Chicks Kick Butt

him he had become nearly as good as she was.

“I’ll kill him,” she said.

“As Heimdall killed him?”

His mockery was all the more savage for its gentleness. She met Dáinn’s gaze across the table.

“Can you find him?” she asked.

“If he hasn’t left Midgard.”

The questions she wanted to ask nearly choked her, but she left them unspoken. “Start looking,” she said.

Dáinn dipped a finger into the ash and lifted it to his forehead. With quick, sure strokes he sketched a bind rune above and between his brows. It seemed to catch fire, and Dáinn grimaced in pain.

“A passage,” he murmured.

“What do you mean?” She leaned over the table, forcing him to look at her. “ What passage?”

“A bridge to the otherworlds.” He smeared the ash with his fingers. “‘Gullin’ is its name.”

Golden . The Golden Gate Bridge. An echo of Bïfrost, which had once joined Midgard with the realm of the Aesir.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“There is no certainty.”

To Hel with that. It was the only lead they had, and there was no time to waste. The bridge was nearly eight miles northwest as the crow flies, longer on surface streets. Dawn was just breaking; there wouldn’t be much traffic, and that meant the car would be faster than going on foot.

“Let’s go,” she said.

She ran into the shop, snatched up several small, dusty pieces of wood she kept on a high shelf, and dashed for the garage. Dáinn caught up with her as she reached the Volvo and threw open the door. She didn’t wait to ask if the álfr had ever been in an automobile before, but he didn’t hesitate to get in. She was already pulling out of the garage by the time he had closed his own door.

Chanting a hurried runespell to hold any overzealous cops away, Mist kept her foot on the gas all the way up Van Ness and screeched a reckless left turn onto Lombard. In minutes they were on 101 and nearing the bridge.

“Where?” she asked.

He touched his forehead, tracing the runes afresh. “Over the water,” he said. “We must go on foot.”

That was cursed inconvenient. There wasn’t any way for a pedestrian to get onto the bridge from the San Francisco side without attracting unwelcome attention.

“We’ll have to drive across,” she said. “You tell me where to stop.”

“If I can.”

“You will.” She gunned the engine and sped for the toll plaza, slowing only to pay the toll and pretend she had no intention of breaking every speed law on the books. The moment she was on the bridge she pushed on the accelerator, passing slower vehicles as if they were standing still.

“Here,” Dáinn said when they were half a mile across. Mist stopped in the right lane and jumped out.

There was nothing to show that this span of the Bridge was different from any other. Dáinn vaulted over the railing that separated the pedestrian walkway from traffic. Mist followed him to the suicide barrier. Blue- gray water seethed far beneath them, choppy with a rising wind driving west from the Bay.

The faintest pressure in the air lifted the hairs on the back of Mist’s neck. “I feel it,” she said.

Dáinn wasn’t listening. He cocked his head and closed his eyes. The air around him shimmered, and the ground under Mist’s feet vibrated with barely leashed energy. The “passage” the álfr had spoken of was in this very place, an invisible mouth waiting for the right spell to open it again.

And there was more. She could feel Eric’s presence, a shadow of his being altered and twisted into a form almost unrecognizable. She drew her knife.

“Where is he?” she asked him, struggling to control her seething emotions.

The álfr spread his hands in front of him as if he were reaching for something solid. “He was here, but he did not pass through. Something blocked his path.”

“Then where has he gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you do know?”

Dáinn bent his head. “Even Loki would need a refuge. Evil always seeks evil.”

Evil . What did that mean in a world of turmoil and endless conflict? The gangs? The suppliers of illicit drugs, who killed as easily as they breathed? The corrupt politicians and greedy businessmen who set policies that made thousands suffer?

Too many possibilities. They could spend weeks sorting through every dark soul in San Francisco, both high and low. But there was someone who might help them. Someone she’d hoped never to see again.

Maybe Vídarr already knew about the incursion. If he did, and hadn’t warned her …

Never. Not the son of Odhinn.

“We’re going to Vídarr,” she said.

Dáinn stared at her. “He is here?”

“The prophecies said he and Váli would survive Ragnarök and live in the new world. That part was half right.”

“Freyja said nothing about—”

Mist jumped over the barrier and returned to the Volvo. A red Jaguar streaked past, blaring its horn.

“You said the Aesir can’t see everything,” she said over her shoulder. And you’re as blind as they are . She opened the passenger door. “Are you coming?”

He got in. Mist slammed the door shut, released the brake, and made a sharp U-turn. By the time they were off the bridge Dáinn was singing again.

She let him be. His magic, such as it was, was still stronger than hers. She didn’t dare rely on him, but she couldn’t afford to throw away even the smallest advantage, or the weakest ally.

Vídarr’s club was in the Tenderloin, a scarred and graffitied doorway squashed between a seedy hotel and a pawn shop. In spite of the dubious neighborhood, Bifrost was popular with artists, musicians, and the more affluent youth from other parts of the city. Mist hadn’t been inside the door for a decade, and she’d planned to keep it that way.

Plans of any kind were useless now. Mist wove through the increasing traffic, cutting through back streets and ignoring one-way signs. But her efforts to avoid the worst congestion weren’t good enough. It was taking too damned long.

She pulled up to the nearest curb. “We’ll have to run,” she said.

Dáinn was out of the car a second after she was. She set off south, fiercely grateful for the chance to move her body again. She might not trust her own magic, but legs and arms, muscle and bone, were tools she honed to obey her will without thought or hesitation.

Tucked between the wealth of Nob Hill and the busy downtown of Civic Center, the Tenderloin was an abrupt descent both figuratively and literally. She and Dáinn ran past liquor stores, strip joints, and more than one dealer on the prowl for addicts looking to score. Panhandlers and drunks stared after them in astonishment, but they were only a blur in Mist’s eyes.

Though it wasn’t even eight o’clock, Mist knew that Bifrost would already be jumping. No cops would come knocking, for the simple reason that Vídarr had set runes to repel them; she could see them glowing in the air and feel their potency. Vídarr might have rejected his heritage, but he still used magic when it suited him.

Mist opened the door and walked in. Vídarr employed a doorman to keep out any “undesirables” who might slip past the wards, but she didn’t recognize the big man standing just inside the door. He did a double take when Dáinn came up behind her.