The Complete Fenris Series

by Samantha MacLeod

  Thrym brought the bottle to his lips and drained it. Even in the soft glow of the lamps flickering from the food-laden tables, I could see his cheeks flush. My eyes felt heavy, as though all the pain and exhaustion of the past few days had finally caught up to me. I let my head rest against the back of the couch.

  “The barrel cave? Of course.” Thrym yawned. I felt myself yawning in response. “We built the house right on top of it, you know.”

  The hint of a frown flickered across Loki’s face. “I might need it. To practice something.”

  “Anything you want, it’s yours,” Thrym answered.

  A soft, gentle darkness lapped at the edges of my mind, beckoning sleep. My head lolled backward, sinking into the plush fabric of the couch. A moment later, I jolted awake, embarrassed to have lost the thread of the conversation.

  Oh. I must have been out more than a minute. The lamps had burned even lower. Loki and Sigyn no longer sat on their own couch. Instead, Loki was on Thrym’s lap, his long legs wrapped around Thrym’s waist. Their foreheads pressed together, and their conversation was low and whispered. Sigyn stood behind Thrym, her arms massaging his massive shoulders.

  A flush of heat surged through my body. To see two men and a woman like that, their arms around each other, their lips brushing together, brought back a storm of memories. Fenris and Týr, embracing in the firelight. The very first time I’d seen them kiss. The way Týr knelt behind Fenris as he made love to me, kissing Fenris’s neck, sinking his hands into Fenris’s auburn curls.

  Stars! I tried to shake off the haze of exhaustion and the slow, deep burn of my arousal. They must have thought I was asleep. I should not be witnessing this. I opened my mouth and tried to find the words to excuse myself.

  Thrym dropped his head to Loki’s neck, and Loki gasped in pleasure. A moment later they were both lost in a kiss so deep I doubted they would hear me at all.

  Maybe I should just leave.

  I forced myself to my feet and took one step across the cool grass. My foot came down on the smooth, curing surface of an empty wine bottle. The garden spun wildly around me, a blurred vision of stars and lamps and darkened leaves against an indigo sky as the velvety grass rose up to meet me.

  Laughter. I blinked and rolled over to see Thrym coming to his feet. He knelt next to me, offering me his hand.

  “Up you go,” he said. “Can’t have my new niece spraining an ankle in the atrium.”

  He chuckled again as I took his hand. “I’ll show you to your room,” Thrym said as he pulled me upright.

  We walked together through a long, darkened hallway. My cheeks burned as I wondered what, if anything, I could possibly say to make the situation less awkward.

  “Here you go,” Thrym said, coming to a stop. “This should do nicely. If you need anything, you just yell.”

  He opened a simple wooden door, revealing another long, low couch. It looked like the most wonderful thing in the Nine Realms. Before I could thank him, Thrym slipped away. I sank onto the couch and let sleep pull me under.

  I WOKE TO HEAT AND the sound of birdsong. Light streamed through cracks in the dark wooden shutter just above my head. Heat seemed to be pouring through that window, even with the shutters closed, along with the occasional clatter of voices and the clomp-clomp of animal hooves.

  I rolled onto my back and ran my tongue over my dry lips. There was a table beneath the window and, sitting neatly in the middle, a glass pitcher filled with clear liquid. Water. Thank the stars! Thick slices of something yellow floated languidly along the water’s surface. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided these probably weren’t poisonous and poured myself a glass.

  The water tasted oddly sour, but it was cool and wet. I drank the first glass slowly, then poured myself another and drifted slowly around the room, trying to make sense of the sparse furnishings. Aside from the couch and table, there was no other furniture.

  The floor was strangely elaborate, though. I peered down through my toes at what must have been thousands of tiny, square tiles. They’d been laid out in a dizzying geometric pattern of black and white lines which met, overlapped, and twisted.

  The heat was already so thick and heavy in the room that I felt I could have cut it with a knife. I still wore the dress Freyja had given me when she’d taken me to Loki’s house, but now the rich material and long sleeves felt almost torturous. With a sigh, I looked around the small room one last time, half hoping a heavy wooden wardrobe from Asgard would suddenly pop into existence.

  No such luck. I finished the last of the sour-tinged water, set my goblet down next to the empty pitcher, and pushed open the unornamented wooden door. I found myself in a strange, rectangular room. A row of columns stretched toward the heavens, and sunlight beat on the wall opposite me. Sunlight from... I craned my head up to look.

  There was no roof. This elegant, tiled room had a huge, rectangular hole in the ceiling. The hole was too symmetrical to be an accident, surely. Frowning as I stared upward, I stepped forward to make sure.

  “Attentus!” a woman called.

  I jumped at the voice, and my foot pitched forward. Too late, I realized there was also a hole in the floor, in the exact same shape as the hole in the roof. Only this one was full of water.

  With a crash, I splashed into the pool. I sat up, sputtering and humiliated, and saw the dark-eyed young woman who’d brought water last night standing in a doorway. She had a length of pale cloth in her arms, and her hand over her mouth. From the way her eyes squeezed shut at the corners, I guessed she was hiding a smile at my expense.

  “It’s okay,” I said, pushing my wet hair out of my eyes. “I’m fine.”

  By the time I dragged myself out of the water, she was by my side, speaking quickly in a language I didn’t recognize. From her hand gestures, smiles, and polite curtseys, I guessed she was trying to introduce herself.

  “I’m Sol,” I said, trying not to interrupt her.

  She stopped in mid-sentence, frowned, and blinked at me.

  “Sol,” I repeated. I tapped my own chest for emphasis. “I’m Sol. Who are you?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Liburnia,” she said with exaggerated slowness. She tapped her own chest several times, as if to emphasize that she was following my motions. “Liburnia,” she repeated.

  “Oh,” I said, weakly. Was that her name? Or was that the word for girl, or woman, or even the strange, light dress she wore? “Nice to meet you, Liburnia.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Sol,” she said, gesturing at my chest. Then she pointed at her own chest again with a wide smile. “Liburnia.”

  Good, I thought. We’re either friends now, or she thinks I call my cleavage Sol.

  The girl I assumed was named Liburnia pulled me back into the room where I’d spent the night and gestured at my wet, heavy dress. After a few false starts, I finally realized the cloth draped across Liburnia’s arms was another dress, one meant for me. Slowly, I undid the laces Freyja had tied for me. As the thick, blue fabric of the dress settled on the tiled floor, I wondered with a surprisingly sharp pang if I’d ever see Freyja again.

  Liburnia didn’t seem to notice my sudden, dark mood. She pulled Freyja’s dress to the floor with a look of exaggerated effort, then laughed at her own pantomime. I couldn’t follow her words, but I guessed Liburnia was commenting on how crazy I must have been to wear anything that heavy in this heat. I smiled in response, and Liburnia helped me step into the dress she’d brought.

  It was a soft yellow, the color of fresh butter, and the fabric felt mercifully light against my skin. It was also ridiculously long. I pretended to trip over the draping hemline, and Liburnia laughed. She pulled a tight ball of ribbons from her pocket and began to fold the dress in what appeared to be a ridiculously complex pattern of ripples and layers. By the time she’d finished, a ribbon sat just beneath my breasts, holding back folds of fabric, and another rested across the swell of my stomach.

  Liburnia’s eyes widened as she pulled th
e ribbon taut over my abdomen. She pressed her hand just beneath my navel, then pulled back and held her arms together, as if cradling an imaginary baby.

  “Yes,” I said, mimicking her cradling motion. “I’m pregnant.”

  Liburnia squealed, then clapped her hands together. I nodded again as I ran my hands over the swell of my belly, which seemed to have grown in the night. For the first time since Fenris was bound in the darkness, screaming his pain across the Realms, I felt something other than dread and fear when I touched the round drum of my pregnancy. Despite everything, the child inside me still lived. I still lived. I would bring another life into these Nine Realms.

  Perhaps that was reason to smile and clap.

  I blinked as a sudden rush of tears made the room blur, but Liburnia didn’t seem to notice. My dress complete and my pregnancy confirmed, Liburnia took my wrist in her hand and pulled me again toward the door.

  “Thrym,” she said, in a low voice.

  I nodded, although my throat suddenly felt dry. Thrym the Traitor. The man I’d just met.

  The man who was my new uncle.

  THE MONSTER FREED: CHAPTER EIGHT

  The corridors of Thrym’s house didn’t seem quite as twisted or cavernous in the full light of day, with Liburnia pulling me along the tiled floors. We walked past the strange, shallow pool in the ground beneath its hole in the roof, then past the enclosed garden, whose leaves whispered in the breeze, and into another tiled courtyard. Liburnia gestured to a thick, dark curtain on the far side. I pulled it open, and she nodded. I expected her to follow me inside. When she didn’t, I tried to ignore the strange tug of disappointment that sank into my chest like a fishhook.

  The room on the other side of the curtain was dimly lit after the brilliance of the hallway. It seemed dusty and cluttered, filled with stacks of books and chairs; for a moment, I was sharply reminded of King Nøkkyn’s library and the books I’d destroyed. I turned toward the curtain, idly considering opening the thick cloth to see if Liburnia would join me in here, and my heart rose up into my throat.

  There, half hidden behind the dark folds of the curtain, was a man who’d been turned to stone.

  I had to force myself to breathe. Of course, I’d heard stories about this. There were monsters and magicians who could turn a man to stone. The stories were filled with transforming poisons and antidotes and great quests. But I’d never really believed those tales, just like I’d never truly believed in Asgard, or the Æsir, with their mead and quests and the magical rainbow Bifröst bridging the Realms.

  How wrong I’d been.

  My heart thundered in my ears as I stared at the man of stone. He wasn’t an entire man, I realized as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was just his head and shoulders; the rest of him was a white pillar. My face twisted in sympathy and disgust; what in the stars had become of the rest of him? And was this why he’d been turned to stone? Had his poor body been mangled in some horrific accident?

  But the man didn’t seem to be in pain. His forehead was lined with age, his expression stern and commanding, but his face showed no signs of suffering. He had a closely cropped beard, and his hair was swept back off his forehead.

  I dared take a step closer. He looked so real, as though he’d been frozen just moments before speaking. My fingers itched to touch the smooth stone.

  “Ah, good morning, Sol!”

  Thrym tore back the curtain, and brilliant light flooded the little room. I jumped as it fell across the pale stone of the man’s head. Thrym followed my eyes, and a strange, dark expression settled on his face. The sense that I’d done something wrong settled across my chest like a blanket of stones.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammered.

  “I see you’ve found Marcus,” he replied.

  Thrym raised his hand gently to cup the stone face beneath its chin.

  “I...What...What happened to him?”

  Thrym let out a mirthless laugh. “He died, of course. Like all of them. And he never forgave me for commissioning this portrait. He sat still for a solid month, and he bitched all the while that I’d waited so long.”

  A soft, sad smile began to curve Thrym’s lips. “He wanted to be remembered as young and handsome. No matter how many times I told him I loved him more old and cantankerous than I’d ever loved him young and handsome.”

  Thrym bent to place his lips on the stone man’s head. My chest felt tight, as if the ribbon beneath my breasts was cutting off my air.

  “Portrait?” I finally managed to say.

  Thrym nodded as he sank into a leather chair. “You’d be amazed what they can do with a chunk of marble and a chisel. I swear, sometimes I think these mortals cram more into their short lives than we do in our eternities on Jötunheimr.”

  He gestured toward an empty chair, and I sat down gratefully. It was still difficult to tear my eyes away from the stone face behind him, even if it was just a portrait. I’d never seen anything so disturbingly realistic.

  “So,” Thrym began, “we’d best get our stories straight. You’re my niece now, I understand.”

  “I...I suppose.”

  Thrym stretched his arms, then scratched at his beard absently. “It makes sense, I guess. We speak the same language. We even resemble each other, or at least close enough to pass for relatives.”

  “Oh?”

  I hadn’t considered that, although I guessed he must be right. The servants I’d seen scurrying through the vast, columned halls of this place had dark skin and hair, while Thrym and I were pale.

  “And Loki’s right, I certainly have no interest in making my own heir,” Thrym said, with a chuckle.

  At that, my mouth and throat felt suddenly dry. We lapsed into silence, and I tried to sort through the flood of questions beating at the inside of my skull. What in the Nine Realms was I doing here, in this stifling heat, with Thrym the Traitor? Where was Loki?

  And what could I possibly do to help Fenris?

  The image of his great, black body, bound with glistening silver and writing in the dark waters, rose in my memory, pushing tears to my eyes.

  There was a gentle scrape, and light filled the room once more as Liburnia entered with a gilt tray holding grapes, what looked like cheese, and another pitcher of water. She set it on a table between us as Thrym spoke to her in that lilting, unfamiliar language. She nodded, then glanced at me with wide eyes before scurrying away.

  “What did you say?” I whispered as the curtain closed behind her.

  “I introduced you,” Thrym answered. He picked up a silver knife and carved a delicate slice of cheese, “as the daughter of my sister, who has just recently passed away.”

  A stone rose in my throat as I remembered three cold burial mounds next to the ashes of what had been my home. For a heartbeat, I could feel the grit of those graves beneath my fingernails. I wiped my hands on the light fabric of my dress.

  “When I’m here,” Thrym continued, “I’m a barbarian. A bit of a mystery, to be honest. I can claim just about anything and, since I’m a foreigner, most people will shrug it off. So, I said you’ve come to live with me, and Liburnia will be sure the entire household knows before the hour is out.”

  He picked up a cluster of dark purple grapes and reached across the table, offering them to me. I accepted with what I hoped was a polite smile, and my mind caught on something he said.

  “When you’re here?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Clever girl. Actually, it’s about time for me to die.”

  A grape exploded between my teeth, spraying juice across the small, dark room. Thrym chuckled.

  “It’s a bit tricky, having our lifespans on Midgard. You can’t go on living forever around here. People get upset. They start to ask uncomfortable questions. So, every forty years of so, I tidy up all my affairs and move on. A year or so later, I send word of my unfortunate demise and leave the entire estate to a distant relative.” His white teeth flashed in the gloom. “Then I come home, announce myself as the distant rel
ative, and start the whole business up again.”

  I forced myself to swallow what was left of the grape. “Stars!”

  “Ah, it’s nice to hear that again,” Thrym rumbled. “Tell me, what season was it when you left the Ironwood?”

  The image of the graves rose again, stronger this time. I remembered the scent of old smoke and the crunch of ashes beneath my cold, bare feet.

  “Fall,” I said. “We’d just had the first snow.”

  “Snow.” Thrym snorted. “I spent so many years cursing the damned cold of Jötunheimr. I never thought I’d miss it so much.”

  “Is this—” I swallowed hard. It was already so hot in the little room that sweat trickled down the back of my neck and between my breasts. “Is it always so hot here?”

  “Not always,” Thrym said, with another grin. “Sometimes, it’s hotter.”

  At that, he poured a goblet of water and handed it to me. A thin slice of the strange yellow fruit bobbed at the surface; the water held a sour bite.

  “It’s August,” Thrym began, “the hottest month in this part of Midgard. After this, the weather cools, but only slightly. They never see snow in this corner of the Empire.”

  Ah. That explained the hole in the roof.

  “Let’s see. What else should you know?” Thrym rubbed his great hand over his beard.

  “How long will I be here?” I asked, before I could stop myself. “I mean, do you know Loki’s plan?”

  Thrym laughed at that. “Do I know Loki’s plan? My dear niece, most of the time I suspect Loki doesn’t even know Loki’s plan.”

  My heart curled in on itself, and I realized I’d wrapped my arms around my stomach again. Thrym cocked his head to the side.

  “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, and he exhaled loudly.

  “Stars indeed. I’ll tell you everything I know. I promised to shelter you here, on Midgard, indefinitely.”

  The words felt heavy, like stones sinking through the water. I opened my mouth, but it was impossible to find enough breath to speak.