Death's Daughter

by L. A. McGinnis

  Thor loaded him into the back, Fen lifting her to her feet as she swayed against him. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Fen murmured, slipping his arm beneath her shoulders. “Not yet. We’re getting you both back to the Tower. Mir’s getting the infirmary ready for Tyr, as we speak. You okay?”

  She nodded, grateful he was holding her up. “Just shaken up and worried about him,” she lied. “Don’t know how long I was out.”

  “You’re white as a ghost.” Fen stepped back, then grabbed her when she almost fell. “How much of this blood is yours?” he demanded, his head dipping down while he inspected her face, frowning at what he found. She touched her hand to her chin, finding dried crust there, below her nose.

  “Just…a little of it, I think.” She was having trouble with her mouth. It didn’t want to make words. “Just get Tyr home as fast as possible. Please?” Fen braced her up, led her to the vehicle, and she slid in beside Tyr. Hunter wrapped a hand around his wrist, felt his thready pulse and held on, leaning her head against the seat.

  Once they reached the Tower, the flurry of activity swept Tyr away from her.

  She trudged behind them, the shouting and panic barely penetrating the descending fog, her feet so heavy she could barely lift them. They took Tyr in the elevator, and she was left waiting for the thing to come back down, slumped against the wall, eyes half closed. Stumbling into it, she punched fifteen, then waited until the doors opened again, stumbled out, and followed the panicked yelling.

  Mir had Tyr stretched out on a silver table, stripped down, his chest and stomach looking like they had been flayed wide open. He was writhing, pulling against Fenrir’s hands pinning him down to the table. He was hooked up to a variety of machines, their displays colorful and erratic, displaying numbers and graphs she didn’t understand, nor want to. All she saw was the face of the man she loved, contorted in pain. The muscles of his neck standing out in long, taut cords.

  His howl of pain rocked the room, and she stepped forward, only to be cut off by Fen, moving to get a better grip, securing Tyr down, his feet kicking hard and fast against the stainless table. And then his face relaxed, the muscles going loose. Fen’s knuckles went slack, and he stepped away.

  Mir was running his hands over the wounds, blueish light dancing from the ends of his fingers, sinking into Tyr’s flesh, the gaping cuts closing, sealing shut. Beneath the sheet of healing, blue magic, Tyr’s chest rose in a slow steady rhythm. Relief flooded through her, and as the horrors of the past hours were finally unleashed, she retreated into the hall, sank to the floor, tears running down her face, mixing with the dried blood.

  Tyr’s eyes flickered open while Mir closed the final wound.

  “Where is Hunter?” he growled, his throat raw, as if he’d been screaming. The last he’d seen her, she’d shoved her hand, her whole arm, for fuck’s sake, into the middle of the Orobus. When he’d gone down, the agony of the thing’s magic slicing through him, she’d still been on her feet, ready for a fight. After that, things got…fuzzy.

  Mir stepped back, his lips thinning out.

  “Where the fuck is Hunter?” Tyr demanded. “And trust me, I will heave my carcass off this table to go find her, if that’s what it takes.” He was pretty sure he’d end upon the floor, but he’d crawl to her if he had to.

  “She’s right outside.” Mir’s eyes shifted over to the right. “Fen, go tell her he’s awake.” There was confusion in his voice as he went on, “I’m actually surprised she’s not in here. She rode in with you, and I thought she was right behind us when you were on the gurney…” Mir’s gaze lifted, then his voice trailed off. “Oh fuck.”

  Tyr managed to raise his head as Hunter’s unconscious body was laid on the table beside him, her face bone-white, her limbs limp and spilling off the sides of the table. “She was outside… I found her like this… Shit, I didn’t know… She said she was only shaken up when we found you both at the airport… Other than the blood on her face…she seemed okay.” Fen was babbling, his explanation coming fast between panicked breaths. “Shit. Oh, shit.”

  “Did the Orobus touch her?”

  “No, but I was out.” Tyr propped himself upon an elbow, managed to swing his legs over the side of the table. “She touched him, though. Shoved her arm right through him, just before he nearly sliced me in two.”

  He didn’t miss the look Mir and Fen traded. Mir quickly stripped off her jacket, gave her arms a quick once-over, then checked the rest of her body. From what Tyr could see, she didn’t have a mark on her.

  “How long were you out?”

  “No telling,” Tyr said slowly. “I didn’t wake up until a minute ago.” He paused, gaze roaming desperately over her, tracking her wan face, the slack expression. “How did you even know where to find us?”

  “Hunter called it in on the radio.”

  Tyr mulled this little tidbit over as Fen muttered. “I don’t understand why she didn’t just blast him. If she can eradicate the stones, then surely she could blow him away, right?”

  “Not when I was so close,” Tyr explained. “She was trying to get me to leave. To give her space so she could do exactly that. I refused. And once I went down, she was alone with the Orobus.”

  “So her options were limited.”

  Tyr had an awful thought. “She had no options at all.” He couldn’t take his eyes from her empty, pale face. “And she was too stubborn to leave me.”

  Mir ran a hand over her, the blue flame sparking, sinking into her body, then fading away. “She isn’t injured, not that I can tell. Aside from all of the blood on her face, which is considerable, there doesn’t seem to be a mark on her. Unless…” Mir’s hands fell to his sides, his gaze growing distant.

  “What?” Tyr demanded. “What the hell are you thinking?”

  “When Syd went up against the Orobus, when he hit her with his power, it made her nose bleed. His magic, it was toxic, and it made her bleed.” His eyes narrowed, the bright blue flame issued from his hand settled in a steady blanket over her body. “There’s no trace of him, though, nothing he left behind, anyway.” Mir frowned. “Odd.”

  Tyr’s heart nearly stopped. “It’s not odd. It’s the explanation for what’s happened to her,” Tyr said softly. “The Orobus took back his power. She couldn’t fight him, she was helpless, so he pulled his dark magic out of her. And it’s left her too weak to…”

  “Shit,” Mir bellowed, and instantly, blue flame shot out of both hands, coating Hunter, until she was completely encased in his glowing, healing light. After a few minutes, Mir stepped back, his expression grim. “No wonder she’s in such bad shape. No injuries, nothing physical, but her life force… It’s gone, Tyr.”

  29

  Freyr checked his weapons, praying Fen was heading his way.

  No sense in dying a hero with no witnesses. Kind of defeated the purpose.

  Thor’s warning was correct. Something was coming from the north, along with the rain. The skittering of Grim was something they hadn’t heard for months, and now there were too many to count.

  Everyone else had loaded into the Hummers a few moments ago. Vali and Balder, Thor, Ava, who was a limp, staggering mess, Celine and Syd protesting every step of the way. Fen was lurking somewhere around, and Morgane walked up right beside him with Loki, who was currently filling the airways with his opinion about that decision.

  “Look. There are plenty of other places you could be right now.”

  “Yeah?” Morgane said, stepping up next to Freyr, a com in one hand and flipping one of her custom-made knives in the other. “Name one.” The look she shot Freyr was pure mischief. “And if it has anything to with the culinary arts, you, my friend, are in deep trouble.” Clicking the com off, she leaned in.

  “See, he probably was about to make a crack about me baking cookies, or some such shit,” she whispered. Freyr was pretty sure this wasn’t the best time for a romantic squabble, but he was also glad for the company, so he kept his trap shut.

&nb
sp; “Vantage point.” Loki’s strained voice issued from the com, and damn, he sounded pissed. “I was going to say there are plenty of good vantage points you could report from.”

  “News flash, these things can climb. I’m no safer up in one of the buildings than I am down here. Plus, I can’t fly.” With a wink, she threw Freyr the com. “I seriously don’t know why he even bothers. If I wanted to, I could keep him going for days.” She squinted down Michigan Avenue. “How many do you think? And do you think she’s with them?”

  Freyr knew who she was, and he didn’t like the thought of facing off with Hel one bit.

  “Probably. We haven’t had an actual sighting of her, but it’s safe to assume she’s skulking around. Enough of her minions are around to know she’s holding their leashes. What do you think?”

  “I agree.” Morgane’s voice was tight. “I never thought I’d say this, but I wish Odin was here.”

  “You and me both.”

  For a while they waited in silence, the clicking of talons and thousands of claws over stone and concrete the only sound besides their combined breathing. “So…tell me we have a plan,” Morgane said calmly. “Or do we just stand here while they overwhelm us?”

  “Of course we do. I’m hoping this goes better than Plan A did. See that truck parked over there, the green one against the curb?” Shaking her head, Morgane squinted into the dim. “That’s Plan B. When I say move, you follow me, understand?”

  The barest nod told him she did, and she continued to wait beside him, tense and taut but didn’t flinch, not as five hundred Grim bore down upon them. It was a shiny wall of black, the stench already reaching them, the sickening sweet smell turning his stomach. “Another ten seconds,” Freyr cautioned, noting two, small groups breaking rank, scaling the buildings on either side. “And it looks like we’ll still have some fighting to contend with after the explosion.”

  “Fine.” Morgane hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re sure about this Plan B shit?”

  “Pretty sure,” Freyr told her, reaching out to grasp her sleeve. He was easing her toward him, intending to draw her into the relative safety of a nearby bank’s marble entry, when everything went to shit.

  The world exploded in a flash of white, the incendiary flare illuminating the hulking, rounded shapes of Grim before obliterating them completely. Throwing himself over Morgane, he sandwiched her between his body and the street, the sweep of blistering heat obliterating his jacket and his Kevlar instantly, before burning its way down through his flesh. Thanking the gods he’d thought to throw his arm across his face, Freyr kept Morgane pinned, the explosion scattering chunks of demon, concrete, metal, and glass all around them in smoking, stinking piles.

  When he was sure the worst of it had passed, Freyr raised his head. Where the truck had been, nothing was left. A handful of demons skittered around, and he drew his knife and a gun, clambering unsteadily to his feet, crouched over Morgane. A few of them attacked, and he made quick work of them, while the rest crept off, disappearing through the smoke.

  Moaning, Morgane rolled over onto her stomach, the com squawking frantically on the ground. “Morgane? Fucking hell, Morgane, pick up… Are you there… Pick up!”

  Freyr reached down and answered. “We’re both still here. Not dead, surprisingly enough.” He gave her a quick once-over, noted the injuries to her leg. “We’re okay, but we’re going to need attention down here.” The smoke was maddening, filled with the stench of burnt demon, phosphorus, and accelerant. The mixture seared his nostrils. A few feet away, Loki materialized onto the street and dove for Morgane, scooping her from the asphalt, while Freyr continued scanning the clearing fog for any sign of attack.

  “I thought we had a fucking plan?” Freyr muttered, his gaze glued to movement in the dim shadows, his ears alert to the sounds of retreating Grim. Fen appeared out of the smoke, Vali right behind him, their faces pale and streaked with soot.

  “We did,” Loki explained, checking Morgane over, pausing at the leg that was twisted and bleeding. “Faulty initiator on the charges is Mir’s first guess.” He turned with her in his arms, and stopped, eyes widening. “Shit, Freyr. I think you’d better…”

  Freyr figured the end of that sentence out when one of his legs went out from underneath him. Pitching forward onto the street, he barely missed a wet, smoldering pile of barbequed Grim, the gun still clutched in his hand. He managed a hoarse, “Fuck,” right before he face-planted. Apparently, the stench of burnt flesh wasn’t only coming from the Grim piled around him.

  Fen rolled him onto his stomach, and the heavy hand on his shoulder kept him there. “Stay down. Mir’s on his way. Let him take a look at you.” Fen’s voice dropped. “Holy shit. I cannot believe you are still alive.”

  As the adrenaline rush faded, pain flooded in, scrambling his synapsis. Flashes of agony alternated with the memory of a bright, glaring flash on his retinas, an explosion blowing out his eardrums, a searing heat cutting through his shoulders and back, and the imperative, overwhelming need to protect Morgane at all costs.

  Mixed with the knowledge that he felt like he was dying.

  30

  Freyr woke in his own bed.

  Which was amazing, considering the last thing he remembered. A faint glimmer of wry amusement coursed through him. He should be dead. He’d thought he was dead, when he’d fallen face first to the ground, but now he was good as new, thanks to Mir’s healing magic and a stroke of luck.

  Glancing out the window, he figured he’d also slept for almost an entire day.

  Actually, good as new may have been an overstatement, Freyr thought, throwing back the covers. With a groan, he heaved his aching body out of bed. While he wasn’t dead, his body reminded him he’d come close. He’d avoided the bulk of the blast, but looking in the mirror…

  “Damn it all to hell.” Half of his hair was burned off, the other half singed black and stank of protein and smoke. His face, thankfully, was mostly untouched, except for a spectacular shiner. Strong hair game was always his benchmark, but it had taken a serious beating in the explosion that had leveled an entire city block. Eyeing his razor, he picked it up, studied the jagged mess that was once his gorgeous, awe-inspiring mane and went to work.

  Twenty minutes later, Morgane audibly gasped when he passed her in the hall. “Holy shit, Freyr, I barely recognized you.”

  “Change of pace. Figured I’d give the rest of these assholes a break from the competition and try to fit in.” The quip came out smoothly enough, even though his body rattled like a bucket of bolts as he meandered down the hallway. And yeah, his head was freezing, minus the mop of blond hair.

  “Look,” she said, moving closer. “What you did…” She glanced down the hall where the War Room door stood wide, the sounds of laughing and raised voices echoing loudly. “Loki’s been looking for you,” she said, dipping her head. “Now that you’re up, he’ll want a word with you.”

  Her eyes were bright when she finally looked up at him, muttering in a teary, hushed voice, “But I want to say thank you. You saved my ass. Mir said if you hadn’t thrown yourself on top of me, I would have enjoyed another little trip to the Underworld. Permanently, this time.”

  “How’s the leg?” Freyr asked, every bit as softly, noting she was moving as stiffly as he was.

  “Better. Not a hundred percent, but I’ll be fine.” She waved a hand in the air. “No big deal, really.” Freyr knew most of her body was covered in scars, courtesy of her nights spent fighting the Grim in the streets. Morgane was every bit as deadly as the rest of them, even though she was mortal.

  “Good,” he told her as they neared the room. “At least one thing went right yesterday. Maybe we can salvage something out of the debacle.” He swore she mumbled fat chance on her way past him down the hall, but he could have been wrong.

  Strange thing was, he’d always taken his looks for granted. Kind of like your thumb. Handy, but nothing you really noticed until you tried to pick up a pencil. And then
see what the fuck happened. See how much writing you get done then. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror he passed in the hallway. Weird. And he realized something in that split second, looking at that unfamiliar, foreign face staring back.

  While he had taken his good fortune for granted, he’d also taken everything it had brought him. Which was women, mostly. Lots and lots of women. So many women he couldn’t count them, even if he had been moved to try.

  But the funny thing was, none of that mattered. None of it had been real. He thought about what Tyr felt for Hunter. Loki for Morgane, Fen for Celine.

  Hope. Desperation. Love.

  Those feeling were real.

  He thought about what he’d seen in Loki’s face, when he’d appeared on the street, unsure if Morgane was alive or dead. What Tyr and Hunter had gone through, these past days. He’d never felt anything close to that. Never wanted to. But lately, he’d found himself wondering…

  What it might be like to feel, like they did.

  He’d never had that. He’d led this glittering, gilded life, full of a few brilliantly colored moments, richly saturated with pleasure and empty promises. None of which made life worth living. Bearable, but not worthwhile.

  Hesitating, he paused before he swung into the War Room. They’d be planning. Strategizing. Working to regain some ground, extend their lives another few days. He’d always been perfectly content to sit back, feet up on the table, and wait for orders.

  A dutiful, obedient little soldier.

  At least now he had the haircut to match.

  The low buzz of voice went silent when he walked in. As every eye turned toward him, he said three little words he never thought would come out of his mouth, and figured he’d live, though not very long, to regret.

  “I have a plan.”