by Jane Godman
“So we let them loose. They’re huskies; they can cope with this environment as well as we can.”
Jenny shook her head. “It’s not about whether they can cope with the cold. They are not wild animals. This group of dogs has been trained to follow instructions from their owner. I don’t believe they can survive out here so far from human habitation.”
Wilder ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Jenny, you were with us on the trek to get here. You climbed those ridges and skied down those ravines. You know how many hours it took. Are you seriously proposing that, when we do it all again, we take a pack of dogs with us?”
“Yes.”
He stared at her. Why was it that, even when she was infuriating the hell out of him, as she was now, all he could think about was how much he wanted her? Did she know that? Of course she did, because her face told him she felt it, too. The magnetism between them was so strong neither of them could deny it. In fact, if there hadn’t been a group of five other people pretending not to listen to their conversation, she’d have been in his arms right now and the zipper on that ski suit would have been coming down faster than it had gone up.
“Have it your way.” He did his best not to snarl at her.
For a wolf, Jenny could do a pretty good purr when she got her own way. Rising on the tips of her toes, she pressed a kiss onto his cheek.
“Not in front of the children,” Samson joked.
“You can fuck off.” Wilder let the pent-up snarl loose on him instead.
The dogs slowed them down less than he expected, and he estimated they would make it back to the compound in a little under three hours. When they were about halfway, they paused to hunt down and feast on a couple of elk.
“Why are we going back to the compound and not directly to Jotunheim?” Jenny, having let the dogs loose on the elk carcasses, came to sit on a rock with Wilder.
“Because we’re on the wrong island.”
She nodded. “That explains a lot.” Svalbard was an archipelago comprising many islands. “Where are we going?”
“Kvitøya. The White Island.” He watched her face as he named the most remote and difficult to reach of the islands. They were already on the extreme edge of civilization. By traveling to the White Island, they would be clinging to the end of the world with one foot dangling into the abyss.
Jenny’s brow wrinkled. “But you said Jotunheim is a forest. There are no trees on the White Island. Nothing living can survive there for long. Even the polar bears only pass through.”
“Jotunheim is an enchanted forest.”
“Silly me. That makes it all so much better.” She bumped her shoulder against his companionably. Her smile was infectious and he found himself returning it. “Why does it hurt you so much to speak of it? It’s clear that you hate it in a way the others don’t.”
He wondered if he could explain it to her. He’d kept it locked up inside himself for so long, finding the right words wouldn’t be easy. “Jotunheim damaged something fundamental inside me. Something I cherished.” He scuffed his ski boot against the rock. “Something I’ll never get back.”
“You’d been part of the brotherhood before Jotunheim, so you must have been involved in some vicious fighting. What made Jotunheim different?”
It was the question Wilder had spent four hundred years dreading. He had lived with the answer every single minute of those four centuries. The breath he drew in was loaded with Arctic ice. Nevertheless, it burned its way into his lungs. “I nearly cost Gunnar his life. Because of me, he lost his hand.”
* * *
“I need a shower and some sleep.” Leaving Gunnar staring in bemusement at the new pack of dogs, Jenny waved a hand in the general direction of the rest of the team before making her way toward her cabin.
Wilder and Gunnar went into the large cabin. Grabbing a bottle of water, Wilder drained half of it. Flopping into a seat, he groaned wearily. “Santin is playing games with us. Again.”
“Let me guess. He wasn’t there.”
“Correct. We don’t know if he’s even been here. His scent is all over this compound, but that’s because his fox-pelt coat was left here when the generator and transmitter were smashed up. One of his pack could have been wearing the coat while they did that. Then they left it here to make us think Santin did it.” Wilder took another long drink.
“And when Samson picked up the scent of the Siberians?”
“That was a long shot. We never knew for sure Santin was with them. But they were in our territory and I wanted to know why. Turns out they were sent by Santin to sabotage this compound. Their next job was to burn it down.”
Gunnar’s eyes probed Wilder’s face. “We have come full circle.”
“So it seems.”
He sensed Gunnar wanted to push this topic of conversation further. “You saved my life that night.”
Wilder leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. He was physically and emotionally drained. He’d opened up more to Jenny today than he had to anyone in four hundred years. He hadn’t been able to tell her all of it, only that his actions had been the reason Gunnar had lost his hand. Jenny hadn’t pressed him for details, but she hadn’t turned away from him in disgust either. Instead, she’d leaned her head on his shoulder. That simple gesture had warmed his insides like a shot of fine cognac.
If he was going to lead the fight against Santin, he would need every ounce of strength he possessed. Maybe it was time to say the words that had been choking the life out of him all this time. “I wasn’t fast enough.”
“What do you mean?” Wilder’s eyes were still closed, but he could hear Gunnar’s frown in his voice.
Wilder could see the scene. How many times had he replayed it? He was back in the great hall of the palace of Jotunheim. All around him were the sounds and smells of battle. He could taste the blood of the Siberian he had just killed. Dropping the lifeless body of the wolf to the floor, he looked up, his eyes narrowing. Across the room, he saw Gunnar crouched in a corner. Above him, Santin, still in human form, wore a gloating expression. In his raised hand, the Siberian held a knife. Wilder crouched low. As his leg muscles tensed in preparation to spring, the light glinted off that knife, warning him to be still.
“I hesitated.” Wilder opened his eyes. “When I saw the knife was silver, I froze. If I’d moved when I first saw Santin standing over you with that knife raised, I’d have reached you quicker. You wouldn’t have lost your hand.” The image of the silver blade plunging hilt deep into Gunnar’s wrist was branded into his memory. When he woke every night, sweating and crying out, that was the image haunting his nightmares. The pain in Gunnar’s eyes as the poisonous metal seared his flesh. The smell of verdigris mingled with blood. The triumph in Santin’s eyes turning to fury . . .
“Santin was going for my throat. You deflected the blow. If he’d succeeded in severing my jugular with a silver blade, he’d have killed me.”
“You don’t understand.” Wilder shook his head. “I could have done more.”
“How long did you hesitate?”
Wilder gave a harsh laugh. “I didn’t actually check my watch.”
“By my reckoning it was infinitesimal. No, hear me out.” Gunnar held up his good hand as Wilder opened his mouth to speak. “I remember that night as well as you do, Wilder. Santin struck almost as soon as he raised his hand. So if that’s what you saw, you moved fast. And if you knew the knife was silver when you came after him, that was one heroic fucking thing to do. So you took a second to think about it? I’d say that’s no more than any of us would do. You could have done more? Who doesn’t say that when a friend gets hurt?”
Wilder shook his head. Could he let himself off the hook as easily as Gunnar seemed able to do? Torturing himself, seeing himself as worthless, the pain, fear, and nightmares, they were too much a part of him to let them go because of a few words. But maybe—just maybe—a fraction of the tightness around his heart eased.
“Than
ks.” It was about all he could manage.
“Get some rest.” Gunnar’s eyes told him he understood. “I’ll send one of the guides into town to make arrangements for the journey to the White Island.”
“Helicopter?”
“It’s either that or by sea, but a boat will take much longer.” Gunnar was into full-on organization mode, and Wilder left him to it.
When he got outside, he paused, looking at his own cabin and then toward Jenny’s. A slight smile touched his lips. Why even pretend to hesitate? Making his way to Jenny’s cabin, he slid quietly inside. She was asleep, lying on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. Wilder looked down at her for a few minutes. She wore a T-shirt and her underwear, exposing the pale flesh of her long, slender legs to his gaze. Her clean, crisp scent rose up from her skin and hair, soothing him. A sense of well-being, new and enticing, invaded his senses. He let it wash over him without forcing or analyzing it.
Making his way to the tiny bathroom, Wilder stripped off his cumbersome ski suit and stepped under the cold water of the shower. The Arctic werewolf equivalent of a long soak in a hot bath, he thought with a smile. After cleaning away any traces of the fight with the Siberians and the demanding cross-country ski, he returned to the bedroom and lay down, naked, next to Jenny. Fitting his body to hers, he slid his arm over her waist. She gave an appreciative murmur in her sleep and wriggled against him. His cock hardened immediately and Wilder smiled, pressing his face into her hair as he closed his eyes. Plenty of time to do something about that when they woke up. He drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
The White Island was almost completely covered by an ice cap. From the air, as they approached, Jenny could see that the only ice-free place was a few square miles in the southwest corner. Madden, who was piloting the helicopter, landed there. Looking around her at the rock-strewn, barren landscape, Jenny decided it was the bleakest place she had ever seen. How could the enchanted forest and magical palace of Norse mythology possibly be located anywhere within this desolate wilderness? Why am I even here, thinking of legends and goddesses? It was hard to believe that mere days ago, she hadn’t met Wilder. The most exciting thing in my life was the prospect of rescuing a species of tundra flora from extinction. Now, she was standing at the end of the world—a place that was lowering her mood by the minute—wondering how to find the evil Siberian werewolf leader.
Wilder, sensing her misgivings, came to stand beside her. “Trust me.”
“I do. But . . .” She gestured to the flat, uninspiring landscape around them.
He smiled. “Let’s go.”
They set off, over the rocks, heading in the direction of the ice cap. With no high ground to offer protection, the wind was harsh in their faces. Although the White Island lacked the dramatic mountain ranges they had left behind, they soon began to climb a steep incline. Jenny found this strange, since the aerial view had shown a completely flat landscape. Freezing fog rolled off the ice floes, and before long Jenny found it difficult to see Wilder, who was only a foot or two in front of her. Usually able to adapt quickly to her surroundings and make the best of any situation, she found the effects of this strange place depressing.
Samson, who was in the lead, halted when the ascent was complete and the others gathered around him. Instantly, the fog rolled away and bright sunlight shone on the scene before them. Jenny turned her head to look at Wilder with wide eyes and he smiled at the disbelief in her eyes. Ahead of them lay a clear, still lake surrounded by high, snow-peaked mountains, the lower slopes of which were lush with white-veiled pine forests. The biting wind disappeared and the low-slung cloud was replaced by azure skies.
“I don’t understand. This wasn’t visible from the air. And why can’t it be seen on the satellite images of this island?” A dozen other questions chased each other around in Jenny’s mind. She knew about Arctic vegetation. Those pine trees should not be able to grow here. The blue flowers she could see peeking through the snow were Jacob’s ladders, a plant that flourished much farther south. A gull swooped down and disappeared into the trees. Her rational mind floundered. Nothing lives on the White Island. Before Wilder could speak, she answered her own question. “Because it’s magical.”
“Only werewolves can see Jotunheim. This is the home of our mother goddess, Angrboda.”
They began their descent into the valley. The temperatures were those of a mild Arctic summer. The slope here was gradual, the snowfall lighter, making the downward climb easy. Jenny, unsure of what she had expected, glanced constantly over her shoulder. It seemed too easy. Surely if this was the home of the goddess, they should be prevented from entering? That thought prompted another.
“How does Santin manage to come and go with such ease if this palace belongs to Angrboda?”
“That’s something we’ve never been able to figure out.” They were almost at the edge of the lake and the path was wide enough for Wilder to walk beside her. “Four hundred years ago, Santin was treating the palace as if he owned the place. He captured us and held us prisoner in the palace that belonged to the great goddess. Gunnar always believed that Santin had friends in high places. Back then, he wondered if Angrboda might be one of those friends.”
“Should the Mother of All Wolves have a favorite?”
“It’s a good question. You can ask her.”
Jenny grimaced. “I’m not sure I’m ready for a conversation with a goddess.”
They stood on the stony shore of the lake. Its waters were so clear they appeared turquoise in the bright sunlight. As far as Jenny could see, there was only one thing missing. Should she mention it? Show her ignorance? None of the members of the brotherhood had objected to her questions so far.
She decided to go for it. “I don’t see a palace.”
Gripping her lightly by the shoulders, Wilder turned her around to face the way they had come. Through the trees she could see the rocky face of the mountain. Set into the rock were two huge wooden doors. These imposing structures were carved with symbols and studded with ironwork. At the side of each door there was a statue of a giant wolf. It seemed the doors led inside the ice-encrusted mountain itself.
Still holding her by the shoulders, Wilder leaned in close so that his lips brushed her ear. “Welcome to Jotunheim.”
Chapter Nine
The past four hundred years rolled away as Wilder remembered the last time he stood before these doors. Santin’s tactics hadn’t varied much. Back then, his Siberians had been attacking Arctic werewolves within their own territories, using guerrilla tactics to wipe out whole packs, and leaving Gunnar with no choice but to go after him. Santin had deliberately led the brotherhood here to Jotunheim, overpowering the Arctics when the sun was at its highest point and they were at their weakest. His intention had soon become clear. He wanted to undermine the brotherhood by killing Gunnar and then taking out the other members, but Wilder’s intervention had put a stop to his plans. Santin had not bargained on a young Arctic werewolf who was loyal enough to challenge him despite the silver knife in his hand.
Following Santin’s defeat, Gunnar had gone to the goddess and presented her with irrefutable evidence of the Siberian leader’s crimes. Wolf ethics were clear and unambiguous. Boundaries must be respected, and Santin, by carrying out his ruthless ambition to wipe out the Arctics and take over their territories, had violated the first rule of wolf law. He had killed without justifiable reason. He had gone on to commit the worst crime of all in the eyes of a wolf: destroying whole packs, including the cubs. Even if Gunnar was right about Angrboda’s partiality for Santin, faced with evidence of his atrocities, the goddess had had no choice. Angrboda was known for her strong sense of justice. Anyone who doubted this commitment needed to look no further than the fact that Fenrir, the son she worshiped—even after he had tricked her into becoming his lover—was her prisoner. The goddess had sentenced Santin to be imprisoned for all eternity in the dungeons below this ancient mountain palace.
/> Now it seemed nothing had changed in those intervening centuries. Wilder was standing before the entrance to Jotunheim, once again dancing to Santin’s tune. The only difference was that Gunnar wasn’t here. It was Wilder who must bear the weight of responsibility of bringing Santin’s evil to an end. For good this time. A hand stole into his and he glanced down. There was one other difference. Jenny was with him. The world was a whole lot better now than it had been at any point in the last four hundred years. He shook his head slightly. Since he’d met Jenny Piper, Wilder’s world was a million times better than it had been before. As he looked down at her face, a question rose unbidden in his mind. Yet you are going to walk away from her when this is over? He silenced it swiftly. Stop it. You don’t have time for recrimination and self-pity.
“These statues guard the entrance. We must prove we have a valid reason to enter the palace.”
“What if they decide we don’t?” Jenny whispered.
“You don’t want to know the answer to that,” Samson, leaning in close behind her, whispered back.
Wilder raised his voice, hoping the increased volume made him sound more sure of himself than he actually felt. “We seek an audience with the goddess Angrboda.” He felt Jenny start with surprise when a low growl issued from the throat of one of the stone figures. “We believe the escaped prisoner, Santin the Siberian, is inside the palace and we wish to ensure his return to captivity.”
Wilder held his breath, and sensed his companions were doing the same. It was said that these stone wolves were a direct conduit to the goddess herself. That through them, she alone would choose whom to admit into her palace. If she decided not to allow a visitor entrance, the legend was that he or she would meet a swift and horrible end. Nothing happened for long, silent minutes. Then, very slowly, the doors slid inward, opening like a vast gaping mouth in the side of the mountain.
They stepped into a gloomy passageway lit at intervals by flaming torches fixed in sconces to the stone walls above their heads. With an echoing groan, the doors closed behind them. Wilder realized he still had hold of Jenny’s hand and decided that was the way he liked it. She had reached out to him for comfort, but, at the same time, her touch strengthened him. For the second time in his life, he was swallowed by this mountain. What happened to the promise I made to myself that I would never do this again?