But if he made a mistake, if he showed Danny too much, and the boy’s mind could not absorb or accept …
“He hurt you,” Danny said, his eyes gone wide and strange as if something had broken loose inside him.
It took all of Dainn’s will to hide his immediate and instinctive response. “That has nothing to do with you, Danny.”
“You’re lying,” Danny said, his voice no longer that of a child. “You want to leave.”
“I would not go without you.”
“Does he love me, too?”
Dainn squeezed his scarred palm into a fist, remembering the foolish blood-oath he and Loki had made. How could he assure Danny that Loki was capable of such love? He had no way of knowing what Loki truly felt for his son. Or for anyone.
Small hands pried his fingers open, and he realized that the wound was bleeding, spattering the bedspread of cowboys and bucking horses with crimson drops.
“You hate him,” Danny said as Dainn bound his hand with a strip torn from the bedspread. “It hates him. It wants to hurt us.”
There was no mistaking Danny’s meaning. The image of the beast swelled in Dainn’s mind until his skull felt ready to burst.
“No,” he said hoarsely.
Danny scrambled across the bed, putting its width between himself and Dainn. “I remember,” he whispered. “She tried to make you hurt me.”
The horror of that memory was like a Jotunn club crushing Dainn’s sternum and driving deep into his chest, enveloping his heart in a crust of ice.
Danny knew.
“It can’t hurt you now,” Dainn said, pushing the words past the fist in his throat. “It’s gone.”
Danny shook his head almost violently. “It’s hiding,” he said.
“I will never let it touch you,” he croaked. “Never, Danny.”
The boy’s eyes lost focus. He spread his hands, and the mysterious cloud of energy appeared again, swirling light and dark. The makeshift bandage wrapped around Dainn’s hand began to unravel. As he watched in astonishment, the cloud seemed to pull blood from the wound in a thin stream and swallowed it like a hungry animal. Danny moaned, as if the energy were itself a beast, struggling to break free with teeth and claws.
But that, Dainn thought, was exactly what it was. Another kind of beast, with a mind and appetite of its own.
Dainn jumped back from the bed and closed his fingers over the wound. The bleeding stopped, but the red-gray substance Danny barely controlled reached toward him, stretching, thinning, straining to join with him. Dainn fell to his knees. The dark energy swirled around him, piercing his body in a hundred places. Danny slumped and folded in on himself as if the very thread of his life had snapped.
Struggling back to his feet, Dainn knelt on the edge of the bed. Danny was still breathing. He gathered Danny close and laid his hand over his son’s heart. The seething energy seemed to flow out of him and back into Danny, leaving only a residue of magic that rapidly dissipated.
Danny opened his eyes, but there was no recognition in them. He sat up and pulled away from Dainn, refusing any help, and took up his familiar cross-legged position on the bed.
And then he began to rock.
Dainn watched him for a time, waiting for any change. Someone pounded on the door. He ignored the noise until he was certain that Danny was not going to wake again soon, and then rose to confront the Jotunar. His entire body ached as if the raw, dark energy had hollowed him out and left only flesh to hold him together.
The captain of the guards looked as if he wanted to strike Dainn with considerable force, but seemed to think better of it when he met Dainn’s eyes.
“Get out,” he growled.
“Something has happened,” Dainn said, holding the Jotunn’s gaze. “Danny should be watched carefully. Since Miss Jones is absent—”
“Don’t worry your pretty head, Elf,” the Jotunn said. “We’ll watch him.”
Given no other choice, Dainn brushed past the captain and the other Jotunar, who sidled out of his way with muttered curses. But he was wrestling with an idea he could hardly accept, one that made any conflict with Loki’s resentful minions no more important than the quarreling of ants over a crumb of bread.
When he stepped out of the hall, he closed the door and stood frozen, wondering how he could have failed to understand when he’d first seen the thing Danny had created.
No, not created. It had always been there.
The Eitr.
Dainn descended the stairs like an automaton. Loki would immediately have recognized the physical form of the substance as soon as he saw it on the monitor, but Dainn had no idea how he knew what it was. He had no memory of seeing it manifest before, yet it seemed utterly familiar, like his own reflection in a mirror. The important question was whether or not Loki had always suspected that Danny could summon and wield the Eitr. When he’d glimpsed Loki’s face after Danny’s display, Dainn had seen genuine surprise there. That would be a normal reaction, given that Odin himself was said to have lost his power to wield it.
But Danny was unlike any other creature born of the Eight Homeworlds. Did Loki assume that the Eitr was the source of Danny’s unusual abilities, the very fuel that fed his magic? Was that what gave him the power to open portals to other parts of the world, teleport himself and others, and create functional manifestations, even at a distance?
Whatever Loki might believe, he had never shared such thoughts with Dainn. And he had meant to keep Dainn away from Danny after their son’s display.
Was it because he didn’t want Dainn exposed to the Eitr … because he knew that Dainn would find it familiar even before he recognized its physical form?
That made no sense. Dainn had never touched the Eitr in Asgard. If he had called upon it when he’d confronted the Jotunar, he hadn’t known what he did. Surely Loki couldn’t have guessed that it would pierce him, consume his blood, and try to swallow him up.
Another kind of beast, Dainn thought, with a mind and appetite of its own. Why had it attacked him? Had Danny tried to pull it away from Dainn to save his father’s life?
And what of the vision of Mist? Had that been connected to the Eitr as well?
Perhaps Danny did not truly control it, and Loki knew it. Did he hope to reconnect to it through Danny?
Dainn laughed, the sound echoing in the wide entrance hall. All his speculation might be utterly wrong. He understood nothing. It was all like a dream, except for that lingering sense of hollowness.
Dainn reached the bottom step and listened for Loki. Instead, he heard the voices of newscasters from multiple channels bellowing from Loki’s media room, all chattering about “trouble” in Civic Plaza.
A “protest,” Vali had said. If the citizens of San Francisco had begun to recognize what was happening all around them, it was all to the good.
Unless Loki chose to crush them.
* * *
“Loki’s piss.”
Mist rolled out of bed, slapping her hand down on the bed table as she searched for her phone. The alarm clock told her it was almost noon … only about five hours since she’d been fighting a dozen Jotunar in an alley off Grant Avenue and barely two since Koji had lured her into bed. She was almost too groggy to understand what the man on the other end of the phone was saying.
The man was Rick, Bryn’s second-in-command among the bikers. “I think you should get down here,” he said, his voice gravelly with the same exhaustion that plagued all of them.
“What?” Mist said, clearing her throat. “Where?”
“You near a TV?”
Mist fumbled for the remote and turned on the small set she kept in the bedroom. The TV was already set on one of the local news stations, and at the moment the screen was filled with images of shouting faces, raised fists, and the seething bodies of a crowd of very angry people. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen informed interested viewers that there was a protest going on in front of City Hall, where the mayor had recently held his pre
ss conference.
“Any of our other people there?” she asked Rick as she scooted off the bed.
“Hild, a few of us Einherjar, Taylor. We aren’t having much—”
His voice broke off to the sound of a scuffle, a raised voice, and the racket of a cell phone flying out of someone’s hand.
“Hey,” Koji’s drowsy voice protested from the other side of the bed. “Where’re you going?”
“Don’t worry,” Mist said, hastily throwing a shirt over her tank and tugging on her jeans and boots. “I don’t expect I’ll be gone too long.”
“Chikusho,” Koji said, swinging his legs over the bed. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Someone got fed up with the mayor’s excuses,” Mist said, buckling Kettlingr, in its knife shape, to her heavy belt. “For all I know Loki’s behind this. The crowd could be seeded with Jotunar. If that’s true”—she shrugged into her jacket—“this would be the first time he’s come right out and caused a major public disturbance.”
“Why?” Koji asked, padding up behind her. “Why now? What is he hoping to achieve?”
She started for the door. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough.”
Koji stopped her as she was leaving the room. “What if Loki has nothing to do with this?”
“Then the people of this city are waking up a lot sooner than I expected,” she said. “They have got plenty of reasons to be pissed, and they’ll still need protection.”
He touched her arm. “Just be careful, okay?”
“I always am.” She gave him a lopsided smile and jogged down the hall as she called Bryn’s number. Bryn didn’t pick up, but Rota did.
“Grab as many of our most experienced people as you can, and send them to City Hall,” Mist said. “Tell them to be prepared for trouble, but no open fighting.”
“What—” Rota began.
“Check the news. Hurry.”
The wind was blowing hard under the perpetually gray skies as Mist mounted Silfr and headed north. Freya wasn’t picking up her cell, either, and she could be anywhere, taking care of her “business” for the cause. Her glamour, Mist thought, would be extremely useful about now.
Or you can use yours. Mist clamped her lips together and gripped the accelerator.
The situation was just as bad as the news made it seem, and Mist had to use a few spells and a lot of skill to wind her way among the police cars and emergency vehicles blocking every street around Civic Center Plaza. Cops in riot gear were bearing down on the crowd, which by Mist’s hasty estimation comprised about two hundred people. There were nearly as many women as men, and even a few kids.
What in Hel were they thinking of, bringing their kids into this? Did they think the cops would be more restrained?
Mist parked the bike as far out of the way as she could and chanted a quick warding spell to keep the authorities from noticing her as she skirted the cordon and strode toward the shouting mob. Signs waved above the roiling mass of faces, calling for the mayor’s resignation and investigations into government and police corruption.
It was too soon, Mist thought, too abrupt. But there was real rage behind this, and the protest was rapidly deteriorating into something much more dangerous, like an animal that had been pushed to its limit and was beginning to bite back. Some of the people were wild-eyed and well beyond reason, screaming incoherently, while others hefted boards, chunks of concrete, and rebar from unfinished construction projects.
Mist caught sight of Rick and former Marine Captain Taylor, among the first and foremost of her mortal officers, standing near the ragged margin of the crowd. She had to force her way among the people who were turning to face the cops as if they thought they were invincible.
“Mist,” Taylor acknowledged in a low voice as she joined them. “A few of us were keeping an eye on the protest when it started after the mayor’s speech.” He cast a glance toward the advancing cops. “It was peaceful until a short time after you left. We weren’t able to determine exactly what happened, but suddenly it exploded into this.”
“Haven’t seen Loki,” Rick added, “but he has to be in this somewhere.”
“Possibly,” Mist said, continuing to scan the crowd. “That’s what we have to find out. Rick, get your people looking for anyone who might be Jotunn. You all know the signs. We need to isolate them from the crowd without attracting attention. Captain, when our other people arrive, try to calm the crowd as much as possible. No force, just persuasion. We want to minimize the chance of violence.”
“Can you deal with the police yourself?” Taylor asked.
“I’ve got a call in to Freya.”
Rick snorted. “Good luck with that. She’s probably watching this on TV in some bigwig’s penthouse. She won’t get her hands dirty.”
“Just do what I told you. Captain Taylor, you’re in command. Good luck.”
Without waiting for any last-minute protests, Mist worked her way through the crowd toward the cops. Some of them were armed with riot guns, and she also saw canisters of tear gas. Loki could get around the no-firearms rule because these particular cops wouldn’t be in his army.
But if Loki was behind this and anyone was really hurt, especially a child, it could backfire badly on him and his political cronies. Maybe Loki was hoping that she’d slip up and reveal herself, appear on the news or get herself arrested. But he couldn’t be stupid enough to believe she’d allow that.
The bellow of police megaphones drowned out the shouts and cries of the mob, demanding that the protesters put down their weapons. The command had no effect. Mist found herself at one of the barricades and strengthened her spell, shifting the air around her so that she could become as close to invisible as possible.
The hastily erected barricades consisted of the typical “bike rack” steel fencing, with the rounded top bar less than two inches wide. Mist sucked in a deep breath and jumped to the top of the nearest segment, precariously balancing herself and looking out over the commotion.
The cops in riot gear were beginning to press in on the crowd, and the cries of protest became shouts of defiance. The police with riot guns and canisters waited for the signal to let loose. She had to halt them in their tracks, and not with her sword or risky offensive magic.
She knew what she had to do. But she couldn’t maintain the “invisibility” spell properly when she was concentrating on other magic. Though none of the police seemed to notice her, a sharp-eyed newswoman had turned in her direction, gesturing for her cameraman to focus on a particular area of the barricade.
Working quickly, Mist began to weave Runes-staves of protection to form a veil—not opaque enough to hide her completely, but capable of preventing anyone from making a positive identification. The news cameras would see a figure at the barricades, and nothing more.
Blocking her rage at Loki and her own self-disgust, she turned toward the nearest cops and drew on the seductive, honeyed warmth of the glamour. It seemed to flow up from the soles of her feet, through her legs and into her torso, pulsing around her heart, reaching out toward her arms and fingers.
She spread her arms and cast the warmth out from her body, aware of it as an almost physical thing that settled like sunlight on the hats, helmets, and shoulders of the men and women ready to strike. Some looked around in confusion; others lowered their weapons, dreamy smiles crossing their grim faces.
Then the glamour failed, rushing back to her, into her, nearly lifting her off her feet. She fell from the barricade, landing hard on her knees. Every last trace of magic was knocked out of her, leaving her helpless and exposed.
“Having trouble, Daughter?”
Freya appeared beside her, dressed with surprising restraint in a long cashmere sweater, destructed skinny jeans, and glossy leather knee-high boots. She surveyed the crowd with interest.
“Oh, my,” she said. “This looks most unpleasant.”
Mist scrambled to her feet, her face hot with shame. “We need to stop this,” she said, “or inn
ocent people will be hurt. Maybe killed.”
“Rather modest of Loki, don’t you think?” Freya said, wrinkling her nose. “Couldn’t he have found a more … dramatic display, if he really wanted to impress us?” She glanced at Mist. “You attempted the glamour, did you not? What went wrong?”
“We don’t have time to discuss it.”
Freya examined her daughter through hooded eyes. “You failed because you are still afraid. But if you allow your fears to rule you now, you will never be free of them.”
“Whatever you can do, do it now,” Mist said, gritting her teeth. “Please.”
The Lady’s hair drifted outward from her face, forming a halo, and there was a terrible light in her eyes that belied her smile. “There is no better time than now for me to help you learn to use the tools with which you were born.”
7
Freya extended her hand. Mist stared at the outstretched fingers, so delicate and fine and beautiful, nails glossy and perfect.
Red nails, like poison-tipped claws. Poison that would tear into Mist’s skin if she touched them, replacing her blood with something hot and dark and full of rage.
Like the beast.
Illusion, Mist thought. A hallucination brought on by her own selfish fears. But she ignored Freya’s invitation and stepped back, shaking her head.
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m not ready.”
Freya’s expression grew cold. “Will you sacrifice more lives because of your cowardice?” she demanded. “Will you forever be less than you were meant to be?”
“I need to be ready to fight,” Mist said, flinching from the contempt in her mother’s eyes. “This will be easy for you. We can try another time, when it isn’t—”
“There is no time,” Freya said. She crooked her fingers, and Mist felt the pull of the glamour, the power of distorted, incongruous love.
Acting entirely on instinct, Mist threw up a shield of forge-Galdr, steel polished to a mirror sheen that reflected Freya’s magic back upon herself. The goddess swayed, her lips parting in astonishment.
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