Of course she didn’t know.
Of course I knew.
She’d known. She’d always known.
It was there in the strained, awkward relationship between her parents—the way they could seem so passionately in love with each other one moment, and like they hated each other’s guts in the next. The gut-hating phases almost always happened after one of her mother’s private solarium parties. The ones her father never attended.
The ones Heather had been forbidden from attending.
Parties—no, rituals—dedicated to Venus, Roman goddess of Love.
Heather moaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Of course, Venus had had a son. Cupid. A Valentine’s Day cherub.
Valen . . .
Frankly, Heather preferred the James Dean wannabe guise.
Valen had said he’d been looking for her, but that he hadn’t been able to find her. That must have been her mother’s doing. For a fleeting instant, Heather thought that maybe her mother had been trying to protect her.
No. Not if what Gunnar Starling said was true.
“Your mother pledged you to her goddess when you were born.”
To the goddess of love. So that was why she’d been able to sense the emotions in others ever since she was young. And it had left Heather feeling like a freak for her entire life.
Thanks, Mom.
“And, of course, your feelings for the Aristarchos boy have always been exceptionally strong.” Gunnar smiled pleasantly, as if he were just one of Heather’s teachers at Gos, complimenting her on a job well done on an assignment. “Strong enough that your mother was able to use them as a conduit—to turn his feelings toward my daughter.”
“Why? Why would she do that?” Heather asked, barely able to choke out the words.
“Because I asked her to.” Gunnar smiled a predatory smile. “I can be very persuasive. And to my way of thinking, it’s never a bad idea to have a semi-divine being devoted to one’s cause.” His left eye glittered strangely as he glanced in Calum’s direction. “Even if he doesn’t know he is. Yet.”
Heather felt a rush of heat to her face. They’d used her. Just to get to Cal. She had been so right when she’d told him their parents were all off the rails. All of them. Not just Gunnar Starling, although he was clearly the worst of a bad bunch.
He nodded at the field. “Watch now as Cal plays his part. . . .”
Pieces on the game board, Heather thought. That’s all we are.
And now all she could do was watch how the game played out.
She glanced around to see where Rory was, but he was nowhere in sight. While Gunnar gloated, his son had used the runegold he’d taken from Heather and disappeared again. She wondered for a moment where he’d gone, but then she heard an inhuman howl of pain.
And she knew exactly where Rory was, and why.
Fearsome blurs of gold and black, thrashing among the sea of horrid gray, the two wolves fought gallantly for their lives against an overwhelming number of draugr. And there was nothing Mason could do to help. Not without manifesting the Valkyrie inside her.
The one thing, in this place, that she absolutely could not do.
She wanted to scream with frustration as she watched Rafe and Fennrys struggling to defend each other against a horrifying multitude, two against so many.
But then, suddenly . . . there were more.
A shout of encouragement escaped Mason’s lips as bronze-helmeted warriors appeared—rank upon rank of them—from out of nowhere, wading into the sea of thrashing gray monsters, and it was like turning back the tide. They drove the draugr back, gave Fenn and Rafe breathing room and a chance to regroup and fight the way they were meant to—as a team. When an opening suddenly appeared in the sea of storm zombies, the black wolf surged forward toward the sleek white yacht, moored to the nearby concrete pier. Douglas Muir had seen Rafe and Fennrys coming and had already cast off the bow rope. As Rafe leaped—bounding over the side railing to collapse in a panting heap on the deck—Douglas cast off the stern mooring, because the Fennrys Wolf was right behind him.
Mason felt her hope soar.
They’re going to make it! she thought.
And then the air right in front of the great golden Wolf . . . shimmered.
With only ten feet to the yacht, Fennrys’s head suddenly snapped up as if he’d been hit by an invisible train and he flew backward through the air twenty feet, blood spouting from his muzzle in a bright crimson arc.
“Fennrys!” Mason screamed, confused and horrified.
When Rory suddenly faded into view, her confusion vanished.
But not her horror.
Dread flooded Mason’s chest, drowning the hope that had so recently flourished there. Rory stalked after the Fennrys Wolf, lifting his gleaming silver hand high in the air to bring it down in a hammer blow on the Wolf’s flank. Mason could almost feel his ribs breaking and she cried out as that gleaming silver fist descended again and again, pummeling the golden Wolf like thunder.
She saw the great beast struggle to rise and then fall again. And again . . .
She saw red staining the golden fur . . .
And then all she saw was red.
XXIV
The crimson mist that dropped over her like a cloak clarified everything. Simplified it.
She was what she was. Valkyrie. Her purpose was pure.
I will choose . . .
Who?
The one who will fight for me. Die for me . . .
Her far-seeing gaze scanned the combatants on the field as, behind her, the Einherjar waited. Poised on the cusp of achieving their promised destiny, standing at the brink of Ragnarok itself. Shields and swords, helmets and spearheads shining in the nonexistent sun, they stood in loose formation, not the undisciplined mob of berserkers she might have expected, wild with the joy of impending chaos, the fight, the kill . . .
That would come soon.
But not yet.
Bound to follow only the three Odin sons into battle, the Einherjar were compelled to leash in their warrior rage until such time as there was a third son actually in existence. The one that Mason, as a Valkyrie, was supposed to choose. The very thing she had vowed not to do. And now, standing on a game board of gods that her own father had so painstakingly set up, it was the only thing in her mind. The sight of Fennrys, beaten, bloodied . . . so utterly broken, had shattered Mason’s self-control.
She hadn’t even realized she’d drawn the veiled spear from its sheath.
But she had.
And now, a raven circled over her helmeted head and silver chain mail clothed her limbs. And vengeance, bloodlust, battle madness were the only things she felt. Beyond the singular, overwhelming need to choose.
Choose . . .
Her Valkyrie gaze scanned the field.
Choose.
But who?
The Wolf . . .
No.
The Wolf had fought bravely, savagely, but the flame of his inner light sputtered like the burnt down wick of a candle, lit long into the night. He could not be the third Odin son.
Mason turned toward the Elusinian woman’s warriors. Sprung from dragon’s teeth, there must surely be one among them who would fight valiantly enough to be worthy of her spear’s touch. Her eyes scanned the rows upon rows. All of the faces looked the same. Hard, cold eyes, like polished stones set in faces of chiseled marble, frozen in identical expressions beneath the severe brims of polished bronze helmets, the nose guards bisecting their features, dehumanizing them. War machines. They fought well, efficiently, but without passion.
She needed passion . . .
There!
Just behind the leading edge of the Dragon Warriors, she found it.
Cal.
Calum Aristarchos had passion. He was seared through to his skin by the burning coal of it at the center of his chest. Passion for her. For Mason Starling. The kind of passion that would make him do anything she required of him.
It was
all so very clear to her now.
She needed him in the same way that he needed her. It was a perfect storm of desire and she was more than willing to dive into the heart of it. The roaring of wind and blood in her ears drove every other thought from her mind as she called a Valkyrie wind and, lifting the Odin spear high above her head, ascended into the skies above the field of Valgrind to claim her champion.
But first, he would have to fight. For her.
He would have to die for her.
“Calum Aristarchos!” she shouted, rising up off the deck of the ship to hover over the battlefield, her cloak spread wide like wings behind her. “Fight for me! Die for me!”
His face turned upward and his green eyes blazed.
“Win my love!” she cried. And her voice echoed across the field of Valgrind.
Somewhere deep inside him, a rust-frozen lock suddenly shattered and fell away.
And a door swung wide open.
All the years he’d spent as a medal-winning fencer, Cal had won because he’d been careful. Smart, strategic, never overcommitting or taking stupid chances. He’d worked his technique down to inches and studied his opponents minutely. His fighting had always been clean, crisp, passionless. And most of the time, he’d won.
That was before the Fennrys Wolf.
Before he’d started to lose everything.
But the Wolf, it seemed, wasn’t the only one who could fight with berserker rage,
When Cal heard Mason cry out his name, his heart responded with a surge of emotion. He looked up to see her there, shining like an angel in the sky above him and he knew he’d never seen anything so beautiful nor so terrifying in all his life.
Die for her? It was his heart’s desire.
Before he’d even made a conscious decision, Cal suddenly found himself out in the very front ranks of the Dragon Warriors, howling a battle cry and hewing draugr limbs from bodies. All the thwarted passion in his immortal soul found expression in the shining weapon in his hand . . . and the way it hacked through his enemies.
He would win Mason Starling’s love, even if it killed him.
Which was, of course, the whole point.
“Oh no! No no no—crap!”
Heather watched, aghast, as the Valkyrie rose up from the decks of the phantom ship, into the skies over the battlefield. She heard the chooser of the slain cry out—in a voice like storm and fury—howling out words that Mason Starling would have been embarrassed to hear come from her own mouth.
If she’d still been Mason Starling, that is.
“Starling—NO!” Heather shouted, even though she knew that the other girl wouldn’t hear her, intent as she was on warping Cal’s already twisted feelings and tying them into a passion-fueled knot of killing rage.
She wanted to scream that it was all a lie. All of it.
Yes, she thought. Cal loves Mason, but that is the biggest lie of all!
So Heather decided that she was going to shoot Cal full of truth. Excruciating, throbbing-dull, needle-sharp truth. Away from Gunnar’s line of sight, she eased her hand into the purse she still wore slung across her body, and felt around—carefully—for the crossbow . . . and the cold, heavy, dreadful leaden bolt.
“This one hurts like every hell there is . . . ,” Valen had told her.
Of course it did. Hate always hurt like that.
Heather fumbled, one-handed, to load the leaden bolt into the crossbow slot, her fingers turning numb from the bolt’s chill touch. She probably didn’t have to worry about the need for stealth. Gunnar Starling’s attention was fixed wholly on what was happening on the field of battle—on the epic, horrifying smackdown going on between Rory and the Wolf that used to be Fennrys—and on Cal and Mason.
From the corner of her eye, Heather saw Roth break from Daria’s side and charge across the field heading straight for Cal, where he was busily hacking holes in the draugr horde in order to prove himself to Mason. Roth slammed into Cal from behind, thrusting him out of the main press of the fighting. He screamed at Cal, punching and pleading, trying to get him to stand down and stop fighting. With about the same success rate as trying to swat a hornet with a silk scarf. All he managed to do was draw Cal’s fury down on himself, and the hunting knife he carried was no match for the silvery trident in Cal’s hands. In short order, Roth was forced to retreat. He stumbled back toward the Bronx Kill Bridge and Cal followed, pressing his attacks. That was when Heather saw her chance. She pulled the crossbow out of her bag.
Over near the Bronx Kill Bridge, Roth ducked under the sweep of Cal’s trident and threw a roundhouse punch. Cal staggered back a step, and swung his weapon backhanded in a vicious arc that left three parallel lines of blood seeping through the front of Roth’s T-shirt. Roth fell to his knees and Cal advanced, raising the trident for a killing blow. Above them, Mason hovered in the air like a dark angel. Her face, beneath the brim of her raven-winged helmet, was the rigid, ecstatic mask of a battle goddess. Her blue eyes were incandescent.
She raised the Odin spear high over her shoulder . . .
Hidden in the shadows beneath the bridge, Heather raised the crossbow to her lips and—acting on instinct—she whispered Mason Starling’s name to the dull gray bolt. She took aim, and pulled the trigger. It hit Cal square in the chest.
He screamed like a wounded animal.
In an instant, the madness dropped away from him—Heather saw it happen—and the look of anguish that washed over Cal’s features as he looked up into the sky where Mason hovered . . . terrible and beautiful, ready to strike, to choose . . . it broke Heather’s heart. In pretty much the same way she’d just broken his.
You set him free, she told herself.
But it didn’t make her feel any better. She watched the trident fall from his hands, shattering into a million teardrops as it hit the ground. Cal’s shoulders rolled convulsively forward and he sank to his knees, shuddering, in the mud of the churned field to bury his face in his hands. In the sky above, the Odin spear wavered in Mason’s fist and the point of the blade drifted up. Her Valkyrie wrath morphed into an expression of confusion. Heather looked over to where Roth lay on the ground near Cal, staring up at his sister. His chest was heaving and bloodied. The tides of the battle had ebbed away from them.
Heather took a step forward . . .
And Gunnar Starling backhanded her across the jaw.
“You stupid girl!” he shouted. “What have you done?!”
He reared back, fist cocked. Heather scrambled to get out of his way and suddenly Roth was there, hauling Gunnar back, away from her. And then Cal was there too. He grabbed Heather by the wrist and dragged her away from the two Starling men as they grappled and swung at each other, cursing and frenzied with rage. When Cal got Heather out of harm’s reach, he lifted the hand he held her by up in front of his face . . . and stared at the crossbow. Just stared at it, for a long silent moment. She could see it in his face. He knew what it was.
And he knew what she’d done to him.
“It was all a lie,” he said, his voice scrapped thin and raw. “Wasn’t it?”
Heather nodded, unable to speak the words that would tell him that yes, everything he’d felt for Mason Starling—all the wrenching heartache, all the moments of bliss when she smiled at him, all the things he’d wanted with her—had been a mirage.
His fingers convulsed on her skin as he held her by the wrist.
“It didn’t feel like one . . . ,” he whispered.
His other hand went to the place on his chest above his heart where the lead bolt had hit him. There would be a mark there, Heather knew. One that might not ever fade.
“Why?” Cal asked her.
“Why what?” Heather glanced at him from under her lashes, not quite able to make eye contact.
Cal shook his head, weary. “There’s another bolt. Isn’t there?”
She swallowed noisily and nodded.
“Why didn’t you use it, too?”
Heather knew what he meant. Why h
adn’t she made Cal love her instead?
“I don’t want the lie,” she whispered. “No matter how beautiful it is.”
With a shocking suddenness, the bright-burning passion was gone. The fight was suddenly gone, banished from the heart of the one she’d been about to choose. Uncertainty, sorrow, bitter regret . . . these were not the things that drew her spear. But suddenly, they were the only things in Calum’s heart.
She would not choose him. She couldn’t.
The red mist of battle lust cleared from her mind and her gaze roamed over the chaotic field beneath her. She saw Heather and Cal—her friends—heads bent toward each other, nodding over a weapon held in Heather’s white-knuckled hand. And then Mason understood just exactly what had transpired. She descended slowly from the sky to stand before them and willed herself to become Mason again. . . .
And nothing happened.
The helmet, the armor, the spear . . . none of it disappeared. Mason remained a Valkyrie. But she was Mason, too. There was a moment of confusion, and then she understood. She was too far gone. Too much the Valkyrie to not choose. Not far away from where she stood, battles still raged. Draugr and Dragon Warriors battered ceaselessly at each other while the Einherjar still stood, waiting for her to choose. Roth and Gunnar swung battering fists at each other. And Rory and Fennrys were fighting to the death.
Fennrys’s death.
With each blow he landed, Rory’s silver hand seemed to shine brighter—even though red blood coated his knuckles. Mason didn’t understand it. As the Wolf, Fennrys should have been virtually unkillable. His strength was immeasurable, his ability to heal almost instantaneous. It was the reason Mason had begged Rafe to turn him in the first place.
Rory was just . . . Rory.
But he wears a hand made for a god. A silver hand . . .
Suddenly, Mason heard Loki’s voice echoing in her head. She remembered his words in the catacombs under Gosforth: “Silver,” he’d said, taking the rings off his fingers so he could touch his son. “Anathema to werewolves.”
Wolfsbane. Poison. A truth that had translated down through folk and fairy tales. Kill a werewolf with a silver bullet. Or a silver fist. And then Mason realized something else. In one hand, she held the Odin spear. But in the other, her fist was still knotted closed around the iron Janus Medallion that Fenn had tossed her on the ship. And it still pulsed with all of the magick that Loki had poured into it, to cage the Wolf inside his son.
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