Winter Lost

11

Mercy

“Wedding?” I said. “You mean Tammy’s wedding?”

“The one scheduled to take place on the winter solstice,” Adam said, which was something that I should have noticed.

Liam gave him a tight smile. “Exactly.”

A marriage in which the very wealthy heir of the family fortune chose to marry a policeman’s daughter sounded very romantic. It was probably the plot of a dozen different romance novels. But marriages had not always been about love.

A marriage was an ancient rite of passage. It was an exchange of vows—a contract, in the fae sense of the word—intended to represent the uniting of bloodlines for the future. As such, a marriage, the right kind of marriage, could be a powerful source of raw magic.

“What is so special about this wedding?” I asked slowly. “Magically speaking.”

I expected the rite to be some sort of method for maintaining power—it might be wealth, of course. The Heddars were very wealthy. Or possibly it was some sort of influence. But my bet was that it was power. All of the fae lost a great deal of magical ability when Underhill closed herself to them, driving some of them to drastic measures.

Liam didn’t speak right away. Finally, he got up from his seat and walked to the window, his back to us as he watched the snow fly outside. “Every hundred and forty-four years, the oldest child of the current generation of what is, in this age, the Heddar family must marry on the shortest day of the year on sacred ground.”

I wondered if it was the Heddar family who received the power or if they were bound by some fae bargain. Liam didn’t seem to be more powerful than Uncle Mike, so I doubted that it was him.

The green man turned to face us. “With such a binding is the beast known as Garmr kept captive.”

That was so far from anything I expected that I just stared stupidly at him.

“Garmr?” asked Adam. “What is that?”

“Wait,” I said. I had been reading every folktale story I could scrounge since the fae had become an unavoidable part of my life. There was a lot of important information sprinkled somewhat carelessly in fairy tales. But there were some sources that had been more carefully tended.

“Ragnarok,” I said, pronouncing it like most Americans would. Then more properly with rolled “r’s” and umlaut “o,” the way Zee said it: “Ragnarök. You believe that this marriage holds fate at bay. By preventing Ragnarök.”

“Indeed,” agreed Liam.

“The end of the world.” I wanted to scoff. I didn’t believe in fate. Didn’t want to believe in fate. But my instincts were standing up and paying attention, telling me that this explanation would account for our adventures thus far. This explanation was big and fantastic enough to include an ancient frost giant who could take the form of a gryphon. Big enough for a storm of epic proportions and a holy place in the wilderness full of supernatural people gathered under one roof.

What in the world had Gary been mixed up in?

To make sure I had this right, I said, “You believe that if we don’t stop the storm so the marriage can take place, Garmr is going to be freed and the world will end.”

Liam gave me a faint smile that held no amusement. “If the wedding participants cannot make it here because of the storm, if the marriage doesn’t take place, Ragnarök will begin.”

“You bring me on such interesting adventures, my love,” said Adam. “What is Garmr?”

My mouth was dry so I had to swallow. I had thought we were here to save my brother, and prevent the dozen or so deaths that a storm like this would bring. The end of the world was a pretty exponential leap in consequence. Not that I believed in Ragnarok, I reminded myself.

“Garmr is the wolf—or dog, or something canid—who guards the gates of Hel—that’s one ‘l,’ not two,” I told Adam, because Liam had made no effort to answer. “According to legend, he breaks free from his chains”—I glanced over at Liam, who shrugged—“or some kind of binding, anyway. Once he is free, he bays or howls or cries out and announces the start of Ragnarok.”

“The end of the world,” Adam said. “Is that real?”

“This”—I gestured out at the storm and waved my hands to encompass the events since my brother showed up—“feels like someone believes this marriage is important to stop.”

Liam said, his voice a near whisper, “I believe.” He turned back to the storm. I couldn’t tell if he was looking for something out there or if he didn’t want us to see his face.

“When Zane Heddar bought this place ten years ago, I was called here to prepare it for this wedding.”

He put his fist against his heart. The wind chose that moment to beat especially hard against the windows.

“Real enough, maybe, that someone enraged a frost giant to prevent the marriage,” Adam said, linking our story to his. His words hung in the air for a moment.

Liam nodded. “That is my thought. If finding the artifact will stop this storm, I will help you in any way that I can—as long as it does not interfere with my primary objective, which is to see this wedding accomplished.”

“Does that include information?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Andrew and Dylis Heddar are both fae,” I said. “The fae are immortal. How does that work?”

“Ah.” Liam took time to organize his thoughts. “Andrew is entirely mortal, though you are right that he carries fae blood. His great-great-grandmother was a fae woman. He has some magic, though I am unclear on exactly what he can and cannot do with it. Dylis…” He sighed. “The binding spell is a Great Spell. There have never been very many of them. Whoever or whatever created it, they used wild magic, and it resonates in the bones of the people tied by blood or vow to the family.”

“She was attracted to the magic?” I hazarded. I remembered the glassy look in her eyes. “Addicted?”

“That’s a good word for it,” Liam said. “She feeds on it, and it feeds on her—as long as she is married to a member of the family.”

“Are we talking about ‘I am my own grandpa’?” said Adam somewhat obscurely. “Let me guess, she is also Andrew’s great-grandmother.”

“Great-great-grandmother. But she was also that husband’s great-grandmother.” Liam sighed. “She’s been marrying her own descendants every few generations. Andrew figured it out after Zane’s birth. I gather that is why Zane has no legitimate siblings. He’s not only the oldest child in his generation, he is the only legitimate child in his generation.”

Adam whistled in through his teeth.

“We think that the binding would also work with one of Andrew’s illegitimate children—they are still descendants of the last sacred marriage—but we don’t want to chance it.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Adam asked it before I could.

“Zane and I are,” Liam said. “It’s a secret—part of the protections bound in the spell is that only the people directly involved in the spell will remember it. To keep someone from trying to interfere. Zane was born knowing about it. I learned after I was called here—though I have officiated at several, if not all, of the previous weddings. His parents remember. This close to the wedding, though, everyone in the wedding party should be starting to understand what their roles will be.” He smiled at us. “This close to the wedding, you’ll remember about it until after the wedding.” His smile turned wry. “And if the wedding doesn’t happen, and the Great Spell is broken, I suppose you’ll remember about it until you die.”

I wondered if Coyote knew about this wedding. And then I wondered if he would try to keep the binding safe—or if he’d be more interested in seeing what happened if the binding did not continue. Had he sent my brother here to steal the lyre and bring about the end of the word?

I rubbed my forehead as if I could erase that thought, because it sounded all too possible.

“Could Zane still make it here?” Adam asked. “Mercy and I managed the trip last night.”

“The last time I talked to Zane—yesterday afternoon, when my sat phone was working—he’d found out that his flight to Missoula was canceled. No flights are going in or out of Missoula or Kalispell because of the weather. He thought he might have a flight to Spokane on a private plane.” He spread his hands. “He is resourceful.”

“A Great Spell,” I said, putting the same capital letters on the words that I’d heard in his voice. “Spells have requirements, right? A bride. A groom.” The groom had bought the lodge a decade ago. “This place?”

“A holy place,” Liam said. “Yes. There’s a reason we find ourselves in the Montana wilderness in the middle of winter. Finding a holy place we could own so that we could control it when we needed to perform the marriage wasn’t easy. There are very few holy places that are not controlled by religious orders.”

“A holy place,” I said. “Is that why the lodge isn’t yours the way Uncle Mike’s tavern is his? A holy place”—I tried to put words to something that I understood viscerally—“belongs to itself.”

He looked at both of us and then shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. “Though I claim this lodge as my own, the lake has its own divine guardian. She is why this ground became sacred, or perhaps she is because this ground is sacred. I did not think, when I first arrived, that it would be a problem. The lodge isn’t holy ground, or shouldn’t be. Only the lake and the surrounds that the lake touches.”

“The manitou is the spirit of the lake, of the hot springs,” I said, using the word Charles had taught me for the spirits of place. “Her power is tied to the water.” I remembered what the frost giant had said. “Or fire.”

Liam’s eyebrow rose. “Fire?”

I wasn’t qualified to argue magic or magical things with someone like Liam. Instead, I kept going to make sure I understood the problem he had, because it might be important when we were looking for the harp.

“The lodge is on solid ground, so it should be separate.” I paused, thinking about what I’d felt when we’d parked Adam’s SUV. “But it’s not just the lake that belongs to the manitou. It’s the hot springs.”

If the lodge had not belonged to the manitou of the lake in some way, the frost giant could have retrieved his artifact himself.

“There are underground springs,” Liam said. “And the lodge is riddled with piped-in water from those springs. The lodge functions as my home—”

“Like Uncle Mike’s pub?” I asked.

“Yes and no,” he said. “That’s the problem. My power is unaffected, but the lodge…has a mind of its own. A will that acts without me—or even the will of the spirit of the hot springs.”

“Magic’s unpredictable like that,” I said.

Liam gave a short laugh. “That it is. How may I help you find the artifact?”

“Could you speak to this spirit?” Adam said. “Ask her if she knows about the artifact we’re looking for?”

“I can and will,” Liam answered. “But I don’t know that it will do much good. She won’t always speak to me. She isn’t motivated by the need to prevent the end of days. I’m not sure it would matter to her at all. What is important to her, what is essential to her very nature, is that her springs are a sanctuary for healing and for people fleeing trouble.”

I knew that. I’d been told.

“Too bad for us,” I said. Adam and I weren’t either of those. We were in pursuit.

Liam gave me a twist of his lips. “I think that’s why she and I get along most of the time—our magics align. I take care of my guests—and so does she. You are a problem. You are my guests, but you didn’t come here for sanctuary.”

“Just to clarify,” Adam said, because you always were careful about assuming things with the fae. “You cannot sense an artifact here?”

“I didn’t say that,” Liam temporized. “But I am certain that I cannot sense the one taken from Hrímnir. This is the only one I have felt arrive here in the last month.” He bent down and felt along the floor beside his chair.

I wasn’t surprised when he handed me the walking stick. It was icy cold when I touched it, but quickly warmed to its usual temperature. The carved gray wood felt right as I closed my fingers around it, as if the size not only fit my hands, but that my hands were whole and complete when they held the stick.

Disconcerted, I set it on my lap. It felt ruffled and protective. Had it been a dog, it would have been growling at Liam. I shouldn’t be able to know that.

“What else are you certain of?” I asked.

“There are no magical items of any kind in the possession of the bride’s party—outside of the vampire, if you are one of those who would consider her an object rather than a person,” Liam said.

“What about the people?” I asked. “Someone who knows my brother well enough he’d trust them with an artifact.”

Liam pursed his lips thoughtfully. “There’s just the three of us who know Gary. Hugo has been here since the storm began. He usually goes home at night—he has a place a few miles down the road, I understand. But he said he’d stay here to help.”

“Hugo—the gardener?” I asked.

Liam laughed. “Yes. He holds sway over our greenhouse. He and Gary do get on together.” He paused. “But Hugo is forgetful, the dear man. He is forever leaving things—I found a hoe in the lobby yesterday, and a bucket of fertilizer out by the hot tubs.” He frowned as if he didn’t want to say this part. “He’s a little simple, I think. I wouldn’t entrust him with something I didn’t want to have left in the hallway. And I wouldn’t put him in that kind of danger—and I don’t think that Gary would, either.”

Liam looked at Adam, then nodded in agreement to something he read in my husband’s face. “But I’ll ask him. Please don’t do it yourselves. I can manage without bullying him, and I can tell if he lies to me.”

“What about the girl—Emily?” Adam asked, then added, “I wouldn’t leave her alone somewhere Heddar could find her. He reminded me of a cat playing with a mouse downstairs at breakfast.”

Liam looked unhappy. “Noted. I like to work the young ones in pairs when I can.” He sighed. “At any rate, Emily. Well. I will ask her, too. But I just don’t see it.”

“If not your people, it has to be the guests,” Adam said.

Liam relaxed a little. “Are you sure it was Gary who stole the artifact?”

“Hrímnir is,” I said.

“No,” Adam answered at the same time, but added, “Probably.”

“Gary barely exchanged a word with any of the wedding guests,” Liam observed. “I think that you are on the mark to be suspicious of the hikers. I don’t know them; they aren’t local. But that doesn’t mean Gary didn’t. Maybe they were working together.”

“It’s not them,” I said at the same time Adam said, “I agree.”

My mate turned to look at me.

“What?” I said. “It isn’t them. They said they hadn’t stolen an artifact, and they weren’t lying.”

Adam nodded. “They did say that. But if Gary stole it, he could have given it to them to keep safe. If he didn’t—a goblin might not see liberating an artifact from Hrímnir as stealing.”

“They weren’t afraid,” I said. “The thought of Charles made them freeze in terror—and they weren’t worried about the creature who was capable of causing a storm like this. I think that if they had the artifact, they’d have been more afraid of Hrímnir.”

“They weren’t afraid of saying ‘thank you’ to someone like Liam,” Adam observed.

“Goblins, eh,” said Liam. “They aren’t powerful—but there are a lot of them and they work together. More now, since Larry has taken the throne. He has turned his horde of misfits into an army. I don’t know any fae except perhaps a Gray Lord who would take advantage of a ‘thank you’ given by a goblin in the past decade.” He shook his head and smiled with genuine amusement. “And the little pests know it.”

Larry really was the king of the goblins, then. Not just the ones in the Tri-Cities.

Adam wasn’t distracted by thoughts of a goblin monarchy. “So a ‘thank you’ is—

“A way of thumbing their noses at the powerful fae,” said Liam, a hint of amusement in his voice that faded as he continued. “But Charles is not a Gray Lord or a capricious Power. Charles is the hand of judgment. He is not spiteful or wicked. If Charles comes for a goblin, the goblin king would not stand in his way. He will tell his people that justice has been done. They have a reason to fear Charles—assuming they’ve done something to offend him.”

Or planned to, I thought, remembering the way the goblins had sounded about Bran’s presumed hoard of fae artifacts. Aspen Creek, the Marrok’s pack’s territory, was not too far from here. Maybe the goblins had been thinking about robbing someone who was not a frost giant.

“I cannot check their rooms,” Liam said. “They came here as refugees. The spirit of Looking Glass protects them.”

“I don’t think it’s them,” I said stubbornly.

“Can you look in the other people’s rooms?” Adam asked.

Liam nodded. “Maybe I will organize some work parties this afternoon. We need to clear out some of this snow. I doubt the Heddars will participate—but I can look in their rooms at dinner.”

“This could be a very long storm,” Adam said, getting to his feet and pulling me to mine.

Liam frowned and nodded. Then he walked to the door and opened it for us to exit. Something creaked over our heads.

“I’ll clear the roof while the rest of them are shoveling snow,” Adam offered as he led the way out the door.

I’d been reexamining what we knew. I had much better questions than I’d had last night, and I knew who I wanted to ask about them.

“Unless you need me to shovel snow,” I said, “I think I’d better check on Gary’s horses.”

“Hrímnir is taking care of them,” Adam said.

“But it’s not his job, is it?” I said. “It’s Gary’s, and that means it’s mine.”

“If you’re going up to the ranch, could you check and see if Gary has any eggs?” Liam asked, bringing up the rear. “He was using the kitchen in the main building because he preferred to cook on the gas stove. I have enough for a couple of days, but I’d be happier with another dozen.”

“Eggs,” said Adam with a frown.

“If I don’t come home, check for me in Italy,” I told him. He didn’t look like he thought I was funny.

As the crow flies, the ranch was about three miles from the lodge. On four feet it took me about forty minutes to make the trip. The snow had lightened up, probably because it was well below zero out. The winds cut through my coyote winter coat, so I stuck to the wooded areas where the trees blocked some of it.

I’d carried Adam’s pack because mine wasn’t big enough to stuff my winter coat in. The straps took a bit of jury-rigging—Adam’s wolf is over two hundred pounds, and my coyote is around thirty-five. But when Adam was finished, it was secure and I could still wiggle out when I wanted to change.

The barn door was closed tight and it had a round door handle, so I had to become human to get in the barn. It was a good thing that years of knowing our foul-mouthed British wolf had expanded my vocabulary of power words. They lasted me until I was able to shut the door behind me.

The horses whinnied as soon as I opened the door. One of them put a hoof on the metal bar of the panel fence and made a loud noise. The other popped his lips together, like Donkey in Shrek. Or maybe it had been Shrek 2.

“I know, I know,” I told them. “I’m dressing as quick as I can. Underwear. Bra. Socks. Oh, good socks. Warm socks. Jeans. Sweatshirt. Coat.”

I indulged in a full-body shiver, then put on shoes. I’d brought my tennis shoes instead of my boots because even Adam’s pack didn’t have room for midcalf boots as well as my coat.

“No stepping on my toes, you two,” I told the horses, flexing my toes in their meager protection. “You have big feet, and the tennis shoes aren’t going to help much.”

They had water, though they’d drunk the tank down by about four inches. It was still warm. That would be a handy bit of magic. I wondered again if Gary would teach me how to do it.

Not that keeping water unfrozen was likely to be all that useful. But it would be fun to have a magic spell I could work. Changing into a coyote was who I was. It didn’t feel like magic, and it was most useful when everyone didn’t know I could do it. But keeping water unfrozen…that might be a neat party trick.

They had eaten every wisp of the hay I’d given them last night. The bale I’d pulled from didn’t look like it had been touched since Adam and I had left.

“A third of a bale per horse per day,” I muttered, hearing my foster father’s voice in my ear.

But the bales I’d fed horses with when I was a teenager had been bigger, I thought. And the horses I’d been feeding had been a lot smaller.

I tossed the rest of the open bale over the panels for the horses to start on. Then I took the knife conveniently stuck in an unopen bale to cut the strings of another one. I stuck the knife into another unopened bale so it didn’t get lost in the hay chaff. Habits were coming back to me.

I fed the horses half of the new bale. It looked like a lot of hay. Too much?

“I don’t know that I’m going to make it back today,” I told them. I dumped the rest of the second bale into their pile of food. They were hardly going to get too fat if I overfed them for a couple of days.

I had the trough filled and was using a manure fork to toss manure into a wheelbarrow when I heard a mechanical growling sound outside. Liam had said the lodge had a backhoe, but the engine I heard was way too small for that.

Snowmobile, I thought, as the engine shut off. I considered my actions—and decided to keep doing my job. I moved the wheelbarrow to the next pile of manure.

The barn door opened and shut.

I waited until I got the last round nugget before I looked up.

The man who watched me from just inside the door was clean-shaven. A few strands of pale hair peeked out from his stretch hat, which was pulled down over his ears. The hat was black with a small label I could read from where I stood: Carhartt. His jacket was red-and-white plaid wool felt. He looked like a rancher bundled up to take care of livestock.

His features were familiar, like an artist had taken a rough-hewn statue and refined craggy features into something more finished. More human. I thought of shapeshifters and gryphons. I thought of my old friend Zee and the even older fae I saw in his eyes more often than I used to—and the perception I had that they were two separate people.

“Hello, Hrímnir,” I said. “I was hoping we could talk.”

I had thought that maybe someone who took care of horses that weren’t his responsibility might continue to take care of them. I’d expected the frost giant, though, the powerful, dangerous, but not-too-clever Hrímnir I’d met last night.

This man strolled over to the fence and put his arms on the rail second from the top, which was a convenient height for him. At least in his human guise. He even smelled like a human—though one who had been out in a winter storm.

“Have you found my lyre?” he asked, his accent pure American Pacific Northwest with a hint of drawl—a Montana rancher accent, to match his clothing.

“You said it was a harp,” I told him, turning my attention back to my task.

“Oh? I had not noticed.” There was a rustle of clothing; I thought he might have shrugged. Then tension sharpened the back of my neck as he drew in a sudden breath. “Harp. I said harp?”

“You did. When you told me my brother stole it from you.”

“What year is this?” he asked.

I told him.

“Tomorrow is the winter solstice,” he said.

It hadn’t been a question, but I answered him anyway. “Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said, and there might have been a hint of urgency in his voice. “Is there a wedding taking place at Looking Glass tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I moved to the next pile of manure and positioned the wheelbarrow so I could look at him. “Or maybe. If the groom can get there in time. There’s this blizzard that looks like it’s going to be messing everything up.”

He turned his back to me and, after a pause, started pacing restlessly. I decided to let him walk it out while I finished cleaning the pen.

I hauled the wheelbarrow behind me, because the twelve-year-old me had found that I could balance it better that way. He quit pacing when I headed toward the gate, and opened it to let me through. I found a pile of manure where I could dump my wheelbarrow load. The pile didn’t look like it was big enough to be more than a week’s worth. Someone had been coming in with a tractor to clean it out.

“What have you found?” he asked.

I put the wheelbarrow back where I’d found it and used the time to think about what to say.

“Do you want to put a stop to the wedding?” I asked.

“No.”

He could be lying. But I didn’t think he was. “Why not stop the storm, then?” I asked.

Instead of talking, he found a pair of brushes and handed one to me. Then he hopped over the five-foot panel with an ease that was more than human. I used the gate—it required less effort, and I wasn’t trying to show off. I didn’t think that he was, either.

He started to work on one horse; I took the other. Kept in a clean, dry pen, neither horse was more than dusty, but grooming horses was soothing. I had been horse crazy when I was twelve and thirteen. When I was fourteen, my foster parents had died, one after the other; afterward, horses had not been as important.

“You know what the wedding accomplishes,” he said. It wasn’t really a question.

“Liam, the green man at the hot springs, told me,” I said. “The wedding must take place tomorrow or the hound Garmr is released. If he is free, when he howls, Ragnarok begins.”

“Do you believe that?” he asked me. “Does Coyote’s descendant”—something happened to his voice, surprise maybe—“Coyote’s daughter believe in fate?”

I gave that a little consideration. “Let’s say that I’d rather be allowed to keep my belief that there is no such thing as fate than have my belief disproved when Garmr is released and the world is destroyed.”

He might have laughed. My horse’s back was taller than my head, so I couldn’t see him to be sure.

The horse raised his head as I hit an itchy spot. I switched out the brush for my fingers so I could dig in a bit heavier. The big horse stuck his nose in the air and peeled his lips away from his teeth in pleasure as I rubbed his belly.

“The chances of this wedding happening look pretty bleak,” I said. “Last we heard, the groom was going to try to fly into Spokane. The road between here and Spokane was bad when Adam and I drove it yesterday. I’d guess it’s impassable by now.”

He didn’t say anything, and I said, pointedly, “There’s this big winter storm.”

“I made a vow,” he said. “Upon my power, I swore that everyone at the lodge would remain trapped where they were until my harp is back in my hands.” He paused. “Or until all of the people at the hot springs are dead. I cannot release the storm until one or the other of the conditions is met.”

“That might take a while,” I said. “The lodge has food stores and water.”

“If the wedding does not happen,” the frost giant said, “and the Great Spell is broken, the backlash will kill everyone at Looking Glass—excepting only the spirit of the lake. One way or another, this storm does not have long to live.”

“That is added incentive,” I said.

I supposed that if the end of the world was coming, it didn’t matter that we were all going to die if Adam and I couldn’t find the harp in time. It felt like it mattered, though.

“I, too, will be gone,” he said, not sounding particularly upset about it. “I do not know if there is among the remaining Jötnar one who can claim my name and live. If not, then my magic will die with me.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because I created the Great Spell that binds the fate of the world,” he said. “I know what a world ruled by my kind looks like. I did not—do not want it to happen here.”

We worked awhile.

“I made it out,” I said. “Out of Looking Glass Hot Springs, I mean.” I wasn’t sure that it was bright of me to point that out.

“I let you come here today,” he said. “I could allow you, because you were not there when I made my vow.”

“You knew I’d be here,” I said.

“I hoped for it, yes.” His voice deepened a little. “I felt that we two should talk.” I heard the scruff, scruff of his brush. Then he said, “I thought if you came to take care of the horses, we might have a few things to say to each other.”

“What does it matter that you called it a harp when it looks like a lyre?” I asked, moving from my horse’s belly to his rump. He huffed a disappointed sigh but went back to eating. “And what does that have to do with the winter solstice—or the wedding?”

“The instrument is the key to the Great Spell,” he said. “When the renewal is close, those bindings loosen. Then Garmr can choose the shape of the leash that holds him. A hundred and forty-four years ago, he chose a lyre. That I am now calling it a harp means that is the shape it is to become. A shadow of the future.” I heard him pat his horse.

I stopped brushing. “Garmr chose the shape?”

“He had no say when I bound his voice,” the frost giant said. “It is right that some part of the magic responds to his will.”

I rubbed my forehead, and the gelding I’d been grooming gave me a look. It made a certain sort of sense that a being who cared for the needs of horses he’d put in jeopardy—by dealing with their caretaker—would concern himself with the needs of another kind of beast.

“You didn’t realize that this is the year the spell needs to be renewed until just now. Or else you wouldn’t have unleashed this storm.”

“No,” he said. He let out a heavy breath.

“Someone stole the artifact to stop the wedding and begin the end of the world,” I said.

“It does seem likely,” he said.

“Did they goad you into creating this storm?” I asked.

“Possibly,” he allowed.

“How did they manage that?”

“I have spent the last few decades alone in the mountains here.” He sounded a little apologetic. “The winters are long and the wilderness appeals to my power. Those of us who work with the weather are more changeable than other Jötnar. It is why this shape I wear now is as much mine as the gryphon or the Jötunn you have already met. Your mate is a werewolf; you know about two-natured things. When he wears his wolf, he also wears the nature of the predator.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s more violent and less wise.”

“Yes. That is it. When I am in my other form, as a Jötunn, I am more likely to react and less likely to think.” He paused. “It is easier to be that one. He does not feel the years go by.” He gave a huff of self-directed unhappy amusement. “He doesn’t feel the guilt of what I have done to my good dog, who has never done anything but what I asked of him.”

“Garmr,” I said.

He grunted a yes. “But there is danger in staying in that self. I do not see plots.” His voice became a growl. “I did not, for instance, notice that your brother became my friend in order to steal from me.”

“Someone is using you to prevent the Heddars’ marriage,” I said slowly. “I don’t think that’s my brother. If he has skin in that game, it’s from the other side. He’s probably not going to survive Ragnarok, either.” I sucked in a breath. “Someone used him, too.” I didn’t need to guess at who that might be.

Dear Father. What made him stick his paw into this mess? Curiosity? Love of disaster?

He grunted. Based on living with Adam, I recognized it as a masculine reluctant-agreement grunt.

“My brother Ymir,” Hrímnir said finally, “awaits Ragnarok with all the fervor of one who has never seen a battlefield, who has never seen gods lying dead in a sea of the blood of the innocent.” He said it with such neutrality that I was pretty sure he had. “Ymir lusts after the glory of the old days of war. When death came at the bite of blades instead of rockets and bombs.”

“I’ve met a few people like that,” I said.

He sighed. “I think too small, our father always said. I react. Always react. Because I would prefer to be left alone and never to act at all.”

“Is that just intuition?” I asked. “That Ymir is using you to free Garmr? Because I don’t see my brother believing a thing Ymir says.”

But he’d reacted to Ymir, hadn’t he? Had that just been because Gary’s senses had been scrambled? He’d attacked Adam earlier.

“Not intuition,” he said. “I have no idea what Gary’s motivation was or where his loyalty lies other than with himself.”

The silence grew chill—and long enough that I wondered if I’d misread him. His horse raised his head from the hay and snorted, making my horse’s jaws quit moving. Quiet fell, except for the breathing of the horses.

I’d thought we were working our way to becoming allies with a common goal. But maybe I’d underestimated the drawback of my being the sister of a man Hrímnir believed had betrayed him. Hurt him. I decided not to try to defend Gary. I didn’t know if there was a defense for him.

“When Ymir called to tell me he was sending you,” the frost giant said, “he told me you were coming to demand I release Gary. He said you were dangerous and dishonorable. That the world would be better off with you dead.” He paused. “Ymir could have removed the magic I bound your brother with.”

Ymir had lied. Of course he had.

“With that attitude, I’d rather not have him work magic on my brother,” I said with absolute truth.

“Ymir thought it might be a good idea if no one left Looking Glass Hot Springs with the artifact. That I had the means to prevent that if I chose.”

My horse started eating again, and Hrímnir’s horse put his head down and followed suit.

“So why didn’t you kill us?” I asked.

“I do know who your mate is,” Hrímnir said. “Gary and I were friends…since sometime near the summer solstice. He liked talking about you. I know what purpose your territory serves to maintain the peace between the humans and our kind. I understand the humans have weapons that could vie with Jötnar magics for destructive power, should they choose to use them.”

That whole bit sounded like a non sequitur, but I thought he was leading up to something. I kept my mouth shut and waited.

“I told him that I would not kill Adam, because of the role he and his pack played,” Hrímnir said. “Ymir assured me that it was not a problem. That he, my brother, could take the pack and make them even stronger. The wolf is his to call.”

“When he came to examine Gary”—I fought to keep a neutral voice, but it emerged sharpened—“he took control of one of our wolves without her consent…or ours. My husband took her back from him.”

“So you said earlier.” Hrímnir stepped around the horses so he could see my face. “Your husband is strong.”

“Yes.”

I was pretty sure that if Ymir tried to take the pack while Adam and I were here, Adam would notice. Even I, as a pack member, could still feel those bonds. The pack was okay, I reassured myself. They’d be okay until we got back.

I don’t know what he saw in my face, but whatever it was, he apparently approved. He nodded once, then walked back, putting the horses between us once more.

“Are you going to find my harp?” he asked.

“Is there a reason we can’t just line everyone up and ask who has the artifact?” I asked. I didn’t mean to whine. “I can tell when someone is lying. Adam and I might not be able to force the Heddars or the vampire to cough it up—but Liam is anxious to let the marriage take place. The three of us—”

“They are all guests,” the frost giant said, apparently unsurprised about the vampire. “Liam cannot allow you to take something by force regardless of his personal feelings on the matter. And if you scare whoever has it—they might destroy it.”

I rubbed my temples to alleviate my headache. He was on the other side of the horse, but I felt the frost giant notice. I shouldn’t have been able to know that.

I needed to get out of here soon. I did not want to be standing next to the frost giant when the damage I’d received from the Soul Taker decided to open my mind again.

“There’s a pair of goblins,” I said, to distract myself from my weakness. “They aren’t with the wedding party—they were apparently planning on climbing in the Cabinet Mountains but were discouraged by the blizzard.”

“Do you think they took the harp?” he asked me.

“Liam does, I think. Possibly Adam, too.” Though Adam wouldn’t say so unless he had proof.

“Do you think they took the harp?” he asked again, in exactly the same tone.

“No.” I blew a bit of horsehair off my face.

“My brother took the harp,” I said slowly, trying to work things out through the warning buzz in my head. “Then he dropped it off at the hot springs or hid it or somethinged it. But it makes the most sense if he left it with someone at the lodge. You wouldn’t just dump an artifact somewhere and leave it by itself.” I paused. “I wouldn’t, anyway. There is no end to the trouble a loose artifact can cause.”

“Somethinged it,” said Hrímnir, as if he enjoyed the word. “And then came to tell me he’d done it.”

I stopped grooming. Incredulously, I turned around.

“What in the name of little green apples did Gary do that for? I thought you caught him, or cornered him into telling you what he’d done. He just went up to you and said, ‘Hey, you know that harp…lyre…thingy? Yeah, I’m the one who took it’?”

“You know,” Hrímnir said ruminatively, “I should have waited for him to tell me why before I spelled him to shut him up. And to punish him.” He stared at me. “Because you are just like he described you. And you risked running into me in order to make sure the horses had food and water.”

“Maybe I came here to see if I could talk to you,” I said. “Because you’d been up here to take care of the horses yesterday.” I tapped my nose.

“Maybe,” he said. “But that’s how he described you, too. I would like to know what my brother did to make your brother befriend me, then steal my harp.”

I scoffed. “There is nothing that your brother could do to make Gary take your harp.” I was pretty sure about that.

“Ymir has money. More gold than Andrew Heddar.”

“If my brother were motivated by money,” I said dryly, “he wouldn’t be babysitting a ranch in the winter and breaking colts in the summers.”

Hrímnir grunted.

“Besides,” I said, “there is no world in which Ymir and my brother managed a civil conversation for longer than it took one of them to open his mouth.”

Hrímnir grunted again, this time in agreement, and went back to grooming. After a while, he stepped back, and then held out a hand for the brush I was using. “They’re clean enough.”

His hand touched mine when I gave him the brush. I think I expected to feel something—that his skin would be hot like the werewolves, or cold because he was a frost giant. I expected to feel the power of the storm. But it felt exactly like any other hand I’d ever touched.

“You still have no idea where the harp is?” he asked.

He sounded…odd. But not angry.

“No,” I said. “But if we are all going to die tomorrow if Adam and I don’t find it, I’d better get back.”

I walked to the horse pen’s gate, conscious that he wasn’t following me. I unhooked the chain.

“What happened to rip open your mind?”

The question was said in virtually the same tone as his previous query had been; it took me a moment to process what he’d said. Open gate in my hand, I turned to look back at him.

Before I could figure out what to say, he narrowed his eyes. “Not your mind. Your magic and your soul.”

That was more than I’d known about the damage. “I encountered an artifact called the Soul Taker,” I told him. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could fix this.” I tapped my head.

“I am not a healer.” He tipped his head. “The Soul Taker. Time was that the priests who held the Soul Taker could see inside the souls of men.”

I couldn’t help but grimace. “And women.”

“I met one once,” he said. “He gouged his own eyes out.”

Yep. I needed to get this fixed even if I had to ask Coyote. “Did that help?”

“I don’t remember,” Hrímnir said. “Where is the artifact?”

“Siebold Adelbertsmiter destroyed it,” I told him.

He drew in a breath. “It’s good that you destroyed it—or had Wayland Smith destroy it. As you said, stray artifacts do nothing but cause trouble.”

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“Go back to the hot springs and find that harp, Mercy Hauptman,” said Hrímnir, who was apparently done with the topic of me and my damage. “I cannot trespass there to help you, but I will give you such—” He stopped speaking for a moment as if searching for a word. I caught a flash of expression that I couldn’t interpret. “—aid as I might. There isn’t much time. You need to find out where the harp is and bring it to me. Then I can let the storm dissipate.” He paused, then said softly, “I will do anything in my power to help you find it.”

I nodded and left the pen. I shut the gate and stood for a minute. “If my brother took the artifact, it’s because he thought he was doing the right thing.”

Again, I couldn’t read the expression on Hrímnir’s face. Old creatures are good at hiding their emotions. “Possibly,” he said. “Doing the right thing doesn’t mean no one gets hurt.”

“Did he know about the wedding?” I asked. “I mean, it would be stupid of him to leave the harp there if he wanted to stop the wedding.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Hrímnir said. “I didn’t remember. It’s one of the ways I protected the Great Spell—no one remembers it until they need to. Only the couples who are the heart of the spell.”

“You don’t remember it?”

“I choose not to,” he said. “Most of the time. It’s another reason I do not use this self”—he waved his hands to indicate his own form—“much.”

“What about Ymir?” I asked. “Why does he know about it? Why does he remember it?”

“Someone told him,” Hrímnir said. “The spell that keeps it secret weakens as it nears its time for renewal. Ymir is powerful, and that power is ancient and deep. Now that he knows, he will remember until after the marriage. If there is another marriage.”

“Who else could remember once they found out?” I asked.

He smiled grimly. “That may be the right question. A Power, maybe. Someone like your Wayland Smith. One of the old gods. Odin or Thor.” He pronounced them like an American would have, not like Zee did.

I didn’t ask him about that. There was someone else who might not forget. Liam had officiated at the last wedding—and when we’d first met, he’d told me I reminded him of someone.

“I rather think that you will remember,” Hrímnir told me. “Mercy Coyotesdaughter.”

I stared at him.

“Go now, Mercy,” he said. “Go find my harp.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said. I made it to the door, hefting up the empty pack before I remembered. I turned to see that he had not moved from where I’d left him. “I’m going up to the main building to look for some eggs to bring back to the hot springs.”

“Electricity is off,” he said. “Likely anything in the house is frozen.”

I smiled at him. “I was just letting you know—I wasn’t asking permission.”

I shut the barn door behind me and cursed my tennis shoes all the way to the main building. He was right, it was very cold in the house—but the refrigerator was commercial quality and it had maintained its temperature. It was warmer in the fridge than in the house.

I found three dozen eggs, but there was only room for two dozen in my pack, once I had my coat jammed in it. Taking the second dozen eggs meant leaving my wet tennis shoes behind.

When I got back outside, the snowmobile was gone and the snow was once more falling heavily.

The trip back to the hot springs was a lot more miserable than the way out to the ranch had been. On the way, the wind had been at my back; now I was forced to travel against it. The driving snow bit at my eyes and nose in a way that disoriented even my coyote self. If I hadn’t had my mate bond telling me which way Adam was, I would have gotten turned around.

I lost track of time. I’d started out in a steady trot, but couldn’t keep it up in the face of the storm. I hoped that Adam wasn’t still up on the roof in this wind.

My eyes stung, and I was feeling pretty sorry for myself when I stepped onto the sacred land. The storm didn’t lessen, exactly, but the despair that had piled onto my back decreased remarkably.

I traveled maybe another quarter of a mile through the trees and into a clearing. Even through the blasting snow, I could see the lodge. I paused then. For a moment I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t smell anything but the storm, could barely see well enough to avoid running into a tree. But—

It coalesced from nothingness, blending in with the magic that saturated the land, then becoming denser with every breath I took until it stood in front of me, as real as the snow beneath my feet.

Garmr, I thought.

Looking at him, I understood the confusion about what exactly he was—dog or wolf, neither quite fit. He was nearly twice as tall as Adam’s wolf and more massive. The size of a grizzly, at least. His muzzle was broad and flat, more like our Joel in either his presa Canario form or the volcano demon dog he could become than a wolf. But Garmr’s heavy gray coat and his yellow eyes said wolf.

Other than his eyes, there was nothing obviously aggressive about his stance—and that he had taken form foursquare in my path. Hrímnir spoke to him, so he was intelligent. It was not an accident that he blocked my way.

I wondered if Garmr knew who I was and what I was trying to do. I wondered if he wanted to be bound for another hundred and forty-four years, or would rather break free to start a massive war that would destroy the world. He didn’t look particularly violent.

I, too, had unwelcome ties that bound me in uncomfortable ways. If I considered what Stefan, my friend the vampire, could do to me if he chose, the panic closed up my throat so hard I could not breathe.

I jumped sideways a hair’s breadth before he attacked, because I was not surprised that he’d want to stop me. That meant his jaws closed over the pack on my back instead of the nape of my neck. His jerk, a movement designed to snap my spine, still flung me powerfully to one side.

I had practiced this, though. I shifted to my human shape as my weight hit the straps and I twisted, then shifted back to coyote and twisted some more. Adam’s pack, even modified, didn’t fit as well as my own, and I was free of it sooner than I expected.

I ran. I am speedier than a real coyote. Quicker than most of the werewolves, too. I knew where I was going, and I sent a wild call out to Adam—though he’d have felt my fear when Garmr attacked.

The guardian of Hel was faster. His teeth closed over my haunch. I don’t know that I had ever felt such pain. I couldn’t hear or see through the searing agony of what those teeth did—but it hurt my head so badly I didn’t feel any pain from my flesh.

I tore free more easily than should have been possible. And the leg he’d savaged still worked as well as it ever had. His teeth had passed right through my body—and done much more damage to my being than if he’d chewed on me physically.

I knew, I knew, I couldn’t let him bite me again. Still running, but now adapting a zigzagging, random path like a drunken rabbit, I made myself more difficult to catch and gained some ground on him. Possibly he was just playing with me.

I shifted to human. Naked in the icy storm, I wouldn’t be able to function for long. My toes burned and the wind cut into my flesh. I reached out into the air and closed my hand on the walking stick.