“Thor requires a bridge.” Heimdal spoke quietly, all business.
Business. I took another steadying breath. Fine. I could handle business.
Then I recalled one of the things Thor had bellowed. Loki should be banished. And I hesitated.
“To where?” I didn’t move from my doorway. I stood there with my hand on the latch and looked into Heimdal’s eyes as I awaited an answer.
Heimdal’s jaw worked. Whether that was because he disliked questions in general or because he understood my reason for asking this one, I didn’t know. Behind him, Thor’s face darkened.
“To Svartalfheim.” Heimdal responded, words clipped. “To commission a gift for Sif.” He paused, and his tone softened. “To perhaps bring her comfort for the damage done to her.”
Not to Midgard this time. So rather than running off on a hunt for solace in the arms of mortal women, Thor thought some bit of material wealth would make up for Sif’s shorn hair. Sadly, knowing Sif, he was possibly right. Especially since the Svartalfar were well-regarded for the artistry of their metal-working.
I glanced past Heimdal at Thor.
Thor returned my gaze with the glare of a petulant little boy. I tried to decipher how much of his anger was genuinely on Sif’s behalf, and how much was because someone had broken one of his favorite toys.
“What a kind and husbandly thing to do.” I managed at the last second to strip away a thread of pure, Loki-like mocking from my voice.
Heimdal’s eyes narrowed. Thor, however, stood a little straighter and squared his shoulders. Some of the red drained from his face.
I shut the door behind me and slipped past Heimdal, leading the way toward the city’s bridge stone. I could have taken Thor from anywhere, but Asgard’s traditions declared that travelers depart from the bridge stone clearing. Gods knew, we didn’t want to do anything against Asgard’s traditions.
Thor and Heimdal followed me to where Asgard’s nearest bridge stone hunkered, solid as the Aesir who lived there, in the center of a clearing. The stone itself was plain blue-gray granite, as if carved from ice.
I’d added my own touches to the clearing. Baubles and prisms and bits of colored glass hung from the delicate branches of birches. A set of streamers, colored silk salvaged from the robe I’d been wearing when I fled Alfheim, fluttered in the same brisk breeze that pinched my cheeks. Colors winked from the light-catchers, stolen from Asgard’s wintry sunlight.
True to Heimdal’s word, Loki was nowhere in sight. So, despite Thor’s suggestion, Loki had apparently not been banished.
Of course he hadn’t—that would put Asgard at odds with Jotunheim. Loki’s banishment was a threat that was never at risk of becoming a reality, I realized only now. After I’d made a fool of myself and managed to alienate Loki in the process.
Did it matter, that I’d raised Loki’s ire? Maybe that had been only a matter of time, anyhow. Maybe he’d never truly considered me a friend to begin with.
“He twists the truth to suit his own purposes.”
Or maybe he’d been testing the strength of my loyalty, and I’d walked away when he needed me most. The thought left me unsettled.
Thor stomped silently into the center of the clearing—he was well-familiar with my ritual, since he demanded its use with such frequency. Heimdal followed too, but he stopped at the edge of my space, as he always did. He never stepped into my clearing without awaiting my invitation.
For the moment, I didn’t offer one. Still shaken by Loki’s blatant rejection of my attempt to help, I thought one god at a time was more than enough to deal with. As it was, Thor continually glanced toward me with lowered brows and an expression that alternated between reluctant approval and a sulking, little-boy frown. Probably, he couldn’t decide whether I’d chosen Loki’s side or his.
Neither, I decided. I was for the moment completely alone. Homesickness sharpened by grief stabbed my heart.
Thor also kept glancing toward Heimdal, and I suspected that was the real reason for Thor’s silence. Left to his own devices, he’d probably have bellowed his displeasure into my face before demanding I send him on his way. As it was, Thor waited for me to lift my hand before planting his atop it.
“Svartalfheim,” was Thor’s sole spoken word. Which I already knew, but stating your destination was also part of the tradition.
Far overhead, I imagined a spot of purest white light. I inhaled, imagining that I drew the white light down to me in a thin but steady stream, down through the top of my head and into my body. The light tingled, stretching fingers of energy into my limbs. It came more slowly than it had in Alfheim, but I was accustomed to that. Traveling from other worlds had always required more effort.
I closed my eyes and envisioned the bridge stone in Svartalfheim, cut granite in a courtyard of polished quartz. The white light I’d called down flashed around me. I imagined it twisting and bending, just so.
Colors flared to life, byproducts of my manipulation of the light. Around Thor and me, light seemed to fade, fluttering with darker versions of rainbow flashes. Thor darkened, too, and what I could see of my hand beneath his. As the world around us warped in a roughly egg-shaped shell, we became ephemeral.
The light flashed. With a sound like silence giving way to absence, Asgard was gone.
On the far side, gemstones winked like stars in Svartalfheim’s high and wholly artificial sky. I lowered my hand away from Thor’s immediately.
“When you’re ready to return, call.” I spoke the words quickly, still following tradition.
Without waiting for Thor’s reply, traditional or otherwise, I stepped back and equally quickly opened a bridge for my own return to Asgard. I only wanted to be away, from Thor and everyone else. I kept my painting supplies in the clearing, to while away time when waiting to be called to return for a traveler. I longed for the distraction of brush and canvas.
Light. Colors. The void of a bridge opening. And through it all, an eagerness to be back to my clearing and alone with my painting.
But I wasn’t alone. Heimdal was waiting for me.
Heimdal remained exactly where I’d left him, at the very edge of the bridge stone clearing. I glimpsed him from the corner of my eye as I returned from Svartalfheim. He stood far enough to my side that I didn’t face him directly. He didn’t speak, but I felt his presence.
I allowed the light I’d used to ebb from my limbs, energy dissipating and colors fading as I let it slip away. Then I just stood there, among the birches with prisms glinting peek-a-boo colors and silken streamers from a world that no longer existed fluttering against my cheek.
I had no idea what to say, so I waited for what words Heimdal might have. Maybe he’d think Loki had delivered reprimand enough all on his own. Or he assumed that the magical chaotic influence Loki wielded had affected me, even after I’d assured Heimdal I would never be susceptible to such a thing.
Had Loki used his magic on me? I wasn’t sure how you could tell, but I didn’t feel like he had. Certainly he hadn’t been pleased by my words today.
To the side, out of my sight, Heimdal cleared his throat. I felt like I should say something to him, but emotions raged in my chest that I couldn’t define. If I spoke, I wasn’t sure whether I’d shout at Heimdal or burst into tears.
Loki uses everyone. It’s not personal where I’m concerned. It never was. He was never my friend.
A hand fell on my shoulder. I stiffened.
“I’m sorry.” Then Heimdal placed his other hand on my other shoulder.
The warmth of his fingers eased some of the stiffness from my posture. When Heimdal turned me toward him and drew me into the circle of his arms, I didn’t resist.
He encircled my shoulders with one arm. The other hand stroked my hair and down the back of my neck.
“Sorry for what?” Tentatively, I leaned my cheek against Heimdal’s chest. “I’m the one who’s an idiot.”
“You’re guilty of nothing but caring too much.”
Heimdal tucked my head beneath his chin. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, I felt less empty. Less alone.
“I should have trusted you.” I murmured the words against the coarse cloth of his shirt.
“Yes.”
He stated it as sternly as I’d come to expect from him. But with my ear against his chest, I was close enough to hear a rough catch in his throat, as well. As if my pain also pained him.
A split second later, I realized I could also hear his heartbeat. And that it beat as unsteadily as mine so often did in his presence. His chest rose and fell, steadily but maybe more quickly than usual. Beneath my cheek, only a thin layer of black broadcloth separated my skin from Heimdal’s—and not just my cheek but my entire body pressed against his.
Abruptly, I was no longer thinking of Loki, of my own foolishness, or of anything else at all except for Heimdal. My own pulse increased.
No. He’ll hear it.
But even if I could have controlled my heart, I abruptly didn’t care to.
If he doesn’t know by now how I feel, he’s a bigger fool than I am.
I brought my arms up from my side, but only as far as Heimdal’s waist. I slipped one hand around to the small of his back and pressed it there. Pressed my entire body more tightly against his. My other hand settled against his abdomen, just above the waistband of his trousers. Beneath my fingers, the washboard hardness of his stomach tightened.
I turned my face and lifted it, so that my mouth and nose pressed against the skin at the base of his throat. His scent filled me, musk and steel and sun’s-warmth. A sweet ache that started low in my stomach rolled through me.
Heimdal inhaled sharply. His pulse, now beneath my mouth, went from unsteady to outright racing. I smiled against his skin and traced my lips up his neck and to the whiskery roughness of his jaw, relishing the friction of his skin beneath my lips.
Heimdal stopped stroking my hair. His hand dropped like a hawk from the sky and closed around the hand I’d planted against his stomach. The arm around my shoulder shifted as well, catching my other wrist. He drew both my hands together between us, clasping mine between his but stepping back so that our bodies no longer touched.
My mood dived toward its second round of humiliation and rejection within the space of a single hour.
Then Heimdal lowered his face toward mine. Emotion smoldered in his deep blue eyes, and I knew I’d been right. He wanted me as much as I did him. His gaze flicked briefly toward my lips. For a moment, I was sure he was about to kiss me.
“You’re vulnerable.” He nearly whispered the words, but they came out with steady determination. “You’re soft-hearted, and so easily hurt.”
As my brow furrowed with confusion—was he complimenting or insulting me?—Heimdal paused and swallowed. His hands pressed more firmly around mine.
“Iris.” The tenderness with which he said my name hurt my heart. “I won’t become one of the people who hurts you.”
I shook my head, my brow furrowing even more deeply. But before I could gather my senses enough to reply, Heimdal lifted our clasped hands. Gently, he kissed my fingers, and the rough warmth of his lips and his breath against my skin made sure my senses remained scattered.
“I’m sorry,” he said, as he had at the beginning of our conversation.
Then he let go of my hands, backed a few steps before turning, and walked away.
14
* * *
Present day
Cold night air streamed around the edges of the Jeep’s doors and windows, filling the interior with its brisk clarity. The vinyl seat under my butt crackled, giving way beneath my weight only reluctantly. Chill seeped through the cheap leather-look gloves I tugged on before gripping the steering wheel. The air was so clear that when Claire shut her door, I could hear the grind and whine of the latch as it caught.
Outside, the northern lights teased the sky above the darkened landscape. Anxiety danced along my skin, keeping time with them.
Or maybe that’s my magic I feel.
Despite my hurry, a renewed joy filled my chest, too.
I have my magic back.
This time, I would not give it up easily.
The Jeep’s engine sputtered to life, filling the deep silence of the late-early hour with its rumbling. I backed it around and aimed it down the road toward the Cox farm and the paved highway beyond that. A series of ruts jostled us as I covered the dirt portion of the path leading up to the cabin. When we crossed onto the actual road, gravel crunched beneath the tires.
I abruptly felt surreal. I’d left the places I’d chosen to live during the past years without ceremony before—every time I’d left, that’s how I’d gone. But I couldn’t recall ever leaving in the middle of the night, without so much as giving notice at my job. The darkness and moonlight and colors floating in the sky outside converged into a dream-like quality.
The first time I’d fled anyplace, it had been darker yet, but for different reasons. Fire-induced midnight revisited my memory, choked with black smoke and heat and anguish. If I hadn’t been away from the city when the explosions happened… If Heimdal hadn’t first shielded me and then compelled me to leave…
I’d fled with him from my home. Now I ran from him.
“Where…” Claire huddled against the passenger door, as if she’d changed her mind and might crack it open and fling herself out at the first opportunity. “Where are we going?”
I turned my head just far enough to look Claire over one more time. With the way the girl crammed herself against the door and the querulous note in her voice, you’d think I’d taken her against her will, instead of Claire insisting.
I caught myself hoping Claire would escape from the Jeep at the first slow-down. Not that I was going so fast at the moment—dust rolled up behind the Jeep, filling the night with eerie white plumes. I didn’t want to risk disturbing Maureen and Everett when I drove past. As it was, if they were up, they’d glimpse the headlights drilling through the darkness.
Claire was still looking at me. Still waiting for an answer.
I didn’t have one. “I don’t know. Grand Forks, I guess. There’s a bus station there.”
“Oh.” Claire sniffled and ran a thumb under one eye. Her eyeliner smudged only a tiny bit this time, not like the total collapse it had suffered this morning. Or, given the hour, yesterday morning.
“That’s where I am going, at least.” I continued splitting my attention between the road and my passenger. “What are you going to do? This guy, he’s bad enough news to leave town?”
Claire shrugged with one shoulder. Her eyes glittered with fresh tears. “I don’t know what to do. I’m really into him. I think he’s into me, too.”
“But?” I intoned the word with gentle sternness. I wasn’t sure I liked the dangerous rollercoaster of indecision Claire seemed to be riding. “You think he’s drugging you. That doesn’t sound like something someone who’s genuinely ‘into you’ would do.”
Claire sniffed, but this sounded less like a sniffle and more like indignation. “I do things recreationally. Just because our screwed-up government doesn’t appreciate the rights of individuals to—”
“It’s not the same thing,” I cut in. “Legal or not, there’s a difference between choosing to do something and being tricked into it. There’s this thing called ‘consent’?”
Claire didn’t answer right away. “Maybe,” she finally mumbled.
“Do you want out of this relationship or not?”
Again, Claire was silent a moment before responding with a mumble. “I don’t know.”
Terrific.
The leading edge of my headlights picked out the mailbox at the end of the Cox driveway. Beyond it, the farmhouse windows were dimly lit—Everett’s equipment or maybe lights they left on all night. Nothing blazed, and I worried less about disturbing them.
A twinge of betrayal pinched my gut. If Claire really did ride all the way to Grand Forks with me, then Maureen would need to
find not one but two new workers. She couldn’t run the rental office and general store herself, not with Everett needing near-constant monitoring. How much money would they lose if they had to shut down for even a single day? It could cost the resort customers—cabin rentals for days, maybe even an entire week. And they needed the money—the resort didn’t do poorly, but they had Everett’s medical bills to deal with.
Damn it. I should’ve at least left a note. An apology. Something.
Maureen would worry. Belatedly, I realized that with Claire vanishing, too, and especially with Claire’s van parked in front of my cabin, someone might suspect the worst. Once the hour was more human, I’d need to at least text or email Maureen as soon as possible, so she wouldn’t call the police.
Or maybe, maybe, I was overreacting to the whole situation. Maybe I should turn around, haul my belongings back into the cabin, and deal with my personal failings in order to not make Maureen’s life more difficult than it already was.
Damn it!
But I could feel my magic. Even in my state of emotional upheaval, it thrilled through my veins. In the headlight beams, colors sparked and flashed from the white light—colors I knew without asking that Claire didn’t see. The colors called to me, begging me to touch them.
I don’t need this Jeep to travel. All I need is my magic. I could go anywhere …
Habit developed over the last six years had driven me to pack in the mundane way. Claire’s presence now locked me into that path. But maybe that was as well, anyhow. I’d never completely understood how Heimdal’s Watcher abilities worked. Using the magic might draw attention I didn’t need.
This is real. I have to go. I’m sorry, Maureen.
I aimed my mental apology at the farmhouse as the Jeep passed the oft-mended porch. A sense of calm settled over me, like a touch of dawn at the end of a restless night.
As we cleared the far end of the farmhouse, onto the last few yards of gravel before the paved road that would take us to Route 2 and eventually to Grand Forks, a new light flared in the rearview mirror.
Bridge Burned: A Norse Myths & Legends Fantasy Romance (Bridge of the Gods Book 1) Page 9