Mist

the loft or somewhere else, he wasn’t going to give up.

“Come on, Gabi,” he said. “Maybe they don’t think they need us yet, but they will. And we’re going to be ready.”

18

The wind off the bay was so cold that even Dainn, with his ability to withstand Midgardian weather in all its forms, felt it cut through his thin shirt. He sat on a bench near the end of Hyde Street Pier, seagulls circling and crying above him. The snow had gradually grown heavier, melting on the pavement but beginning to gather on the deck of the old sailing ship docked at the side of the pier, deserted and waiting for spring and the flood of tourists who would arrive with better weather.

If spring ever came.

At the moment the Maritime National Historical Park was empty of visitors, and Dainn was free to do what he must without the risk of being seen.

He scrubbed the moisture from his face and stared out at the water. The seeking spell he planned to create was not of the usual kind; he was too drained and weak to hunt Loki down. He would let Laufeyson come to him.

The Slanderer had been frightened before, but Dainn didn’t believe for a moment that Loki would surrender to such a shameful emotion again. Quite the contrary; he would have been anticipating just such a meeting ever since he had learned that Dainn was Freya’s agent in Midgard.

But did he know how badly his attack on the loft had gone awry? He had clearly decided that Freya was not as great a threat as he had believed when he’d faced Mist in Asbrew, but Dainn had never sensed the presence of any spell to indicate that Laufeyson was observing the assault. Even with the proper vector to carry out the observation, such a spell was fraught with danger for its composer. And there were no Jotunar survivors to report what had happened.

Given their failure to return with their prize, Loki might have realized things hadn’t played out exactly as he’d intended. But if he thought his attack had succeeded, he would assume this meeting was in response to it. Either way, he would be prepared to deal with his most intimate enemy.

In every way but one.

Dainn closed his eyes and felt the bay surging beneath the pier. Alfar were not of the sea, and their magical connection to it was minimal. But the ocean was still of the natural world, and so Dainn hoped to coax a little of its restless energy into his service—drawing not upon its vast stores of life and unfathomable potency, but that small part of it that appeared to men, spent but not completely stripped of its power.

Salt spray spattered against the piles as Dainn raised his hands and sang of his need and the grave threat to Midgard and its inhabitants. A wave surged over the end of the pier, slapping him in freezing water.

An appeal to the fate of mortals did not interest even the muted force he summoned. It had never cared for the things of the land, and it had cause to hate the creatures who ruled it. Dainn accepted the rebuke and altered his melody, singing of Njordr, god of the sea and Freya’s own father. He sang of his service to Freya and the restoration of the Aesir and spirits of the sea.

Foam swirled up and danced in the air, slowly circling Dainn’s head. He opened his hands and let the foam settle in his palms. He wove it between his fingers, shaping the Rune- staves that spelled out Loki’s name.

The staves became distorted, resisting his control. He soothed them with another song and they leaped out of his hands like dolphins, hurtling skyward, disappearing among the snowflakes.

Dainn toppled from the bench. For a time he was aware of nothing but a distorted view of the bay, the waves agitated by more than the wind.

“You okay?”

A young woman bundled in a heavy coat leaned toward him from a safe distance, clutching an oversized handbag against her side. Her dark eyes were concerned but uneasy, and Dainn was aware that he must look more than a little mad.

“I saw you fall,” she said, backing away as he worked his hands underneath his chest and raised his head from the pavement. “Do you need an ambulance?”

Dainn made no attempt to move any further. He didn’t want to frighten a mortal who had been compassionate enough to help, and he wasn’t sure he could do so in any case.

“I am not injured,” he said, “but I thank you for your concern.”

She peered at him a while longer, evidently confused by the contrast between his current position, his clothing, and his voice. He was grateful that he had taken the time to tie back his hair in a way that still covered his ears.

“If you’re sure you’re okay . . .” the woman said.

“Yes.” He winced at a sharp pain in his shoulder. “Thank you.”

The young woman accepted the dismissal and quickly retreated. Dainn lay on his stomach, gathering his strength to rise. If even one of the Jotunar was to come after him now with the intent to kill, he would be helpless to defend himself.

But he didn’t think Loki wanted him hurt. Not by anyone but himself.

Dainn pulled himself up by clinging to the bench, his breath forming white plumes that streaked away on the wind. His shoulder ached in the joint where he had fallen. He took a few steps toward Hyde Street and the deserted Visitor Center, paused to catch his balance against the wooden railing, and continued along the pier until he reached Jefferson Street. He took the next bus to the Ferry Building, barely earning a glance from fellow passengers who had undoubtedly seen almost every kind of peculiar, bizarre, and deviant human being that could exist in a major city.

Something more like a wheeze than laughter caught in Dainn’s throat. The sight of a Jotunn in his true form might shake them out of their complacency. He hoped by then it would not be too late.

* * *

The motorcycle Mist “borrowed” was an unprepossessing model of the kind urban motorists purchased to make themselves feel just a little more daring and rebellious when they left their Fiestas, Elantras, and Infiniti crossovers at the curb. It had been years since she’d ridden one, but now it felt as natural as galloping over the battlefields with her Sisters, determining which gallant warriors would live or die.

In so many ways, nothing had changed.

As she sped toward the Tenderloin, weaving among cars and buses struggling to deal with the ice and snow, she wondered if she was on a fool’s errand. The last thing she could afford was to waste time with Vidarr, and if he didn’t have the information she needed, that was probably what she’d be doing. Vali was right; he wasn’t going to start being reasonable just because she needed him to. She had no illusions that her glamour was going to work on him.

But the only viable alternative was trying to formulate a seeking spell, building it piece by piece as she had the ones she’d used in the gym. Maybe it would work, but she had a feeling she was finally paying the price for her previous magic. Her mind felt as empty as a gas tank after the kind of car chase she remembered seeing in a Steve McQueen movie.

She just had to hope that, if it came down to it, she’d still have a few fumes left.

Parking on the narrow side street closest to Asbrew— the same one where’d she found the Jotunar beating upon Ryan—she set the brake and continued to the bar on foot. From the way the passersby, reputable or otherwise, stared after her as she passed, she knew her glamour was at work. A couple of the men drifted along in her wake until she turned and confronted them with a glare that sent them running with their tongues firmly back behind their teeth and their tails between their legs.

At first she thought Vidarr wouldn’t see her. The doorman—a new one—was less than encouraging. The bar itself, usually busy at this hour, was nearly empty. That was a bad sign. But Vid finally emerged from the back room and stopped before her with legs braced, meeting her gaze with no hint of welcome.

“Well,” he said, “what is it?”

“I need your help.”