by Kira Brady
“Els, I’m sure the Regent has business to talk about. I’ll see you tonight. Same time?”
“You can’t leave bruises this time. I have to work.”
“Keep your fist up then.” Grace shooed her out the door, and Elsie left with a little wave, mouthing, Lucky, behind Asgard’s back.
Grace shut the door against the chilling October wind and turned back to find Asgard taking up her space. The room was immediately shabbier without Elsie to draw the eye away from the threadbare chairs and cracked walls. Asgard with his crimson coat and golden hair had too much class to slum it on Flesh Alley. Sitting on her couch, he leaned back and made himself right at home. Bear climbed into his lap.
Traitor.
She and Asgard had become entirely too comfortable together since the trip to Mount Si. It gave her an itchy feeling between her shoulder blades. She needed air. Changing her mind about the cold, she opened the top half of the Dutch door. Outside, leaves crunched beneath shoppers’ boots. A pack of feral hounds rolled a garbage can in the alley. The scent of sugar and brewing applejack drifted from the apothecary across the street.
Inside lounged Asgard. On her bed. So it was technically a couch, but she slept there. Even with the long, narrow room between them, she wanted to back up.
“What happened to your forehead?” he asked.
She reached up to touch the bruise across her brow. She’d almost forgotten about it. “I fell.”
He crossed his heel over his left knee.
“Really. I was searching the House’s library for more info on Kingu and the Heart. Ianna almost caught me. I had to climb out a window.”
“You should have free access to the library. I’ll talk to her.”
“Don’t. She’s still mad about the fence and Kingu’s attack. She hasn’t even found out yet that I’m teaching some of her girls self-defense. You’ll just make it worse.”
His jaw set. She felt the gulf drop away between them again. Distance was safer. She moved toward him.
“As much as it pains me to send a woman into danger,” he said, “I need your skills. I have a job for you.”
“Really?”
“Corbette has been persuaded to reopen the coal-gas-works project.” Asgard rose from the couch and strolled across the room to examine her bottles of ink. He found the rune books and flipped through one. “The Thunderbird who holds the Tablet shard will be guarding this second shipment. As part of the negotiation, I will be sending a few of my own to accompany the wagons and make sure there is no foul play.”
“I can do that.”
“Don’t make a stupid play for the Tablet. Kai Raiden is a well-trained Aether mage with two hundred pounds on you. But if the opportunity arises—”
“I’m on it.”
He studied the book. There was something he wasn’t telling her. He closed the cover and replaced it on the shelf. “At best it will be a long, slow trudge in the mud, and you gain us some valuable intel and the means of defeating Kingu. At worst, Kingu tries for it again, though I don’t know why he would. His latest attacks have been on Corbette, not Lord Kai. I think he’s following the Heart, not the necklace.”
She felt a rush of anticipation. There was something twisted about her. She liked that adrenaline high too much, that dance with death on the edge of the abyss. It called to some morbid part of her. Everyone fell eventually, but every time she escaped by the skin of her teeth was another chance to thumb her nose at Freya and Ishtar and any other incarnation that wanted a piece of her soul.
She negotiated bringing Oscar as her backup and Hart, if the Kivati would let him go, and made Asgard sign one of her new contracts for the two-hundred-dollar fee. After the High Priestess had robbed her, she was determined to lay things out legally. Not that anyone would come to her aid if Asgard left her high and dry. The Regent was judge, jury, and executioner.
He studied her. “Just when I think I have you pegged, you surprise me.”
“That’s me—more tricks than a two-bit whore.”
“Don’t. Don’t cheapen yourself. Sarcasm is your shield, but it cuts both ways.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She felt him approach. She imagined some giant reptile creeping up on its prey. I am not prey, she reminded herself. His presence gave her a tingling feeling along her skin, like static electricity in a thunderstorm. Pre-Unraveling, of course. There was no such thing anymore. Except she felt it when he drew close. It shouldn’t be possible. Her pulse sped up in excitement or fear, she couldn’t tell which. And sometimes weren’t they the same thing?
But she didn’t want to go there, not this time. She’d been burned once. She knew better than to stick her fingers in the socket again.
He brushed her hair off her neck. His fingers traced the brand on her skin, reconsecrating it with his own heat. “This looks purposeful, this raised mark. Who did this to you?”
She tensed, and he lifted his hand. The delicate skin on her neck still tingled from the heat of his fingers. Telling him about her first brand felt like a running iron had poked through her skin and burned along the muscle beneath it. “Your brother.”
“Tell me.”
“My parents died when I was sixteen. We had driven to Seattle Center to see the ballet. We walked back to the car through an alley. I remember I had the flu, but I didn’t want to stay in bed on my birthday. I was being stubborn.”
“Who, you? I can’t imagine it.”
She crossed her arms. “I think I fainted for a moment, and then two strange guys were blocking the alley. I know now they were aptrgangr, but I thought then they were just drugged-out. My mother was screaming at me to run. I ran. My parents died.”
“You did the right thing,” Asgard said. “Don’t cheapen their sacrifice. It was their right. They loved you.”
She rolled her shoulders. Now she would have fought, but back then she hadn’t known the first thing about self-defense. Running was always a good option.
“So how did you get the mark?” he asked.
“I woke up with it.” She’d woken up to Norgard’s smiling face. She’d thought he had saved her. By the time she’d realized her mistake, it had been too late. She’d already pledged herself to follow him to the ends of the earth. “He brought in this old Norwegian lady to ink me.”
“A heathwitch.”
Grace shrugged. “Norgard never told me anything about her. I called her Tunta. She didn’t speak English. Her teeth were yellow from the snoose she never stopped chewing, and her eyes were the bluest blue I’ve ever seen. She showed me the little magic I know and inked the next runes down my spine and on the insides of my wrists.” She held out her hands so that Asgard could see the crisp blue ink over each pulse point. “He told me it was to make me stronger. Those first two years were hell.”
“What did he do?” Asgard’s voice dropped low, almost a mimic of Norgard, arctic and base.
“He threw me right in the ring without training gloves. Not against aptrgangr, but against his best mercenaries. Hart broke my jaw during my first fight. He’s never forgiven himself for it.”
She could practically hear Asgard’s teeth grinding. “Let me guess, my kind brother healed you right up and sent you back to the ring.”
“But it did make me stronger. Tunta lived on a pallet in my room until I had all the runes memorized. Gods, the smell of chewing tobacco still sends me back. Then Norgard tested me until I got the results he wanted. I wanted to please him. I’ve never studied so hard. On my seventeenth birthday, I fought my first aptrgangr, and Tunta disappeared. By then I was champing at the bit to get my revenge and make my master proud.” She choked on the word, but it was nothing but the truth. “I had marks down my arms and legs. I’ve filled it in more since then. Every time I feel weak or out of control I put another rune on myself.”
“You? Out of control?” He laughed softly. “I’d like to see that.”
Grace forced herself to breathe through her mouth. The heat in his voic
e drew her in. The faint whiff of cinnamon lured her to relax. She was tired of fighting it. She closed her eyes. Iron control was all she had holding her together. “Want me to lose it like Corbette?”
“I can’t see you throwing a magical temper tantrum.”
“No.” She understood the Raven Lord more than she wanted to, but perfectionism and zealotry drove him up bat creek. Her self-control steered her down a different path. Shit needed to get done—she did it. No bellyaching. No pity party.
If she lost it, she would crumple in a puddle of bones and tears. Shit would cease to get done. People depended on her, and there was no one to step into her shoes. She was the last line of defense.
Asgard slid his finger down the side of her cheek to raise her chin. She opened her eyes. His emerald-green gaze anchored her to the floor. “I want to see you spiral out of control. I want to watch you lose every tightly wound spring.” He wrapped a strand of her hair slowly around his hand until it pulled her head up sharply. He held her motionless.
She could kick him, if she wanted to. She could break his hold on her. He dipped his head. Her lips parted.
“I want to wring every bit of steel from your spine.”
“Why?” She breathed the word. His mouth hovered an inch above hers, whispering mean, mad things like they were candy. She braced herself for him to close that distance. The tension in her body vibrated like the strings on a violin. One pluck, and her body would sing.
“Because once all of those iron spikes you call grit shatter like blown glass, only then will you see the true strength inside you. It’s not hate, and it’s not anger, and it’s not the ability to destroy. There is a goddess inside every woman, and she is a creator of worlds.”
Grace slapped him. Her hand came up all on its own and hit his cheek with the force of an anvil.
His head jerked to the side. His body didn’t move an inch. His mouth stretched in a tight smile. “I suppose I deserved that.” Releasing her hair, he slowly rubbed his jaw.
“You want to do me a favor, do you?” she asked. “You can get the Freya out of my shop.”
Chapter 13
Ravensdale lay three hours from Seattle as the crow flew. The four Kivati guardsmen might have flown there in that time, but they couldn’t carry the coal back. The journey would take five days if all went smoothly: two to get there, three to return with ten wagons full of freshly minted coal. Grace had five days to see if she could steal the Tablet of Destiny shard from around Lord Kai’s wrist.
It started ominously. The ten Kivati warriors who were supposed to guard the shipment turned into four due to some last-minute emergency. The four who came were in a sullen temper. The real action was happening back at Kivati Hall, and none of them wanted to be here picking up rocks. No one would tell her the details, but she could guess: another Kingu attack on Kivati soil. She needed to pump Lucia for answers. Did Corbette have the Heart? Was Kingu following its Aether trail? How did one defeat a demigod anyway?
For the first time she itched to be back in Seattle, not out on a job. The House of Ishtar’s extensive library waited, its secrets hidden between the leather and vellum pages.
“Keep up, Mercer. If you and pretty boy here fall behind, we aren’t going back for you.” Kai Raiden had the look of a desperado with the tailoring of a Kivati Thunderbird general, like they thought a lot of fine wool and linen could contain all that wildness. His black mane of curls softened the harshness of his features. He held himself like a Roman centurion of old, but his eyes were more Spartacus than Caesar; bleak desolation carved into those black depths, the thick circle of violet said he rode the edge of the Change. She could imagine him galloping across the fields of Sparta with sword and shield, his path of destruction rending the very blood from the earth.
She raised her chin and patted her knife at her hip. Never show an animal fear. “Must have been tough, General, losing that shipment the first time. How’d the Raven Lord take it?”
The violet in his eyes flared. He could make the mud beneath her open up and swallow her whole if he chose to—his ability to manipulate the Aether should be that good if he were one of Corbette’s chosen four. He wanted to; she could see it in the way his fingers twitched. But after abandoning the first shipment he had something to prove. He held himself back. “Saddle up.”
Compared to the Thunderbird, the three Crow guards were lean. Runner’s builds, but top-heavy. They exuded power. Part of it was the tangible self-confidence—they thought they were better than everyone else. Part of it was the Aether that ran through their blood. Hard to seem weak when you could manipulate the fabric of the universe to do your bidding. Must be nice.
All four wore the black armband of the Western House. Of the four Kivati Houses, the Western House was where they sent the troublemakers and hotheads. It had earned a reputation, and it was said Corbette sent them in whenever he had business that couldn’t be won on the straight and narrow. Like blowing up Drekar holdings, which meant they were the ones Grace had most often tangled with as Norgard’s mercenary.
They didn’t want her there. They didn’t like her, rough around the edges, not dolled up in restrictive skirts like their women. They didn’t trust her, Grace Mercer, Drekar spy. They didn’t think she could do anything but get in the way if there was trouble. Well, fuck ’em.
She sauntered over to the pony they’d brought her and caught sight of the sidesaddle. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She shot General Haughtiness a dark look.
He stared back, unperturbed.
Johnny handed her the reins. The handsome Crow was young, brash, and even less enthusiastic about being here than she was. Unlike her, he didn’t have a choice. She’d asked for Hart. Johnny had come instead, and the two weren’t exactly on speaking terms. She wondered if Lucia had sent her whipping boy to keep an eye on her. “It’s not the saddle you need to worry about,” he warned.
The mottled grey horse turned its head around and snickered.
Great.
The Thunderbird rode at the front of the wagon train. Rafe and Elias scouted overhead in Crow form. Every two wagons were hitched together, each with a human driver. Johnny, Oscar, and she took up the rear. She got the impression Johnny had been forbidden from taking his Totem form—the worst sort of punishment for his kind. The usual murder of crows followed them too. It was weird to be on the receiving end of the bird’s information, not the one being spied on. Crows swooped over the road searching for traps. They lined the trees as the wagon train passed through and painted the air silver with their grating laughter.
“Everyone from here to hell will know we’re coming,” Grace complained.
“Then we’re safe as long as they’ve seen Hitchcock,” Oscar said, looking up at the black-bedecked trees with a shudder.
The road skirted Lake Washington, then veered south-east along the old Maple Valley Highway to Ravensdale. Subdivisions lined the route like the tan tombstones of giants. If the suburbs had been soulless before, they weren’t now; the ticky-tacky boxes teemed with ghosts.
The horse, a glue factory reject named Bambi, only tried to kill her a few times. On the third try, it reared on a stick-thin trail at the side of a steep ravine. She got off and had a come-to-Jesus chat with the creature.
“Something is spooking it,” Oscar said. His Kivati-issued mount had been scraped from the bottom of the barrel too, but it had a better appreciation for continuing its flea-bitten existence.
She watched the patch of forest lining the road behind them. “Besides the crows?”
“They’re Kivati horses. They should be used to crows.”
Johnny turned his horse toward them. “Aptrgangr?”
“I can’t tell,” Oscar said, and she couldn’t either.
Whatever it was, it didn’t bother them on the journey to Ravensdale. They rode into town at noon on Friday. Ravensdale wasn’t much more than a hitching post with a main street and a couple of patched-up stores. A forest of green, army-issued canvas tents
sprouted up from the hillside where the miners lived. It could have been Deadwood or any gold rush boomtown.
Her dad would have loved this place. He always had a half-finished Louis L’Amour novel close at hand. By the time she was ten, they’d seen every John Wayne movie together. He was such a dork. But as she rode into town at the back of a real posse, with a real gun strapped to her hip, she felt less like the Duke and more like a little girl playing dress-up.
She missed him. While her mom had been all sharp edges, the tiger driven to see her daughter succeed, her dad had been the playful one. He was silly and softhearted, big on forgiveness and second chances. Especially for her. She wondered what he would think about Asgard. The lighter, the bike, the talk of honor. Asgard wasn’t a prankster like her dad, but he had that same quiet strength.
Workers toiled late into the night loading coal into the wagons. That night she dreamed of long, scaly claws and slitted green eyes. She woke in a sweat, though the early frost crept over her blanket. She couldn’t figure Asgard out. She would have fallen for him like a skyscraper in the Unraveling, shaken to her core till her bones liquefied and she was nothing but a puddle of want.
If she hadn’t met his brother first.
If she didn’t know better, and she did know better.
But still . . . still, there was a part of her that wanted even though she knew he was the worst sort of bad for her. The insistent, wicked little part that still wanted to dance with the devil in the scorching light of a Beltane fire. Before she burned, she wanted to hurt so good.
What was the point if you didn’t pack every inch of living with joy and sadness, with the highest high and the deepest despair? She knew, better than most, that there were no Technicolor sensations in the life after this. To be a ghost was to be a grey shadow of yourself. It meant an eternity of eating cardboard and shivering in a damp, colorless world. Rage was their only option, and it turned them to wraith. She’d put down enough aptrgangr to recognize it for fact.
