Well of course he’ll outman you, he oozes pure manliness. You, well, you’re damaged, unlikable and cranky as hell. Someone as sexy, strong, and collected as Rig is bound to irritate you because you want him, but you know you can never have him. Admit it. Accept it. Get on with whatever it is you need to do.
Shut up, it’s not like that!
Shyla realized she was actually having a full-blown argument with herself while her hand was frozen to a solid chunk of ice around her precious camera and fire was raining down her back. She couldn’t help but wonder just how far down the crazy slide she’d tumbled in the past twenty-four hours. There might not be much hope left for her state of mind.
The light from her camera’s LCD flickered. The pain in her shoulders burned at her, the weight on her neck pressing until she turned the LCD up to face her. At once, all of her discomfort—save the blistering cold in her hand—immediately lessened at her gesture.
Rig stepped close and peered over her shoulder. His face was right beside hers. His cheek brushed against a stray curl of her hair. Shyla’s senses were set to notice every detail, all at once.
An awesome wave swelled inside of her, something powerful—an unnamed force—it grew while she watched images of the arctic flicker on the screen. Images that had not made it back from that tragic expedition. Along with her mentor, her camera had been lost in those flames in Antarctica.
So why was she seeing these pictures now?
Rig reached for her frozen hand, his skin was warm against hers, staving off the frost. With him standing this close to her, she felt some of her agonies subside and could not help but melt back against his hard, lean frame.
He lent her his strength, cupping her arm with his other hand and squeezing her as if to reassure her. Deep within Shyla the first stirrings of real kinship and desire awoke and the ice began to melt away from her fingers as her skin heated up. She was glad of Rig’s help as she regained control over her hand.
The image on the display cleared.
Shyla’s mind went blank.
Blue Suit—the man who had died not two days ago—leered up at her. This was no image she had captured with her lens. This was no photo.
On the heels of that realization, the image moved. Blue Suit winked at her, as if they shared some naughty secret.
Shyla gave up on trying to be a badass in front of Rig.
She screamed and tried—unsuccessfully—to throw her camera across the room. It remained stuck to her hand. Rig, also, held fast to her, but his touch was no comfort at all. Shyla, trapped, elbowed him, but he wouldn’t be budged. Rig put his free arm around her waist to hold her still and she yelled, “Let me go!”
He snapped, “Be still, woman. What do you see?”
Shyla shoved the camera in his face, but Rig pushed it back, shaking his head. “I see nothing, this is your scrying mirror.” His face was somber but his eyes were not without pity.
Shyla believed him. Damn it.
This was some next level shit and Shyla wanted no more of it. The pain in her shoulders was back, urging her to look again at her ‘scrying mirror’. Blue Suit’s eyes were glowing brighter than the LCD should have allowed. That horrible smell was getting stronger.
“What do you see?” Rig repeated his question.
She struggled for words. “It’s just some guy. A bus creamed him the other day right in front of me. But he’s”—she winced, watching the LCD as it flickered madly and the image zoomed in closer on Blue Suit—”alive in the camera. Moving around, I mean. I dunno, it’s impossible, right? Look, I know that sounds crazy bu—”
“It’s not crazy. It’s Skrymir. He’s a Jotun.” Rig spat the word like a curse. “Skrymir is the cruelest of all the Giants. He can create illusions and play havoc with your senses if you let him.”
“How do you know who it is, if you can’t see the image?” She screeched.
“Because I know,” Rig said flatly. “I was aware he had come to Midjun—Earth, I mean—and I knew he had taken control of a corpse. It’s the M.O. of his kind.”
Shyla tore her eyes away from the LCD and Blue Suit’s—Skrymir’s—leering face, ignoring the flare of pain in her shoulders at the gesture. “Why?”
“Because they can. It’s a fun way to mess with the locals.” Rig shrugged. Then a thought appeared to strike him, darkening his features. “Wait, did he touch you? The man who died?”
“We bumped into each other before he got hit.”
“No this would be after Skrymir had control of him,” Rig said urgently. “Did the corpse touch you? Did he spit on you or bleed—”
“Oh.” Shyla remembered the stares from her colleagues, the blood and gore on her khakis. “Yeah. I got his blood on my clothes.”
“That was no accident,” Rig informed her. “You must still have the clothes.” He glanced around, as if he expected to see them through the walls.
She’d tossed them into the garbage, but the bag was still in her apartment. Shyla didn’t care to know how he’d guessed that.
Rig let go of her and the flesh on her hand frosted over again. The cold returned when he stepped away from her. Shyla felt his absence like a blow and knew she was weaker for it.
Rig made a show of sniffing the air. He grabbed for something at his waist, turned and made a beeline for Shyla’s kitchen.
Is he part bloodhound? Shyla wondered and followed on unsteady feet.
He tore the lid off the trashcan, reared back and produced sword from beneath his coat.
“Holy shitballs, I’m not even going to ask where you got that from,” she yelled.
Rig winced at her, made a gesture with his wrist, and the sword turned into what looked like some kind of bone. He put it back into the belt at his waist.
Ugh. Well, at least now we know what smells so bad in here, Shyla thought, glancing at her trashcan.
The clothes she had worn were there, but instead of being marked by a few splatters of blood, they were now coated with congealing masses of black goo that had grown rampant on the threads. An overwhelming belch of sulfurous decay accompanied the revelation, causing Rig and Shyla to retreat from the kitchen.
Shyla faced him and held her frosty camera aloft. “I need to get my hand off this thing.”
Words she’d never imagined thinking, let alone saying about her most beloved possession.
“You need that to call out Skrymir,” Rig countered. A fierce light entered his blue eyes. “We must nullify his hold on your mind, or you’ll be no good to issue a challenge once he’s here.”
Shyla head wanted to explode. “No, no, no. There’ll be no Giant challenging here, buddy.”
He rounded on her and slid his hands in the collar of her coat. She was only wearing a tank top under the coat. Despite the circumstances, the feel of his palms on her skin was exciting and sensual. It wrung a gasp from her lips. He shoved at her clothes in frustration, tearing the material in his haste, revealing her delicate, naked shoulders. “Do you see these marks?”
Hot mortification flooded her face—why couldn’t he let this go. “Fuck you and my scars—”
“Forget about those, you vain, irritating woman,” he interrupted. He snarled. “Look at the protection you’ve been given.”
Something in his eyes—beyond his temper and ferocity—made her glance down at her shoulders, which should have been sprinkled with a few freckle-sized flaws.
There were no scars.
“Oh my God!” She cried out. “Shit!”
Black tattoos stained her skin.
Shyla had never been tattooed.
Rig pulled the straps of her tank down, exposing more of her skin. Only her breasts held up the straining fabric. He turned her to face the window, where she could see herself reflected against the glass and the faint traceries of early dawn beyond.
The ink inside her skin looked as if it belonged there. The black lines were laid out in odd designs, like the old artwork of the Vikings, all blunt ends and swirling knots. She did
n’t understand the shapes her eyes were seeing. But the tips of the tattoos began at the top of each shoulder and continued down her back, to form a picture.
Wings?
The lines followed the same path as her pain, as that pressure urging and compelling her to face Blue Suit/Skrymir.
“What is this?” Shyla batted at the marks. In her haste, she forgot that she had a camera fused in her hand.
Rig seized her arms, imprisoning her against his body. “That is an image of Muninn, one of Odin’s own ravens, and it is a powerful totem. It means Odin’s eye and mind are on you,” he explained. He studied her face for a moment. “That’s a big deal, by the way.”
That didn’t make Shyla feel better. Thanks for the bird, Odin! Now every messed up freak in the cosmos is gonna come after me because you drew your pet on me with a cosmic magic fucking marker.
Rig continued, “Muninn will not only protect you, she will also guide you if you pay attention to her.”
She could feel the raven’s claws digging in now, clenching her shoulder blades, tugging, urging her to look down at the camera again.
Shyla met Rig’s gaze. “All righty. I think Muninn wants me to look at Skrymir. But you said I have to nullify his hold on my mind before I call him out. Apparently you’re an expert, so tell me how I go about that.”
“You have to understand how this all works.”
“So explain it.” The cold in her hand was excruciating. “Fast.”
“Skrymir marked you with words and blood. He had to become a part of this world—in this case by possessing the corpse of someone you were passing—in order to establish that mind connection with you. Have you been hearing his words to you—I see you—repeated again and again?”
Shyla reared away from him. “How did you know what he said”—she shook her head—”never mind. Yes, I’ve been hearing it over and over. Go on.”
“No doubt he hoped to drive you insane over a period of weeks, maybe even months. Skrymir enjoys his games. But he didn’t reckon on how fast I’d arrive to stop him.”
“So how do you stop him?” Each word was punctuated. She was desperate for this to be over already.
Heat filled Rig’s lapis eyes. “You must allow another power to take his place inside your head.”
“Okay,” she squeaked.
She stood rigid, her back and shoulders exposed. Her ripped tank was slack over her breasts—they were the only reason it hadn’t slid down the front of her body. Her camera still dangled from her hand and her neck and back ached like a son of a bitch. Shyla was a wreck, but his eyes fell on her with such intensity she felt like the most gorgeous woman alive.
“H-how do I do that?” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“You let me kiss you.” He took her face in his hands before she could think of a single thing to say.
Chapter Eight
Soft.
She hadn’t expected his lips to be the softest she’d ever kissed.
But they didn’t remain so.
His mouth moved overs hers with infinite tenderness, learning her, exploring. A dart of his tongue tasted her. His fingers moved into her hairline, as if they were reading her life’s story in braille. A gentle pressure tilted her head back. A small breath sighed over her mouth. Her lips parted and she tasted some sweet, exotic spice that made her knees go all rubbery.
And then he kissed her for real.
His body was a cage, hard as steel and effectively trapping her. Not that she had any thoughts of escape. She had no thoughts whatsoever.
The heat coming off of his skin was incredible, melting the frost, and the camera fell free from her hand. It landed on the floor with a thud, but Shyla couldn’t bring herself to care. She put her arms around Rig’s neck and gathered him closer, opening her mouth to his insistent tongue.
He put his arms around her and held her tight. Her breasts crushed this way to his chest, she should have felt his heart beat, but she all she felt was the thundering storm of her own. Her body was on fire. He lifted her off her feet, holding her without effort, as if she weighed no more than a child. He was strong and solid and this was just a small display of his power.
He moved his lips, his tongue, but it was no longer just a simple kiss.
It had never been a simple kiss with this man.
Never would be.
Something more than passion flooded through her. He murmured a word into her mouth and it hit her like an orgasm, a cure for some strange hysteria she hadn’t been aware of suffering. Her body went rigid as a board in his arms. Her mind cleared of a fog—Skrymir’s spell. But then another fog swept through her.
This was Rig’s spell and, wow, was it a doozy.
For one sweet, delicious moment, Shyla let it linger. Rig’s hold on her mind was gentle. It was all desire. Passion. Sweet fruit. Shyla wanted to snuggle into it, roll around and enjoy every nuance. She knew that being owned by Rig would be the best experience of her life.
Owned? No.
No one owned Shyla Roth. No one!
Shyla tongued the word Rig had sent into her. She let it form and coalesce into being, and then sent it straight back into him.
He released her at once, coughing and rearing back as if a viper had bitten him.
Shyla landed on her feet, only swaying a little bit.
Her mind was clearer than it had been in days.
Rig sputtered. “You didn’t have to do that. I wasn’t going to stay in your mind forever, woman!”
She scowled at him. “How was I supposed to know that?”
“I am trying to help you,” he said. “Making you a Thrall is strictly against the rules.”
“And what are those rules, Rig?”
His expression closed down. The heat in his gaze cooled and the room seemed to chill around them. “We have a Giant to banish. Or was my kiss so amazing that you forgot?”
Shyla’s lips were still tingling, her knees weak. Not that she’d ever admit it to him. “As if. I’ve gotten better kisses playing spin the bottle.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, stomping his booted feet and came back with her clothes, which were a smoldering ruin. He tossed them at her feet. “Your mind is free. You can thank me later.”
“Oh thank you, great and potent gigolo, for the tongue wrestling, which thus divested me of my dirty, stinky laundry,” Shyla bowed low.
Before she could utter another word he had her up, in his arms, clenched to him so tight that the rigid press of his arousal dug into her. “Be careful how far you push me.” His features were rigid with anger. “You should know I don’t have a normal, mortal temper. Tread lightly.”
Shyla pushed him away and made a show of righting her clothes, chuffing with dismay at the condition they were in. “Got it. You’re a big ole douchebag. But you didn’t need to tell me that, I’d already guessed.”
He let the argument drop. His gaze fell upon her camera. “Pick it up again, let’s see what happens now.”
For the first time in her life, Shyla didn’t want to touch her camera. But more than she feared the demon or Giant or whatever it was in there, she feared being made to look like a coward in front of Rig and herself. So she retrieved it from where it had dropped, half expecting it to have broken on the floor when it landed.
It was fine.
Except for the furious face of Blue Suit/Skrymir, who was still glowering at her from the LCD. This time, however, his visage didn’t instill fear in her but rage. And the totem of Muninn no longer hurt as it dug into her shoulders, it burned through her like a righteous fury, lending her immense strength. Her hand did not frost when it touched the camera; it was suffused in a golden light that illuminated the room.
And Shyla knew at once what she had to do to draw him out. To call Blue Suit from wherever he was—the morgue, she guessed—to her living room.
She put her hand on the shutter button and began to depress it frantically. Click. Clickclickclick. Her speedflash, an attachment that shoul
d have been tucked away in her camera bag, had somehow rolled out on the floor and was blinding her with each close of the shutter. Lightning filled the small space. Clickclickclick, she called him out.
Except it wasn’t Blue Suit she was calling for. It was Skrymir, the Jotun. And so it was Skrymir, a Jotun who stepped out of the flashing light of her preternaturally gifted camera.
First a massive hand flickered into view.
Next an arm attached to that hand.
Then a shoulder. Head. Torso. The. Rest. Of. Him.
With one last flicker that fried the bulb in her speedflash, the Giant appeared, fully formed. He crashed into the room, sending her furniture flying. Glass and plaster exploded as he filled the space and the rooms beyond.
Oh gods.
The smell was as overwhelming as the Giant’s size. Shyla never wanted to breathe in again.
She saw a blur out of the corner of her eye. Rig moving. And then she was several feet away from a chunk of fallen ceiling that would have crushed her flat.
“Thanks.” She had to yell to be heard over the din.
“Don’t mention it,” he returned in kind.
Skrymir was the height of a three-story building and built like pyramid, fatter at the bottom, skinnier at the top. He was dotted all over with thick tufts of hair that were clumped together by solid chunks of ice. Even his colossal, unshod feet were covered with it. His skin was a bluish-gray; his lips frostbitten black and his eyes were the color of chipped stone. He wore worm-eaten animal pelts but nothing else and when he had finished emerging from the flashing light, chaos rained down all around him.
The tenants in the surrounding apartments were screaming and running. Burst pipes were spouting their contents in a blinding array. Dust and debris was still falling down about them. Just as Shyla had the fleeting thought that her floor might not hold under the Jotun’s weight, the supports started to buckle under their feet.
“What are you waiting for? Banish him!” Rig thundered.
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