Mist

“Why didn’t Freya know Loki was already in Midgard?” she retorted. “Why did she only suspect?”

“So much is . . . still unclear to us.”

“But Eric—” She broke off, unable to find the words.

Dainn ran his fingers through the black powder. “He was your lover.”

“No! It was . . .” She swallowed, remembering all the good times. Every one false, Loki’s joke on one he might have vanquished with a snap of his fingers. Just the previous morning, in the gym, she’d told him he was getting to be almost as good with the sword as she was. Andwhen they’d made love . . .

“I knew him as . . . Eric Larsson,” she said.

“How long was he with you?” Dainn asked.

Mist’s throat tightened until she could hardly breathe. “Six months.”

Dainn frowned, obviously asking himself the same questions she was. If Loki had been in Midgard for months, he had deceived the Aesir more thoroughly than he had ever done in a long life of deception.

Loki Laufeyson. Scar-lip, Slanderer, godling, trickster, purveyor of chaos and conflict, shape-shifter, foremost of Jotunar, father of monsters, mother of Sleipnir, once ally of the gods and now their greatest enemy. Myth called him evil, but he was so much more than any mere word could define. The codes of morality, Aesir and mortal, were not his to live by.

The destruction of the other Homeworlds wouldn’t have quenched his need for revenge—for the slaughter of his son Narfi in punishment for the gentle god Baldr’s death; the binding of his other son, the great Wolf Fenrisulfr; the torment he himself had endured when the Aesir had bound him under the serpent that perpetually dropped venom into his eyes.

He was the one who wanted to use the Treasures against the Aesir. He wanted a second chance at Ragnarok. And he had come to Mist to . . .

That was pretty cursed obvious now. Loki must have known all along that she’d had Gungnir in her possession. That was clearly the reason he had come to her in the first place, introducing himself as someone she could learn to love. In all the time they’d had been “together”—and there was no way of knowing if he’d been in Midgard even longer than the months she had known him—she had been absolutely convinced his feelings for her were real.

I had hoped to enjoy you one last time. Loki had always been notorious for having insatiable sexual appetites, and with Eric—oh, Eric— the sex had always been fantastic. Eric had made her feel comfortable because he wasn’t threatened by her strength and had never considered himself her superior, but she seriously doubted that her sexual skills were enough to make Loki delay his plans.

Why had he waited so long to take Gungnir?

“I didn’t know,” she stammered.

Dainn rubbed the ashes of the note between his thumb and forefinger. After a few moments of reflective silence he glanced around the kitchen, his gaze passing over the stove, the old-style TV, and the cartoon Thor bobblehead until he found something that seized all his attention.

Mist followed his gaze. The little framed photo of her and Eric in Strybing Arboretum—both of them smiling, for all the world looking like the perfect couple— lay on the ugly linoleum Mist had never bothered to replace when she’d bought the loft, the glass cracked into three pieces.

Dainn bent to pick it up. He studied the picture for nearly a minute and then set the frame facedown on the top of the TV.

“He always chooses a fair disguise,” he said, his manner as calm as ever. “You could not have been expected to know who he was.”

And, just like that, Dainn absolved her of any wrongdoing and forgave her rank stupidity. But she couldn’t forgive herself. Or Freya, for not knowing what she was up against.

Dainn’s hand on her arm jerked her out of her bleakest memories. “Do you pity yourself?” he demanded. “Do you think your burdens are greater than those of every man or god who has made mistakes before you?”

She met his gaze, ready with a furious reply, but he cast her a look so dark and savage that she was stunned into speechlessness. For a dozen charged seconds they gazed at one another, and Mist felt her muscles knot as if she were in the presence of Fenrisulfr himself.

And yet Dainn’s long fingers felt warm and strong and almost familiar, like a caress in a dream of dulcet melodies and soft spring breezes and all the good things that never quite materialized in the mortal world.

Abruptly she pulled free, and Dainn let her go. His eyes cleared, and suddenly the darkness, the breezes— and Mist’s contradictory joy—were gone.

“I can understand why Loki wanted to make an issue of fooling me,” she said bitterly. “He’s always enjoyed his nasty little games. But why did he choose today to abandon his disguise? He knows the Aesir can’t get to Midgard, right? Did he know that someone from the other side had shown up to find the Spear?” She swallowed a laugh. “Hrimgrimir obviously wasn’t worried about you, so why would he be?”

She could see she’d gotten to him, but he only stared down at the table. “Some Alfar could cause him considerable inconvenience if they wished to.”

“But not you. No, either he thinks the Aesir will be on his tail any moment, or—” She inhaled sharply, remembering again that dark, smoldering, almost violent look in Dainn’s eyes. “Maybe you’re a lot more dangerous than you look.”

He shot her a hard glance that almost—almost—convinced her she was right. Then his face turned blank again, as if she’d asked him about the weather in Ginnungagap.

Mist paced around the table and came to a stop in front of the calendar of Norwegian landscapes hung on the wall opposite the stove. “So now what?” she asked. “Loki made a body for himself, which even Freya can’t do, and helped the Jotunar get to Midgard. What does that say for the gods’ chances of winning a war with him?”

“It is only the beginning.”

“A very bad beginning.” She turned to face him, fists clenched. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to get involved in another Ragnarok?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You would not abandon your duty now.”

“But I did,” she said. “I kept Gungnir, but I gave up the old life because I wanted a normal one, with normal relationships and normal concerns.”

“But now that you have lost the thing that was most dear to you?”

“If not for the Spear, I’d never have met Eric. There wouldn’t have been anything to lose.” She bent her head, refusing to let the tears escape. “If I still had Gungnir, I’d give it to you right now. If Loki hadn’t betrayed me personally, I’d turn my back on the whole thing and wish you luck.” She choked on a laugh. “But he did betray me. And I’m not letting him get away with it.”

“Will you attempt to kill him?”

Mist had no good comeback to his mockery. She had no idea what she would do.

“You should not pursue him,” Dainn said. “It is unlikely that he can do much damage with only the Spear before Freya and the others arrive.”

His 180-degree change in attitude convinced Mist that one of them was going insane. “After all you’ve told me, you want Loki to keep a weapon he could use against the Aesir?”

“Pursuing a frost giant is one thing, confronting Loki quite another.” He almost smiled. “ ‘We’re only Valkyrie, ’ ” he quoted. “ ‘It was never part of our job description to hold off a swarm of frost giants. ’ ”

Her own words hit her one at a time, like bullets meant to cripple instead of kill. “Apparently it isn’t yours, either,” she retorted. “You only seem to be willing to use your magic for seeking spells. Can you fight at all?”

“How many times have you met Loki?” he asked, evading her question. “You have no conception—”

“I’ve heard every story ever told about him, and I’ve already had personal experience of his treachery. I know what I’m up against.”

“No. You do not.”

“But Freya does. If we can’t protect our Treasures from Loki, what was the point of your coming here at all?” She shook her head sharply. “You decide what you’re willing to do to fulfill your mission. And for Baldr’s sake, wipe that blood off your face.”

Striding back to the ward room, she crouched before the chest of drawers against the real wall and opened