Chicks Kick Butt - Rachel Caine, Kerrie Hughes (ed)

by Chicks Kick Butt (mobi)

  “If he hasn’t left Midgard.”

  The questions she wanted to ask nearly choked her, but she left them unspoken. “Start looking,” she said.

  Dáinn dipped a finger into the ash and lifted it to his forehead. With quick, sure strokes he sketched a bind rune above and between his brows. It seemed to catch fire, and Dáinn grimaced in pain.

  “A passage,” he murmured.

  “What do you mean?” She leaned over the table, forcing him to look at her. “What passage?”

  “A bridge to the otherworlds.” He smeared the ash with his fingers. “‘Gullin’ is its name.”

  Golden. The Golden Gate Bridge. An echo of Bïfrost, which had once joined Midgard with the realm of the Aesir.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “There is no certainty.”

  To Hel with that. It was the only lead they had, and there was no time to waste. The bridge was nearly eight miles northwest as the crow flies, longer on surface streets. Dawn was just breaking; there wouldn’t be much traffic, and that meant the car would be faster than going on foot.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  She ran into the shop, snatched up several small, dusty pieces of wood she kept on a high shelf, and dashed for the garage. Dáinn caught up with her as she reached the Volvo and threw open the door. She didn’t wait to ask if the álfr had ever been in an automobile before, but he didn’t hesitate to get in. She was already pulling out of the garage by the time he had closed his own door.

  Chanting a hurried runespell to hold any overzealous cops away, Mist kept her foot on the gas all the way up Van Ness and screeched a reckless left turn onto Lombard. In minutes they were on 101 and nearing the bridge.

  “Where?” she asked.

  He touched his forehead, tracing the runes afresh. “Over the water,” he said. “We must go on foot.”

  That was cursed inconvenient. There wasn’t any way for a pedestrian to get onto the bridge from the San Francisco side without attracting unwelcome attention.

  “We’ll have to drive across,” she said. “You tell me where to stop.”

  “If I can.”

  “You will.” She gunned the engine and sped for the toll plaza, slowing only to pay the toll and pretend she had no intention of breaking every speed law on the books. The moment she was on the bridge she pushed on the accelerator, passing slower vehicles as if they were standing still.

  “Here,” Dáinn said when they were half a mile across. Mist stopped in the right lane and jumped out.

  There was nothing to show that this span of the Bridge was different from any other. Dáinn vaulted over the railing that separated the pedestrian walkway from traffic. Mist followed him to the suicide barrier. Blue-gray water seethed far beneath them, choppy with a rising wind driving west from the Bay.

  The faintest pressure in the air lifted the hairs on the back of Mist’s neck. “I feel it,” she said.

  Dáinn wasn’t listening. He cocked his head and closed his eyes. The air around him shimmered, and the ground under Mist’s feet vibrated with barely leashed energy. The “passage” the álfr had spoken of was in this very place, an invisible mouth waiting for the right spell to open it again.

  And there was more. She could feel Eric’s presence, a shadow of his being altered and twisted into a form almost unrecognizable. She drew her knife.

  “Where is he?” she asked him, struggling to control her seething emotions.

  The álfr spread his hands in front of him as if he were reaching for something solid. “He was here, but he did not pass through. Something blocked his path.”

  “Then where has he gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there anything you do know?”

  Dáinn bent his head. “Even Loki would need a refuge. Evil always seeks evil.”

  Evil. What did that mean in a world of turmoil and endless conflict? The gangs? The suppliers of illicit drugs, who killed as easily as they breathed? The corrupt politicians and greedy businessmen who set policies that made thousands suffer?

  Too many possibilities. They could spend weeks sorting through every dark soul in San Francisco, both high and low. But there was someone who might help them. Someone she’d hoped never to see again.

  Maybe Vídarr already knew about the incursion. If he did, and hadn’t warned her …

  Never. Not the son of Odhinn.

  “We’re going to Vídarr,” she said.

  Dáinn stared at her. “He is here?”

  “The prophecies said he and Váli would survive Ragnarök and live in the new world. That part was half right.”

  “Freyja said nothing about—”

  Mist jumped over the barrier and returned to the Volvo. A red Jaguar streaked past, blaring its horn.

  “You said the Aesir can’t see everything,” she said over her shoulder. And you’re as blind as they are. She opened the passenger door. “Are you coming?”

  He got in. Mist slammed the door shut, released the brake, and made a sharp U-turn. By the time they were off the bridge Dáinn was singing again.

  She let him be. His magic, such as it was, was still stronger than hers. She didn’t dare rely on him, but she couldn’t afford to throw away even the smallest advantage, or the weakest ally.

  Vídarr’s club was in the Tenderloin, a scarred and graffitied doorway squashed between a seedy hotel and a pawn shop. In spite of the dubious neighborhood, Bifrost was popular with artists, musicians, and the more affluent youth from other parts of the city. Mist hadn’t been inside the door for a decade, and she’d planned to keep it that way.

  Plans of any kind were useless now. Mist wove through the increasing traffic, cutting through back streets and ignoring one-way signs. But her efforts to avoid the worst congestion weren’t good enough. It was taking too damned long.

  She pulled up to the nearest curb. “We’ll have to run,” she said.

  Dáinn was out of the car a second after she was. She set off south, fiercely grateful for the chance to move her body again. She might not trust her own magic, but legs and arms, muscle and bone, were tools she honed to obey her will without thought or hesitation.

  Tucked between the wealth of Nob Hill and the busy downtown of Civic Center, the Tenderloin was an abrupt descent both figuratively and literally. She and Dáinn ran past liquor stores, strip joints, and more than one dealer on the prowl for addicts looking to score. Panhandlers and drunks stared after them in astonishment, but they were only a blur in Mist’s eyes.

  Though it wasn’t even eight o’clock, Mist knew that Bifrost would already be jumping. No cops would come knocking, for the simple reason that Vídarr had set runes to repel them; she could see them glowing in the air and feel their potency. Vídarr might have rejected his heritage, but he still used magic when it suited him.

  Mist opened the door and walked in. Vídarr employed a doorman to keep out any “undesirables” who might slip past the wards, but she didn’t recognize the big man standing just inside the door. He did a double take when Dáinn came up behind her.

  “Where’s Vid?” she asked the doorman.

  He folded his massive arms across his chest. “Vid ain’t available,” he growled.

  “He’ll see me.” She shoved past him.

  “Hey, bitch!” He clamped one beefy hand over her shoulder. “You ain’t—”

  Mist spun around and punched him in the stomach. He let her go with a woof of astonished pain. She nodded to Dáinn, and they continued into the black, smoky pit of the bar. A dozen sets of eyes assessed them from the shadows. The radio blasted Norwegian death metal from huge speakers hung on the walls. Sullen kids with multiple piercings huddled over tables strung against the wall opposite the bar, and hipsters ignoring the city-wide smoking ban, argued over coffee and cigarettes.

  They were of no interest to Mist. She didn’t bother to ask the bartender where she could find Vid, but kept moving through a tightly packed crowd of inebriated slackers and entered the d
oor behind them.

  The clientele in the back room was of a far different caliber than the kids in the public area. The dozen men and women were all mature, attractive, and reeking of wealth … the kind who dined every night at French Laundry, had their clothes tailor-made in Paris, and lived in apartments and penthouses worth more than all the Lady’s gold.

  But there was something strange about them, a strangeness that stopped Mist in her tracks. They stared at her as if she had crashed an exclusive wedding wearing nothing but her sword. As if she were an enemy.

  “Leave,” Dáinn whispered at her back. “Leave now.”

  Mist barely heard him. “Who are you?” she asked, looking at each hostile face in turn.

  Glances were exchanged, but no one answered. Dáinn gripped her arm. “There are too many,” he said.

  And suddenly she knew. “Where is he?” she demanded of the crowd, loosening her knife. “Where is your master?”

  Hard eyes fixed on hers. Several of the men began moving toward her, getting taller by the second. Faces blurred, becoming coarse and ugly with hate. Fists lifted. An unmistakable chill rose in the room.

  Hrimgrimir emerged from the crowd, grinning with hideous delight. “So we meet again, halfling. Or should I call you ‘cousin’?” His pointed teeth were red in the dim light. “You must be eager for death. We will be happy to oblige you.”

  Pulling her knife free, Mist sang the change. Dim light raced along Kettlingr’s blade. Her chances of survival were slim, but she had no choice. No choice at all.

  “You have more strength than you know,” Dáinn said from very far away. She felt a light touch on her cheek. “Feel it, warrior. Let it come.”

  Some force beyond understanding burst inside her. Hafling cousin. She had no time to digest the revelation. Dáinn was gone, and Hrimgrimir and his kin were already upon her.

  Kettlingr flew up to meet the attack. The blade skittered against a wall of ice that dissolved as soon as the sword completed its swing. Mist sang, and her jötunn blood, the blood she had not known she possessed, sang with her. Strength greater than that of mortal or Valkyrie throbbed in blood and blossomed in bone. Battle runes flared before her eyes. The giants retreated with cries of rage and dismay. She advanced, slashing at any flesh within reach. For a moment it seemed that she might even win.

  But the new power didn’t last. She felt herself falter under the weight of uncertainty. They were her kin. Any one of them might be …

  She never completed the thought. Hrimgrimir roared and swung a giant fist, knocking her against the wall. Somehow she kept her grip on Kettlingr, but the blow had paralyzed her arm. She knew then that she was going to die, and she would not be returning.

  Sliding up the wall, she grinned into the giant’s face and prepared herself for the final, crushing blow. Hrimgrimir bellowed and raised his hand. The back door swung open, and a thickset blond man staggered into the room, his head swinging right and left in confusion.

  “Wa’s goin’ on here?” he drawled, leaning heavily against the door frame. “Can’ a man ge’ any sleep?”

  Hrimgrimir and the other jötunar swung to face the man. “Get out!” Hrimgrimir snarled.

  “Mist?” The man took another step into the room, eyes widening. “Issat you?”

  She caught her breath and worked her shoulder, feeling it come back to life again. Váli was a drunk and a slackard, but he wasn’t as stupid as he looked. He had some part in all this. He knew what was happening, and he was trying to help her.

  With a hoot of laughter, Váli stumbled his way past the jötunar with arms extended. “So … gla’ to see you,” he said, his full weight crashing into Mist. “Missed you.”

  Smothered in his bearish embrace, Mist felt the pressure of his body pushing her away from the wall. He was moving her toward the door to the bar, inch by subtle inch.

  “Get out of here,” he hissed, his mouth pressed to her ear.

  “Where is Vídarr?” she whispered.

  “You can’t see him.” They reached the door, and Mist heard the hinges creak. “Save yourself.”

  Save yourself. Vídarr wasn’t in league with the evil ones. He was in trouble. Bad trouble.

  Without warning, Mist shoved Váli aside and ran for the back door, swinging Kettlingr in a deadly arc. Hrimgrimir swiped at her and missed. The rest were too startled to intercept her before she got to the back door and flung it open.

  Vídarr sat in a battered chair in what served as his office, his face blank as uncarved stone. His eyes barely flickered as Mist entered the room.

  “Well, you have created quite a disturbance,” a voice said from the shadows behind the chair. “I had hoped you would take warning and flee. After all the pleasure you’ve given me, I had intended to spare you.”

  Eric. But it wasn’t Eric’s voice. And the figure that emerged from the shadows was not tall and broad, but as lean and wiry as a stoat. Tight black leather covered him from neck to toe. His long, handsome face was smiling. The expression wasn’t friendly.

  Mist wasn’t feeling particularly friendly herself. “I’ve come for Gungnir, Slanderer,” she said.

  “How charming.” Loki walked past Vídarr without a glance in his direction and stood before her, hands on hips. “You always were impulsive, my dear. That was what made you so good in bed.”

  Mist swung Kettlingr at his head. Loki sent the sword spinning to the floor with three short words and a wave of his hand.

  “It’s no use,” Vídarr said, his voice thick with despair. “You can’t beat him.”

  “Listen to him, Villkatt,” Loki said. “Like you, Odhinn’s son has been corrupted by his long residence in Midgard. He proved remarkably clumsy in his attempts to interfere.” Loki reached for the glass of red wine that stood on the nearby desk and sniffed it critically. “In fact, we had nearly reached an arrangement to the advantage of both of us.”

  Mist ignored the pain in her hand and stared at Vídarr. “What arrangement?”

  “To use Bifrost as headquarters for my future endeavors. Did you know there are other hidden rooms beyond this one? Very suitable for what I have in mind.”

  “Stealing the other treasures,” she said. “But what good would it do you to keep them here? Why didn’t you take Gungnir back to wherever you came from?” She took a step toward him. “Why didn’t you go straight through the passage on the bridge?”

  For a moment Loki’s smug expression darkened. “No more questions.” He relaxed and smiled again. “I’ll give you one chance, sweetling. Join me, or you’ll have no more use for such inconvenient curiosity.”

  He was probably right. She’d always known the odds of beating him were slim; he was, after all, a god, and her jötunn blood wouldn’t be enough to defeat the Sly One. Dáinn had abandoned her, and even Vídarr had failed to stand up to him.

  Still, giving up was not an option. And there was one thing she still didn’t understand. Why was Loki offering her a chance to join him? Why had he felt the need to sneak around in the first place, pretending to be her human lover, if he didn’t think she was a threat to him?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “You were always a coward,” she said. “Go ahead. Strike me down.”

  He laughed and sneered at her bravado, and yet he hesitated. Vídarr’s eyes fixed on hers, as if he were trying to tell her something important. Something that might change the game completely.

  “What are you afraid of, Slanderer?” she taunted. “My sword is out of reach. You need have no fear of a fair fight.”

  Loki’s face contorted with rage. “Pick it up,” he snarled.

  Mist dove for the sword before he could change his mind. In seconds she had snatched it up, secured her grip and was ready for attack.

  Her enemy wasted no time. All at once Gungnir itself was in Loki’s hand, and he was aiming straight at her heart. The Swaying One hummed in his grip as he let fly. Mist swung Kettlingr with all her strength, desperately singing the runes
that might make the difference between life or death.

  She wasn’t fast enough, but no cold metal pierced her chest. Gungnir pierced the door behind her shoulder. Loki’s mouth gaped in disbelief as she struck, her blade sinking into his left arm.

  She knew it was little more than a distraction. He would heal almost instantly. Still, she brought Kettlingr to bear once more … and froze as Loki’s burning hand clamped around her neck.

  “You have tried my patience once too often,” he said into her face, his spittle spraying her cheeks.

  “And you’ve … tried mine.” She wheezed a laugh. “You were never … as good as you thought you were. In anything.”

  He shook her like a child’s straw doll. “Perhaps I won’t kill you first,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll take you one last time, and show you just how good I am.”

  A shudder of loathing drained the strength from Mist’s body. To die was one thing. To suffer such humiliation after what she and Eric had shared …

  No. She stared into Loki’s eyes. “Try it, and I’ll roast your balls like chestnuts.”

  Loki flinched, and his grip relaxed. He’s afraid. It made no sense, none at all, yet she could feel it, see it in his face.

  But what was the key to his fear?

  “Freyja is the key.”

  Dáinn’s voice, speaking inside her head. This time she was grateful for the intrusion. She shaped an urgent question out of her thoughts, but Dáinn heard it before she was finished.

  “Loki has always feared and desired the Lady,” he said. “He taunted and mocked her and called her whore because he wanted her but could not have her.”

  But that had nothing to do with Mist. Loki’s grip had tightened again, and Mist felt her breath stop in her throat. It was over. She had nothing left with which to fight.

  “Halfling,” Dainn’s silent voice whispered, unraveling like thread caught in a kitten’s claws. “A jötunn was your father. Your mother…”

  Dáinn’s presence faded, but he left in her mind a single image. An image of a face she knew, a beauty beyond compare.

  Mist silenced her disbelief. She had nothing to lose. She met Loki’s gaze, letting him feel every last particle of her contempt.