring. Except for his clothing, Loki looked exactly as he had at Asbrew, wearing the shape he preferred: the slightly vulpine, handsome face; thick, wavy ginger hair; and emerald-green eyes with a thin rim of orange-red. There was nothing in his manner to suggest that he had ever been humiliated by his defeat at Asbrew.

Or how shocked he had been to learn Dainn was the elf Hrimgrimir claimed to have killed in Golden Gate Park.

“I confess I have missed you,” Loki said, smoothing the front of his half-open shirt. “I had hoped we might have a pleasant chat after my little tête-à-tête with our darling Mist.”

“Is that what you call your defeat at her hands, Slanderer?”

Loki dropped his hands. “Now, now,” he said, clucking his tongue in indulgent disapproval. “No need for bad manners. Let us be frank with one another, as we once were.” He smiled amiably. “I confess I hadn’t expected that Freya would use you as her messenger. I was never quite sure where you had gone after the Dispersal.”

“To Midgard,” Dainn said. “Freya sent me just as I was about to kill you.”

Loki gave no visible sign of surprise. “What excellent timing for me,” he said, more than a touch of acid in his voice. “She could not have anticipated the Dispersal, so perhaps she thought it best to get you out of Odin’s sight before you drew more unwelcome attention to yourself. I presume it was not because she wanted to spare my life.”

“It seems unlikely,” Dainn said, echoing Loki’s tone. “I don’t know why Freya chose the moment she did, or why she sent me here, but I was never in Ginnungagap. I was in Midgard long before you were.”

“And yet you never knew I had come.”

“As you didn’t know another former inhabitant of the other Eight Homeworlds had preceded you.”

“Ironic, isn’t it? You must have felt rather lonely. We could have kept each other such good company these past six months.”

It was difficult for Dainn to believe that Loki could behave as if there had been no attack on the loft. Dainn had expected no guilt or shame—Loki was almost impervious to such emotions—but Laufeyson seemed not in the least concerned with the purpose of Dainn’s visit, or what he might intend.

“So,” Loki said over Dainn’s silence, “I presume that once Freya and the Aesir had awakened and rebuilt a poor imitation of Asgard, she remembered where she had put you, located you, and assigned you the duty of fetching her daughter. And of course you would have felt obligated to obey.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “You were always rather talented, at least before Odin looked upon you with disfavor. But I didn’t realize how much you had retained, since our last meeting was so—” He gave a rueful shrug. “You were quite effective against my poor Jotunar, defeating them single-handedly and tossing them into the Sahara Desert. Oh, yes, I found them, but it was most inconvenient.”

“As inconvenient as losing three more of your Jotunar this morning?” Dainn asked.

“My dear Dainn, you seem to have lost track of time. It’s hardly any wonder, considering how Freya has you jumping to do her bidding.” He gestured to a pair of ornate chairs and small table set against the wall. A gilded tray held the remains of a meal and a half- empty glass of orange juice. “Have you had breakfast?” He shook his head reprovingly. “Don’t look at me that way, sweetheart. It doesn’t suit your lovely face.”

“What game are you playing, Scar-lip?” Dainn asked coldly.

“It’s not I playing games, at least not at the moment. I presume you contacted me on a matter of business, since I doubt you are here for pleasure. Unfortunately.” He picked up the glass and took a sip of the juice with relish. “Did Freya send you to warn me again?”

“I am here of my own accord. The Lady does not observe my every move.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t wise for you to tell me that.”

“Wisdom does not interest me at the moment.”

Loki’s long lashes dropped over his eyes. “Obviously, or you would have joined my cause already.”

“I have made many mistakes,” Dainn said, showing his teeth, “But I would sooner go under the serpent myself than join you.”

“There,” Loki said. “That’s better. You never did smile enough.” He set down his glass. “May I presume you bring empty threats of your own?”

“I never make empty threats.”

“Good.” Loki yawned behind his hand. “There are so many more interesting topics of conversation. For instance—what does the Sow really intend for Mist? I confess I didn’t anticipate how useful she would be to her mother, channeling Freya’s power as she did. Knowing what I do of our little Valkyrie, I would imagine she has found this situation . . . difficult. But of course you haven’t told her that she’s little more than Freya’s puppet, have you? She might actually object.”

So, Dainn thought, Loki had indeed drawn the desired conclusion. “She knows enough,” he said.

“I wonder.”

“You underestimated the Lady when you determined to break the rules.”

“I only stretched them, though I admit Freya may see it differently.” He flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Surely you know I will not make the same mistake twice.”

“Yet you continue to flout those same rules even now.”

Loki spread his hands. “What rules have I flouted since I took Gungnir from Freya’s daughter?”

“Since you sent Hrimgrimir on a cowardly mission to attack Mist in her own home, I presume that is a rhetorical question.”

“What?” Loki asked, lifting his ginger brows. “When?”

“Approximately seven o’clock this morning.”

All the sly good humor left Loki’s face, and his eyes took on a reddish tint. “Who attacked her?”

“Your chief henchman, Hrimgrimir, and two of his followers. Or have you forgotten his name in the past ten hours?”

Loki displayed his slightly pointed teeth in a very convincing approximation of outrage. A neat array of empty hangers suspended from a rod set in an alcove at the side of the room detached themselves and went flying across the room, landing haphazardly, like a child’s pick-up sticks.

“Hrimgrimir,” Loki spat. “I did not send him, or anyone. He defied my direct orders.”

Dainn laughed.

“It is the truth,” Loki said, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “I explicitly warned Hrimgrimir not to make any move except on my command.”

“Then they disobeyed you, and they paid the price.”

“Oh?” Loki seemed to relax all at once, undoing the last button of his shirt and letting the tail hang loose. “Can I expect them to return yelping with their tails between their legs?”

He was doing his best not to show his alarm, but Dainn knew him too well. “You have three fewer servants,” he said. “You had better use the rest more wisely.”

The hangers flew up again and slammed against the closed door all at once. “I did not send them,” he repeated. He took a sharp breath. “You must have raised wards against me,” he said. “How did Hrimgrimir break them?” He searched Dainn’s face. “They didn’t hold. How very peculiar.”

Devastating was the word Dainn would have chosen, but he reminded himself that Laufeyson was the one at a disadvantage. And must be kept there as long as possible.

“Do you know why Hrimgrimir came after us?” he asked.

Loki shrugged. “Revenge? You humiliated him quite thoroughly.”

“Would he take such a risk for something so unimportant?”

“We’re talking of Hrimgrimir,” Loki said, affable again. “How did they die? Did Freya descend in all her glory to make a puppet of her daughter again and blast them with loving kindness?”

“Freya wasn’t there,” Dainn said. “I killed them.”