Mist

“It has always been clear to me that Loki does not have as much control over them as he would wish. I am not Loki.”

Yet they had been one and the same once, Dainn thought. To him. “What of Vidarr?” he asked.

“It is a pity we did not know Odin’s sons were in this city, but he and his brother were never reckoned as players in the game. Do you believe he will interfere?”

“He has no respect for the Lady Mist, and no reason to obey you.”

“He, like Loki, is arrogant. But unless you have reason to think otherwise, I cannot see why he would stand in my way. I come closer to achieving our goals every day, every hour. Your only concern now is Mist herself.” The scent of ripe blossoms changed to one of cloying sweetness, filling Dainn’s lungs and draining the remaining strength from his body. “I have the utmost confidence in you, my Dainn.”

Dainn gasped, struggling for a single lungful of untainted air. “You know . . . that the more I use my magic, the weaker the cage becomes.”

“And you know you must keep control.”

As if to emphasize her words, she pierced Dainn’s heart with her sensuous power, slicing through the twisted, thorny bars of his inner cage as if they were constructed of paper straws. Her magnificent body appeared in his mind, lushly rounded, full-breasted, and blatantly erotic in its nakedness. Golden hair, bright as the Brisingamen itself, drifted around her shoulders as if it had a life of its own.

She could make him desire her. She could drive him mad with lust. She could do anything she chose to him, and his belief that he could resist her charms was no more than a pathetic attempt to maintain some shreds of what dignity remained to him.

“My poor Dainn,” she said, reaching inside the cage. The beast stirred and stalked toward her, the burning crimson of its gaze fixed on her face. “There, there,” she said, stroking the dense black fur. “Would it be so terrible to love me?”

Dainn squeezed his eyes closed, though what he observed could not be shut out even with blindness. “That was not our bargain,” he said.

She fondled the beast’s long, tufted ears. “There is always a chance that you might choose to act against my will.”

“I would never act against your will,” Dainn said, grinding his teeth together to distract himself from the ecstasy of her touch.

The beast vanished, and Dainn felt Freya’s incorporeal hand stroke his cheek and move down his chest, penetrating both clothing and resistance, coming to rest on his painful erection. Her red lips brushed his. The kiss brought him to the edge of release, but she drew back abruptly, leaving him in unrelieved agony.

“I will come to you again when I have further instructions,” she whispered as she left him. “Do not disappoint me. You know that if you fail, I can take from you all of Dainn Faith- breaker that remains.”

8

Dainn fell forward over his knees, barely catching himself with his hands before he collapsed onto the floor. His blood roared in his ears and pulsed in his cock, erasing all rational thought.

But his mind was still capable of forming one clear image. Not of Freya, who had so casually tormented him, but of Mist . . . Mist, with her firm and womanly body, her golden hair, her strong and beautiful face. In his imagination that face wasn’t frowning at him, full of suspicion and contempt. It was smiling, and her bare arms were stretched toward him, welcoming him as she lay naked on a bed of furs. She parted her thighs, ready for him, but he wasn’t interested in her readiness. He fell on her like a brute savage and—

Dainn slammed his head against the floor. Red sparks exploded inside his skull. He rolled onto his side and lay still until the stabbing pain became a dull ache. Slowly he rose to his knees and brushed his hand through his hair, feeling it sticky with blood.

The injury would fade. Shame would ebb. Animal lust would subside, and he would once again become as sober and sexless as one of the ancient monks of the White Christ.

But none of his problems had been solved. Freya would have no patience with any hesitation or weakness on his part, and his only advantage was that she still faced certain limitations to her own powers, those posed by the rules of the game and her disembodied state. She would not be able to observe Dainn’s every action or oversee his day-to-day decisions.

Still, there could be no more mistakes. It was not only his future that hung in the balance. If the Lady won the game, the Aesir would be safe. His own people would live and thrive again. Midgard—the Midgard Mist wanted so much to protect—would have its chance at becoming the new world the Prophecies had foretold.

At the cost of one woman’s life. The life of one too honest, too forthright, too honorable to recognize the true extent of the web of lies he had woven around her.

And every time he touched Mist’s mind . . .

He had told her his telepathic ability was a particular talent of his, and among all the other lies that one seemed very small. He had not been certain it would work until he “spoke” to her when she fought Loki.

There had been only one other with whom he’d had such contact, aside from Freya herself. And that had come to a violent end long ago.

Sickened and weary both physically and mentally, Dainn pulled himself together enough to make certain that both the Jotunar and Vali were still asleep. He had not lied when he’d told Mist that he was near the end of his strength. Freya had weakened his resistance when she had tampered with the cage he had built with such care. The more he used his magic, the closer he came to—

“Dainn?”

Mist’s voice warned him just in time. He got to his feet and watched her approach with folded jeans, a plaid cotton shirt, and a pair of well-worn work boots in her arms.

“A penningr for your thoughts,” she said, circling around the quiescent Jotunar with hardly a glance. She came to a dead stop when she saw the blood in Dainn’s hair.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“I fell.”

“You fell?” Her brow creased. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Her seemingly genuine concern was so much at odds with her previous behavior that Dainn was momentarily shocked into silence.

“A moment of dizziness, no more,” he said.

“Left over from working your magic?”

“Yes.”

She continued to frown at him as she dropped the boots at her feet and brought him the bundle of clothes.

“I think these should be all right for you,” she said. “You’re about as tall as Vidarr, even if he’s twice as wide as you are. Let’s just hope he doesn’t find out you’re wearing his clothes.”

Dainn turned the bundle in his hands. “I will do my best to stay out of his way,” he said.

She leaned closer and peered at his head. “That’s quite a goose egg you’ve got under there. I’ll go get something to wash the blood off.”

“It is not necessary. Is there a place I can bathe?”

“There’s a bathroom in the bar, and Vid and Vali have rooms upstairs in the back, but obviously that’s not an option. Vid has a sink in his office. You can use that to wash up when we’ve finished here.”

“I am grateful.”

“Believe me, I’m doing this more for myself than for you.”

It was an attempt at humor, if a grudging one. Dainn gave her a brief nod, set down the clothes and began to shed his rags. Mist reddened and abruptly turned her back.