Black Ice

by Susan Krinard

  The silence that followed was long and awkward, but Tashiro couldn’t be suppressed for long. He scanned the area of the loft.

  “Pretty quiet around here,” he said.

  “I haven’t been out and about much lately,” Mist lied. “What’s it like out there?”

  “That weird black ice is finally melting,” he said, “but now that it’s snowing again it’s going to be bad. I wouldn’t go driving around any more than necessary. What about the loft?”

  “Some structural damage. We’re working on it.”

  Tashiro nodded and glanced across the street. Mist knew that the wards would make it difficult for him to focus on the factory and the area around it, and his gaze quickly slipped away to focus on the bike parked at the curb near his car.

  “Nice pair of wheels,” he said. “Yours?”

  Mist had forgotten that someone had fetched the bike from Lefty O’Doul Bridge and brought it back before some lucky thief got around to stealing it. She didn’t think she would have cared.

  “A gift,” she said brusquely.

  “From your cousin? He’s usually around to meet me as soon as I show up.”

  She stared at Tashiro coldly. “He had to go.”

  She couldn’t miss the highly inappropriate satisfaction in the lawyer’s eyes. She’d told Dainn that she thought he might be trusted with the truth, but if they were going to work together—assuming he believed and was willing to get involved—she was going to have to put a stop to his obviously amorous intentions. It wasn’t just the glamour now, and she didn’t have room in her heart for him or anyone else.

  “It’s a beautiful machine,” he went on, as if he’d never introduced the subject of her “cousin.” “I admit I’m a little envious.”

  “You can always trade in your car.”

  “I’m too used to it now.” His dark eyes grew serious. “I’m becoming used to a lot of things I never thought I’d want.”

  Mist folded her arms across her chest. “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I should get back to the search. You do forgive me?”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “This isn’t your fault. It’s mine, for not keeping a better eye on Ryan.”

  “Then you’ll let me come inside next time?”

  “If the loft is fixed by then.”

  He offered his hand. She took it, and he cupped hers between both of his in a gesture more intimate than a friendly good-bye.

  Mist carefully pried her hand loose. He turned on his heel and strode back to the Prius, banging the door as he climbed in. Mist felt a frisson of regret and then set it aside, thinking of the people under her care.

  She’d barely spoken to Anna since her return from the battleground. The computer gear had been moved across the street to the main factory, and Mist found the young woman busy at one of the stations, staring at the largest monitor as she clicked away at the keyboard. Mist’s inquiries as to her state of mind were met with absent nods and distracted reassurances. Like Gabi, she’d found something important to distract her from her grief and sense of loss.

  When Mist had finally introduced both young women to the Lady—omitting any mention of Orn—Freya had barely acknowledged them. She had no interest in day-to-day operations, or in the mortals who handled them.

  She also seemed uninterested in learning about Vidarr or Vali, though Dainn had informed her of their presence in Midgard soon after he’d met Mist. The Lady seemed to think them irrelevant, and since both men had vanished Mist saw no point in making an issue of their treachery.

  Nor had she mentioned Danny. She still felt that strong sense of inhibition, an instinctive desire to keep his name out of their conversations. She was all but certain that the boy was back with Loki, and there was nothing she could do about that for the time being. And then there was Svardkell, who had given his life to warn Mist of traitors, a warning Mist had utterly failed to heed. Freya had said nothing of him. Either she had never known that he, too, had been in Midgard, or she simply didn’t care. And since the things he had said—the words Dainn had relayed to Mist—were on subjects Mist had no desire to share with her mother, she tried to set aside her desire to know more about the Jotunn Freya had loved. For a time.

  After she’d spoken to Anna, Mist checked in on the infirmary and sent Eir to bed. The healer was looking much better, though she had just spent hours working with injured fighters, and Mist wondered if the very act of healing had offset the consequences of using her powers in battle.

  Gabi been kept busy watching Eir and helping the Valkyrie with small tasks such as cleaning and bandaging minor abrasions, and she concealed any lingering grief she might feel over Ryan’s disappearance. She had dealt surprisingly well with the horror of seeing so many injured and dead, and wanted to stay in the infirmary even after Mist insisted that it was time for her to get some sleep.

  “I wish I could have fought, too,” Gabi said as Mist finally chivvied her and Eir out of the infirmary to the sleeping area.

  “You remember what happened last time,” Mist said. “Your hands are barely healed, and they’re bound to get worse. Healers aren’t supposed to fight. You do want to be a healer, don’t you?”

  Gabi subsided with a grumble. “Do you think Ryan’s all right?” she asked plaintively.

  “I know he is,” Mist said, stroking a dark lock of hair away from Gabi’s face. “You know he’ll be back when he’s done whatever he needs to do. Now go with Eir.”

  Mist watched the two healers, young and old, walk stiffly to their beds, Eir to a cot and the girl to a bedroll. She returned to the infirmary to look over the wounded, most of whom were in a twilight sleep induced by one of Eir’s healing spells. The dead were awaiting a final service, which Bryn had arranged for that evening. Bunny’s death had hit the hardest. But two of the fallen had barely known what they were fighting for.

  Hardening her will against the pull of tears, Mist continued on to the adjoining area where the relatively whole recruits had been given beds and food and minor medical attention. Most of the mortals were sleeping, though they needed no spells to provide incentive.

  One man was awake: a somewhat grizzled but well-conditioned African American man in his forties whom Mist recognized at once as ex-military. A nasty cut crossed his cheek, half-hidden under a bandage. One of Mist’s swords lay on the floor beside him.

  He rose quickly from his inadequate bed of a single thin blanket, and Mist saw his arm twitch as he moved to salute her. Fortunately, he didn’t.

  “Taylor, ma’am,” he said, his posture as straight as Odin’s Spear. “Captain, United States Marine Corps.”

  “At ease, Captain,” she said, flushing. “My name is Mist. I am the…” She trailed off, suddenly unsure how to define herself to a man like this.

  “I know, ma’am,” the captain said. “The Einherjar informed us. You’re the general of this outfit, and the daughter of the goddess Freya.”

  Mist might have been startled, if anything could surprise her anymore. “You know more than I expected of someone who just arrived,” she said. “But then I didn’t expect any of you to become part of this so quickly.” Another wave of guilt caught her flailing in the deep end. “But I have to know: did you come here willingly?”

  Taylor held her gaze with the directness of man well accustomed to facing fear. “I’m not sure I understand, ma’am, but I’ve been having dreams for a long time. When I heard the call…”

  The call. Mist looked away, afraid Taylor would see her distress. The only “call” she knew of was the glamour Dainn had so many times urged her to make use of, the inherited ability that would supposedly bring all the mortal allies they needed.

  But she hadn’t used it. Not consciously.

  Taylor cleared his throat. “Did I say something wrong, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Not at all, Captain.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back, creased skin pulling at the bandage. She found herself prepared to trust th
is man she’d only just met. Norns grant that her instincts were correct this time.

  “What did you dream about?” she asked.

  “The world coming to an end,” he said, his smile fading. “I spoke to some of the others before the fight.” He gestured toward the newcomers. “It’s been different for everyone. But we all came because we knew we had to fight for Earth against something pretty bad. I guess we have a better idea what that is now.” “It shouldn’t have been this way,” Mist said. “I should have been here to meet you. I would have told you not to become involved in a battle you weren’t ready for.”

  “Ma’am, Bryn and Rota provided enough intel to give us an idea of what we’d be facing, but no one forced us. We didn’t know about the problem with firearms—a few M240s would have come in very handy—but a few of us can handle swords and knives and those staffs you keep in your gym, and others have martial arts training. We weren’t completely unprepared.”

  “Not even for giants?” she asked softly. “For magic?”

  He shrugged. “We learned fast.”

  Not fast enough, Mist thought, remembering the recruits and Einherjar who had given up their lives for something as fragile as a dream.

  There wasn’t a hope of winning without mortal help. And lots of it. But this couldn’t be the way. “Ma’am,” Taylor said, so softly that she had to strain to hear him. “I can see you wish this hadn’t happened. But we know you’re the one. That’s why we’ll follow you to the death, and not complain about it.”

  “I don’t want your deaths,” she said, hoping against hope that she could prove worthy of this man’s faith and the others’ sacrifices. “But it’s not going to get any easier. You won’t have much time to get up to speed. Until more people show up, we’re going to be spread pretty thin.”

  “We figured that, General.”

  Mist winced at the title. “I think we’d better stick with something a little less … formal. What about ‘commander’?”

  “That’s pretty formal. What about ’Chief?’”

  “If that’s what you recommend, it’ll do for me. And since you have military experience, Captain, I’m putting you in charge of the people who came with you. While you learn more about what’s going on here, you’ll assist Rota and Bryn in acclimating and training your squad to survive the next fight. It may come in a few hours or a few days or weeks. Lives depend on your ability.”

  “Understood, Chief.”

  “One more question, and then I’ll leave you to rest. Do you think any of your people could be trained to use a forge to make bladed weapons?”

  “Better than that, ma’am,” he said, flashing another grin. “We’ve got a blacksmith and two troops who can make swords and knives as well as handle them.”

  Mist released her breath. “That’s very good news. Now you’d better get some sleep, Captain Taylor. You’ll need it.”

  This time he did salute. “We won’t fail you, Chief.”

  Mist turned away quickly before he could notice how close she was coming to losing her last crumbling fragments of composure. She dragged herself back to her own blankets in the factory’s smallest office. Now, more than ever, she couldn’t afford to make mistakes due to lack of sleep.

  Falling onto her simple bed fully clothed, Mist drifted off almost immediately.

  She woke to the sense that someone else was in the room. She rolled over, drew Kettlingr from its sheath, and had it at her attacker’s throat before he could move in for the kill.

  Then she smelled him, recognized the pattern of his breathing, the silhouette of his body against the dim moonlight spilling through the half-covered windows.

  “Dainn?”

  31

  Mist tossed Kettlingr aside and jumped up. He stepped back, utterly silent, and shook his head.

  “I was told you were gone!” she whispered. “How did you—”

  He bent over her and placed a finger across her lips. With his other hand he laid a piece of paper on the ground beside her blankets, a note covered with a few brief lines of Runic script.

  “Dainn,” she said, pushing his hand away from her lips. “How did you get back here? What the Hel is—”

  She never got a chance to finish. Suddenly his mouth was on hers, and she opened to him, wanting him with every part of her body, dragging him down on top of her as she fell, her fingers digging into his shoulders and hair and back. Desire was everything, and there was only one being in the all the world who could satisfy her. Only one she could—

  His weight pressed her to the ground, his mouth on her neck as his fingers worked at the top buttons of her shirt. She found the zipper of his jeans, only half aware of what she was doing.And then, suddenly, his heat and warmth and hunger abandoned her, and she was alone again. She didn’t even see his shadow vanishing from the room.

  Feeling as if someone had slugged her in the stomach, Mist rolled over and grabbed the note he’d left.

  Danny is safe. Say nothing of him. Do not trust Freya. Not all is what it seems.

  Mist touched her lips. They felt bruised, but she wasn’t angry. She’d had as much to do with what had happened as Dainn. Each of them safe in the darkness, silent, acting on the most basic instinct shared by gods and mortals alike.

  He could be anywhere now. Refusing to return to her.

  Or refusing to return to Freya. What had really passed between them on the steppes? Had they spoken? Did he know Freya wished him ill?

  Why had he warned Mist so urgently not to trust her own mother?

  And how much do you trust her? Mist asked herself. She hadn’t spoken of Danny, and now Dainn’s note confirmed her instincts. But what had he meant by “Danny is safe”? If Loki had taken him back, how could he be?

  Not all is what it seems.

  She looked at the alarm clock on the floor a few feet away, her bleary vision just beginning to clear. So short a time since she’d spoken to him on the steppes, begging him to hold on.

  Sleep took her again before she could even consider getting up and finding some vital work to drive the crazy thoughts from her mind. When she woke, still half caught in an erotic and very disturbing dream, it was nearly 9 p.m.

  Still dazed with bewilderment and grief, Mist gave herself a quick sponge bath, changed her clothes again, and wandered outside. The night was crisp and surprisingly clear, all the clouds swept aside as if by some magic beyond Mist’s understanding.

  And perhaps it was a kind of magic. Mist crossed the parking lot to the warehouse that was being set up as a secondary shelter. The wide room was dark save for a few floor lamps the Einherjar had brought in and a string of colored lights hung along one wall, invisible from the street. It was a rather pitiful display, as was the tiny tree decorated with cheap glass and plastic ornaments.

  A tree. Mist counted backward, ticking off each day on a mental calendar she hadn’t so much as glanced at in days.

  Tonight was Christmas Eve.

  “Hey,” Rick said, coming up behind her as she stood staring at the tree. His face was marked with cuts and bruises from the battle, but otherwise—somewhat miraculously—he hadn’t suffered any serious injuries. It was clear, however, that he was grieving for his lost comrades. Especially Bunny.

  “I’m sorry,” Mist said quietly.

  He waved his hand as if to dismiss any hint of sorrow. “You look a little out of it,” he said. “Something I can do?”

  Mist shook her head. “I didn’t even realize that Yule Eve had come already. I still forget sometimes how important this celebration is to mortals, given that you believe it’s the day of your Christ’s birth.”

  “For some of us, yeah. Others just like the celebration. Not much of one tonight, though.”

  “I wish I had a better gift to give you than the prospect of more danger and suffering.”

  “That’s the whole point of Christmas for a lot of people,” Rick said. “The idea of sacrifice. I guess it ain’t so bad to look at it that way. Sacrificing for the gr
eater good.”

  Mist gripped his arm. “You’re a brave man, Rick. You and all the Einherjar.”

  He glanced away. “Now that the elves are here, won’t the … the real Einherjar start showing up, too? Are we going to have to change our name?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Mist said. “We’ll work something out.” She squeezed his arm and let him go. “How is Sleipnir?”

  “His temporary stable seems to be working out okay, though Hild said he’s still depressed, or whatever the word is for a horse.”

  And would probably stay that way, Mist thought, until he was reunited with Danny. Or Odin. If either reunion ever happened.

  But at least they had another one of the Treasures. Something good had come of all this pain.

  “Is it true that Dainn’s gone?” Rick asked.

  “I don’t know where he is,” Mist said, carefully holding her voice steady.

  “He wasn’t so bad after all, once you got to know him.”

  “Not so bad,” Mist murmured. “I’ll see you at the funeral.”

  The funeral service was brief and secular, given that spiritual beliefs among the allies ranged from the teachings of the White Christ through veneration of the Aesir and even more esoteric traditions with which Mist was only vaguely familiar. No one, even the companions of the fallen, had cared to linger after the Alfar had given the bodies to the earth. Freya had not attended.

  Anna was waiting for Mist in the factory “kitchen” when Mist finally returned to the main camp. “You should be sleeping,” Mist said, locating a beer in the portable fridge and a can of tomato soup in one of the crates that served as temporary cupboards. She forced herself to grab one of the saucepans hanging on the wall and pour the gloppy stuff into it.

  “I couldn’t,” Anna said, moving restlessly around the table brought over from loft. “There’s something I should have told you a long time ago, or at least right after you got me away from Vidarr. But things moved so fast.” Her eyes welled with tears. “You went through that portal with Dainn and the boy, and then there was the battle, and before that I was just plain scared.”