Mist m-1

by Susan Krinard

  The illusion didn’t last, and when it ended, the room, and Dainn, seemed even shabbier than before.

  “I may kill you anyway if you don’t change your clothes,” she said, sharp with annoyance at her lapse. “Did you think you were making yourself inconspicuous when you put those on?”

  “I had hoped—”

  “It didn’t work. Do you think you can manage to keep the Jotunar quiet for a few more minutes? I’m going to see if Vidarr has any spare clothes in his office. Better that you flap around in his stuff than in those rags, and I’m not going to be able to concentrate with that stink in the air.”

  Dainn sank to the floor, settling himself into a meditative position. As Mist started for the back room, he began to sing.

  * * *

  Dainn’s Rune-song died as Mist left the room. The ruined door was propped open, and he knew he would have little time to regain his equilibrium before she returned.

  He would need every second. All the peace he had believed he’d found after centuries of searching— the peace not even Freya’s sudden appearance was able to destroy—had been severely shaken the moment he had met Mist of the Valkyrie.

  Closing his eyes, Dainn steadied his breathing and reconsidered everything that had happened in the past ten hours. That moment of meeting had been indelibly imprinted in his memory. Though he had never met Freya’s unacknowledged daughter in Asgard, he had been in no doubt that the Lady’s offspring would be possessed of a certain native allure and a striking presence that would affect anyone who saw her.

  And she was beautiful, in spite of her obvious unawareness of her beauty. Her appearance was that of a twenty- eight-year- old woman; her candid eyes were gray with highlights of green, her cheekbones high, her lips full and firm, and her hair, fixed in a long braid at her back, was the gold of sun-kissed wheat.

  But she was nothing like her mother. She regarded herself as a warrior, blunt of speech and manner. When she had first addressed him, he had actually wondered if she would be suitable for what Freya had in mind.

  Mist had proven him wrong. The first time he had touched her flesh, seeking the confirmation of her identity in the tattoo around her wrist, he had already begun to feel it. And when he touched her mind, he had confirmed his impression that she was no mere Valkyrie. She was strong and courageous, to be sure, but Dainn had never had any use for warriors.

  It was her inner core of strength, her determination to accept the impossible, that had shattered his preconceptions. She faced every difficulty with her eyes wide open and her mind ready for battle, physical or otherwise.

  And that wasn’t all. Very far from it.

  Dainn filled his lungs on a slow count and absorbed the oxygen into every cell, feeding his weary body as well as his mind. In readying Mist for her ultimate destiny, he had thought at most he would be dealing with mere traces of Jotunar magic along with a little of her mother’s instincts, and then only for a brief time.

  His mistake had been costly. He had truly been unprepared to learn that the Slanderer had not only found Gungnir, but had also been living with Freya’s daughter. The fact that Loki knew so much— and had so flagrantly broken the rules of the game— had been a considerable shock.

  Dainn had intended to protect Mist, prepare her and hold her in ignorance of her ultimate fate, as he had been instructed to do. He had deliberately concealed her true heritage. But it had been impossible to keep Mist from following Laufeyson, impossible to prevent her from confronting him. To do so by any means other than physical force might have weakened his control and put her at even greater risk.

  So she had come to Asbrew, and it was here that he had experienced an even more profound understanding of her soul than he had ever wished or intended. He had seen under that bold façade. Beneath her confidence lay uncertainty and deeply buried fears, dissonant notes of doubt in her own competence and worthiness to exist. Doubts she revealed to him only in her fear that it was Freya’s power, not her own, that had sent Loki into flight.

  Ordinarily Dainn could have played upon those doubts. He had failed, and he had no one to blame but himself.

  He shifted position, unable to settle into that calm state of dispassion that had saved him so often over the long years. Freya had swept into Mist’s mind without warning, without informing Dainn of her intentions, before either he or Mist was ready. She had behaved rashly, determined to make her presence known to Loki without regard for the consequences. Now Loki believed she could act in this world through Mist, and he would be ready the next time.

  Dainn would not. Because when Mist had fallen under the mantle of Freya’s power, he had seen just what would be destroyed when the Lady came to fulfill her purpose.

  And that was when his doubts had begun to take hold. Dangerous, gnawing doubts about his mission, about what he had agreed to do to rid himself of his curse. And he had fallen— fallen so far that he had offered Mist a way out.

  “You need do nothing. Walk away, Valkyrie,” he had said, knowing all the while that her acceptance of his offer would mean the end of his hope for salvation.

  But he had been saved from his own folly. His warning had fallen on deaf ears. Mist had defended him from Vidarr. She had chosen to continue working with him even though she knew what he had done. Even though she had seen his anger, the seething rage that he should never have allowed her to witness.

  As long as all she saw was his anger, he was safe. If she had found the beast . . .

  He shook his head, though there was no one to witness his denial save for the man at the table, insensible with drink. She hadn’t found it—or if she had, she’d obviously doubted the validity of her own observation. But she would see it again if he did not take extreme care.

  Now that he had a chance to recover what he had almost thrown away, he had to know what the Lady had seen for herself.

  He looked toward Vali. Odin’s less volatile son still seemed to be in a stupor, but Dainn couldn’t afford to take the chance. He sang a sleeping spell, woven from the scent of flowers that had grown only in Alfheim, and waited until he heard a loud snore erupt from Vali’s slack lips.

  Settling down again, Dainn opened his mind. He sang a new song, a song of primroses, of love long lost, of yearning, of hope beyond hope.

  “Dainn.”

  He bowed his head, the Lady’s power pressing down on him like the weight of thousands upon thousands of fragrant blossoms, and for a moment he was unable to feel anything but the white heat of her love.

  “I hear,” he whispered.

  “Where is my child, my Mist?”

  “She is well, Lady,” he said.

  “And Loki? ”

  “He escaped with Gungnir.”

  Freya’s disembodied voice caressed him. “Gungnir is of no importance at the moment. I am more concerned with how the Slanderer managed to escape my notice until now. His behavior flies in the face of the rules, and he knows that I am no longer ignorant of it.” Dainn felt her smile. “It’s most fortunate that I sensed what was happening before he harmed her.”

  Dainn shivered. He had taken precautions to make sure that the Lady could not read more than his surface thoughts, but even that could be dangerous. It was far better for him to give her as much information as was necessary to allay any concerns on her part. He could not afford to have her angry with him.

  “I could not reach you,” he said. “I am grateful your wisdom is so much greater than my own.”

  She was much too vain to grasp his sarcasm. “How did she respond after I left?”

  “Your daughter believes it was her own magic that drove Loki away.”

  The Lady’s sigh was the caress of a butterfly’s wing against his cheek. “You did right to tell her who she is and make her believe she alone won the skirmish. If she becomes suspicious, this will be much more difficult.”

  “You overcame her will, Lady,” he said.

  “At some risk,” she chided. “I knew she would possess natural talent, but I u
nderestimated the extent of it.”

  “As did I,” Dainn said.

  “Which is why you must discover the scope of her abilities and make certain she has the necessary instruction to accept me. I cannot waste my magic on fighting my daughter’s mind and spirit when the time comes.”

  “I will do my best.”

  Her response was almost playful. “Such humility,” she said. “You were not always so.” The lightness left her voice. “I took a great chance in helping you now. I will need all my resources to send my allies to Midgard. I rely on you to see that Mist is not put in jeopardy again.”

  Dainn envisioned his mind contracting until there was no possibility that Freya would feel his true emotions. Lie upon lie he had told Freya’s daughter, like many seasons’ worth of autumn leaves piled one layer upon another, awaiting a spark to set them aflame.

  “Forgive me, Lady,” he said, bowing his head lower still.

  “It is forgotten,” Freya said, so gently that Dainn’s empty stomach heaved with the knowledge of what lay behind that gentleness. “I will not be so generous with my enemy.” She sighed, sending delicate zephyrs wafting around Dainn’s head. “Loki must always have known that Mist was my daughter, even in Asgard. It is unfortunate that he has discovered the strength of the connection between us, but at least he now realizes that he underestimated me, and so long as he believes I can appear in my daughter’s stead whenever I choose, he will not so brazenly attack her again.”

  “Even that belief will not stop him forever.”

  “He is and has always been a coward. He attempted to escape Midgard with Gungnir, did he not?”

  “And found the bridge inaccessible,” Dainn said. “Mist and I also discovered that the one Hrimgrimir used has vanished as well. Did you find a way to close them?”

  “Why would I do so when I intend to use them myself?” she asked, the faint scent of primroses turning sour.

  “Yet now they are being uncreated,” Dainn said. “Coward or not, Loki still has all the advantages. The plans we made may no longer be effective.”

  “Do you still fear him so much, my Dainn?”

  Such a tender punishment, Freya’s mockery. She knew what he most feared.

  “You have no concern that the bridges may no longer function?” he asked.

  “It has always been clear to me that Loki does not have as much control over them as he would wish. I am not Loki.”

  Yet they had been one and the same once, Dainn thought. To him. “What of Vidarr?” he asked.

  “It is a pity we did not know Odin’s sons were in this city, but he and his brother were never reckoned as players in the game. Do you believe he will interfere?”

  “He has no respect for the Lady Mist, and no reason to obey you.”

  “He, like Loki, is arrogant. But unless you have reason to think otherwise, I cannot see why he would stand in my way. I come closer to achieving our goals every day, every hour. Your only concern now is Mist herself.” The scent of ripe blossoms changed to one of cloying sweetness, filling Dainn’s lungs and draining the remaining strength from his body. “I have the utmost confidence in you, my Dainn.”

  Dainn gasped, struggling for a single lungful of untainted air. “You know . . . that the more I use my magic, the weaker the cage becomes.”

  “And you know you must keep control.”

  As if to emphasize her words, she pierced Dainn’s heart with her sensuous power, slicing through the twisted, thorny bars of his inner cage as if they were constructed of paper straws. Her magnificent body appeared in his mind, lushly rounded, full-breasted, and blatantly erotic in its nakedness. Golden hair, bright as the Brisingamen itself, drifted around her shoulders as if it had a life of its own.

  She could make him desire her. She could drive him mad with lust. She could do anything she chose to him, and his belief that he could resist her charms was no more than a pathetic attempt to maintain some shreds of what dignity remained to him.

  “My poor Dainn,” she said, reaching inside the cage. The beast stirred and stalked toward her, the burning crimson of its gaze fixed on her face. “There, there,” she said, stroking the dense black fur. “Would it be so terrible to love me?”

  Dainn squeezed his eyes closed, though what he observed could not be shut out even with blindness. “That was not our bargain,” he said.

  She fondled the beast’s long, tufted ears. “There is always a chance that you might choose to act against my will.”

  “I would never act against your will,” Dainn said, grinding his teeth together to distract himself from the ecstasy of her touch.

  The beast vanished, and Dainn felt Freya’s incorporeal hand stroke his cheek and move down his chest, penetrating both clothing and resistance, coming to rest on his painful erection. Her red lips brushed his. The kiss brought him to the edge of release, but she drew back abruptly, leaving him in unrelieved agony.

  “I will come to you again when I have further instructions,” she whispered as she left him. “Do not disappoint me. You know that if you fail, I can take from you all of Dainn Faith-breaker that remains.”

  8

  Dainn fell forward over his knees, barely catching himself with his hands before he collapsed onto the floor. His blood roared in his ears and pulsed in his cock, erasing all rational thought.

  But his mind was still capable of forming one clear image. Not of Freya, who had so casually tormented him, but of Mist . . . Mist, with her firm and womanly body, her golden hair, her strong and beautiful face. In his imagination that face wasn’t frowning at him, full of suspicion and contempt. It was smiling, and her bare arms were stretched toward him, welcoming him as she lay naked on a bed of furs. She parted her thighs, ready for him, but he wasn’t interested in her readiness. He fell on her like a brute savage and—

  Dainn slammed his head against the floor. Red sparks exploded inside his skull. He rolled onto his side and lay still until the stabbing pain became a dull ache. Slowly he rose to his knees and brushed his hand through his hair, feeling it sticky with blood.

  The injury would fade. Shame would ebb. Animal lust would subside, and he would once again become as sober and sexless as one of the ancient monks of the White Christ.

  But none of his problems had been solved. Freya would have no patience with any hesitation or weakness on his part, and his only advantage was that she still faced certain limitations to her own powers, those posed by the rules of the game and her disembodied state. She would not be able to observe Dainn’s every action or oversee his day-to-day decisions.

  Still, there could be no more mistakes. It was not only his future that hung in the balance. If the Lady won the game, the Aesir would be safe. His own people would live and thrive again. Midgard—the Midgard Mist wanted so much to protect—would have its chance at becoming the new world the Prophecies had foretold.

  At the cost of one woman’s life. The life of one too honest, too forthright, too honorable to recognize the true extent of the web of lies he had woven around her.

  And every time he touched Mist’s mind . . .

  He had told her his telepathic ability was a particular talent of his, and among all the other lies that one seemed very small. He had not been certain it would work until he “spoke” to her when she fought Loki.

  There had been only one other with whom he’d had such contact, aside from Freya herself. And that had come to a violent end long ago.

  Sickened and weary both physically and mentally, Dainn pulled himself together enough to make certain that both the Jotunar and Vali were still asleep. He had not lied when he’d told Mist that he was near the end of his strength. Freya had weakened his resistance when she had tampered with the cage he had built with such care. The more he used his magic, the closer he came to—

  “Dainn?”

  Mist’s voice warned him just in time. He got to his feet and watched her approach with folded jeans, a plaid cotton shirt, and a pair of well-worn work boots in her arms.r />
  “A penningr for your thoughts,” she said, circling around the quiescent Jotunar with hardly a glance. She came to a dead stop when she saw the blood in Dainn’s hair.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I fell.”

  “You fell?” Her brow creased. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Her seemingly genuine concern was so much at odds with her previous behavior that Dainn was momentarily shocked into silence.

  “A moment of dizziness, no more,” he said.

  “Left over from working your magic?”

  “Yes.”

  She continued to frown at him as she dropped the boots at her feet and brought him the bundle of clothes.

  “I think these should be all right for you,” she said. “You’re about as tall as Vidarr, even if he’s twice as wide as you are. Let’s just hope he doesn’t find out you’re wearing his clothes.”

  Dainn turned the bundle in his hands. “I will do my best to stay out of his way,” he said.

  She leaned closer and peered at his head. “That’s quite a goose egg you’ve got under there. I’ll go get something to wash the blood off.”

  “It is not necessary. Is there a place I can bathe?”

  “There’s a bathroom in the bar, and Vid and Vali have rooms upstairs in the back, but obviously that’s not an option. Vid has a sink in his office. You can use that to wash up when we’ve finished here.”

  “I am grateful.”

  “Believe me, I’m doing this more for myself than for you.”

  It was an attempt at humor, if a grudging one. Dainn gave her a brief nod, set down the clothes and began to shed his rags. Mist reddened and abruptly turned her back.

  Curious. He had not expected such prudery from a Valkyrie, who saw bodies of every shape and state on the battlefield when she rode out to collect “heroes” to serve Odin in Valhalla. According to custom the Choosers of the Slain were supposed to be virgins, but Dainn knew that custom had been more honored in the breach than in the observance. Some of the Valkyrie had even married.

  Mist herself had kept a lover, unaware though she had been of his true identity. Doubtless she had had others before Loki.