It was a lair, and it was a train tunnel. And, once summoned, its occupant would carry her away from the chaos of the city. It would take her home. She stepped inside and her hand dropped to rest lightly on the hilt of the glamoured spear she wore like a sword.
“Are you sure that’s such a good idea?” Fennrys’s voice suddenly murmured in her ear, startling her.
She hadn’t heard him come up behind her, but now she could feel the heat emanating from him like sunlight streaming through a window, falling on her shoulders and back. She wanted to melt into the sensation.
“I mean,” he continued, “I thought you were supposed to keep your Valkyrie tucked away.”
“In battle, yeah,” she said. “We’re not fighting anyone, are we?”
“Just ourselves . . .”
She turned to look at him and saw that his eyes were fixed upon her, fierce and blazing with cold blue light.
“This . . . is . . .”
“Not a good time?” He grinned. Wolfishly.
Mason heard herself laugh, a low, throaty sound. “Probably not.”
“I’ll behave. Promise.” He put both hands up and backed off another few steps. “Do your voodoo. Whatever that may be.”
“Okay. Okay . . .” Mason’s fingers twitched spasmodically and her hand dropped to the sword again. “Here goes nothing . . .”
She drew the weapon. Crimson light bloomed like a sunset in the tunnel and Mason felt the brush of raven wings on her face. The heavy swish of her chain-mail raiment settled to hang once more from her shoulders and she felt the solid weight of the helmet settle on her brow.
She raised the spear, and called, “Sleipner.”
When she was a kid, Mason would listen to the stories her father would tell of Odin’s fabulous steed—the coal-black, eight-legged warhorse named Sleipner—and she would try and wrap her head around the mental picture of a horse with twice the normal horsey complement of limbs. She never could quite picture it, though. In her mind, the creature always wound up looking awkward and ungainly. A bit goofy, really.
The reality of it—and Sleipner, she’d discovered, was very much real—defied her feeble imaginative attempts. When it appeared, the horse—which resembled a regular horse in roughly the same way that a wolf resembles a Chihuahua—was utterly magnificent. For one thing, the beast was massive. Much larger than even a Clydesdale. Mason could have stood on tiptoe and reached as high as she could and her fingertips still would have been miles away from touching the thing’s shoulder. It was basically the size of a train locomotive—which was exactly the guise Mason had first seen Sleipner wear, when she’d first encountered him. When Rory had abducted her in her father’s private train. Like the spear she carried, or the Valkyrie guise she wore, like her father’s transformation into the All-Father god Odin, or her mother’s assumption of the mantle of Hel, or Fennrys in all of his Fenris-ness, the mythical creature standing proudly before Mason, filling up most of the cavernous tunnel, was a manifestation of power. And it didn’t look the least bit silly standing on eight legs.
Behind her, Mason heard Fennrys murmur, “Holy . . .”
She also heard the measured tread of combat boots coming closer in the tunnel.
“Toby’s coming,” she said quietly without taking her eyes from the magnificent creature. “You can tell him our ride is here.”
“I can see that for myself, Mase,” Toby said, in a tone that came as close to awe as anything she’d ever heard from him.
Sleipner turned his massive head and snorted—a cloud of smoke and embers issuing forth from his flared nostrils, like dragon breath—and Mason saw herself reflected in the black globe of the creature’s huge eye.
“Easy, boy,” she said. If Mason had just been Mason, she would have been terrified. But she was a Valkyrie and she had summoned the fabulous Odin steed. He would obey her command. “Easy . . .”
The monstrous horse dipped his head and allowed Mason to run her hand between his eyes and down his nose. The fine black velvet of his hide shone in the dim light.
“I need you to take me and my friends to Valhalla,” Mason said. “The one in Westchester, I mean. Would you do that?”
He snorted again and pawed the tunnel floor once with a hoof half the size of a compact car, raising a massive cloud of red dust that filled the tunnel. When the dust cleared, the eight-legged horse was gone and an eight-wheeled locomotive idled on a set of silvery tracks, hooked up to the elegant carriage cars of Gunnar Starling’s private train. First the carriage in Central Park, now this, Mason thought. Valkyries, it seemed, traveled in style.
I might not even ask for a car for my eighteenth birthday, she thought wryly. And then she thought, If I actually manage to live that long. . . .
Mason turned to see Toby and Fennrys standing in the archway of the tunnel, mouths agape. The spectacle of Sleipner’s transformation had made a clear impression, as had her ability to summon the great beast. When she took a step toward them, they both took a half step back. On some level, that made Mason just a little bit sad, but she ignored the feeling and walked over to Toby and, waving at the monster-horse-turned-locomotive, said, “You know how to drive this thing, right?”
Toby, for his part, regained his composure swiftly. He eyed the train with dry distaste. “If you mean, can I drive a train, then yes. Gunnar could have told me that I was riding in the belly of a big old horse when he hired me to drive his damned train, you know.” Beneath his mustache, his lip curled upward in a faint sneer. “It’s disgusting. I would have demanded a raise.”
“You know that’s not really how it works, right?” Mason grinned at the look on the fencing master’s face. “And the train is only Sleipner because it crossed the Bifrost and took on the power of Sleipner. At least, I think that’s right. Right?”
“Sure, Mase.” Toby patted her on the shoulder and stepped past her. “But mentally, I’m still getting cozy with horse innards.”
“You’re a brave soul, Tobe.”
“Yeah, yeah. Saddle up.” He grimaced. “So to speak.”
With that, he swung himself up onto the first rung of the shiny black ladder that lead to the locomotive compartment. Mason thought she might have heard a muffled whinny, but decided—for her own mental stability—that it was just her imagination.
Inside, the opulent coach was exactly as she remembered it. It smelled of leather and the faint spice of her father’s expensive cigars, and she felt a stab of longing. She missed him so much. She had, Mason realized, worshiped Gunnar Starling growing up. As much as Rory had, in his own twisted way. As much as Roth had.
And now? She knew the coming conflict wasn’t one where there would be no losers. One way or another, the Starling clan would be shattered. And, in spite of the fact that Mason was determined that she would be the one to come out the other side a victor, that fact still made her ineffably sad. Which was strange, because the thought of the looming battle also made her want to tear the heads off her brother and father and hang them from her saddle horn as she rode her Valkyrie steed through the smoke and fire hanging over the field of battle—
Okay. Whoa. Let’s dial down the bloodthirst, shall we?
Across the train compartment, Fennrys was staring at her with a look so intense, she couldn’t tell if he wanted to tackle her to the ground and tear out her throat . . . or tackle her to the ground and tear off her clothes. She wasn’t sure, in that moment, which she would have preferred. He grinned at her and his eyes sparked cold fire. Mason’s heart pounded in her chest so loudly she was sure that the others could hear it. She wondered if there was any water in the bar fridge. She might just have to pour a bottle over her head if she couldn’t get ahold of herself—
“I said . . . ,” Rafe’s deep voice suddenly broke in on her chaotic, overheated thoughts, “what are you going to do when you get to your dad’s estate, Mason?”
Mason glanced up, startled to see that the door to the train compartment was open and Rafe was leaning against
the frame. His sudden presence, and the grim look on his face, had exactly the same effect on Mason’s raging Fennrys-lusting as an ice-water dousing would have. The ancient Egyptian god of the dead pushed away from the entryway and the door slid shut behind him as he strolled across the rich Persian carpet, his dark gaze sweeping over the interior of the opulent train car.
“Traveling in style, kids?” he said wryly. “I approve.”
Mason and Fennrys exchanged glances, exactly like the children Rafe had just called them—ones who’d been caught doing something forbidden and dangerous, way past hand-in-the-cookie-jar guilty.
“So,” Rafe continued, casually running his hand over the rich burled oak surface of the bar. He turned and leaned on one elbow. “What’s it feel like to be one of us?” he asked Fennrys.
Fenn shot Mason a look. “You mean one of the pack?” he asked.
Rafe grinned and shook his head, dreads swinging gently. “No, Fennrys Wolf. I mean, what does it feel like to be a god?”
“I’m not a god.” Fenn glared flatly, clearly in no mood to be mocked. “I’m a monster.”
Rafe winced. “Harsh.”
“Weren’t those your own words?”
“Yeah.” The ancient deity sighed. “I suppose they were. And I suppose you’re right. Half right, anyway. I’m old enough and I’m damned well smart enough to realize when I’m wrong. And I’ve been very wrong about you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“In spite of everything, I don’t think I ever really thought you had it in you.” Rafe’s dark eyes narrowed as he gazed at Fennrys. “The Wolf, I mean. I thought you could beat this rap—that there had to be some kind of misunderstanding and it really was just a name.”
“What exactly are you saying, Rafe?” Mason asked quietly.
“I’m saying that, all along, I thought I was being the good guy, sticking up for the underdog. No pun intended.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry for that.”
“Sorry as in you regret doing that?” Fenn asked.
“Sorry as in I apologize. I should have had more respect for you.” He walked over to a leather swivel chair and sat in it like it was a throne, but in the way that a king would if he didn’t care that it was a throne. “I’m not your maker, Fennrys. I’m your brother.” His glittering stare shifted. “Just like I’m yours, Mason. We are gods among mortals. And I don’t care what Daria Aristarchos and her ilk think, we exist to serve them, not the other way around. And I’m proud to stand beside you in your fight to save their realm.”
Mason felt her jaw drifting open in astonishment. She had not been expecting that.
“Also?” He grinned at her, showing the points of his sharp white teeth. “When all this is over, you still owe me, big time.”
Right. That was more like what she’d expected. The circle of his gaze threatened to swallow her whole and Mason suddenly understood what it was to play by the rules of a deity.
“How long till we get to where we’re going?” Rafe asked.
“We?” Fenn said, warily seeking clarification. It seemed to Mason that he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Ever the lone wolf, he wasn’t used to being believed in. Especially not by more than one person at a time.
Rafe laughed. “You don’t think I’m actually going to let you two run off all on your lonesomes to try to save the world, right?”
“How do you know that’s what we’re doing?” Mason asked warily.
“Please, dear girl.” Rafe bent an eyebrow at her. “Wasn’t born yesterday.”
That much was true.
“Didn’t die yesterday,” Fennrys said, his voice dropping into a low growl.
He sat forward on the leather banquette and it looked as if he might actually launch himself across the car and attack Rafe in another moment. Mason figured that would end badly, so she interposed herself between the two of them.
“You’re not going to try to stop us, are you?” she asked the god.
“Depends. Are you running away?”
She shook her head. “Running toward.”
“Toward what?”
“Help. Hope.” She shrugged. “Hel.”
“Your mom?”
“The real one this time.”
Rafe waited silently for an explanation as Mason exchanged a glance with Fennrys, silently seeking his permission to let Rafe in on the whole dream-vision thing. After a moment, Fenn let his breath out in a sigh and sat back, gesturing for her to go on. She told Rafe most of what the two of them had experienced—editing out the kissing parts—and the ancient god listened intently.
“I think Heimdall has her trapped somewhere,” Mason said. “And there has to be a reason for that, I figure. Of all the Aesir, he was the one who wanted Ragnarok the most, right?”
“You have a point.” Rafe tilted his elegant head to one side, pondering her logic. “Odin accepted it as inevitable, and necessary, but I’m not sure that given what he thought of as a choice, he’d have chosen to go that way. He wouldn’t have faded away in the first place if that was the case. It takes a lot of crazy to hang on that long just to bring about the end of everything. Heimdall, Loki, they’re the only original personifications of the Aesir left. And they are, according to prophecy, destined to end each other. Two sides of the same coin.”
“Right. That’s what we were thinking.” Mason glanced at Fennrys, who nodded. “So if Heimdall thinks my mom—if he thinks Hel—is some kind of impediment to him being able to trigger Ragnarok, then us finding her is something that can only help us, right?”
“Maybe.” Rafe clearly wasn’t wholly convinced. But it was also just as clear that he desperately wanted to be convinced. Almost as desperately as Mason and Fennrys.
“She told me to find her, Rafe.” Mason held his black gaze, unblinking with her own. “I really believe she can help us. All of us. I think together we can put a stop to this whole mess.”
Rafe didn’t say anything to refute that and, after a long moment, they had a kind of answer from him out of his silence. The train car shuddered as Toby got them under way. They were heading to Valhalla, and it was too late for Rafe to abandon the journey.
The train carried along for some time in silence, the rhythmic clacking of the wheels sounding very much like the pounding of eight horse’s hooves. After a while, Fennrys grew restless and went through the sliding doors connecting to the engine compartment to ask Toby how long until they reached their destination. In the silence, Mason remembered the folded, photocopied pages in her pocket that she’d taken from Rory’s room. She pulled them out and read them all. It didn’t take long, but the experience left her feeling as if she’d existed out of time for the minutes it had taken. She looked up from the words on the last page and found Rafe staring at her.
“What is it, Mase?” Rafe asked, when she was silent for a long time. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing . . . ,” she murmured, caught up in her tangled thoughts, fanning the photocopied pages of her father’s diary, staring unseeing at the words he’d written so long ago. “I was just . . . wondering.”
“About what?”
“You.”
His mouth twitched up at one corner. “What about me?”
Mason shrugged, uncertain how to broach the subject. Her interaction with the ancient death god had been awkward—to say the least—since she had compelled him to turn Fennrys. But she had questions, having just scanned through the lines of Gunnar Starling’s musings from that long-ago night in Copenhagen when he’d been young, bored, and had wandered into a club and met his fate—Fates—three strange women introduced to him by the club’s proprietor, a smooth, handsome, dreadlocked character who’d called himself “Rafe.”
“The night you met my dad,” Mason said. “The way he writes it, it sounds almost like you were expecting him. Like you were waiting for him to walk through the door, just so you could introduce him to the Norns.”
“Verda, Skully, and Weirdo . . .” Rafe nodded, his ga
ze turning inward as he recalled his “pet” names for the three creatures of Norse legend who’d come to his bar that night, dressed like punk rock princesses, to lie in wait for Mason’s father. “I remember that night like it was last week.”
Verdandi, Skuld, and Urd . . . Mason remembered their real names from the stories. They had always terrified her as a child. Like three black spiders, hunched and waiting at the center of a web, waiting for hapless prey. Like her father.
Mason frowned. “It sounds to me like . . .”
“Like what, Mason?”
Her eyes locked with his. “Like you set him up.”
“Ah.” Rafe nodded his head slowly. “I can see how it would, yeah . . . But I didn’t. I’m not a precog, Mason.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“A seer,” he explained. “A teller of fortunes and futures. Like the Norns are. Like Gwen Littlefield was. Me? I’m just a very old god. And when you’re as old as I am—and you belong to that particular club, which, year after decade after century boasts an ever-depleting membership roster—you find yourself hanging around with other gods. Or find them hanging around with you. The ladies, and I do use the term loosely where those three are concerned, had been coming around my place for years. A god of the dead tends to attract the type of individual that the Norns are always on the lookout for.”
“You mean individuals like my father.”
Rafe nodded again. “Of course, Gunnar wasn’t the first. And if there’s any way we can stop Ragnarok from happening, I doubt very much he’ll be the last. This? This is what the Norns do.”
“And the night Fennrys and I found you in Central Park? That wasn’t a coincidence, either, was it? You said you’d been waiting for him.”
“I was.” He glanced at the door leading to the engine compartment. “Your boy already had a reputation in the supernatural community, thanks to the rather dramatic nature of his departure from the mortal realm. Iris, the lovely lady with the fancy wings you met earlier, had sent me a message through Ghost—you remember Etienne, Fennrys’s fallen Janus Guard comrade?—that he’d returned. That he was potential bad news for the city, maybe the whole world . . . and I was just trying to assess the situation. I like the mortal realm, remember?”
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