by Linsey Hall
Oh, no. Not Baldr. The god of light glared at her and she heaved herself back.
“Go climb under a stablehand, it’s probably all you’re good at,” Baldr said.
“Lighten up, golden boy.” The raspy voice of another god barely registered in Sigyn’s consciousness as she struggled to balance the haunch of stag that was about to plummet off her tray and onto the floor. And the edge of Baldr’s cloak.
Desperate visions of the greasy meat staining the fine fabric pushed good sense from her mind. She called upon her magic, gasping at the pain that tore through her chest at the unorthodox use, and righted the meat upon the tray.
She shoved it onto the table and said, “I’m so sorry, your eminence. So sorry.”
She tripped over herself to back away. Baldr was the last one she wanted to anger, as he very much disagreed with raising demigods to full godhood. She shoved down every retort that rose to her lips and spun, desperate to disappear before Freya noticed her. Or worse, the magic that she’d used for too mundane a purpose.
Her gaze caught on the god who’d defended her.
Loki. Her chest tightened and she shoved away the rush of pleasure as she raced off the dais and into a darkened back corner of the hall.
She sucked air into her lungs as she warily eyed the high table. The gods ate and drank and shouted at each other as the golden torches shone down upon the great wooden table. The rich colors of their robes and the gold that decorated their bodies gleamed in the warm light.
Freya, her golden-haired mother, didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Sigyn’s shudders relaxed an infinitesimal amount and she rubbed her chest, sighing as the pain faded. She really needed her staff to properly channel her magic. Without it, the pain came.
Which she supposed she deserved, since she’d been using her magic for such an unimportant purpose as saving her own hide from Baldr’s displeasure. Arrogant ass. But that was to be expected from the gods. Supreme arrogance. Which, in her case, usually resulted in rudeness.
Except from Loki. She peered at the handsome, black-haired god who’d only recently arrived at the Hall of Aesir. He’d been here but a week and the other gods hadn’t been pleased by his arrival. She’d heard of him, of course. The trickster god who made the other gods’ lives hell. It was like he lived to bring them down a peg.
She grinned when he shouted an insult across the table at Thor, then turned another upon Baldr. She was desperately jealous of Loki’s ability to say whatever he wanted. She wanted to be able to tell Baldr what she thought.
But more than that, far more than that, she wanted a seat at that table and the power and prestige that came with it. She’d put up with any insult to have that.
So she watched Loki and lived vicariously through him. He was very good at flyting, the insult game that the gods played. But he played it more viciously than the rest, his barbs meant to sting and maim. He never held back, seemed intent upon crushing his opponents with the worst insults he could devise.
But he’d never turned that cruelty on her. Nor the rudeness that most of the other gods showed her. She could bear their rudeness—she could bear anything—as long as it earned her the seat she coveted. It was the price a halfblood would pay to ascend to full godship, and she was willing to pay it.
But Loki. In the week he’d been here, he’d been nothing but courteous to her. Why, she had no idea. She liked it. As she liked the occasional meaningful glances they shared. His interest left her at a loss. If he wanted her for a tumble as the other gods occasionally did, he would say so. She’d refuse him, of course.
Wouldn’t she?
A sudden commotion at the high table drew her eye. Loki was on his feet, his midnight hair gleaming in the light of the torches. The forest green cloak that fell from his back was so rich in color that it sucked up the light. But it was his face that drew her eye and his rich, raspy voice that drew her ear.
“Your father doesn’t fuck your mother because you got there first,” he shouted at Baldr, who heaved to his feet to join Loki.
Baldr’s golden beauty gleamed in the torchlight and made Sigyn vaguely ill. Whatever he said under his breath made fury blaze on Loki’s face. Sigyn gasped when he threw himself at Baldr. The sound of Loki’s fist on Baldr’s face was a dull thud that sent a wash of nausea and joy through her.
A stupid, wishful part of her imagined that Loki was defending her from Baldr’s insults. He had taken up for her when Baldr had lashed out. But that couldn’t possibly be the case. The flyting had simply gotten out of hand as it always did when Loki played. He’d gone too far again. That was it.
Her heart jumped when Odin and Thor heaved to their feet and rushed around the high table toward Loki. They were upon him in seconds, meaty fists wrapped around Loki’s arms. He laughed as they dragged him from the hall and tossed him out the great doors. They turned to face the hall, their faces creased in annoyance.
Sigyn scowled.
They were like children. Able to hand out the insults but not to receive them. She glanced back up at the high table. The gods had all settled back into their seats and were tipping their mead toward their faces. Anger still creased some of their brows, but it would smooth out as the mead flowed.
Sigyn’s eyes raced over the table, checking the platters. All full. Or full enough. Before she could stop herself, she skirted around the edge of the mead hall, making sure to stick to the darkened edges, and raced out the small side door into the cold night.
Crisp air cleared her head immediately. What was she doing, chasing after the trickster god? According to the others, he was dangerous and she had much to lose. One day she would be a god, assured of her place in the Hall of Aesir, but for now, she was but a fatherless demigod. Her mother, her teacher, set strict rules.
If Sigyn broke them…
She shuddered at the thought of losing all she’d been working for and turned to go back into the hall.
“Did you follow me out into this cold night, little one?” The raspy voice sent a too-pleasant shiver through her.
She turned, unable to help herself. Loki stood in the shadows of the night, the moon lighting upon his pale skin. It caressed sharp cheekbones and a finely cut jaw, but was swallowed by the black eyes that raced across her face and body.
Her heart thundered in her chest. With fear, but with something more. His beauty made something deep inside of her twist hard, though his gaze reminded her that she should be afraid. As did his size. He towered over her, his shoulders broad beneath the cloak that protected him from the wind.
“Maybe I did,” she said, unable to stoke the fear that would keep her safe. He’d been nothing but kind to her in the week he’d been in Aesir. He’d defended her against Baldr. And though they’d never spoken, the glances they’d shared across the hall had held a dark meaning that intrigued her far more than was wise.
“Why would that be?” His voice dragged across her nerve endings in the most pleasant way.
“I’m not sure I want to tell you.” The corners of her lips curled up. Wait a second. She was flirting! It was dangerous. It was stupid.
But she couldn’t stop herself.
“Who are you? I’ve seen you about the hall.”
Her cheeks heated despite the bite of the cold night air. “I am Sigyn, daughter of Freya.”
“And daughter of?”
She knew he awaited her sire’s name. Lineage was important in Asgard and especially important for the Aesir, the highest of the gods. But she had no name to give him.
“Magic,” she said.
“Ah.” His voice was rich with interest and she couldn’t help but preen a bit even as she flushed with embarrassment at not having a godly father. “So you are Freya’s Vala. Daughter of the high goddess and magic. A sorceress. I’m sure there are those among the other gods who don’t like that.”
“I am a demigod. A Vala,” she said, confirming the name for the sorceress race created by Freya and her affair with magic. Sigyn was the first Vala
. Perhaps the last, for her mother had not yet made another. She waited to see how Sigyn fared.
It was rather a lot of pressure.
Loki stepped closer and she swore she could feel the warmth of him though he remained a foot away. Her breath caught at the interest in his eyes.
“Why did you follow me out here?” he asked. There was perplexity in his voice. It was almost as if he couldn’t understand that another might be interested in him past being annoyed at his devilry. That another might care for him.
Not that she did, of course. And she was probably inventing all this in her mind.
But she was certainly interested. Back in the hall when she’d nearly dropped the platter of stag, Baldr’s rudeness hadn’t been unexpected. But Loki’s defense of her had been.
And the way he spoke his mind around the other gods…
“Well?” he asked.
“How do you dare challenge the other gods like you do? The things you say!” She could hear the awe in her voice and it embarrassed her, but she couldn’t help it.
“You like that, do you?” He grinned.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I wish I could speak half my mind to them as you do. I’d love to challenge them, instead of being scenery that occasionally incites annoyance and rudeness.”
“Why don’t you?”
An illicit thrill at the idea of stepping forward and speaking her mind shot through her. Just as soon, it was stabbed through by fear. “Never. I want to be a god. Without their approval, it could never be. No matter how accomplished in seidr I become, without their approval, I stay as I am.”
“Even though worthless bastards like Baldr treat you like you’re nothing?”
“Especially so. If I ascend the ranks and take my rightful place, he can no longer do so. I can finally speak my mind.”
“I see. You are unique,” he said. “Partially of this world and yet not. But you see the world so clearly.”
He spoke of her status as a demigod. Welcomed in Aesir, but not quite accepted. At least not until she finished her training and Freya raised her to full godly status. She pushed through her nerves to speak. “As do you.”
He grinned and the sight tightened something in her chest. He was too beautiful. Dark hair that swept back from his forehead and fell to his collar, dark eyes that watched her with too much interest, and a smile that could steal all her good sense. Perhaps had already stolen it.
And this conversation…
She’d never had anything like it before.
She liked talking to him. And she liked the way he looked at her.
“Why do you look at me that way?” she asked. “You’ve been looking at me like this all week long. Ever since you came to Aesir.”
“I think you know why I look at you as I do.” He reached up and gently brushed her hair back from her neck.
She shivered at the heat of his rough fingers.
“Because I’m an outsider like you are.” She didn’t like the words that left her throat, but she liked what he was doing, gently brushing his fingers upon the side of her neck.
“That’s why I’m not cruel to you as the other gods are,” he said, and stepped closer until he towered over her. Her breath came faster as an unfamiliar pleasure raced through her. “It’s not why I look at you like I do.”
“Then why?” The words left her lips on a whisper. She knew why, but she wanted to hear the words.
His face was so close to hers that she could make out individual spiky black eyelashes even though the light was dim.
“This.” He pulled her toward him, his big hand now cupping the back of her head as he dragged her up to crush his mouth to hers.
A light burst within her, magic streaking through her veins as the pleasure of his lips raced through her mind and body. His lips were soft and firm at the same time, perfect in the way that they molded to her own.
She moaned at the taste of him, at the way his lips parted her own and his tongue dipped into her mouth. His big hand held her steady while his arm about the back of her waist pressed her tight against him.
The hardness and heat of his muscles clouded all rational thought from her mind and pushed the magic through her veins all the faster.
It was like when she practiced her seidr, but stronger, fiercer, than it had ever been. If she could gather her thoughts from the pleasure, she was certain she could create magic like none had ever seen.
But she couldn’t gather her thoughts from the pleasure. All she could do was run her hands up to his broad shoulders and hold on tight as his mouth tasted hers, as his sweet breath feathered across her lips, as his tongue made scandalous thoughts race through her mind.
A dark noise, animal-like in its intensity, rumbled up from his chest. His big hands tightened on her as his mouth plundered hers and his hips surged against her own.
She wanted to grab more of him, to touch every inch of the hard muscles that flexed beneath her palms. She was ravenous to tear his clothes away and set her mouth upon every inch of his flesh, to taste his skin and feel him shudder beneath her. She would take his pleasure into herself and use it to fuel her magic, to create something the world had never seen.
The thoughts streaked through her head like lightning, entrancing and terrifying. It was the terror that shocked some sense into her. She tore her mouth from his, gasping for cold air that she hoped would return her sanity.
All her muscles quivered and heat streaked through her veins, gathering at the juncture between her thighs and driving her nearly mindless.
But why had she been thinking about magic and Loki’s naked body? About his pleasure?
She’d never even kissed a man before, much less used one in her magic. It was insane. It was dangerous. She’d never heard of such a thing. If it was something she was supposed to do, wouldn’t Freya have told her?
Loki’s head was bent, his broad chest heaving. Was he struggling to gain control? To not push her back against the rough wooden wall of the hall and do those amazing things to her mouth?
She wanted him to.
But no. She needed to think.
“This is madness,” she said.
“It’s something,” he rasped.
“Is it always like this? Kissing?”
“No.” He paused. “I don’t know. I haven’t done it much. But no. I think not.”
She glanced up at him. That was unexpected. He was still breathing heavily and she could see no color in the dim light, but she’d swear his cheeks were flushed. His eyes gleamed with what she thought—hoped—was desire. “You haven’t?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Oh.”
“And I haven’t found anyone like you.”
“Like me?”
“Someone who makes me forget to be busy. Meet me tomorrow night.”
Her heart raced. Dare she?
CHAPTER SIX
Mythean Hotel
Musa Wadi, Jordan
Present Day
After what felt like hours, Logan lowered his arms and the fire blinked out of existence. Sweat beaded his brow from the strain of maintaining the flame for so long, but he’d managed to figure out Ian’s rough location.
Ian was about a mile away, at the ancient archaeological site of Petra, talking to a Bedouin family who had taken up residency in one of the caves that had been carved out of the rock centuries ago.
Interrupting would only undo the trust that Ian had established with the family, who looked to have been providing information.
He scrubbed at his eyes, then glanced up to see Sylvi lying in the bed, asleep with her arms flung over her head. The windows were open and billowing white curtains blew into the room on the light breeze, but it was still warm. Her skin gleamed with slight perspiration and her hair flowed golden over the pillow. His eyes were drawn to her small breasts, pushed against the fabric of her shirt.
The air rushed out of the room as his cock hardened. Shit. He shook his head and strode for the door at the side of the r
oom. A bathroom. Thank fates. He was still grimy from work detail in the prison and his race across the forest. And he needed some space.
Gratefully, he cranked on the water and stripped out of his clothes, then peeled away the bandages that Sylvi had taped over his wounds and tossed them in the trash. His mind was so caught up with images of Sylvi that he barely noticed or appreciated that his wounds had closed entirely.
He stepped into the shower and sighed as the weak stream of cool water flowed over him. As he scrubbed the thin bar of soap over his skin, he tried to banish the sight of her from his mind.
He managed a few seconds of blankness before her long limbs and glowing face slipped back into his head, followed by the memory of her bad-ass strength and take-no-prisoners attitude. Power and confidence radiated from her and it was sexy as hell. She’d risen from the ashes he’d made of her life and turned herself into someone to be feared. The guard who’d come to her house looking for him had been downright deferential. Nervous, even.
Logan liked it.
All he could think about was stripping off her clothes and running his hands along every inch of her smooth skin. Of tasting her. Of being with her in the way he’d wanted to be so long ago.
When they’d first known each other, he’d wanted her so damn badly that it had been a constant physical ache. He had no problem remembering that feeling now, and embraced it as he gripped his shaft and stroked. Pleasure streaked through him, enhanced by the images of Sylvi that he played through his mind.
It took little time for the pleasure to coalesce into a shaking orgasm. He bit back a moan as it tore through him.
When it finally faded, he forced his mind away from Sylvi and climbed out of the shower. As much as he wanted to think about her, he needed to focus on the coming task. If he couldn’t destroy the labyrinth, there’d be no future for them. And the longer he was with her, the more fiercely he wanted it.
He dried off with the thin towel he found hanging over the bar by the window and threw on the jeans, T-shirt, and boots he’d been wearing earlier then headed toward the door.