“She’s using the threat of Ragnarok to convince the other Eleusinians that what she’s doing is to protect them,” Toby explained. “And all of humanity.”
“If only she were that noble of spirit,” Douglas said. “The reality of it is, she’s always wanted this kind of power for herself. Power and revenge.”
“Revenge?” Mason asked.
“Yelena Starling was Daria’s best and dearest friend,” Douglas said. “From the time they were kids, those two were inseparable—closer than sisters—and Daria was the one who introduced Yelena to Gunnar way back in the day. She’d never admit it, but I think she holds herself partially responsible for Mason’s mother’s death because of that. Of course, nowhere near as responsible as she holds Gunnar. And I hate to say it, you, Mason …”
There was compassion in Douglas’s green eyes. But Mason wanted none of it just then. She knew perfectly well what she was responsible for. And what she wasn’t. And most of all, she knew what she would never be responsible for—and that was the end of the world.
No way.
Her hand tightened reflexively on the grip of her sword.
“Look,” she said, the crackle of barely leashed anger suffusing her words. “The Odin spear is back in Asgard. I’m not. Even if I was, knowing what I know now, do you think I’d actually go within a mile of that thing? So if there’s no chance of me becoming a Valkyrie, then there’s no reason for your crazy ex-wife to keep up with this blood magick Miasma crap. I say we find a way to get that message across to her. In the most forceful way possible. And then … we do the same with my dad.”
“She’s got a point,” Douglas said to the others. He smoothed his beard, thoughtful, and turned to his son. “Mason might also be the only person who can stop her father. And I think that you are definitely the only one who can stop your mother.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Cal frowned. “Even if we could somehow get to her, she’s not going to listen to me—”
“Cal … you’re the reason she’s doing this.” Douglas leaned forward in his wheelchair. “Don’t you get that? The reason she’s finally gone to this extreme. There have been other times in the past when she could have made a move against Gunnar—broken the Gosforth pact—but she held the peace. Now she thinks she’s got nothing to lose because she thinks you’re dead.”
Cal snorted, but there was a moment of genuine pain that flashed across his face as he said, “Like she cares.”
Douglas shook his head and looked away. “More than you know. Clearly. I wish …” He trailed away into a silence that stretched out between father and son. “Look. I know Daria. It’s only when she’s lost something that matters to her that she goes off the rails. And you’re the thing that matters to her most. But if you can get to her … If she actually sees with her own eyes that you’re all right … you might be able to talk some sense into her.”
“Except that we’re out here, she’s in there,” Toby pointed out.
Mason frowned, thinking for a moment of everything that had just been discussed. It was a lot to take in, and she still wasn’t entirely certain that she understood half of it. But the thing she knew was that she needed to get into the city to stop Daria, and she needed to see her father. Even if she didn’t have the faintest idea what she was going to happen when she saw him.
“Okay,” she said to Cal’s father. “Explain to me this whole Miasma thing. What, exactly, does it do?”
“The Miasma is also called the Death Sleep,” he said. “In the Middle Ages, a watered-down version of the concept found its way into fairy tales like ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ where a whole kingdom is isolated by an impenetrable barrier and cast into a magickal slumber. In more modern times, the word ‘miasma’ came to mean an airborne sickness or plague. Again—something that would require isolation.” Douglas had a storyteller’s voice, and it was easy to think that the tale he was telling was just that. A story. A fairy tale. “In reality, it’s an ancient magick that was traditionally dished out by the gods, through their mortal agents—their priestesses and priests: a punishment that would afflict an entire tribe or a kingdom—turn them into sleepers—most often as a consequence of the wrongdoings of its kings and queens, when one of them had committed an unforgivable crime. A blood crime usually. The murder of a relative was one thing that drew down the Miasma.”
“Okay … so that would be the whole ‘kin killer’ thing you mentioned,” Mason said, holding up a hand, concentrating hard on following the logic of the magick. “Are you saying that Cal’s mom killed a family member?”
Cal was frowning deeply, and Mason knew he was probably wondering the exact same thing.
What a horrible thing to think about someone that you love, she thought.
But Douglas shook his head. “No,” he said. “Daria isn’t the one being cursed—she’s doing the cursing—using some poor wretch who has murdered kin as the engine of her curse. New York City is a big place full of a lot of people, and some of them, I’m sure, have done some very bad things. She’d found one who’s done the worst thing.”
“What do you mean ‘poor wretch’?” Mason scoffed. “Someone murders a family member, I say they deserve whatever’s coming to them.”
“Maybe.” Douglas shrugged. “Maybe not. I prefer not to judge unless I know all the facts.”
Mason felt her cheeks grow warm at the subtle rebuke. Okay, sure. That had been pretty judgmental. Still, she wondered if she could be forgiving under circumstances like that… .
“Whatever the circumstances, as Toby said, this is blood magick, and blood magick is the most powerful there is. What Daria is doing is using a kin killer as a focus for the curse, her haruspex as the instrument to implement it, and the raging magick spill in the waters around Manhattan to fuel it,” Rafe explained.
Mason shuddered. “That’s horrible.”
“That’s Mom.”
Mason looked over at Cal. The water from the glass now hovered in front of him like a crystal globe, rotating slowly.
“The circumstances are stacked up pretty overwhelmingly in Daria’s favor at the moment—it’s like a mystical ‘perfect storm’—and I don’t doubt she’ll be able to keep the damned thing going as long as she keeps her kin killer alive. She’ll have Gunnar trapped like a rat on the island for as long as she needs to find him and take him down. And you can bet he’ll put up a hell of a fight, especially now that he’s had the means to bring about Ragnarok just beyond the tips of his fingers. Whatever forces he has mustered and hers will tear the city to shreds before they’re done if we don’t stop them.”
“So, all we have to do is keep your mom from wrecking the city, and my dad from wrecking … everything else,” Mason said. “We have some truly screwed-up parents.” She rolled an eye at Douglas. “Present company excluded. I guess.”
Cal’s father nodded graciously in reply.
“What would happen to us?” she asked him, waving a hand in the general direction of the fog-shrouded city on the island. “In there? Would we be just as useless as all the rest of those … sleepers?”
Douglas smiled at her. “Well … as I said. It’s called the Death Sleep. But together in this room, we have a god of death, a couple of kids who’ve already proven they can walk beyond the walls of death, my son—whose blood makes him an immortal, so no death there—and … well, and then there’s Toby. Who can handle himself better than most, even under conditions such as these, I would think.”
Mason turned and stared at Toby, who avoided making eye contact. He just shrugged and muttered something about “Yeah … perfectly able to take care of myself in a Miasma … been there, done that,” and Mason decided that, when time allowed, she was going to have to make a point of sitting down and having a long, informative chat with her fencing instructor. Whoever—or whatever—he really was.
“The Miasma was created by gods, and they’re not stupid,” Douglas continued. “The Death Sleep was designed to act on human physiology, human weakness. It doe
sn’t affect the divine, or the semidivine. But the real problem would be getting past the Miasma’s outer wall. Passing through the barrier, even for you lot, would still be like walking through your worst nightmare. It would probably render you all temporarily psychotic, which is why I didn’t recommend it.” He shrugged. “But … if you could somehow get past that, then no, I don’t think you’d have too much of a problem with the Miasma itself. The only things still sentient in Manhattan will be anything with magickal protection … or magickal blood.”
“So at least we’d have a bit of backup with my jackals,” Rafe said.
“Jackals? You mean those wolves you were hanging around with in the park?” Mason asked.
“A jackal is a wolf,” Rafe said drily. “My pack have the added benefit of also being werewolves, thanks to me. They come in pretty handy in a fight.”
“And the Miasma doesn’t affect them, either?” Fennrys asked Rafe.
“Werewolf physiology is supernaturally enhanced.” The god shrugged. “My magick makes those kids the next best thing to unkillable—you know … like werewolves.”
“What’s the downside?” Mason asked warily.
“They’re werewolves, Mason.” Rafe turned a flat glare on her. “Monsters.”
“But … you made them that way.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Different reasons.” The ancient god’s face remained impassive, but his gaze clouded. “Some had debts, some made bargains… .”
“And you turn people into creatures of nightmare for those reasons? Because they owed you something?” Mason could hear the judgmental anger in her voice. She was too stressed out by everything to even try and hide it.
The clouds in Rafe’s gaze grew darker. “Not anymore. Not in a very long time. And not for just those reasons. Also? I am a god, Mason Starling. And you’d do well to remember what I told you about gods and bargains.”
His voice took on an ominous, rumble-of-thunder quality and for a moment, Mason was afraid that she’d way overstepped a boundary. But then Rafe took a deep breath and seemed to shake off the surge of emotion.
“And that’s really all I’m going to say on the subject, all right?” He grinned wanly at her. “As a god—even one in exile—it’s in my job description to be occasionally inscrutable.”
Mason nodded and looked away. “Okay,” she said, wondering what any of them in that room might wind up owing the ancient deity when all was said and done. Not that it mattered in that moment. They were running short on options.
Mason crossed her arms over her chest and looked from face to face in the room, trying her best to convey a coolheadedness and a calm rationality that she really didn’t feel. She turned to the television again and the pictures that kept flashing up on the news report.
“If we can’t go through the fog wall,” she said, “can we go over it?”
Toby’s gaze sharpened as he looked at her. He was big on strategy, and Mason had a plan.
“What are you thinking, Mase?” Fennrys asked quietly.
“The Roosevelt Island Tram,” she said, pointing to the TV, where it sat in the corner of the room, scrolling pictures of the terrifying phenomenon plaguing the city of Manhattan. In one video feed, it appeared that one of the tram cars running from Roosevelt Island directly into the heart of Manhattan was still running, even though no one was on it. “Look. No one’s bothered to shut it down. The cable cars might be empty … but they’re still running into the city.”
Toby’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “The elevated tram. Ha. A hit, kiddo,” he said, just like he did when she scored a point in a fencing match. “That’s the thing about the ancient curses… . They were designed to afflict ancient man. Used to be, all you needed was a wall high enough to keep the average human out. The cable cars ride high enough to clear the top edge of the barrier. Brilliant.”
Douglas nodded in agreement, a steady, satisfied look on his face.
Two fans of the plan, Mason thought, and looked over at Fennrys.
She sensed that he was torn between supporting her idea—which would mean following her into the heart of the danger—and just plain getting her the absolute hell away from there. She understood the impulse. He’d come to Asgard for her, found her, saved her … and now? Now she was about to ask him to risk losing her again.
Just like you’re about to risk losing him.
Even the thought of that was unbearable, and Mason shoved it brutally from her mind. “Fenn?” she said. “What do you think?”
Fennrys held Mason’s gaze—a calm, unwavering faith in her shining from his pale-blue eyes. “I think we do it. I’m in.”
Mason felt the tension in her neck loosen a bit. Until she looked over at where Cal was standing rigid beside the table that held the water jug. His reaction was the exact opposite of Fenn’s.
“Am I the only one here who thinks this is a supremely stupid idea?” Cal asked, his expression stiff with stubborn opposition.
A small, angry voice hissed in the back of Mason’s head. How dare he? Who did he think he was? Hell—who did he think she was? Weak? Small? A coward? Well, yes. He’d already told her as much, hadn’t he?
You hesitated, he’d said. He’d blamed her. Made her feel less than the warrior that she was—
Whoa. Okay … let’s just get a grip there, Starling, she thought, suddenly aware that in her anger, she’d started to frame her participation in this … this whatever, this weirdness, in the kind of language that her father might have used. Warrior … ? No. You’re not a Valkyrie, Mason, she chastised herself silently. You didn’t take the spear. And you’re not like Cal. You’re human. And you’re going to stay that way.
“Well? Am I?” Cal asked again, looking to Rafe for support.
“Yes,” Mason snapped. “You are.”
Fennrys put a hand up over his mouth, hiding a grin.
“Look what is happening to the city, Cal.” Mason pointed again to the television. “Our school is in there—our friends… .”
“So what?” Cal snorted. “Bunch of stuck-up rich kids? Don’t pretend you care about any of them any more than I do, Mase—”
“Heather’s in there,” Toby said quietly, his gaze fixed pointedly on Cal.
Mason felt herself grow cold. “What? But I thought … I mean, Heather was with me on the train. Didn’t she just cross over the bridge into Queens? Like you did, Toby? I thought she’d be safe. I thought …”
In truth, Mason hadn’t had much time to think about Heather at all. Heather, who’d come to warn her at the gymnasium. Who’d proven to be a better friend to Mason than she ever would have imagined before everything that had happened. She felt a stab of guilt.
“Yeah, Mase,” Toby said. “She was on the train. After the crossing, your dad wanted me to …” The fencing coach scowled at the memory. “Well, suffice it to say, he didn’t exactly want me to let Heather go.” He put up a hand to forestall Mason’s outrage. “But I did let her go, and I sent her back to Gosforth, because I actually thought she’d be safe there. So yeah. She’s in Manhattan.”
“Cal?” Mason turned to where he stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot, a look of conflicted reluctance on his face. “Don’t you care about her?”
“Of course I do. I just …”
His hands flexed at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and grab something. Mason noticed the water in the pitcher on the table near him turned suddenly cloudy and cracked as it froze solid. Cal didn’t seem to notice.
“It’s dangerous, Mason,” he said in a voice as icy as the water. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”
A twist of anguish skewed Cal’s handsome features and made the scars on his face pull deeper at the corner of his mouth. Mason remembered what Heather had told her about Cal’s feelings for her, remembered how he’d acted toward her in the last few days … but all she
could manage to feel for him was a deep pity that she wouldn’t ever let him see. She could do that much for him, at least. But no more. She glanced over and saw that Fennrys’s calm, blue gaze was fixed on her. His expression was placid. Trusting. He would go with her to the ends of the earth. And if it came to that, she would ask him to. Because that was what love was.
She turned back to Cal. “Fine. You do what you want, Calum. I’m going into the city. I’ll just have to convince your mom that you really are okay.”
“Right.” Fennrys took a step forward and cracked his knuckles as he flexed the hand that gripped the blade sheathed at his waist. “Ready when you are, Mase.”
The blood sang in her ears at the prospect of a fight, and Mason realized that she might just be developing a taste, not just for fighting—but for war. “I’m ready now.”
XXI
In the end, Cal decided to go along—which hardly surprised Fennrys—and twenty minutes later, they left the town car Douglas Muir had appropriated for them from the hospital behind at the tram station. They were also leaving Douglas behind, at his insistence. It was better not to risk putting him in a situation that could prove, under the circumstances, impassable. Fenn wasn’t sure it was the best idea—Cal’s father seemed to have a wealth of knowledge that might have proved something of an asset.
Then again, he thought, Toby seems pretty up-to-the-minute on his ancient curses and the insane cults who use them… .
He also recognized the possibility that should they fail, there would be a need for someone outside the city to try to find help from other sources. And if the curse spread outward from the city, Douglas had his boat and could get away. If it came to that.
“I’m worried about him.”
Mason’s voice nudged Fennrys from his grim contemplation. He followed her gaze back to where Cal was saying good-bye and knew it wasn’t Douglas she was talking about. Like Mason, he, too, had his reservations about Calum, and about bringing him along into the city. Fennrys would’ve cheerfully left the kid behind to catch up on old times with his pop if he’d thought there was even half a chance Cal would agree to it. But even with his earlier protestations, it was apparent that Cal wasn’t about to let Mason out of his sight. She turned to see Fennrys frowning and reached up to smooth the crease between his eyebrows. Her fingertips were cool, and he leaned into the caress.
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