I stepped out of the shadows and away from the slots. The overheads brightened in the walking area, and the carpet reflected the light in much the same way as moss clinging to a troll’s rocks.
I looked around again, hoping to see the server.
Magnus Freyrsson walked along the main corridor through the casino, his glamour exquisitely high-roller even though his hands were creating traveling concealment enchantments specifically for the mundanes around him and his companion.
Arne Odinsson walked at his side, and Arne Odinsson was not alone.
The impression that formed in my mind, the distinct and purposeful transfer of information, was meant for the brand on my arm as much as it was for me.
He’s mine! Sal yelled in the magical way only an elven battle axe could yell.
Chapter 22
Arne brought my axe into the casino, and my axe was not happy about the invasive magic on my forearm.
Not happy at all. Sal glowed. Every single sigil marking, rune, and engraving on her blade screamed in magical elven light. If it weren’t for Magnus’s spells, the entire casino floor would have been lit up like a movie set.
The troll screamed. “Troll killer!” She threw her swipe card and an old drink at me.
“They’re not here for you!” I yelled.
Her glamour flickered. She rose up, towering over me, and swung her arms as if wild swings would be enough to keep the elves and Sal away.
Arne flipped Sal to his other shoulder and held up his hand. Like Magnus, he was dressed impeccably in an expensive, well-tailored suit that included all the jewelry one would expect of a high roller—gold cufflinks and chains, a big ruby ring, and a Rolex. His elven ponytail swung behind his head, though, and his ears only carried enough glamour to look fake enough that the mundanes would think he was here for ElfCon.
“Troll!” Arne shouted. “Two ingots of gold and a bag of silver bullion for your cooperation!”
The troll stopped in mid-swing. “Bullion?” Her glamour stabilized. “For cooperation?”
Arne and Magnus stopped about ten feet away. Arne motioned to me. “Sal went crazy Sunday night. Maura said she started glowing and yelling. That’s how we knew you and Remy had been caught in a distortion enchantment.”
He dropped Sal into his hands. “The ragings began this morning when she picked up your scent again, saying that you’d been ‘contaminated’ and demanding that we bring her along.”
Sal threw detailed threats of violence at the brand on my arm. Magical violence that felt strangely similar to the dislike she’d shown toward the Odin’s Gallows dagger.
“I can’t carry her right now,” I said. “Incompatible magic.” I held up my arm.
Magnus scoffed. “What did Portia Elizabeth do to you?”
Arne peered at the brand. “Promise me you will never again offer services to a trickster.”
“You offered services to a trickster?” the troll said. “Is that how you got in this mess? You stupid.”
Magnus held out his hands the way he would when approaching an angry dog, and slowly walked toward the troll. “Madame,” he said. “We wish to make a deal.” He escorted her deeper into the shadows for a chat.
Arne nodded toward the brand. “I’m sorry I sent you and Remy into this alone. I should have sent Magnus with you. None of this would have happened if you’d had an elf at your back.”
I watched the troll do a little happy bounce. “Magnus would have been a blatant breaking of Conclave protocol.” As was bringing Sal.
“I don’t care.” Arne stared in the direction of the troll, too. “My elves would not have allowed outside interference with the Conclave proceedings.”
And there it was, the Elf King of Alfheim’s arrogance. But it wasn’t really arrogance when he was correct.
“How is this supposed to play out? Will Portia Elizabeth come down to collect the troll?” Arne’s magic brightened and strengthened into a wall around not only him, but me as well.
“I’m supposed to take her to the apartment complex Mark Ellis talked about. I don’t know what will happen if I don’t.”
He nodded. “Portia Elizabeth is in the building.”
The brand flicked out an awareness of the magicals again. Portia Elizabeth knocked on Remy’s door.
She’d been near since I woke up, but just outside the brand’s range. She’d been watching, and even though she had been forbidden from helping, she hadn’t been forbidden from visiting her mate.
So visit, she did.
The extra perceiving clicked off. Sal shrieked at the brand, which shrieked back at her.
“I have to get this thing off me.”
Arne peered at it again. “Looks that way.”
“Did you know that Las Vegas has a Wolf spirit who has claimed the city as its territory? It leashed Portia Elizabeth, too. Neither of us has a lot of control here.”
Just like Dag, Arne waved his hands over the brand. And also just like with Dag, nothing changed.
“The entire world is some Wolf or another’s territory,” he said. “Raven’s too.” He hit the brands with a spike of magic.
The red magic growled at Arne. Pain ratcheted up my arm and into my shoulder.
“I am not familiar with this magic. It’s not reacting like any spell or enchantment I’ve ever encountered.”
“I think it’s new magic. Wolf said ‘adapt or die.’” Or perhaps it was repurposed old magic. Whatever it was, it held tight to my skin.
Arne tapped the brand. “Call your mistress,” he said.
The brand growled at him again—and zapped me with the omniscient, overwhelming understanding of the magicals in the hotel.
“The Siberian Court has arrived.” I shielded my eyes as if cutting the glare would stop the red magic’s harassment. “The Norwegian Court comes with elders from all their subordinate enclaves.” The building was filling with elves—fake and real—and all the noise that came with them.
“Enough of that,” Arne said, and wrapped a tight band of blue elven magic around my forearm.
The brand fell silent. It seethed still, but Arne’s spell acted as a gag. At least it would no longer randomly flare my ability to see magic.
Sal calmed a bit, but continued to do her version of glaring at the invader on my arm.
Arne looked toward the lobby and concourse beyond it. Dagrun was the only member of the Alfheim Court in the Feast banquet room. Not Arne, who was the reason for the Conclave in the first place. Not Magnus, either. “Dagrun needs us,” he said.
“I can’t enter the Feast,” I said. “Niklas der Nord kicked Remy and me out because we’re trickster-touched.”
Arne scowled. “I will bloody that pathetic fool.”
“We are agreed!” Magus called.
Arne grinned as he shouldered Sal again. “Come, son, let us face the Conclave of Elves.”
Chapter 23
The troll’s name was Ragnar, and she liked the idea of investigating the multitude of Minnesota’s tribal gaming opportunities, even if it meant cold temperatures in the winter. The issues with Wolf had turned her off to Las Vegas, but not America.
Magnus offered up access to his charter air company, plus free glamouring lessons for any of her troll family who also wished to visit, along with the two ingots of gold and a bag full of silver.
Looked as if the casinos of Minnesota were about to become the prime vacation destination for Danish trolls.
As per Conclave protocol, Ragnar released her glamour when we reached the lobby end of the concourse. She looked out over ElfCon’s participants, nodded once to Arne, and revealed her true, nine-foot, rocky self.
The mundanes gasped. Applause broke out, and Ragnar bowed graciously.
Magnus walked ahead of her, tossing out cards for a physical effects company in which he also owned partial interest. Seemed he hadn’t fully left behind his Hollywood days, and had been funding a small production house since the thirties.
Arne straightened his
cufflinks. “Ready?” he asked.
I looked to Ragnar, who gave me the thumbs-up.
“All right, then,” Arne said, and set Sal on his shoulder.
I took the lead, with Ragnar behind me, with Arne and Magnus on either side dazzling the mundanes and handing out business cards.
Magic floated above the seating area outside the Conclave Feast banquet doors. No mundanes came near, and only Mr. Left and Mr. Right stood guard.
Mr. Left pointed. Mr. Right slipped inside.
The “no mundanes” magic around the door left a literal sour taste in my mouth, but Ragnar and I walked up to Mr. Left without setting off elven booby-traps.
“You can’t go in there!” Mr. Left held out his hand. Magic formed around his fist. “You’re trickster—”
Ragnar wrapped her giant hand around his. “Hush, now, handsome little elf.”
I pushed open the Conclave Feast banquet room doors. A curtain of magic hung between me and the elves inside, one that, to the mundanes outside, made the room look like any other corporate meeting.
I swiped my hand through the air, and parted the energy.
The room itself was at least forty feet deep and twenty wide. Protective sigils decorated the bland beige hotel walls. Natural elven magic filled the air along with the rich, savory scent of sage and roasted meats. A hearth filled the center of the large room, complete with flickering fire and crackling logs and a roasting beast on a spit.
Tables circled the hearth and had been moved into a traditional long-table formation, with seating for at least twenty elves on each side. White linens and silver shimmered in the banquet room’s lowered lights and flickering candles.
The room teemed with unglamoured elves. What Court sat where, I did not know, only that Tyr Bragisson sat at the head with his wife, Astrid, and their elder both to his right. Dagrun sat to his left, with Niklas der Nord sitting next to her, in what I suspected was Arne’s rightful seat.
The room’s lights had been dimmed, and candles burned on each table. Silver shimmered, though all tableware looked to be wooden.
They’d built a mini-Great Hall in the center of a Las Vegas hotel, complete with full Viking trappings and a raucous flow of wine and mead.
I walked in, with Ragnar directly behind me. Arne, Sal on his shoulder, followed. Magnus held off the twins.
Half the elves in the room stood. Niklas der Nord jumped out of his chair, one hand out with finger pointing at me, and the other splayed in front of Dagrun as if he thought she needed protecting. “You are not allowed—”
Alfheim’s Queen slammed a bowl onto the table. She pushed back her chair so fast it skidded across the carpet. “Sit down, Niklas!” She shoved him away.
“The local Wolf spirit considers itself boss in these parts.” I waved my arm at greater Las Vegas. “It has been harassing this troll her entire vacation, correct?”
Ragnar crossed her arms and nodded. “Correct,” she said.
“That same spirit attacked me.” I held my arm over my head and turned the brand toward the elves.
“You bring trickster magic into the Conclave?” one of the elves yelled.
“I am the jotunn of Alfheim. The Court considers me part of their enclave. Arne Odinsson contains the magic of the brand.” Arne’s blue-green cuff constricted over the red magic spot on my forearm.
Arne, Sal still on his shoulder, slowly walked along the table. He grinned menacingly at several of the other elves, though he did stop to kiss Astrid Heimdallsdottir’s hand.
“Get out!” Niklas der Nord yelled. He turned toward Arne. “No weapons! You have broken—”
In one swift, elegant movement, Arne handed Sal to Tyr Bragisson and hauled Niklas der Nord away from Dagrun. “Quiet, pretender.”
“How many of you walk the streets of your enclaves terrified of your local werewolves?” I shouted. “Elves run with the Alfheim Pack at each full moon and help our people continue to be not only stable, but also a major economic force within the community. Any of your elves willing to run with wolves?”
They murmured again.
“I am the cobbled-together son of a mad scientist, yet I am the jotunn of Alfheim.” I hit the table. “I was a monster of rage, yet now I stand before an international elven Conclave.”
The elves watched each other more than me.
“One of the vampires at the heart of the terror that befell us a week ago was witch-born. He helped me in the end.”
The look of shock on Dagrun’s face said she had not considered the possibility that Ivan had had a fraction of good in him.
“The vampire’s human soul understood the pain my Rose had caused the enclave. He understood the sacrifices they made to help someone not of their kind, and he helped me in return.”
The murmur turned into an uproar.
I pointed over my shoulder at Ragnar. “How many of you have antagonized and alienated your local trolls?”
A few of the elves sneered at Ragnar. She pointed at one specific elf. “Your son steals from my rock!” She growled and the elf shrunk down in his seat.
She placed her hand on my shoulder. “The local wolf spirit sent a vampire after me,” she said. “This young man offered help. That there is his Troll Killer.” She pointed at Sal. “I came anyway.”
Ragnar pointed at Magnus. “This one offered a deal.” She pointed at Arne. “This one treated me with respect. You lot are worthless, but I will fight for these elves.”
“A troll,” I said. “A creature of your magic whom you ignore has, in the short time the Alfheim Court has been in the hotel, determined that Arne Odinsson’s ways are worth her consideration.”
“I will fight with the Alfheim elves against the local wolf spirit,” Ragnar said.
The elves muttered amongst themselves again.
“The Alfheim Pack stands with the Court of Alfheim,” I said. “The jotunn of Alfheim stands with the Court of Alfheim.”
“Who here can boast of a stronger enclave economy?” Arne squeezed Dagrun’s shoulder. “Who here could field a greater army?”
“Army?” Niklas der Nord bellowed.
He swung at Arne, who dodged.
Arne laughed. “Bears, you say?” He kicked der Nord in the gut.
The Siberian elf staggered backward. He bounced off the wall, but managed to keep his feet under him. He waved his fist at Ragnar. “A troll, Odinsson?”
“Fight. Debate. But understand there is a reason you are not the elves in charge of the New Zealand expansion!” I bellowed.
Half the elves jumped to their feet.
Niklas der Nord’s lip twitched. “Where’s your dog?” he asked.
“Where’s your hair?” Magnus shouted.
“This is not about me!” Niklas bellowed.
Arne laughed. “You make everything about you. Alfheim business. Iceland business. Vegas business.” He slapped his chest and bowed to the table. “It appears you have a busybody in your midst, Olav Sigundsson.”
I used to believe that elves were well-behaved when in large groups. That, as one of the old magical breeds, they’d figured out how to communicate like adults. But then I spent time inside The Great Hall.
The elves in the banquet room weren’t the stately, serene creatures the mundanes dressed as fake-elves believed them to be. They were loud. They were boisterous. And they liked to brawl as much as they liked to party.
The elven men and women before me were as much Viking warriors as they were magicals, as all their yelling, table pounding, and threats proved.
And Arne and Niklas were about to get into a fist-throwing fight.
The elf who must have been Olav Sigundsson stood up. He slammed his fist into the table and yelled in Russian.
Tyr Bragisson responded, also in Russian. Astrid Heimdallsdottir threw a candle at Sigundsson.
Tyr Bragisson’s attention shifted completely to the fight and he set Sal on the table. Dagrun looked down at my axe, then up at me.
She picked up Sal.
I raised my hand to signal to Ragnar. “Get ready.”
The troll nodded and backed toward the door.
Niklas der Nord threw a chair. His magic flared. He lifted his hands, sigils formed, and shoved me. An elf who was a good seven inches shorter than me and whom I outweighed by at least one hundred pounds shoved me hard enough that I stumbled backward.
I don’t stumble well. I flounder. I fall. But this time, I had a troll to break my fall.
“Careful, there, not-a-jotunn,” she said.
The twins burst through the door and the noise of the concourse poured into the Feast.
Arne responded to der Nord’s attack with a bolt of magic so strong it tossed him into the twins—and out the door.
Arne pushed between the twins. “You cut off your hair but maiming yourself didn’t bring Dagrun back, did it?” he yelled.
They disappeared through the magic and into the realm of the mundanes outside.
Dagrun paid no heed to her husband and her ex. She tilted her head as if listening to Sal, then she nodded.
“You thought hurting yourself would make her feel guilty,” Arne yelled outside the door. A flash followed. He must have zapped der Nord again. “Do you think she wouldn’t tell me? I’ve been watching you. You have burdened my wife!”
Even after three centuries, Niklas felt entitled to Dagrun. Was he like this when they were married? I’d always thought—all of Alfheim thought—that Tyr Bragisson married off his daughter for political reasons, but now I wondered if the situation had been more complicated.
Niklas sure seemed stuck on the past. “You stole my wife!” he yelled.
“Niklas der Nord is why we are here!” Dagrun yelled. “All of this,” she waved at the banquet room, “could have been handled with a few emails and a conference call. We are the Elven Courts! We are not barbarians. Guidelines could have been set remotely. Expertise offered. Yet here we are out in the open because—”
Dagrun Tyrsdottir turned on her father. “Because you indulged a petty child.”
Dag was correct. Arne never threatened the other enclaves. This wasn’t a Tov Lokisson moment. All the issues surrounding the vampires could have been handled in a way that strengthened the enclaves, not weakened their infrastructure.
Elf Raised (Northern Creatures Book 3) Page 17
