The cold eyes fixed on hers. The mouth, with its rows of teeth filed to points like daggers, gaped in a grin.
“Heil, Odhinn’s girl,” the jötunn said, his voice deep enough to shake the very ground under Mist’s feet. “Or can it be that I am mistaken? Is this what the valkyrjur have become, mountless and dressed as thralls?”
Recovering her senses, Mist reached slowly inside her jacket for the knife she carried against her hip. It was too late now to draw the runes and burn them, and she had no song prepared that would work against a jötunn. She had never imagined she would need it.
“How are you called, giant?” she asked in the Old Tongue.
“I am Hrimgrimir,” the jötunn said. “I know you, Mist, once Chooser of the Dead.”
Mist shook her head, trying to dislodge the nightmare that had seized her mind and senses. Hrimgrimir was the frost giant who guarded the mouth of Niflheimr. His mistress, Hel herself, had perished at Ragnarök. Like the others, he should no longer exist.
“From whence have you come, Frost-Shrouded?” she asked. “From what dream of venom and darkness?”
Hrimgrimir laughed. “No dream, Sow’s bitch.” He blew out a foul, gusty breath. “A pity that you chose her side. You might have lived to see the new age.” He reared out of the vapor, huge hands curled, his power and giant-magic swirling round about him like the sleet he wore like ice-forged armor. “You will tell me where it is before you die.”
Mist felt his assault in body and soul, and her fingers slipped on the grip of her knife. She staggered back, pulled it out, and rubbed the runes engraved with such painstaking care by Odhinn himself. Like Gungnir, the knife began to stretch, to broaden, to become what it was meant to be.
“My kitten will silence your boasts,” she said into the howling wind that beat against her. She lifted Kettlingr and took a step forward, body bent, legs tensed to leap. A great ice-rimed hand swung toward her like a mallet meant to crush and shatter.
She struck in turn, swinging Kettlingr upward as the hand descended. The jötunn howled. Hot black blood splattered over her as her rune-kissed blade sank into flesh.
Mist jumped back, ready for another attack. It never came. The vapor fell like a curtain in front of her, a writhing wall of white maggots sheathed in ice. She swung again, but her sword whistled through empty air. The vapor began to recede as quickly as it had come, crackling angrily and leaving a crystalline film on the grass.
Shaken, Mist let the battle-fever drain from muscle and nerve and bone. A cold sweat bathed her forehead and glued her shirt to her back.
This was no nightmare. A jötunn had returned from the dead, bringing with him an evil no child of Mist’s adopted city could imagine.
Wiping her moist hand on the leg of her jeans, Mist sang Kettlingr back to its former size and sheathed the knife. The shock was nearly gone, yet the sense of unreality remained. Where had Hrimgrimir come from? No jötunn could walk the earth unnoticed for long. If there was no Jötunheimr, where could such a creature have found refuge from the final battle? Had she been drawn to the park tonight because she had felt his presence? Why had he tried to kill her?
Because no giant can meet a servant of the Aesir without enmity. But it was more than that. He’d known who she was. He’d been waiting for her.
“You will tell me where it is before you die.”
Mist stared blindly at the trail of blackened grass Hrimgrimir had left in the wake of his retreat. All the assumptions she had made that morning crumbled like bones scoured by the relentless assault of time and nature. Odhinn had been right. The ancient evil had come for the Swaying One.
She fought off a wave of panic and forced herself to concentrate. Hrimgrimir had threatened her, but he’d given up and fled in the middle of the duel. And what use would a lone survivor, evil or not, have for Gungnir when there were no battles left to fight?
“You might have lived to see the new age.”
Whatever he’d meant, a “new age” didn’t sound like something one jötunn could create on his own.
Moving quickly, Mist followed the giant’s trail, her boots crunching on the frozen grass. The park was still silent save for the wind in the treetops and the distant roar of a motorcycle on Lincoln Way. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood as rigid as a newly forged blade. She had gone only a few hundred feet when the track disappeared completely. No trace of the jötunn remained.
And yet, as she stood still and opened her senses to the unseen, the feeling of something out of place began to grow again. Something different this time. Something that froze her blood as surely as the jötunn’s cruel wind.
From her jacket pocket she withdrew the small piece of driftwood she always carried, though she had never thought to use it for such a purpose. She was a valkyrja, not a sorceress. The magic might fail, or even turn against her.
Still, she had to try. She unsheathed the knife, held the driftwood against the trunk of the nearest tree, and began to carve. The runes sizzled as she cut them into the wood: , Thurisaz, Ansuz. As she completed the last, the wood twitched in her hand as if it were alive and seeking freedom.
She couldn’t grant it life, only fulfillment in the flames. She sheathed the knife, withdrew a lighter from her other pocket, and set fire to the driftwood.
In three breaths it was consumed. The runes, drawn in crimson strokes, hung disembodied in the air. Then they, too, faded, and Mist felt their power seep through her skin and pierce her heart.
Without hesitation she turned onto a narrow, dusty path that wandered among a dense grove of Monterey pines. Her search brought her to a heap of discarded clothing spread over the pine needles, half hidden under a clump of thick shrubbery.
Mist cursed. The magic had turned against her, mocking her meager skill. She’d wasted too much time already. She was about to leave when the pile of ragged garments heaved, and a hand, lean and pale, reached out from a tattered sleeve. She gripped her knife. A low groan emerged from the stinking mound. She smelled blood, plentiful but no longer fresh.
Against her better judgment, she knelt beside the man. She expected an indigent, perhaps injured by some thug who found beating up helpless vagrants a source of amusement. But the hand, encrusted with filth as it was, appeared unmarked by the daily struggle for food and shelter. It was long-fingered and elegant, more accustomed to lifting golden goblets of mead than sifting through rubbish in a Dumpster.
She started at the thought. Mead had been the most favored beverage of gods and heroes and elves. And dwarves, and giants, and all the others who had fought for the dark at Ragnarök.
But this one was no giant or dwarf. Hesitantly she touched then pulled aside the blankets. A tall, lean form emerged, dressed in shirt and trousers too short and wide for his body. He lay on his belly, legs sprawled, cheek pressed against the damp earth.
And his face …
Mist had seen its like countless times in Valhöll, laughing among the Aesir and the warriors, fairer to look upon than the sun. It had always been accepted that the most beautiful of all creatures were the ljólsálfar, the light-elves of Álfheimr, allies of the gods.
This man was not so beautiful. His face was a mask of gore and mud, one eye swollen shut and his nose broken. Yet his features could not be mistaken.
A jötunn had come to Midgard. Now one of the álfar had come as well, risen against all reason from the final death. It couldn’t be coincidence.
Mist touched the álfr’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?” she asked in the Old Tongue.
The elf stirred, his fingers digging into the soil. He made a sound that might have been a word, rough and raw. Mist had no water to give him, no spell to ease his pain. Álfar healed quickly; she had no choice but to let nature take its course.
“Who…,” he croaked, opening his one good eye. “How…”
“Be easy, my friend.” She removed her jacket and laid it over him. “You’re safe.”
The eye, bright blue amid the red and brown o
f blood and dirt, regarded her with growing comprehension. “Safe?” he whispered. With a sudden jerk he rolled to his side, pushing her jacket away. “The jötunn…”
“There is no jötunn here,” she said, pushing him down again. “Lie still, jarl of the álfar. All is well.”
The sound he made might have been a laugh. He lifted himself on one arm and looked into her face. “Who … are you?”
Mist hesitated. She had never been afraid to use her real name among men, for there had been no one left to recognize her for what she was. Now things were different. The laws of Midgard—the natural, mundane laws that had ruled her for centuries—had been broken.
But he was of the ljölsálfar, who had fought alongside the gods at Ragnarök. And he might have the answers she desperately needed.
“I am Mist of the valkyrjur,” she said.
He closed his eye and released a shuddering breath. “Then my coming … was not in vain.” He lifted a shaking hand to rub his swollen lips. “I am Dáinn.”
Dáinn. She recognized the name. It was not uncommon among both elves and dwarves. But she knew in her heart that this was no common elf.
“Bringer of the Futhark,” she said slowly. “Teacher of the runes.”
He raised himself higher and sat up with a wince. “Yes.” There was a great weariness in his voice. “I have been gone a very long time.”
Gone. The memories flooded back, images of bloody conflict and hopeless courage. The elves had fought beside the Aesir, and died beside them.
All but one. Dáinn the Wise, who had walked away when Heimdall had sounded the call to arms. Dáinn the coward. Dáinn the cursed.
Mist drew away from him as if he were Fenrir himself. “Is that why you’re here?” she demanded. “Did you flee to Midgard when you ran from the great battle?”
The álfar had always been proud, but Dáinn made no effort to refute her accusation. He began to rise, a little of his elvish grace returning, then sank back down again like the faithless weakling he was.
“The great battle?” he said. “The final destruction of the gods?” He sighed, gazing into the darkness. “Does it seem to you that the world has ended?”
Mist couldn’t pretend that she didn’t understand his question, and it stung all the more because she had been thinking the same thing that very morning.
“Have you seen Baldr return from Hel?” Dáinn asked, relentless in his strange detachment. “Where are Vídarr and Váli and the sons of Thor?”
She could have told him that Vídarr and Váli were alive in this very city, one the owner of a Tenderloin bar and the other a common drunk. The sons of Odhinn were living proof that the prophecies had failed. They had known all along how useless it was to cling to the old ways. Mist had finally admitted they were right.
Now she knew they had been very, very wrong.
“There was an ending, yes,” Dáinn said into her silence. “The Aesir and their allies were scattered, sent into limbo and robbed of their power. But there was no Ragnarök. The gods did not die. And their enemies—” He broke off, and when he spoke again it was in plain English. “Their enemies still live.”
Mist felt the shock pass through her body and settle in her gut, roiling and churning like worms in a corpse. Somewhere the gods lived on, forgotten by men. Freyja, Heimdall, Tyr. Odhinn himself. The Allfather, who had passed Gungnir to her with his final breath.
“Go to Midgard,” he had said. “You will not fare alone. Each of your sisters will bear a weapon that must not fall into the hands of the evil ones. As long as you live, you will guard Gungnir. Until…”
He had died then, slain by Fenrir, and with the other valkyrjur. Mist had left the dying to their fates. She had believed she would have little time to guard the spear, since she, too, would be obliterated in the final destruction.
The joke had been on her. Odhinn himself hadn’t believed the prophecies. He’d known that the world to come would be just as cruel as the old; riven by war, greed, and suffering. He’d known that his enemies would survive.
“They have returned,” Dáinn said, struggling to his feet. “The jötunn Hrimgrimir has come to Midgard in search of the treasures. I was sent ahead, but he—”
“Who sent you?” she demanded, gripping his arms. “Have the Aesir also returned?”
“The Aesir have no power here. Not yet. Freyja came to me in a dream.…”
Freyja. Freyja the beautiful, the Lady, who received half the slain warriors chosen by the valkyrjur. Mist remembered the other things Hrimgrimir had said before his attack.
“Sow’s bitch,” he had called her. Syr, the Sow, was another name for Freyja. But Mist had always been Odhinn’s servant. It was for him she had fought, for him she had abandoned the honor of death in battle in favor of an immortal life of solitude.
“A dream?” she echoed, pushing her dark thoughts aside. “Why the Lady? Why should she come to you?”
Dáinn acknowledged her contempt with a twist of his lips. “I still have some small magic remaining to me, and the Lady has not lost all her power. She still has the seidr, her spell magic. It is that which keeps the gods alive.” His gaze turned inward. “The Aesir can see but little from where they now reside, yet what they see is worse than any seer’s foretelling.”
“Tell me!”
“She charged me to find the treasures and warn their guardians against the invasion.”
The invasion. The “new age.” How many jötunar had come to Midgard? If the giants had found the other valkyrjur, the other treasures …
Panic surged in Mist’s throat. “Was it Hrimgrimir who attacked you?” she asked, giving him a shake. “How did he get to Midgard?”
“There are passages, ways between the worlds that have been opened by dark seidr.”
“What worlds? Does Jötunheimr still exist? Asgard?” She grimaced at her own stupidity. None of that was important now. “How did he find you?”
“I do not know, but he knew I was looking for you.”
“And you couldn’t stop him? What happened to your magic, álfr?”
For the first time a flicker of real emotion crossed Dáinn’s face. “I had to let him win. My task was more important than any temporary victory. It was necessary that he believe I was no threat to him or his allies.”
Mist didn’t believe him. He’d let himself be beaten to a pulp and ground into the dirt like an ant on a battlefield. He was worse than useless.
But there was no time to question him further. “I have to go back,” she said. “Gungnir—”
“Is it safe?”
Mist didn’t bother to answer him. She jumped to her feet and began to run. She was halfway home when Dáinn caught up with her. She ignored him and kept on running.
The streets of Dogpatch were quiet now in the small hours of the morning. Dáinn was on her heels as she came to a skidding stop at her door and released the ward that guarded it from anyone but her and Eric. A dozen long strides carried her to the display room.
The case was open. Gungnir was gone.
Mist spun to the nearest wall and slammed it with her fist. Dáinn burst through the doorway, rags flapping.
“Loki’s piss!” Mist swore. “Short-wit, incompetent…”
“It will do no good to curse yourself now,” Dáinn said, unnaturally calm. “We must find him. Do you know the runes?”
“Of course I know them,” she snapped.
“Then help me.”
He sat cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes. Mist sat across from him, preparing her mind and body for the galdr. Dáinn began to sing. His voice moved through the air in eddies and swirls like water in a stream.
A prickle of bone-deep awareness washed through Mist as Dáinn’s spirit mingled with hers. It was like a violation, unseen hands reaching and plucking at her soul.
Sorrow. Such profound and terrible sorrow.
Breathing deeply, she tried to let the distraction of Dinny’s presence roll away like summer’s fog in au
tumn. It was no use. Her disdain for him was too strong. She could only hinder him now, and failure could have consequences too terrible to contemplate.
Careful not to disturb the elf, she got to her feet and walked into the kitchen. The cats were nowhere in sight, but on the table lay a folded piece of paper, not the one Eric had left before. A sense of unfocused dread stiffened Mist’s fingers as she reached for the paper.
“It was not the jötunn,” Dáinn said from the doorway.
The needle-sharp prick of ice filled Mist’s lungs. She picked up the note and unfolded it. The runic script seemed to pulse on the page like entrails spilling hot from a warrior’s belly.
My apologies, sweetling, it said. I had hoped to enjoy you one last time, but it was not to be. I will cherish your gift. You may be sure I will use it well.
The final symbol was the figure of a coiling snake. It came alive as she watched, hissing and seeming to laugh with its gaping jaws. Then it was still again, and Mist dropped the paper onto the table. It burst into flame and disintegrated into black ash.
“Eric,” she whispered.
“Loki Hel’s-Father,” Dáinn said. “You knew him?”
The accusation in his voice was well deserved. She had been far worse than the short-wit and incompetent she had called herself. Eric had never loved her. He had deceived her from the moment they’d met. She hadn’t been wise enough to see through the shape he had taken to seduce and set her at her ease.
Hrimgrimir had been no more than a distraction. It had always been Eric.
“I didn’t know,” she said numbly. “I believed…”
“You believed.” His short laugh was raw with despair. He ran his finger through the ashes. “No one knew he had pierced the veil. We share two burdens now, shield-maiden.”
Mist didn’t ask what the second burden was. All she could see was Eric’s laughing face when she had told him he had become nearly as good as she was.
“I’ll kill him,” she said.
“As Heimdall killed him?”
His mockery was all the more savage for its gentleness. She met Dáinn’s gaze across the table.
“Can you find him?” she asked.
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