Mist

by Susan Krinard

  But something blocked the flow. Something inside her still didn’t want to let go.

  Abruptly Loki spun around again and strode back to Dainn. “How much does this servant mean to you, Sow?” he asked. He grabbed Dainn’s long, tangled hair and dragged him to his feet again. “You have never cared for anything or anyone you could not use to your benefit or for your pleasure. This creature has failed you. Shall I kill him quickly, or slowly?”

  He was calling Mist’s bluff, knowing she’d do almost anything to keep Dainn alive. But he didn’t think Freya would.

  “Do what you like with him,” she said.

  Loki took Dainn by the throat. He ran his fingertip across the smear of blood at the corner of Dainn’s mouth and began to paint Rune- staves on the elf ’s forehead.

  Merkstaves. Runes of death.

  Dainn’s thoughts touched hers again—wordless but utterly clear.

  Save yourself.

  All at once she was back in Asbrew, hearing Dainn’s mental voice for the first time. Something released inside her, a dam giving way before a relentless flood, a tree cracking in two as lightning struck to its very heart. Mist clenched her fist, and the Rune- stave Thurisaz, the giant, leaped free of her hand and charged toward the huge window overlooking the Bay. It exploded inward, hurling shards of glass like arrows that narrowly missed Dainn but pierced one of the Jotunar’s cheeks. He bellowed and ran at Mist.

  She reached through clouds and darkness for the rising moon and tried to catch the reflected light of the sun in her open hands— Sowilo reversed, destruction and retribution. The light was weak, but she shaped what she had caught and hurled it like a burning coal at the Jotunn. He burst into flame if he had been dipped in gasoline.

  Loki backed away from Dainn and swung around to face her, his face almost comical in its astonishment. Dainn’s knees began to buckle, but he forced himself upright and looked at Mist with hope in his eyes.

  “Dainn!” she shouted. “Find Gungnir!”

  She didn’t have a chance to see if Dainn obeyed. Loki jumped over the Jotunn’s writhing, blackened body and came straight at her, his lips moving, the air coalescing into a solid block of ice that threatened to shatter Mist’s body on contact.

  Instinct alone saved her. She reached skyward again, flowing into the light, becoming a spear flung as high as the highest branch of the World Tree Ygdrassil.

  The spear struck the clouds and reflected back on itself as if the sky were a mirror. Lightning laced the gray canopy and plunged earthward, striking the ground between her and Loki, scorching the polished hardwood floor and flinging Loki halfway across the room.

  He recovered almost immediately and raced toward her, his face distorted with rage. An instant before he reached her, he changed.

  It was only illusion, but it stopped Mist cold. The face and body belong to Eric—Eric, with his broad, open smile, his good humor, his love of life. And Mist.

  “You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?” he asked in his deep voice.

  Mist recognized the trap too late. Her hands fell, nerveless and limp. Eric’s eyes lit with satisfaction.

  “It was you,” he said. “I admit you have astonished me, little Valkyrie. But now I think it is time to—”

  Mist heard nothing of what Loki said after that, felt nothing but raw power that wasn’t her own, saw nothing but golden light.

  A part of her clung to consciousness, and she knew what was happening to her. Freya was with her, inside her, controlling her body as if she were a mere shell of flesh and bone.

  Her mother had come at last.

  21

  Dainn staggered away from the wall, blood filling his mouth, his head still resounding with the violence of Loki’s blow. He was incapable of magic, almost incapable of walking. The beast that had been so powerful minutes before had left him as helpless as any mortal.

  He couldn’t help Mist now, but he could do as she asked and find Gungnir, if it was hidden anywhere inside the penthouse. No one in his right mind would conceal the Spear where it was most likely to be found.

  But Loki had never been completely in his right mind. That was one reason why Dainn believed Mist could survive this— this incredibly foolish and desperate attempt to save one who wasn’t worth the effort. She had wielded the ancient Vanir magic as if she had used it all her life. She was Loki’s match in everything but malice.

  Bending low, Dainn crossed the room and ducked into a hallway where he could catch his breath. He closed his eyes and shut out the sounds of battle, striving to find any trace of magic that would allow him to locate the Spear.

  At first he felt nothing. Then, like a whisper in the midst of a hurricane, he sensed a locus of power that belonged to no living thing. The cut in his hand, nearly healed, began to throb. He touched his lips to the wound and tasted magic.

  Magic that had seeped into the kitchen knife’s very substance, penetrating only a few molecules deep into the common steel.

  That was all Dainn needed. Still ignoring the violent conflict in the adjoining room, he ducked into the kitchen and searched for the knife block.

  The moment he touched the carving knife next to the empty slot, Gungnir’s power raised all the hairs on his body and sent spikes of sharp, burning pain racing up his arm. He didn’t have the spell to return it to its true form, but his only concern now was to keep it away from Loki until Mist was either victorious or dead.

  He knew what Mist would want him to do. He didn’t do it. He ran back into the living room, holding the knife behind his back, and took in a scene of utter chaos.

  Loki was on his back, throwing handfuls of fire at Mist, who stood over him like an avenging goddess, her blond hair loose and flying about her head in a golden aura. Every blast of flame splashed harmlessly against the watery sphere that surrounded her. She was smiling, and her face . . .

  Dainn fell to his knees. It wasn’t Mist who had Loki pinned down and fighting for his life. Freya had taken her. She had found a way past her daughter’s instinctive defenses.

  And she was winning the fight against both her daughter and Loki.

  Gungnir throbbed in Dainn’s grip, and he remembered again why he had come at Freya’s call, why he served her, why he had agreed to let her take Mist’s body as her own.

  And why he had chosen to prevent that from happening, no matter the damage it might do to Freya’s chances of victory.

  Now he faced the choice all over again, and it was tearing his soul apart. Laufeyson might have defeated Mist alone. He would have faced an equal in Freya. But now the Slanderer’s opponent was more than goddess, more than Valkyrie, more than the sum of both.

  Let it happen, Dainn thought, and Midgard will be saved from chaos. There will be peace, if not freedom. And I will be—

  He struggled to his feet. “Freya!” he shouted.

  She glanced at him with all the interest she might afford a speck of dirt forgotten by a house maid’s broom. But in that brief moment when she held Dainn’s gaze, he saw the spirit that could not be quenched trapped behind her brilliant blue eyes.

  “Mist!”

  The goddess smiled at him, striking him to the ground with the full fury of her love, and returned her attention to Loki. He had given up his attack and was scrambling away, frantically chanting spells of defense.

  Mist, Dainn thought. Fight.

  Freya didn’t hear him. She pursued Loki across the room, striding like a giant, ever smiling. Dainn got to his feet again and stumbled toward them, knowing that if he intervened he would be struck down.

  Before Dainn could lay a hand on Freya’s arm, Loki bounced up and struck at him, flinging a rope of flame meant to burn Dainn’s fingers and force him to drop Gungnir. Dainn dodged, but not before the fiery rope slashed across his chest and licked at his jaw, searing his flesh almost to the bone.

  He clung to Gungnir with the last of his strength. The fire winked out, and every surface in the room grew a slick coating of ice as the lingering trace
s of warmth left in the apartment flowed into Loki’s raised hands.

  Freya’s eyes lost their gentle rage, and her hair fell back around her shoulders with a hiss and crackle of static electricity. Just before Loki struck, Dainn tossed the knife. She caught it in her right hand, whirled to face Loki again, and chanted the Rune- spell that restored Gungnir to its original form.

  The Spear’s head caught the brunt of the ice storm Loki hurled at her, and the steel glowed deep red as if it had just emerged from Mist’s forge. Radiating heat Dainn could feel from several yards away, it seemed to waver in the frigid air as if it existed in two realities at once and belonged to neither.

  Still Mist didn’t move. She, too, was frozen between worlds, between minds, between herself and the goddess who wanted her body and the magic that was as much a part of her as her strong sword arm and her selfless courage.

  Loki dropped his hands, water dripping from his fingers. Dainn tensed.

  “Why did you stop, my Lady?” he asked, breathing hard. “You almost had me.”

  Mist blinked. She looked at the Spear and tightened her fingers around the shaft. Loki turned his hand palm up and curled his fingers inward, pulling the heat from Gungnir’s blade. It engulfed his hand, freezing instantly, and in a second Loki had shaped the ice into a heavily spiked ball like a mace on a medieval flail.

  Loki’s weapon couldn’t kill Freya, who was not yet fully attached to this world, but it could destroy a physical body. Mist would die, and Freya would still be free to seek another shape, even if it took time to find one capable of containing her power.

  Dainn began to move. But before he could take more than a step, Loki threw the ball directly at Mist’s head. She swung the Spear to intercept it. It bounced against her arm, slicing through her already shredded jacket and shirt and engraving deep slashes across her skin. She dropped Gungnir, and Loki sprang onto the rosewood coffee table, perching there like an eagle ready to swoop down on its prey.

  “We could go on, Sow,” he said to his enemy, “but where would be the fun in that? Especially when even I can see you’re losing your grip on your daughter.”

  Mist-Freya picked up the Spear with her left hand as blood soaked her right sleeve. “I can still kill you,” she said.

  “I don’t think so.” He brushed water from his shoulder. “In truth, you want me humiliated, not dead. I still want a real contest, Lady. And I think you do, too.”

  They stared at each other, goddess and godling, with hatred and complete understanding.

  “We will continue our game,” she said, “so I can crush you utterly before you die.”

  “And the bridges?”

  “Do you think I closed them?” she asked. “You shall have to hold yourself in suspense a little while longer. But I still have the Eitr. For the time being, you will pay the penalty by losing ten percent of your Jotunar. You will obtain funds only by conventional mortal means, not through magic. If you flout our bargain again, I will use it.” She pointed Gungnir at Loki’s chest. “Do you understand me, Slanderer?”

  “You couldn’t be more plain.” Loki glanced at Dainn. “Our witness is hardly neutral, but I will accept his honesty. Shall I see you both to the door?”

  Freya hurled the spear at Loki’s head. If he hadn’t twitched slightly to the left at the last possible moment, it would have pinned his skull to the wall behind him. Instead, it sliced off several inches of his hair on the right side of his head. Loki fell to his knees.

  “Take the Spear,” Freya told Dainn, dusting her hands on her thighs. “We will go.”

  She shot Loki a poisonous glance and strode to the door, trailing the benevolent warmth of the sun, golden butterflies, and the scent of primroses. Ignoring Loki, Dainn pulled the spear from the wall and glanced quickly around the room. He saw Mist’s knife at the feet of one of the dead giants and paused to retrieve it.

  He tucked the sheath in the waistband of his pants and followed Freya, his stomach churning with horror at what he had permitted to happen.

  They met five Jotunar as they reached the elevator. The giants comically skidded to a stop when they saw Freya.

  “Never fear,” she said, her voice all seduction again. “Your master is alive. For the time being. You may choose whether or not to continue to serve him by standing in my way, or die.”

  The two giants in the lead exchanged glances and moved to the side, leaving the path clear. When she and Dainn reached the lobby, Freya moved to the nearest chair and sank into it. Guests stared at her, but she ignored them.

  “Fetch me something to drink, Dainn,” she said. “A sweet drink to cool my temper. I do so dislike being angry.”

  Dainn held the Spear against his body and remained where he was. “Did you close the bridges?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him. “You had no need to know before. It was only a temporary measure, until I could be sure my allies were ready.”

  She might be lying, Dainn thought. He could no longer separate truth from falsehood. But she was still as confident as she had ever been.

  “I expressly told you not to allow my daughter to come to harm,” Freya said with a very small frown, “but I shall forgive you, since the need for such precautions is past. I will soon have other tasks for you.”

  “Searching for the other Treasures?”

  “Among other things.”

  Dainn shifted his grip on Gungnir’s shaft. “How were you able to take Mist so quickly?” he asked. “I thought you needed more time to prepare.”

  She patted his arm. “These are not your concerns, my Dainn.”

  My Dainn. Loki called him the same many times, but he belonged to neither one of them. And never would.

  “Are your allies ready as well, Lady?”

  She laughed, the sound drawing the stare of every male in the room. “Those who fight for me shall be free to come within the next two Midgardian weeks.” Freya casually waved her hand. Mist’s warm, calloused hand, and the wrist that bore a tattoo no longer red, but black. “In the meantime, now that I am here in body, I can have every man I meet eager to serve me. How many can I gather in a day? A week?” Her fingers drifted along Dainn’s thigh. “My daughter has power that enhances my own in ways I could not have anticipated, and it is all open to me. And I shall reward you well, my Dainn. Just as I promised.”

  Dainn looked away, feeling nothing of Freya’s caress. If there was anything left of Mist behind Freya’s stunning blue eyes, she would soon have no hope of escaping her mother’s control. Soon—in minutes, hours, days—she would be completely absorbed into a mind that would use Mist’s own power to prevent her resistance until she no longer had the strength to fight.

  “Don’t look so sad,” Freya chided in a voice rich with sympathy. “I can see you developed some fondness for the girl. That can scarcely be a surprise. But now she serves the greater good. Midgard will be saved.”

  “As you say, Lady.”

  “Then fetch that drink, and we will begin looking for proper accommodations. Loki’s apartments were richly furnished, but very dull. I think—”

  Dainn dropped the Spear, leaned over Freya, and caught her mouth with his. She pressed her hands against his chest, and he could feel the power building, power that could turn him into a gibbering drone with a single embrace.

  But it wasn’t Freya he was kissing. And in that moment when he took Freya off guard, the beast began to stir, roused again from the place inside him where it had hidden since its encounter with Loki, awakening to the sexual heat coursing in Dainn’s blood. The beast began to possess him again, demanding more, drawing blood from Freya’s lower lip. She laced her hands in his hair, pulling him down to his knees.

  And then she flung him back, her face contorted in fury, her gaze all indignation, all outrage, all chagrin.

  All Mist.

  She sprang up from the chair, staring at Dainn as if he had suddenly risen out of the tiled marble floor. “What the Hel—”

  Quick footsteps appr
oached from the direction of the reception desk. Dainn shuddered, shaking off the beast, and grabbed Gungnir. He thrust Kettlingr into Mist’s hand.

  “We must go,” he said, “or we will be facing more questions than we can answer.”

  Without debating his suggestion, Mist chanted the spell to reduce Gungnir to knife shape, tucked it inside her jacket, and ran for the door to the street. Dainn hung back long enough to discourage anyone who might choose to follow.

  The male receptionist came to a stop, chest heaving. “We’ve called the police,” he said. “What ever you’ve done—”

  “—may save your world,” Dainn said. The beast strained against its new-made chains, and Dainn let it look through his eyes.

  The man backed away. The guests huddled in the corner nearest the fireplace, eyes wide, whispering frantically. Forcing himself to draw on the beast’s strength, Dainn sang a spell that would strip the minds of every mortal in the room of any memory save that of two vague figures quarreling and kissing in the lobby.

  The beast howled, and for a moment Dainn almost lost himself again.

  Someone screamed. Dainn turned and ran. Mist was just pulling up to the curb on a small motorcycle.

  “Get on!” she shouted as the wail of approaching sirens began to drown out the hum and rumble of evening traffic. Once Dainn had mounted the vehicle behind her, Mist squealed away, cutting between trucks, taxis, and double-parked vehicles with reckless abandon.

  They outran the sirens, and when Mist finally pulled over into the deep shadows of an empty ware house on a pier about a mile north of Dogpatch, she slumped over the handlebars and cursed herself, Dainn, and Loki in rapid and violent succession. Dainn climbed off the motorcycle and crouched a little distance away, shaking with exhaustion and waiting for her to remember.