Mist

by Susan Krinard

  Either she’d get Dainn back, or she’d be dead.

  The lobby was immense, with a fireplace set in a huge marble block, two fountains, a gallery of exclusive art on the high walls, and clusters of luxury armchairs, sofas, and tables scattered throughout. A pair of mortals, male and female, stood behind a reception desk, ostensibly to assist the residents, but Mist knew they were also security personnel who could act decisively in case of emergency.

  They might even be Loki’s.

  Two men sat in chairs on either side of a round table, one with his nose in a tabloid and the other working on a laptop. Neither looked up as Mist walked across the black marble tile floor, but their mortal appearance didn’t deceive Mist in the slightest. They were Jotunar.

  At least Mist knew she was in the right place.

  She paused near a square pillar some distance from the reception desk to assess the situation. She had no sense that Dainn had walked here, no sense of his presence.

  He could be dead by now, for all she knew.

  No. That she would have known.

  Her heart pounding more out of fear for him than for herself or the future of Midgard, Mist approached the bank of elevators.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” the male receptionist said, coming up behind her. “Will you come to the reception desk?”

  There was no way out of it, so Mist followed him. The woman gave her a probing look.

  “Have you come to see one of our residents?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Lukas Landvik.”

  He picked up a clipboard. “Your name, ma’am?”

  “Brenda Jones.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I have no listing by that name.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “Perhaps you would like me to call Mr. Landvik?”

  That was the last thing Mist wanted. She already knew the Jotunar were listening. Her assumed name hadn’t deceived them. Her one chance of getting past the receptionist- guards was to use the method she had sworn never to repeat.

  But Dainn’s life was at stake. This time she had to be in control. She closed her eyes, letting the glamour come. The scent of primroses drifted around her head. The female receptionist sniffed and frowned at Mist.

  But it didn’t take long before Mist felt her mother’s power. Her power. Her body relaxed. She smiled and opened her eyes.

  “What’s your name?” she asked the man, looking into his brown eyes.

  His gaze flickered this way and that in confusion, and he blushed. “Shaw,” he stammered. “Robert. Bob.”

  The woman threw him an astonished glance and then began to study Mist with narrow- eyed intensity.

  “Well, Bob,” Mist said, leaning over the desk, “I really need to see Mr. Landvik. It’s so important to me, and he’s expecting me. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to make either one of us angry?”

  “Excuse me,” the woman said. “I think you should leave, ma’am.”

  “No,” Mist said, meeting her gaze. “I don’t think I will.”

  The woman flinched. Mist hadn’t been too sure how the glamour would work on the woman, but it was obviously having some effect..

  “Bob,” she said, “You can see I won’t do any harm. Look at me.”

  She stepped back, imagining her body seductively curved, her breasts heavy inside her shirt. She didn’t even need to show anything, because Bob was transfixed.

  “Will you look on the list again?” Mist asked. “I’m sure my name is there.”

  He looked, running his finger down the page. “Here it is,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

  “Let me see it,” the woman said. She scanned the page. “Ms. Jones . . .”

  Mist moved along the desk toward her. “Look at me,” Mist said. “It’s really not a problem to let me go up, is it?”

  The woman’s lips compressed. She fidgeted, as if she were trying to throw off Mist’s influence.

  In the end, she gave in, if reluctantly. “You can go up,” she said, “but if Mr. Landvik isn’t expecting you, we’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “Of course.” Mist started away, stopped, and returned to the desk. “Silly me,” she said. “I forgot the floor.”

  “Top,” Bob said. “Fifty- eighth. Penthouse.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  The woman shook her head sharply. Mist didn’t waste any time. She went straight to the elevator lobby. The elevators required a key card to operate, but Mist got it to work with only a little more effort than she had expended on getting past the guard in the garage, sketching Rune- staves with a number 2 pencil on the steel door where the small marks could hardly be seen. The Galdr was coming to her more easily every time she used it, but she wasn’t about to take it for granted.

  And it sure as Hel wasn’t likely to work against Loki.

  She entered the elevator and punched the button for the fifty-eighth floor. Just as the doors were sliding shut, both Jotunar forced their way into the cab. The one who’d been reading the paper slammed his fist on the stop button.

  “Going somewhere?” he said.

  “Who’s asking?” Mist said, backing into the far corner.

  “Is Mr. Landvik expecting you?” the laptop Jotunn said.

  Oh, so polite. This one, at least, was completely unlike Hrimgrimir and his kind—almost certainly not as powerful, but better adapted to this world. Jotunar like him would be far more dangerous than the oafs and leg-breakers.

  But she’d known all along that she wouldn’t be able to walk right in without Loki’s minions getting in her way.

  “You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t,” she said.

  “You stink like the Sow,” the first one said, proving that his partner’s manners hadn’t rubbed off on him. His body expanded, widening and lengthening until his head threatened to bump the elevator’s ceiling.

  The other one maintained his mortal size. “Please, Egil. I think Mr. Landvik would very much like to see her in one piece.” He held out his hand to Mist. “Give me your knife, Ms. Bjorgsen.”

  Mist calculated how much space she had. The cab was bigger than most, easily able to accommodate twelve people at a time without crowding, but it wasn’t exactly the right size for a fight.

  And she didn’t want Loki to realize she could work her own magic without the Lady’s help. Apparently these Jotunar hadn’t been affected by her glamour. Better to let them think she was just stupid than that she might actually have some hope of standing up to Loki.

  That hope was still slim. She’d left the loft with only a vague idea of how she was going to get Dainn out, and she hadn’t come up with any better plan since she’d met with Vidarr.

  Out of sheer desperation, she’d tried to call Freya. It was the last thing she’d wanted to do, but it was no longer a question of what she wanted.

  But Dainn had been right. She didn’t seem to have the skill or strength to cross the Void with her thoughts, and she’d never felt the slightest response.

  So now she was on her own. She could forget about using the Galdr, since Loki was a master of it. That left her with the Vanir magic, if she could make it work. If she could surprise Loki without giving herself away too soon.

  And she still didn’t know if her magical energy would give out right when she needed it most.

  “All right,” she said, carefully unsheathing Kettlingr and offering it hilt-first to Laptop. “As long as you promise to give it back when Loki and I are finished with our meeting.”

  “You ain’t gonna need it once Loki’s finished with you,” Egil said.

  “Oh? Do you speak for your master?” Mist asked. “Maybe he’d like to know how easily you can predict his actions.”

  Laptop chuckled. “You have backbone, Ms. Bjorgsen, I’ll give you that.”

  The elevator climbed to the appropriate floor without stopping, probably a bit of light magic on Loki’s part for those times when he didn’t want to be inconvenienced—in oth
er words, every time he or his servants used it. When it reached the top, the polite giant turned to her with a pleasant smile.

  “Here we are,” he said. And slugged her across the face.

  Dainn was a long time responding. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and his mouth was tight. His hatred burned as hot as any fire in Muspelheim.

  Loki smiled to himself and took another very small sip of whisky. He had always found it amusing how easily he could read Dainn’s thoughts with the merest glance at his face, even when everyone else in Asgard had seen only a stoic elf with a mysterious past and little in common with his own kind.

  Dainn’s power, the extent of which even Odin had never suspected, had acted like an aphrodisiac on Loki from the moment he had met the elf and recognized how utterly different he was. Loki had even felt some regret when he and Freya had stolen the very source and foundation that fed and sustained that power.

  Not that Dainn remembered that life- altering event. But even before the betrayal, Dainn’s self- control had never been as effective as he wished to believe. That was what had made him such an ideal bedmate, even when he had believed he was fucking Freya and not the Aesir’s worst enemy. And Loki still wanted him, as he wanted Freya.

  But not in the same way. Yes, he had desired Freya long after she had rejected him. He had come to hate her, but his hatred had not banished his need to possess her lush body.

  With Dainn it was different. Loki knew himself incapable of those tender feelings the skalds sang of, but if there had been any such propensity within him . . .

  “I will give you the one thing you could not take from me,” Dainn said, putting an end to Loki’s brooding.

  Loki licked his lips. “Do you think I could not take it if I wished?” he asked.

  “I am speaking of Alfar magic.”

  Finishing his drink in one swallow, Loki set the glass down. “Is that all?” he asked. “I was expecting something much more . . . valuable.”

  “Only two of the Aesir know how to work my people’s magic. Odin understands something of it, as he understands all forms of magic, but only Freyr uses it as we do.”

  “Not even his sister?”

  “Not even the Lady.”

  “Why should I want it?” Loki said in a tone meant to convey utter boredom. “Its limitations are significant. This modern world is full of steel and concrete, crowding out the forests, polluting the streams and poisoning the earth itself. Alfar must draw upon the life of growing things. It’s true, I did admit that you were capable of brilliance in the old days. But now . . .” He shook his head gently. “Whatever you accomplished in Asbrew, I think we can find a better arrangement.”

  Before he could draw another breath, Dainn closed his eyes and began to sing. The syllables were long and sibilant, curling and twisting around each other like vines laden with perfumed blossoms. They reached inside Loki and wrapped around his heart, sending needlethin tendrils into every bone, every muscle, every nerve.

  Loki called up the darkest Merkstaves against the attack, Uruz and Algiz to repel and weaken, sending through his own veins poison that would have killed a lesser being. It touched the tendrils, withering them black and lifeless. Yet Dainn’s magic persisted, refusing to be completely dislodged. Loki could feel the tendrils growing again, sucking all the life from his body.

  “Dainn,” he gasped.

  All at once the tendrils snapped back like fingers held too close to a flame. Loki staggered, falling against the shelves behind. Bottles and glasses rattled, and several went crashing to the floor.

  “Freya’s tits,” he gasped, pushing himself upright. He locked his muscles, afraid his trembling would be all too apparent.

  Dainn was shaking, and it was evident that he, too, was struggling to stay on his feet. “Do you see the worth of my offer now?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Indeed,” Loki said, working a quick spell to mask his consternation. “You must have drawn very deep to reach the life beneath this city.”

  “Yes,” Dainn said, panting like a wolf in the sun.

  Fear and excitement and lust tangled in Loki’s chest. Even though Dainn had forgotten the full extent of the power he had possessed before he’d lost lifeblood of the Eitr, even though he had shown no sign of such extraordinary abilities in the moments just before he and Loki had been violently separated by the upheaval that ended Ragnarok, even after centuries in Midgard, he had not lost himself.

  But there was always a price.

  “I am impressed,” Loki said. “But look at yourself, my Dainn. You’re weak as a woman’s will.” He stepped over broken glass and spilled liquor, approaching Dainn cautiously. “I could kill you now with a single word.”

  But Dainn was no longer listening. He was gazing into another world, one only he inhabited. It was as if Loki didn’t exist.

  No one ignored Loki Laufeyson, not even Dainn. Especially not Dainn, even the near stranger who stood before him now.

  “Look at me!” Loki commanded.

  Dainn did nothing, said nothing. Loki raised his hand and struck Dainn across the face with all his Jotunn strength. Dainn’s head snapped to one side, but he didn’t react. Loki struck him again, raising blood from his lips.

  No effect. But Loki knew of one other way. A way that had worked most effectively on an ascetic elf who had suppressed his physical needs so long that it took only a single spark to ignite a universe of lust.

  Loki leaned close to Dainn’s face and breathed a Bind-Rune against his lips, seductive and heavy with desire. He knew when Dainn’s body began to stir. His own excitement rose as well.

  “I don’t believe you’ve fucked anyone in a very long time,” he purred. “You know what I can do. I can become what you most desire.”

  Dainn blinked. “I want no part of you.”

  “No part at all? Your body says otherwise.” Loki grabbed the back of Dainn’s neck. “Admit it,” he said. “You have never found a lover to compare with me. Take my word for it. Screwing Mist is like making love to the handle of an ax.”

  Dainn jerked away, but it was clear he was still beyond the ability to resist. “Your tongue is not so agile that it cannot be removed,” he whispered.

  “That would be a terrible waste,” Loki said, “when I can put it to such better use.” He flicked his fingers, congealing ice out of the moisture in the air and shaping it into a rope. With it he bound Dainn’s legs and sealed his lips. The restraints might not hold the elf long, but Loki didn’t need much time. Dainn was caught in Loki’s bonds like a fly in amber. Only his eyes expressed his rebellion. And hate.

  “Easy,” Loki purred. “I promise this won’t hurt at all.” He wedged his hand under Dainn’s shirt. “Your heart is beating fast, Dainn Faith-breaker.” He slid his other hand down to cup the bulge pressing against Dainn’s trousers. Slowly he unfastened the button and pulled the zipper down. His long fingers probed inside Dainn’s fly.

  “Lovely,” Loki murmured. “I had almost forgotten how very well- endowed you are.” He released the object of his desire from its confinement and began to stroke.

  Dainn’s breath caught in his throat. The ice covering his mouth melted and dripped onto his jacket. “Stop,” he whispered. “I don’t . . . want . . .”

  “You are the stubborn one,” Loki chided, halting his caresses. “Very well. Perhaps this will suit you better.”

  And then he changed, his shape melting into something softer, something curved and bountiful in breast and hip, golden-haired and perfect.

  Freya. But not Freya, of course. Only the image of her, the illusion Loki had used to seduce and control Dainn, deceive him and blind him and steal his will.

  “Better?” Loki asked in the husky voice of a practiced seductress. She knelt at Dainn’s feet and went to work.

  But somehow Dainn fought him, refusing to give Loki satisfaction no matter how skillfully he practiced his arts. He quickly changed himself again, becoming strong and wiry and firm-jawed, a tawny li
oness, a warrior.

  This time Dainn reacted. His breath came fast, and his fair skin flushed nearly to his navel.

  It would be only a matter of moments now, Loki thought. And then . . .

  At first he thought the vibration under his knees was coming from the floor itself, and he pulled away, anticipating an earthquake.

  But there was no earthquake. The shaking came not from the earth but from Dainn himself, and when Loki looked up, Dainn had begun to change.

  20

  Startled, Loki hopped up and back, pressing himself against the wall behind him. What he saw made it impossible for him to maintain his female shape, and in an instant he was Loki again. Loki, father-mother of monsters, who had never seen such a creature as this before.

  You have, he thought. But only in the mind.

  That had been dangerous enough. This was far worse. In the Old Tongue of the northern peoples, the thing before him was a berserkr: almost impervious to pain, immune to the cut of a blade, indestructible by fire. The body was massive and slightly hunched, the neck set low between the powerful shoulders, the fur black with a rainbow sheen worn by no living animal on Midgard. The face was neither human nor beast, though it, too, bore a sleek covering of fur as smooth as velvet. Ears set halfway between the top and sides of the head lay flat to the broad skull. Its teeth were white and sharp, its claws gleaming at the tips of blunt fingers.

  It was not one of the Ulfhednar, the Wolf- skins, or the Bjornhednar, clothed only in bearskins and savagery. It was something even Loki, for all his skill in shifting shape, could never become.

  And Dainn had claimed he could control it.

  “What are you?” Loki whispered.

  The creature glared at Loki through slitted red eyes, the pupils showing only a narrow penumbra of deep blue. He grunted a sound that might have been a word and took a step toward Loki.

  Loki glanced past him toward the door of the apartment. “What do you want?” he asked. “Is this supposed to be a challenge? A warning? A threat?”