"This isn't justice. It's revenge." Victoria could no more harm Sawyer than any other member of her pack who was helpless before her. She thirsted for blood but her overriding instincts were those of a protector.
Then it's revenge. Call it what you will. Sacrifice him—to me and in my name. Then, all will be forgiven. We will be as we once were—priestess and goddess.
"No." Victoria howled in defiance. Red, the deepest shade, hazed her vision.
So be it. You are my priestess no longer. I sever with thee. I take back all I have gifted thee. Upon the proclamation of the decree, Freya cut the spiritual ties that bound them. Simultaneously, Vanadium vanished from Victoria's hand—torn from her soul.
Bright agony ripped through Victoria's overworked vocal chords. She screamed, but no sound emerged. Her lungs ached—empty of air. She hoped, she prayed, the torment would end, but it went on forever. She collapsed onto her back, staring up at the screaming sky. A twisting, horrible pain in Victoria's gut—and a piteous wail formed in her mind. The sound of a child sobbing—her baby. A hundredfold more distressing than any torture. She found fury and fear, a fresh infusion of strength to bolster her fading will.
High overhead, furious motion blacked out the moon. Ravens. Their raucous cries were a furious chorus. The thousand—million?—avian forms converged into a whirlwind, an enormous tornado that danced against the stars. The raven twister descended and touched down, forming a giant man made of sleek feathers and bristled wings. His single eye and mouth glowed molten steel. His voice boomed—thunder and lightning.
"Stop."
"This is not your concern, Wodan."
"I'll summon The Hunt. I'll come after you, Freya."
The assault ceased.
Victoria collapsed into a boneless heap. She fell for a long time, weightless, free. When blackness caught her, it was a blessing.
Chapter Seventeen
Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr
Vanadium glowed orange and red, a narrow and intense aura that was close about the blade. Normally, the enchanted blade emanated a cool silver or warm gold, a radiance that lit the entire room with spectacular ribbons of blue and green that danced like the northern lights. The weapon vibrated with furious energy.
Freya turned toward Loki, venomous loathing in her gaze as though she'd like nothing better than to split him in two from the top of his head to his groin. Hidden in the thick foliage, Tregul rumbled his agitation, and then Bygul echoed her mate's sentiment. Leaves shook on their branches, but neither of the great cats emerged from cover.
The God of Lies took a swift step off the edge of the paved patio into a clump of ferns. He disliked putting his back to where both of the tigers lurked but he judged the irate goddess to be a greater threat. The magical charms he'd used on Tregul and Bygul should protect him from attack, but with cats—such fickle creatures—it was always a gamble.
"You're a monster!"
"Am I?" He clicked his tongue. A monster? Yes, he supposed he was. Loki belonged to a long and fearsome bloodline of unnatural beings and had sired more than his fair share. Always, the matter came down to a simple question—what sort of monster did he want to be? Not whether he would be.
"Yes! Only a bastard would do what you did." Freya spoke with fervency but also the sort of slow-dawning realization that Loki expected of her. The goddess was the loveliest creature in creation, and also, one of the dumbest.
He cocked an arrogant brow. "Must I remind you that you agreed to our agenda before we undertook this joint venture? It's hardly fair to cast sole blame on me now."
"You coerced me to hurt the mother of your own child. You disgust me—" Freya frothed at him in an outpouring of rage. She swiped the bottom of her foot across the ground as though trying to wipe excretion from her soul.
"Me—Coerce you? I don't think so. Oh no, you chose every step of the way—for centuries. From the first time you conspired with me against Odin to this travesty." Loki didn't think she'd come clean so easily. He wouldn't either, but he wore gray armor. More grime on his black heart hardly mattered. Oh, he acknowledged his own evil but considered the means worth the end.
Victoria had endured short-term harm, but it was nothing compared to what she'd have faced if she'd remained aligned with Freya, the faithless whore. His tenacious little mate was resourceful and resilient, as she'd proven time and again. She'd come through this trial and be stronger for it in the end. With Freya off the field, the path to Odin was clear and wide open. Should Victoria ever learn of Arik's role in this farce, her hatred for Loki would intensify, but that too was for the best. He couldn't protect her from Jake. No one could but the old man himself.
"You're contemptible." Shudders shook Freya, so great the weapon in her hand vibrated. For a moment, she crossed over to her warrior-aspect, a towering personification of conflict. Grudging admiration filled Loki and he gathered himself, preparing to change shapes and flee should she attack. But then she succumbed to tears and her fierce facade crumbled.
"You tortured your own priestess, sweet goddess. I simply stood by and watched. Tell me, who's really more contemptible?" He shook his head.
Shoulders hunched, Freya sank to her knees on the glossy tile of the patio. She gripped the hilt of Vanadium without regard for the magical dagger's immense importance. Tears streamed down her cheeks, crystal clear and bright. The wench even cried artfully—not a hair out of place or a trickle of snot. Her vanity was freaking unbelievable.
Loki gnashed his teeth and fumed. Much more of this and— Damn, too late!
The male tiger growled, resounding through the catio. The thick ferns shook and mighty Tregul emerged from hiding. Bygul followed right behind her mate. Both felines headed straight for their mistress. Their golden gazes fell on the Trickster, considering whether he presented an imminent threat. He tensed but held their stares, unflinching in the face of their potential animosity, and trusted his charms would hold. When the great cats took to restless pacing, he exhaled in relief.
Freya sobbed, piteous in her distress.
Loki shook his head in silent disgust. Reaching into the pocket of his suit coat, he extracted a silk handkerchief. He bent and offered her the hankie. "Here, take this."
"I hate you!" She refused the hankie.
"I hate you too, but let's not make this personal." With a shrug, he returned the handkerchief to its proper place.
"Not personal!" She jerked so her hair flew over her shoulders. Her lips quivered and her chin shook. "This has been nothing but personal. Why? Why do you hate me so much?"
"You don't even remember, do you?" Loki stared at her long and hard, disgusted with her anew. He wondered whether she was so stupid the matter had slipped her mind. Or perhaps she believed him so callous and unfeeling that the persecution and slaughter that befell his family so long ago no longer mattered.
Whether a day or a century or a millennium passed—he'd never forget. Centuries past, following in the chaotic aftermath of Baldur's death, Thor and his followers had hunted Loki. Sigyn, Loki's human wife, and their two young sons, Nari and Vali, had sought sanctuary in Freya's hall. The goddess had sheltered them for a time, but when Thor arrived at her gates, she'd turned Loki's family out. His boys—murdered. Faithful Sigyn joined her husband in his punishment.
The temptation to remind Freya was enormous but Loki bit his tongue. No good could come of dredging up the distant past, no matter how painful. Besides, he'd be handing her ammunition to use against him. "Never mind. It has no bearing on what we did accomplish together today. What's important is you made the right choice."
"The right choice..." She sucked a deep, watery breath. "Is there such a thing?"
"Of course there is," Loki assured her in a smooth voice. "Our alliance, however brief, wasn't founded on camaraderie. It was a product of self-interest. Most importantly, we both want to survive Ragnarök. Regardless of what you think of me, this was for the best. You tested Victoria and she chose Odin over you."
"Destiny?" Loki flicked his fingers, a dismissal. "Not a fan. I prefer to make my own and besides, it's that pretty little dagger you're holding that matters. Victoria was an implement of Fate. Someone else will take her place."
"Is that what you want me to do—find another priestess to give it to?" Freya asked, but the tautness in her tone suggested she'd do exactly the opposite of whatever he asked even if it harmed her long-term interests. Spitefulness ruled over reason.
Bygul passed within a few feet of Loki, pursuing a circular path that orbited her mistress. He reached, imploring fingers spread, and clicked his tongue. The cat's head swung toward him; her unblinking stare fixed while she considered his worth. He conjured magic and spun it into a twig of fresh catnip clutched between his fingers. Immediately, the tigress abandoned her reticence. She thrust her muzzle into his open hand. Her raspy tongue crossed his palm, snatching away the offering.
Loki stroked his hand along the slant of her nose and dragged his fingers through the luxurious fur, scratching behind her ears. From there it was easy-peasy. He extended his thoughts, connected with her contrary cat-brain, and implanted a suggestion—Freya needs you. Go to her.
The cat rumbled in agreement and approached from opposite her mate, so Freya was sandwiched between her pets. It placed the goddess in the difficult position of managing a deadly dangerous dagger in proximity to creatures she cherished.
"We've had our differences in the past, but I'm impressed with what you did to Victoria. Putting a pregnant woman to the press—that took backbone. Guts. I have to admit, I didn't think you had it in you, Freya. Obviously, you've changed. The way you handled it was exactly what I would have done." Loki forged reluctant admiration, tarnished with just enough resentment to attain believability. It wasn't difficult. Freya had followed his instructions almost to the letter so the lie wasn't even a real lie.
"I feel sick." Groaning, Freya pressed her face against Tregul's shoulder and sobbed.
"Chin up. The worst is over. You don't need to do anything with Vanadium yet. I'm sure once the heat of emotion fades and you have time to reflect, you'll reconsider our alliance. We have time to find an appropriate pawn to wield it. Until then, I suggest you hold onto that precious dagger. Keep it close. Just be careful—you almost shaved off poor Bygul's whiskers there."
"I don't want anything to do with this thing or you!" In a fit of temper, Freya cast Vanadium from her. The weapon landed on the tile a few feet away. "You made a promise—now keep it! Get out! I never want to see you again." She threw her arms around Tregul's neck and turned into the tiger's side, burying her face in his fur.
Ah, his prize! Excitement surged through Loki. He damn near released a cry of anticipation which he swallowed whole. As a veteran practitioner of the confidence game, he wouldn't risk tipping his hand. In a swift, smooth motion, he stooped and snatched up the discarded dagger.
Vanadium was nothing within his hand; an enormous burden on his soul. The moment he touched her, Loki sensed the weapon's profound disapproval. It possessed the sentience necessary to grasp his basic shifty character. Perhaps the weapon even understood the role he'd played in separating it from Victoria. Whatever the case, she made her displeasure known—the buzz of an angry hornet touched his mind.
It didn't matter. He only intended to keep Vanadium long enough to transport her to where she was needed most. So he stashed the dagger in a convenient fold in space, one of his many hidey-holes, and skipped into the form of a peregrine falcon. He shot straight up, passing from the patio to open sky, and soared high above the uppermost branches of Yggdrasil.
The top of the whole universe—overlooking the entirety of the Nine Worlds. The view was spectacular, but he continued on without enjoying the sight even though it was probably the last time he'd see it for a long time to come. Once Freya discovered she'd been tricked and Vanadium stolen, their bridges were burned.
He'd made an expensive gamble. If it didn't pay off, he was screwed.
Chapter Eighteen
Broken Bend, California on U.S. Route 50
Big hands grasped her shoulders and shook her. A big, goofy puppy with its ragdoll. "C'mon, Vic. Wake up. You've gotta wake up."
Her teeth clattered together with the force of the tremors, so hard her jaws ached. Her head pulsated. Bloated. Each throb threatened to burst her skull and spill her brains. Forcing her eyes open, Victoria made a blind grab and wound up clenching Logan's forearm in both hands. On an abstract level, she registered his full nudity but it hardly mattered. As a rule, shifters weren't self-conscious.
"Stop," she grated. "Stop shaking me or I swear you'll be sorry."
"Vic! You're alive." Logan breathed her name like a prayer. He flung his arms wide, hauled her off her feet, and squeezed the life out of her. The pressure about her abdomen was the last straw.
Twisting in his grasp, Victoria wedged her arms between them and shoved. He released her. The unexpected drop dealt the death blow to her traumatized stomach. She landed on her feet, executed a sharp turn, and lurched forward. She doubled over and spewed the contents of her stomach onto the ground. The taste was awful, and the stench even worse.
Logan, damn him, was right there holding her head. He supported her physically and via the pack bond, as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. She stared straight down. Logan's bare feet edged her field of vision. He had nice feet—big but shapely, and covered in a smattering of light brown hair. Trim calves and muscular ankles. She blinked and focused on his toes. His nails needed trimming.
As soon as she mustered the strength, she turned away from the mess. Grimacing, she swiped her mouth across her forearm. She worked her jaws in disgust, unable to rid herself of the aftertaste.
"Here." Logan shoved a piece of unwrapped gum into her face. She bit it, snatching it whole from his fingers. Her molars pulverized the soft candy to its natural chewiness. Juices flowed with saliva, ridding her of the lingering bitterness of bile. She chewed fast and furious while he unwrapped and fed her a second piece and then a third. The intense mintiness helped soothe her nausea
"Thank you." She shoved the entire gob into the corner of her mouth to speak. She leaned against Logan, and rubbed her face against his chest to be rid of tears and snot. Poor guy would have to shower—but he had to do that anyway. She'd apologize later.
"You're welcome." Logan smiled with his voice, warmth and affection, and, she suspected, vast amusement at her expense. She nodded, banging her forehead against his chest, but he didn't follow through with the snarky remark she expected. Instead, he drawled in a nervous tone, "Um, Vic?"
"Yeah?" She had to let go soon, but Logan was big and solid. An anchor and a shelter. She didn't want to release him because doing so meant facing the real world once again. His scent: conversant, citrusy, and comforting. He smelled like blood too, which made her hungry—an unwelcome need following so close behind her debilitating queasiness.
"Who's the scary birdman?"
She jerked away, so fast her poor swollen head throbbed in protest, but she ignored the pain. Twisting around, she scanned their surroundings. Her gaze skipped over Sawyer who lay where he'd fallen, still dead for all intents and purposes. She couldn't stand to look at him for too long, but based on what she understood of the runic magic, he should be back on his feet within the hour.
"There." Logan pointed, directing her gaze.
Odin's manifestation stood just beyond Sawyer, standing guard over his fallen son. He towered, sky high. The god's body was composed of living birds, glossy black ravens; the embodiment of unkindness. The flock swirled in constant flight, an avian tornado. Tapered wing edges like a thousand deadly blades. A single eye and mouth were fiery red, glowing molten against the darkness. On his crown, he wore a funnel of whirling birds that rose higher and wid
er to the doomsday flock overhead that blotted out the moon and stars.
It was eerily, deathly silent.
Victoria shook her head. Gods only knew how the mortal population of Sierra Pines would react to the carnage and devastation of the fight. Let alone the appearance of an actual god—who was too big and obvious to miss even from across the highway. And to think she'd worried about the stir caused by last February's Howl...
"Let him be. He's not someone you want to mess with." Victoria pushed away from Logan. Her instincts as a healer and a protector pushed to the fore. She walked toward Sawyer but then faltered, remembering...
"Huh. For once, I think I'll just do what you say."
"You're a smart boy." She patted his back, except her hand dropped low and she wound up spanking his backside. But only twice.
"Vic, does Ken need help? He looks deadish."
A broken laugh escaped her. "Deadish. Is that an official diagnosis?"
"Hey, I'm not the healer here."
"Sawyer's gonna be fine." She didn't dare spare the hunter a second glance or she'd be tempted to kill him...right in front of his father. Freya's revelation had rocked the foundation of her world. She couldn't afford to think about it too hard or for too long.
"Yeah... Not like I actually give a shit anyway." He drew a loud, deep breath through his nostrils. He moved his arm, waving around a torn piece of clothing. Wondering, she scowled at it for a long time before her tired mind supplied an answer—his jeans. For some reason, Logan was carrying around his ripped Levis. At least she didn't have to worry anymore about where he'd gotten the damn gum from.
"I'm sorry. Don't worry about Sawyer. He'll be fine." Which was more than she could say for herself. Victoria stepped back, glanced at Logan, and then performed a double take. "You look like shit."
Severe lacerations—lines in parallel—covered his chest and she guessed his back as well. A gaping wound in his shoulder ran deep, exposing the underlying bone. His arms and legs bore similar injuries—no wonder he smelled like blood. Yet despite it all, he was steady on his feet and propping her up. Instant guilt overcame her. The guy must be in agony. She was so used to Logan's accelerated healing that she hadn't considered his wellbeing.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 24