The sagebrush was gone. Everything that had once looked like Yellowstone National Park was gone. A coil of cold panic began to spool inside my gut. A forest loomed before me, dark and primordial. The trees would have been massive even in the redwood forest of California, and the snow under them seemed strangely dark, as though it had been dusted with ash.
So close to the road, I realized with dull horror. Níðhöggr is this close to the road, to the rest of Yellowstone. To the human world. I felt dizzy and weak, as if my legs were about to give out and spill me across the gray snow.
“No,” I said, although it was hardly more than a whisper. “No!”
My voice echoed strangely off the trunks of those massive trees, and a cold shiver flowed down my back. Everything about this place was wrong. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the urge to turn and run.
Vali’s voice echoed through my mind. “If Níðhöggr destroys your park,” he told me last night, “you’d never be able to forget that you could have prevented it.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, concentrating on those words. Leaving my eyes screwed tightly shut, I sniffed the air, following the dragon’s burnt, acrid scent.
“I can prevent this,” I whispered. “I can.”
Arms outstretched, I stumbled through the snow, following the dragon’s track.
THE SECOND TIME I TRIPPED, I allowed myself to open my eyes.
I was surrounded by massive tree trunks, trunks like the pillars of a cathedral for giants. The light was strange and dim, as though it came from some distant, dying star. My arms and legs felt strangely numb, and I realized slowly I was no longer even certain I was on the Earth. The snow that crunched under my feet certainly didn’t look right; it was too dark, too heavy.
Something faint and golden flashed on in the distance. It was almost like a streetlight shining through the gloom.
“Oh,” I said. “You left the light on for me.”
My footsteps sounded very loud as I wove my way through the trees, following the light. For an infuriatingly long time, the light grew no closer. In fact, it seemed to retreat with every step I took, remaining maddeningly out of reach. A desperate, wild sort of hopelessness began to bloom in my chest. Did I really come all this way just to lose myself in some alien forest, to die on this dark snow, beneath these monster trees?
The light surged, growing stronger. My legs ached, and my feet throbbed. I forced myself to stumble forward, urged on by the light. It grew stronger again, and then again, until I pushed through a tangle of dense branches and found—
No.
My own heartbeat pounded in my ears, throbbing through my temples. I pressed the palms of my hands to my eyes and forced myself to count slowly to ten. Taking a deep breath, I pulled my hands away from my face.
“See what’s there,” I whispered. “See it, Karen.”
I opened my eyes.
There, nestled beneath the heavy canopy of the dark forest and illuminated by one slender silver streetlight, stood 237 Monticello Place. I was staring at the home of Barry Richardson, the world’s foremost authority on dragons in medieval literature.
His trim Victorian sat in the middle of the wilderness, between drifts of gray-tinged snow. The sidewalks on either side ended in untouched snow fields, but the house itself looked exactly like it had yesterday evening, when I knocked on the door to ask my ex-husband how to defeat a dragon. The bare limbs of the Japanese maple cast odd shadows across the dingy snow; I could even see the bag of salt by the front steps. My skin prickled and my stomach curled strangely, as though it was trying to pull me backward through the forest.
The door swung open with a familiar squeal. I jumped as adrenaline surged through my body. My aching muscles tensed to run.
“Stop it,” I hissed to myself. “This is Níðhöggr. Barry Richardson’s house is not really sitting in the middle of this fucking forest.”
Still, it was a struggle to force my feet to move. My legs seemed to have turned to stone, and some deep, primal part of my brain kept screaming for me to run away. I clenched my fists, ignored my survival instincts, and forced myself to walk across the snowy fields to the sidewalk in front of 237 Monticello Place.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
The lights in the hallway flashed on, shedding their bright light across the Persian rug in the entry way, as I took the last steps to the wrap-around porch. I heard the tick of the grandfather clock in the living room. I could even smell a faint trace of artificial lemon from the cleaning solution Barry’s housekeeper always used.
Closing my eyes, I stepped over the threshold. Warmth wrapped around me like a thick blanket. Behind me, the door swung shut with a disturbingly final thud. I jumped, biting my lip so hard I tasted the quick, metallic flash of blood across my tongue. The grandfather clock ticked and fell silent. My breath hissed in and out of my lungs.
Something rustled, low and soft, in the back of the house. My mouth went dry. Without realizing what I was doing, I took a step backward. My thighs hit the closed front door with a loud smack.
I heard the low whine of a cabinet door opening, followed a moment later by the soft click of its closing. The kitchen, I realized. It’s in the kitchen.
“Are you coming?”
The thick, rich voice echoed down the hallway, at once deeply strange and intimately familiar. Panic crept up my spine like a small animal with cold claws. I glanced backward and saw the front door no longer had a knob.
No escape, then.
I cleared my throat.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m coming.”
My own breath echoed strangely as I walked down the hallway. The door to the kitchen was ajar, and a dark shadow lay across the white tiles of the floor. Whether it was human or otherwise was impossible to tell. It was less than a dozen steps from the front door to the kitchen in 237 Monticello Place, but it seemed to take me a very long time to cross that distance. I hesitated at the kitchen door, mouth dry and muscles aching.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” the voice sang.
My jaw clenched as I entered the kitchen.
A very tall man leaned against the pale gray of the kitchen’s granite countertop, wearing dark pants and a tight shirt so red it seemed obscene. His hair was the same shade as his shirt, the vivid color making the rest of the kitchen look pallid in comparison. He cupped a white coffee mug with long, delicate fingers.
He should not have been attractive. Somehow that was the worst part of the entire scene, that Níðhöggr had stolen 237 Monticello Place from somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory, or maybe even from Evanston, Illinois itself, taken it to some cold, alien planet and then dared to fill the kitchen with this tall, gorgeous man who oozed sexuality. My core flared with the heat of anger, and the dull, insistent, wholly inappropriate throb of arousal. The man raised an eyebrow, as if he could tell what I was thinking.
“Welcome back, Karen, daughter of Elizabeth, granddaughter of Claire, of the line of Orleans,” Níðhöggr said.
My heartbeat surged in my ears, but my body felt frozen. Níðhöggr shifted his lean frame, somehow crossing the kitchen floor without seeming to actually move. He held the white coffee mug up to me. Without thinking, I took the cup from his outstretched arm. It was pleasantly warm against my palms, and I raised it to my face, inhaling deeply.
It was Emerald Spring tea, from Intelligentsia Coffee in Chicago. My very favorite kind of tea. Barry used to joke that I should thank Emerald Spring tea in the acknowledgements section of my doctoral thesis.
I took a sip. It was perfect. Níðhöggr had even added half a spoon of sugar, and I guessed he’d even done it properly, layering the sugar on top of the tea bag before he added the hot water.
“Thanks,” I stammered.
Níðhöggr nodded briskly, his body shifting and flickering somehow. Curves appeared on Níðhöggr’s chest and hips, and his face softened. By the time Níðhöggr spoke again, I was staring at a tall woman who wore a tight red top and a long black skirt
.
“Of course,” she said. “It’s important you’re calm.”
Something inside me jumped at that, sending a red flash of panic through my exhausted body. The panic died almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a dim sort of wonder. I took another sip of the tea, trying to determine if it had been drugged. Or if I gave a damn one way or the other.
“And have you figured out why I call for a woman?” Níðhöggr asked.
I shook. My body ached, and I felt very tired, the sort of bone-deep exhaustion I’d felt just after defending my doctoral dissertation. Or after packing up everything that was mine inside this house before moving to live with my parents in Maine. For a moment, a stack of white paper flashed through my mind with the black, italicized title: This Certifies the Dissolution of a Marriage.
Níðhöggr sighed. “I always expect women to understand. You know all about cycles, after all.”
She smiled at me, a forced sort of smile which showed all her teeth, and I realized with an unpleasant jolt her eyes were red, as unnaturally red as her shirt and hair, and her pupils were dark, vertical slits in the middle. They were exactly the same as the giant eye I’d faced in the cave a lifetime ago. My skin crawled and the mug jumped in my hands, spilling tea across my fingers. I hissed as the hot water seared my knuckles.
Níðhöggr shook her head with a gentle sound of disapproval. “Well, I suppose I can hardly expect one of you mortals to put all the pieces together. Even if you are a professor.” She drew out the last word, slowly and painfully, just in case I hadn’t understood I was being insulted.
I set my cup down on the kitchen counter before I could spill any more. “Thanks for the tea,” I muttered.
When I looked up again, Níðhöggr was male. The tight red shirt rippled across his flat, muscular chest and the hint of a smile played around the corners of his lips. It was a disturbingly human expression, and one that made him even more sexual.
“So, Karen,” he said, bringing his fingers together in front of his lips, “have you come to stop me?”
The air between us felt thick. Despite the warmth of the tea, my body felt cold. The grandfather clock in the living room ticked. I swallowed hard, trying to remember why I was doing this.
To save Yellowstone. To save all the kids running around in the Old Faithful lodge. To save the wolves of the Lamar Valley.
Vali’s beautiful body flashed through my mind, naked and sprawled across the grass of the Lamar Valley with my tranquilizer dart in his thigh.
To save Vali.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I have.”
His smile widened. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”
My shoulders sagged. “I have no idea. I have no weapons. I can’t even fight. It’s pretty clear I can’t touch you.”
“Oh?” Níðhöggr’s eyes flashed and he stepped closer to me. Uncomfortably close. His shirt was open across the neck, revealing the curve of his collarbones, the pulse flickering in his neck. He was so close I could smell him; acrid smoke and darkness. The scent I’d chased across Yellowstone.
I flinched, and my hips hit the kitchen counter. Níðhöggr leaned over me, one arm on either side of my waist, trapping my body.
“You can touch me,” he said in a low growl.
I gritted my teeth against the heat of arousal surging between my legs. “That’s not what I meant.”
His fingers traced my cheek, forcing me to meet his eyes. They flickered and burned in shifting waves of scarlet and vermillion which swirled around his thin, black pupil. “You came here with no plan,” he whispered. His lips almost touched mine as he spoke. “No idea what was expected.”
His fingertips dropped to dance across the skin of my neck. I trembled and screwed my eyes shut, blocking out his intense eyes which made me feel like I was about to melt.
“I’m here,” I forced myself to say. “Whatever it takes. I’m here.”
Níðhöggr laughed, and the floor creaked as he stepped back. The room felt colder after he moved away; I tried to suppress my shiver. When I opened my eyes, Níðhöggr was female again, and she was watching me carefully with one hand on her chin.
“You have good hips,” she said. “You’re strong. You’re of the correct lineage. Yes, you’ll do nicely.”
I blinked, thinking I must have misheard her. Did the dragon who lives in the roots of the World Tree just mention my hips?
Níðhöggr pressed her full lips into a tight line. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t figured it out?” Her melodic voice was thick with disapproval.
My mouth was dry, so I just shook my head.
“Cycles,” Níðhöggr sighed. “We sleep, we wake. We eat. We watch the worlds spin into being and fade into nothingness.”
I nodded once, very slowly, trying to give Níðhöggr the impression I was following along.
“And then we plant our children,” she said, smiling widely. It was such an affable smile I felt the corners of my own mouth turning up in response. My mind felt slow and fuzzy, as if it were wrapped in thick wool.
Níðhöggr became male again, quite suddenly, and his smile turned feral and hungry. He moved strangely, his hips undulating like a snake, until there was almost nothing between us. I tried to turn away from his burning eyes, but the effort was too great. My mind drifted back to the last words he’d spoken, something about a child. It made no sense. It made no difference, either; I’d come here to die, hadn’t I?
Níðhöggr leaned over me, pressing me against the cool granite of the countertops. “You,” he whispered. His teeth very close to my neck, his breath was hot, and my skin prickled. The air between us burned. “You will carry our child. And then we will sleep again, until she comes of age.”
“Wait, what?” I yelped.
I jumped backward. My head whacked the kitchen cabinet. Hard. White spots exploded across my vision. Níðhöggr pressed himself closer, his lips tracing my earlobe. His hips shifted, rubbing the full length of his enormous erection against the heat between my legs. My body responded with a flood of hot arousal, soaking my underwear so thoroughly I was certain he could feel it.
“How—How does that even work?” I stammered.
Níðhöggr laughed against my neck. “You’re a biologist, are you not? Don’t you know how babies are made?”
I closed my eyes, trying desperately to think. A baby. That’s something else I’d lost when I signed that stack of white paper, wasn’t it? Those pages were the dissolution of a marriage, and the dissolution of any hopes of having a family. And now—
Níðhöggr’s hands pushed my shirt up and grabbed at my thighs, destroying my train of thought. The heat of his body surged against mine, urgent and undeniable. This didn’t make sense - nothing about this made sense - but it was damned hard to think about anything except how good his lips felt against my neck, and how much I wanted those long fingers to close around my nipple.
Níðhöggr ran his tongue down my neck. I clamped my teeth together to keep from moaning. There was something wrong here, something desperately wrong, but goddamn it, my body was screaming for him. Níðhöggr pushed a hand into my pants, his fingers pressing against the throbbing swell of my clit. Electricity shot through my body, exploding across my brain like summer lightning. My mind cleared for a heartbeat, long enough for me to bring my hands to his chest and push back. It was like pushing a rock.
“No,” I whimpered. “No, I’m—I’m married.”
Níðhöggr laughed. His finger moved against my sex, faster and harder. I dropped my hands from his chest and clutched the counter, trying to fight the flames of ecstasy burning through my body. My hips began to rock against his hand. I tried again to protest, and my breath caught in my throat. The crest of my orgasm was coming, hard and fast. I could sense it swelling behind his touch, waiting to envelope me.
“Married,” Níðhöggr said. “Virgin. Harlot. I care not. You’re fertile, and I’ll plant the seed.”
His voice was cold and calm
while I gasped and writhed under his touch. He pinched my clit between his fingers, and I drowned, the room vanishing in a hot, red haze as the muscles of my exhausted body seized and trembled.
Níðhöggr’s hand retreated, leaving me shaking.
“Take off your clothes.” He sounded almost bored.
“I—” My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and my entire body ached. I felt filthy. Vali, I thought. Dear God, I’m sorry.
“You came here prepared to die, did you not?” Níðhöggr asked.
He began unbuttoning his red shirt, revealing an absurdly sculpted chest with a trail of thick, dark hair leading down the hard lines of his stomach to the bulge in his dark pants. The very large bulge.
I tore my eyes away from his body, trying to focus on the kitchen. But the room felt thin and unsubstantial, and it wavered like a heat mirage. My stomach twisted with vertigo, as though I stood on the precipice of some unimaginably tall cliff.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I came here to die.”
Níðhöggr met my gaze, his strange red eyes glowing in his inhumanly handsome face. “I could still kill you,” he said, casually, as though we were discussing the weather.
I felt as though the room had grown colder, pulling all the warmth from my body. “But would—would that save Yellowstone?”
His lip twitched upward in what might almost have been a smile. “Well, you’d never know, now would you?”
“No,” I said, my voice coming out a pinched whisper “No, I don’t want to die.”
“And you do want a baby, don’t you, Karen McDonald?” His voice carried the slightest hint of amusement.
My mouth was dry and papery, making speech impossible. I nodded. Yes, I wanted a child. I have always wanted a child.
And, far worse, I wanted him. I wanted those hot hands on my body again. I wanted to feel his muscles against my skin and run my fingers down that trail of hair to grasp that massive bulge in his pants. God help me, I wanted to fuck him.
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