Mist

“What?”

“You heard me. I want the Spear.”

“Odin left it in my care, and he said—”

“You let Loki steal it.”

“And you let Loki take you prisoner!”

The hostility between them was as thick as Thor’s beard. Vid set his jaw in a way that told Mist he wasn’t going to back down.

But giving up Gungnir to a man who despised her, wouldn’t fight, and had already fallen to Loki once . . .

She reminded herself that important thing was to find Dainn and worry about the rest later. “All right,” she said. “It’s a deal. But I have to get it back first, and I don’t have time for any more of this crap.”

Vidarr stared at her a moment longer and then walked behind the counter. He pulled a folder from a shelf underneath and slapped it on the counter.

“I didn’t get very much yet, but the guy I sent to look had some luck and found records of a recent lease of an office building on Battery Street. Found the name of the lessee and where he lives now.”

Mist didn’t touch the folder. “And?”

“He didn’t make much effort to hide himself. Lukas Landvik, esq.”

The tone of his voice seemed to suggest he found the name funny, but Mist saw nothing humorous about it. “The address,” she said.

Vidarr extended himself so far as to write it down for her, and she headed for the front door.

“Mist!” he called after her.

She kept walking. “What?”

“I’ll offer a little advice. Don’t think just because Freya and that traitor are behind you that you’ll win. You take one wrong step and you’ll fall, and take everything else with you.”

She paused at the door. “You act as if it all depends on me. It’s not my personal war, Vid. I’m only one of the foot soldiers.”

“You’re an arrogant bitch, Mist,” Vidarr said. “That’s what’s going to get you in the end.”

Turning her back on him, Mist flung open the door and strode through the bar. On her way to the motorcycle, she almost ran into an old man with a cane and a jaunty smile. She caught at him to steady him, but he only grinned at her as slipped from her grasp.

“Good afternoon, young lady,” he said. Before Mist could reply, he had walked past her, and when she turned to go after him he was gone.

Jotunn. Mist was certain of it. And she knew the message he was giving her: “We are watching. We know where you go. We will always find you.”

Loki would be waiting for her.

Freya, she thought, if you can hear me, if there’s anything you can do, now would be the time.

* * *

Once he was inside the Ferry Building and no longer shivering, Dainn found his way to the back of a small coffee shop, keeping his head down as he gazed into his untouched cup of espresso. At 3:00 p.m., the Ferry Building was only beginning to fill with early commuters bound for the East Bay and Marin. A few minutes after four, a man in a black trench coat arrived, sat next to Dainn at the table, and handed him a small white envelope. He stayed just long enough to watch Dainn begin to open it and then left as quietly as he had come.

Inside was a note card with gilded lettering on snowy white handmade paper.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO ATTEND THE FITTING OF

LUKAS LANDVIK, ESQ.

AT THE ROOMS OF FREDKIN & ASSOCIATES

SUTTER STREET

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

AT 5 P.M.

At the bottom of the invitation was scrawled a single handwritten line: Don’t be late. — L.

Dainn tucked the note back in the envelope and put it in his pants pocket. It was only about a mile to Sutter Street from the Embarcadero. Dainn lingered a few more minutes and then started southwest along Market Street, lost among hundreds of workers and shoppers caught up in the last-minute Yuletide rush.

It was five minutes to five when Dainn walked into the shop. The showroom was elegant in its simplicity, with comfortable chairs placed in convenient locations, a few racks of expensive suits and handmade ties on display, and various other tasteful appointments meant to appeal to the discriminating man of means.

Almost immediately Dainn was approached by an immaculately dressed gentleman with a formal smile and quick, narrow hands. He took Dainn in from his plain loafers to the crown of his head with such subtle disapproval that most mortals would not even have noticed. His smile widened.

“Welcome, sir,” he said with the merest trace of a British accent. “My name is Javier. How may we assist you today?”

“I received this,” Dainn said, withdrawing the invitation from his pocket.

“Of course, sir,” the man said with barely a glance at the card. “You are expected. If you will follow me . . .”

Loki was in one of the fitting rooms in the rear of the establishment, a chamber every bit as impressive as the showroom. He wore unhemmed trousers and a dress shirt open at the neck. A tailor was obsequiously fluttering around him, chattering nervously as he measured Loki’s inseam.

He must have done something wrong, because Loki abruptly kicked him away. “If you don’t watch your hands,” Laufeyson said, very softly, “you may one day find yourself without them.”

For a moment the tailor was unable to speak. Javier fled the room.

“I see you haven’t lost your natural charm, Laufeyson,” Dainn said from the doorway.

Loki turned around. His face broke into a broad, welcoming, and entirely deceptive smile. He glanced once at the tailor, who rapidly followed his fellow employee out the door.

“My dear Dainn,” Loki said, coming toward him with outstretched hands. “How very delightful to see you. I am so very pleased that you contacted me. It has been centuries since we last spoke.”

Dainn stood unmoving, watching Loki’s approach with emotions so violently in conflict that he felt almost nothing at all. Centuries. Centuries during which Loki had been utterly unaware that Dainn had been alive in Midgard.

Now he greeted Dainn as if their last encounter had been one of tender feelings and good-natured sparring. Except for his clothing, Loki looked exactly as he had at Asbrew, wearing the shape he preferred: the slightly vulpine, handsome face; thick, wavy ginger hair; and emerald-green eyes with a thin rim of orange-red. There was nothing in his manner to suggest that he had ever been humiliated by his defeat at Asbrew.

Or how shocked he had been to learn Dainn was the elf Hrimgrimir claimed to have killed in Golden Gate Park.

“I confess I have missed you,” Loki said, smoothing the front of his half-open shirt. “I had hoped we might have a pleasant chat after my little tete-a-tete with our darling Mist.”

“Is that what you call your defeat at her hands, Slanderer?”

Loki dropped his hands. “Now, now,” he said, clucking his tongue in indulgent disapproval. “No need for bad manners. Let us be frank with one another, as we once were.” He smiled amiably. “I confess I hadn’t expected that Freya would use you as her messenger. I was never quite sure where you had gone after the Dispersal.”

“To Midgard,” Dainn said. “Freya sent me just as I was about to kill you.”

Loki gave no visible sign of surprise. “What excellent timing for me,” he said, more than a touch of acid in his voice. “She could not have anticipated the Dispersal, so perhaps she thought it best to get you out of Odin’s sight before you drew more unwelcome attention to yourself. I presume it was not because she wanted to spare my life.”