Mist

The Fates had given him a choice, and he was afraid. Dainn rocked forward and leaned over his knees, fighting nausea and self- contempt. He knew Mist now. She had worried over him after he’d challenged her inner barriers, believing she had hurt him. She had offered to help him rebuild his cage when the beast had first escaped within his mind. She had sent him from the gym before he could be taken by the authorities, and he knew it hadn’t only been to protect herself and the young ones.

She cared about his fate. She cared about him, even if she would never admit it outright. And he more than merely desired her. It didn’t matter if that desire was fed by the glamour she had so unwillingly inherited from her mother. He felt emotions he had thought long put behind him. Emotions he must continue to resist every moment they were together.

But not for Midgard. Not for Freya. Not for the Aesir and Alfar and humanity.

Not even for himself. The beast was not deceived. It stirred again to remind him of what he would have sacrificed and faced the worst of his fears to obtain. To remind him that everything he had sworn to fight for could die because of the choice he made now.

He stared down at his bloody hands, retreating into a state of cold calculation. He would not attempt to contact Freya again. Even if he could reach her, which was by no means certain, he couldn’t allow her to know what he was about to do. He had to buy time—with deceit, with guile, with magic . . . even with the beast, if there was no other option.

Rising unsteadily, Dainn made his way into the hall. He stumbled to the bathroom and cleaned off the worst of the blood, working it out of his hair with a few handfuls of water from the tap. Then he made his way to Mist’s bedroom and opened the closet. He selected a pair of khaki pants and one of many polo shirts from among the leavings of Loki’s alter ego and pulled them on. The shoes were a size too big, as Vidarr’s had been, but they were good enough. He had no need of a jacket. By the time he left the loft, a dim, fitful light stained the eastern sky.

“Hey, Dainn!” Vali called, catching up with him as he started toward Twentieth Street. “I got through to Mist. They’re not at the hospital. The kids are okay. I think they’re all at some kind of coffee shop.”

Dainn exhaled. “The police?” he asked.

“Come and gone. There won’t be any investigation. The way Mist said it, I think she had something to do with getting rid of the bodies before anyone saw them. Some kind Rune-magic, I think. Pretty amazing.”

Amazing, indeed. If Mist had done such a thing, Dainn thought, it would have required considerable skill to accomplish before the authorities arrived. It would also have required far more control than Dainn had believed Mist possessed, and she had done it entirely without his help.

Hope was nearly as terrifying as despair.

“Did she speak of the man who witnessed the fight?” he asked.

“Tashiro?” Vali scratched at one bristling cheek. “She said he wasn’t going to be a problem, but she didn’t go into details.”

Tashiro. The name meant nothing to Dainn. But if he “wasn’t going to be a problem,” something must indeed have changed a great deal since Dainn had left the gym.

“Does she need help?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Those kids must be pretty shaken up, but I’m sure Mist is taking care of them.” His brow creased in worry. “You think the Jotunar will come after the kid wherever they are now?”

“Not in a public location,” Dainn said.

“Yeah. Right. She’ll probably be looking for a safe place to put the kids where Loki can’t find them.” He sighed. “I guess we should just let Mist do her thing. Sometimes she’s really stubborn, but I think she’ll ask for help if she needs it.” He looked Dainn over carefully. “Are you really leaving? You still look like Hel, and for any elf to do so much killing, especially with a weapon . . . you should take more time to deal with it.”

Vali’s perception surprised Dainn, but he couldn’t let the god’s worry stop him. He had to move quickly, while Loki was still likely to be distracted by his Jotunar’s failure.

“I’m well enough,” Dainn said. “And I must get away from the loft to, as you said, ‘deal with it.’ ”

“What about the wards?”

“As you know, mine failed,” Dainn said, not quite able to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Perhaps between you and Mist, you can do better than I did.”

“My magic isn’t what it used to be, but I’ll do whatever I can. Do you have your cell, in case Mist needs to contact you?”

In fact, Dainn had left it behind. He could not be interrupted in what he must do, but he didn’t intend to tell Vali.

“I have it,” he said.

“Good.”

“I would ask you not to speak of this to Mist until I return. She will come after me, and I must be alone now.”

“Sure. I understand.”

“I am grateful for your assistance.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Vali pushed his hands into his pockets and stared at the sidewalk. “Don’t stay away too long. I know Mist is going to need you, no matter what happened.”

He turned before Dainn could find a reply and walked back into the loft.

It was nearly noon, and a small group of mortals, bundled up in heavy coats like ambulatory sausages, were waiting at the stop at Twentieth and Third. A light snow had begun to fall, dusting the parked cars, streetlamps and roofs.

“Crazy weather,” remarked a pleasant-faced, middle- aged businessman as they stood together waiting for the streetcar. He looked Dainn up and down. “You must be freezing.”

Dainn sank his chin into his collar. “Thank you for your concern.”

The man eyed him as if he wasn’t sure whether or not Dainn was mocking him. “You look like you really tied one on last night. Maybe you better go back to bed.”

Meeting the mortal’s gaze, Dainn smiled. “There will be plenty of time to rest if the world comes to an end.”

Backing away, the man stood as far from Dainn as he could until the streetcar arrived, and then he flung himself aboard as if the Christian Devil were on his tail.

He was very nearly right.

* * *

“Why couldn’t we meet tonight? I have fucking business to take care of this afternoon.”

The mortal who spoke was sallow, skinny, and ugly. He wore an Armani suit, and his slight accent revealed his ties to the Russian Mafia, but he hardly looked the part of one of San Francisco’s most notorious sex traffickers.

Loki stared at the man until he was forced to drop his nearly colorless blue eyes. Of all the crime lords, street gang bosses, extortionists, drug traffickers, money launderers—as well as those who ran extensive prostitution, credit card fraud, and auto theft rings— Bovarin was the one he despised most. Loki wasn’t above coercing sex from time to time, but he preferred seduction. It wasn’t as if he had to put much effort into it. Any mortal who had to rely on slaves to provide him with satisfaction was a pathetic creature unworthy of life, but Loki had to take what he could get.

“I called all of you here now,” Loki said, sweeping the room with a scathing glance, “because I have no time to waste in carrying out my plan.”

“Your plan,” Chavez said, scorn heavy in his voice. “You offered us some good shit if we just listened to you. We didn’t give you no promises.”

“You will, when you hear what I have to say,” Loki said. He chanted a quick spell under his breath, and Chavez doubled over with a shout of pain. The other men looked from Loki to Chavez with expressions varying from unease to feigned indifference, but Loki didn’t think it would take long to convince them not to be so disrespectful in the future.

“If you do as I tell you,” Loki said, leaning back in his chair, “you’ll all be more wealthy than you’ve ever dreamed of in your short, miserable lives. If you stand against me, I’ll see that your rivals get everything you would have had. And you’ll be dead.”