by Bec McMaster
Bryn finally bequeathed a smile upon the princess. “I’ll bring your pretty little princeling to you in chains. I’ll even make him beg for mercy, if necessary. Now. What were the names of the trio that are searching for him?”
Two
Lightning laced across the sky, lighting the common room of the inn in Grøa as Tormund sank onto the bench and shook off his wet cloak. “That is one hell of a storm. Anyone you know?”
Sirius watched the skies through the windows, the black leather eyepatch he wore obscuring one eye. He’d lost it in the battle to overthrow Queen Amadea, though it did little to weaken him. The Blackfrost was still considered the most dangerous male dreki in the northern lands.
“It’s not a dreki-driven storm.” Sirius’s eye narrowed, as if he was seeing more than mere lightning. “Though I’m not sure it’s entirely natural. Stay here.” He pushed to his feet. “I want to see if I can find our informant.”
“Storms like that bring trouble,” Haakon muttered as Sirius strode toward the door.
“If trouble wants to mess with the Blackfrost, then my coin is on him. Do you think the old man was telling the truth?”
In the last village they’d stopped in, an old shepherd had seen a golden dreki fly overhead one night. And now there were rumors one had been seen walking the streets of Grøa in human form.
A great deal of hunting dragons—or in this case dreki—was following rumour of myths and trying to sort the truth from the lies.
“I think—” Haakon took a thoughtful sip of his ale. “—that this is the best lead we’ve found in the past month. Árdís claims the golden scales she, Rurik and Marduk wear are rare among dreki kind. There is only one other she knows of, and he lives far to the south in sunbaked lands where strange animals roam.”
And the shepherd had sworn the creature was as gold as a polished kroner.
“But why here?” Tormund mused. “We’re not so far from Iceland. A day or two’s flight for a dreki, no doubt. If Marduk wanted to escape Queen Amadea, then why would he risk being caught so close to his own lands? Why Norway?”
“Be patient. Perhaps when our informant arrives, they’ll have the answer.”
“I think they’ll have an answer,” he grumbled, “with the amount of good gold you’ve been offering of late.”
“I have an enormous overbred dreki working for me. Sirius can smell when a human is lying, he tells me.” Haakon winked, but a commotion near the door caught both their attention.
The door banged loudly against the wall, as if torn from someone’s grasp.
A stranger appeared, clad in a dripping cloak that covered their entire body, the storm lashing their clothes around them. Tormund wouldn’t have paid them a second glance except for the glint of a sheathed knife at their hip. Dangerous, then.
But more than that, there was a crackle in the air, and he didn’t know why but he felt a little breathless.
Lifting his hand and staring at the way the hairs along his arm rose, he slowly returned his gaze to the newcomer just as they flung the hood back from their head.
Holy. Shit.
His breath caught. His eyes popped wide open. And someone, somewhere, stole every thought in his head.
Haakon’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Enjoying yourself?”
“That is one hell of a woman,” Tormund breathed, eyeing her from head to toe.
And there was a significant amount of woman in between.
The stranger stood a good inch or two over six feet tall, with straight shoulders that bore an almost regal stance, and thick red-gold hair that tumbled down her back in a mess of a plait. She rested a hand on the hilt of the knife at her hip as she shot an angry glance around the room, and he couldn’t help noticing there were plenty of curves half-hidden by the cloak.
Haakon whistled under his breath. “She looks like she could wrestle a bear.”
“Hush,” Tormund said, shooting him a glare. “That’s my future wife you’re talking about.”
“Future wife?” His cousin burst into laughter. “Or tonight’s pursuit?”
“Either.”
The woman strode to the bar, where she engaged in a swift conversation with the innkeeper. Tormund pushed to his feet, as if drawn by an invisible tether.
“No.” Haakon grabbed his wrist. “We don’t have time for this.”
“You would stand in the path of destiny?”
“I think destiny is about to hand you your teeth.”
“There she is.” Sirius returned with a swirl of his dark cloak, his gaze turning narrow with predatory intent.
“Who?” A breathless sensation filled Tormund, for the dreki’s focus was based behind him.
On the bar.
On the woman.
“Our informant.” Sirius lifted a chin as the woman looked around, giving an imperious nod.
She strode toward them, one hand resting idly on the hilt of the sword at her hip.
“Jesus.” Tormund could barely breathe.
She was pure, utter perfection.
Handfuls of soft flesh molded over hard muscle. Powerful thighs were barely contained by tight leather trousers, and as she slipped sideways between two old men, he caught a glimpse of an ass a man could grasp with two hands as he buried his face between those thighs.
And the way she stared at them as if she was seemingly fearless made his cock harden.
“You have gold?” she demanded, in a voice both soft and husky, as she reached their table. The lamplight behind her softened her features, and he could just make out a set of pillowy lips.
Fuck.
Haakon kicked his chair under the table, then straightened. “Maybe. For the right kind of information.”
The woman placed both hands on their table, leaning forward with a predatory gaze. “You wanted to speak to the blacksmith’s wife.”
“Are you the blacksmith’s wife?” Tormund asked, leaning back in his chair as his heart sank like lead. It was plausible. She looked like she could swing a hammer more ferociously than any blacksmith he’d ever encountered.
Those green eyes met his. “No. Though I represent her interests.”
Thank all the gods.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Tormund offered a friendly smile.
“My name is Bryn. And I’m not your sweet anything.”
“Tormund,” he said, resting all four feet of the chair on the ground again. “And this is my cousin, Haakon, and our… um, friend, Sirius. Would you like an ale?”
“I’m here to offer information, and that’s all I’m interested in.”
Sirius snickered into his mug. Haakon splayed a hand over his mouth as though trying to hide a laugh.
Bastards.
“Then sit,” Haakon directed, gesturing to the chair in front of her.
“The blacksmith indicated there was coin in this job.”
Haakon drew a small pouch from his belt and let it fall on the table, where it chinked. “There is. Provided the information is worth the coin offered.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be interested.” Bryn draped her dripping cloak over the back of the chair. A tunic of braided leather covered her breasts. “He came through here. This prince you’re looking for.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Tormund asked, because pretty or not, he wasn’t interested in traipsing all over these mountains looking for something that didn’t exist.
“Because he has a golden crown tattooed on his ass and the smile of a devil.”
Haakon considered Bryn for several long seconds.
And then he opened the pouch of coins and slid a pair of them across the table toward her.
Bryn sank into the chair, her eyes glittering. “He was seeking directions for the völva of Grøa.”
“Völva?”
“She lives in the hills and practices seidr. Some say she dabbles in darker arts too, and it is known that those who seek to find her often don’t return.”
Fucking magic.
Dark magic. Tormund pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew what was going to happen next.
“How do we find this völva?” Haakon asked.
And there it was.
Bryn smiled a wolfish smile and swept the handful of coins toward her before making them disappear. “I will show you. I too have questions for her and will act as your guide.”
“Guide, hmm?” Tormund bent and hauled his pack up onto his back, glaring at the sun as if it had done him a personal grudge by rising.
Bryn continued buckling the enormous leather belt around her waist, ignoring the way his gaze settled on her. The second he’d seen her, he’d made it clear he found her attractive, but it was her first glimpse into those deep, dark eyes that knotted her tongue in her mouth.
The man looked like pure sin poured into leather and fur.
He had a smile like Loki, a set of arms to send Heimdall weeping, and a pair of thighs that would have made Thor green with envy. Thick dark hair was gathered back into a leather thong at the nape of his neck, and a neatly trimmed beard lined his jaw. Every inch of him was either carved by the gods or molded directly from her dreams.
And he towered over her.
Her personal weakness.
Freyja, grant me strength.
Bryn forced her tongue to work, but the words came out awkward and snappish. “Did you think me a lonely shepherdess or a farmer, looking for a man to warm my bed of a night?”
“Not with that knife, no.” His gaze slid to the sword strapped to her hip. “Or that sword.”
This was easier to counter. Bryn smiled dangerously and leaned closer. “Scared?”
He closed the distance between them until his nose was almost touching hers. “Not precisely the right emotion. Besides, you haven’t seen the size of my weapon. Yet.”
“Ever.” She broke away, heading into the street. “I don’t mingle when I’m on a job.”
“I wasn’t talking about ‘mingling.’” He winked at her and sent her a slow, heated smile that warmed her from the inside.
Ragnarök’s breath. It wasn’t as though men didn’t attempt to woo her on a regular basis. And if she was being honest, usually she would have been more interested in his friend, Sirius, who had dangerous written all over him.
But there was something about Tormund that caught her eye.
His smile perhaps; the type of smile that stopped her heart in her chest.
Or the calmness that leached off him. He radiated confidence, as if it didn’t matter how many punches the world threw at him, he would simply keep striding inexorably forward.
She’d never met a man who made her feel instantly at ease.
“You certainly think highly of your charm,” she noted. Keeping him at arm’s length was proving difficult. The man shrugged off insults and seemed immune to her cooler glares.
“It’s not my charm I think highly of.”
Bryn snorted. “Oh, I’m sure.”
A girl shivered on the corner of the street, holding a plate out for passers-by. Bryn’s gaze slid over her, then she sighed and reached into her purse, dumping a handful of coins there. “Freyja’s blessing upon you,” she said.
The girl gave her a startled look, before her eyes widened when she saw what Bryn had given her.
It would never be enough.
But she’d been cold and hungry before. She knew the gnawing ache in her belly the girl no doubt suffered from. And while there had never been anyone there to assuage that hunger for her, she could offer assistance now.
Behind her, she heard Tormund adding a few more coins.
“That was kind of you,” he said when he rejoined her.
“Foolish,” she replied. She didn’t want to talk about it.
And clearly he understood her reticence.
Tormund looked toward the mountains in front of them. “Dare I ask how you know Marduk has a golden crown tattooed on his ass?”
It was tempting to tell him she’d seen it firsthand.
But keeping her lies to a minimum was the first rule Bryn owned when working a job. You never knew when something was going to trip you up.
“The blacksmith’s niece saw it,” she said dryly, as they reached the edge of the village. “And the innkeeper’s sister. And the mayor’s daughter confirmed their accounts. Needless to say, the prince left in a hurry.”
“Ah.” His smile softened. “So you didn’t personally meet the prince.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I’d met him.” No. Marduk would be trussed up in Solveig’s dungeon if she had.
A small dot grew larger on the horizon. Bryn tugged a leather gauntlet from behind her belt. She slipped it on, knotting the laces.
“Lucky for me then that you didn’t.”
Bad. This was bad.
She had to stop this flirtation right here, right now.
“I am here for one thing, and one thing only. Marduk.”
“A pity. I could have changed the course of your life if you’d let me.”
Bryn held out her hand as the flash of feathers dove toward them. “Who says I want to change the course of my life?”
Tormund jerked back as the merlin banked and landed on her wrist, her feathers grazing his cheek.
“Jesus Christ.” The words tore from him as he clapped a hand to his chest. “Where did that thing come from?”
“Is the big, bad warrior afraid of my little fluff?” Bryn cooed, scratching the little merlin under the chin. Sýr closed her eyes and leaned into the caress. “Did you scare him, my precious sweet girl?”
“That thing nearly took my ear off!”
“That thing is called Sýr.” Bryn glanced up from beneath her eyelashes as she thrust her wrist forward and set the merlin free. Sýr launched into the skies, content with her pat. “She hunts at my side, and she has far better discretion than to touch such a big, bearded lout.”
“Then she doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.”
“Oh, she knows.” Bryn tucked her wrist closer to her chest and stalked past him. “But regret is not precisely the emotion she feels.”
He laughed behind her, but Haakon called out, “Which way?”
The road wound through the mountains ahead of them, fog drifting through the lower valleys.
Sirius had vanished a half hour ago, and no doubt he was soaring through the skies above them. He’d find them, he’d claimed, which made her a little uneasy.
Double-crossing a human was easy enough, but dreki had long memories, and she’d heard plenty of stories about the dreki they called the Blackfrost in the past hundred or so years.
Solveig had failed to mention he was one of the party Bryn would need to track. And if she’d known, then she might have preferred to follow at a distance, rather than ingratiating herself with them.
Too late now. Bryn headed into the trees, leaving the road.
“The prince was last seen heading up into the mountains,” she called over her shoulder. “According to the blacksmith’s wife.”
“I thought he was in disguise. How did you know it was a dreki prince if you never saw him?” Tormund asked. “How do you know so much about dreki? Most humans seem to be unaware that they’re more than myths and legends that hide up in the hills and steal their sheep.”
Now that she wasn’t batting her eyelashes at him, he was starting to think. Usually she appreciated an intelligent man, but this was the wrong time to find one. “I’ve run afoul of dreki several times. And my mother told me about them and their world, though she suggested I should avoid them.”
“How did the blacksmith’s wife know it was the prince?”
Bryn rolled her eyes. “The blacksmith’s wife said he had the look of the devil about him and her cross burned cold every time he smiled at her. She was certain he wasn’t human.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Haakon threw over his shoulder. “Crosses don’t react to dreki.”
“And in their human form, it’s difficult to see the difference between a dreki an
d a large man,” Tormund pointed out.
“Trust me, giant. He was dreki, according to my sources.” And then she waggled her eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
“Do I want to know?”
Bryn knew her smile held the sweetness of a trap about to spring. “I don’t know. Do you?”
He stared at her for a long moment, and then his gaze slid to the mountains over his shoulder.
Sometimes, it was almost too easy to deflect a man’s attentions.
She headed up a narrow track that diverged from the glade. “This way.”
The climb turned steep and treacherous, and the three of them scrabbled over rocks and boulders. Her breath caught when she saw the side of the path drop away into an immense gully. Though the village was barely a hundred feet behind them, it felt as though they’d entered an ancient world.
A river roared somewhere ahead. And birds pinwheeled through the chasm in front of them. She could feel the last hints of civilization dropping away behind them with every step and practically sense Sýr’s elation as the merlin soared through the gap.
“He followed this track,” Bryn said, pointing to the left. “A plump blonde said she’d tried to tell him not to go this way, but he insisted. He wanted answers, he told her.”
“Answers to what?”
“Hopefully, we’ll find out.”
Bryn peered up the narrow track that diverged from the one she stood upon. It had been built for goats by the look of it, and thick weeds overgrew it.
Tormund paused at her side, full of suspicion. “People don’t use this track very often.”
“People don’t come here at all.” She pointed to a skull someone had hung on a cross stave. A pair of ram’s horns had been drilled into it, but that was very clearly a human skull.
“Just where are you taking us, woman?”
She called over her shoulder, “I’m taking you to meet the völva of Grøa. Watch your step. And keep your tongue quiet. She’s guarded by draugar, they tell me.”
The undead were difficult to slay at the best of times.
“Oh, finding Marduk will be no trouble,” he muttered under his breath, pitching his voice to match a female’s tone. “It will be an excellent adventure.”
