Mist

“Nothing of the creatures is left,” Dainn said.

“Have you become a devourer of flesh as well?”

His unease was palpable, but Dainn remained silent. Loki had never been able to leave a silence unfilled.

“You have come to kill me after all?” he asked softly. “Dainn, Dainn. I am prepared for you this time.”

“I know,” Dainn said.

Clearly biting back questions he was desperate to ask, Loki assumed a pose of indifference that was anything but convincing.

“Where was Mist during this epic engagement?” he asked. “Fighting. As you may remember, she is an excellent swordswoman.”

“Ah. Then you cannot claim full glory for your victory, despite her undoubtedly meager contribution.”

“The desire for glory is your weakness, Laufeyson, not mine.”

“But such desire is also Freya’s, and yet you say she wasn’t there.”

“She had faith in our ability to deal with three Jotunar.”

“Then I suppose I should thank you for taking three willful, disobedient, and unpredictable servants off my hands.”

“You seem unable to control your so-called servants, Laufeyson.”

“A few Jotunar more or less hardly matter to me.” He began to remove his shirt. “I am beginning to wonder how much Freya actually values you if you have been reduced to a mere guard dog.” He strolled toward Dainn with a sympathetic smile. “What ever you may feel you owe her, you know she is not what mortals have always believed her to be. I understand human nature better than the Sow ever could. As I said to our little Valkyrie, they need me, and when they recognize this simple fact, I will win.”

It was all Dainn could do not to slam his fist into Loki’s smug face. “Such posturing may persuade some mortals,” he said, “but it will be no more effective with me than it was with Mist.”

“No? I seem to remember certain postures that worked very well with you.” Without warning, Loki grabbed Dainn by the shoulders and kissed him, punishing with sharp teeth that drew blood from Dainn lips, pushing his tongue inside Dainn’s mouth before he could free himself. Dainn shoved Loki away, disgust and hatred threatening to overwhelm him.

“Ah. Sweet as ever,” Loki said, licking his lips. “You were always good, darling. One of the best I’ve ever had.”

Dainn dragged his arm across his mouth. He had to be careful.

So very careful.

“You were not,” he said. “But then again, you made sure I didn’t notice.”

Loki threw his shirt over the nearest chair, flinging pins in every direction and tearing the expensive fabric in several places. “Perhaps I will have to remind you of what you threw away.”

“That would be a mistake,” Dainn said, holding his gaze. “A pity,” Loki said. He unpinned the fly of his trousers. “You’ve bet on the losing horse.”

“Sleipnir is your son, and yet he, the swiftest of all horses, belongs to Odin.”

“But we both know that Odin—” Loki broke off, putting his finger to the side of his nose. “Ah, but we must not speak of that.

Perhaps you would prefer a more private setting to continue our conversation. Though if you merely intend to offer more threats . . .”

“I have made no threats, Laufeyson.”

Loki let the trousers fall. “Well, then. I’ve a lovely apartment on—”

“I prefer a more neutral setting.”

Loki kicked the trousers out of the way, strolled to the door, and pushed on the buzzer. The door opened again, and the tailor’s fearful face appeared.

“May I . . . be of assistance, gentlemen?” he said, his voice quivering.

“I am leaving now,” Loki said. “We will resume tomorrow.” He stared at the mortal with a look that might literally kill. “I did not receive my drinks. Tell Javier that he had better bring what I request more quickly next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And see that you have better command of your fingers tomorrow.”

The tailor bobbed his head as if he were trying to appease a barbarian king and slunk into the room, as near to crawling as a man could do on two legs. Loki jerked his head toward the cast- off shirt and trousers. The tailor left hurriedly with the half-ruined clothing carefully folded over his arm.

Loki stood all but naked in the center of the room, striking a pose reminiscent of a Greek statue.

He was beautiful, Dainn thought—perfect, as the White Christ’s great enemy Satan was said to be. That, of course, was Loki’s intention.

Dainn turned his back. Loki sighed dramatically, and Dainn heard the rustle of fabric as Loki dressed in his own clothes. When he was finished, he came up beside Dainn, close but not quite touching. “Shall we go?” he said.

Dainn preceded him out of the shop, leaving the pale and silent tailor bobbing in his wake. Javier was approaching on the sidewalk from the right, a waiter with drinks immediately behind him, as Loki stepped through the door. Loki extended his arm, and both Javier and waiter plunged to the icy sidewalk amid spilled screwdrivers and shattering glass.

Dainn stopped to help the men to their feet. Javier was bleeding from a small cut to his forehead, but the waiter seemed more flustered than harmed.

“Do you need assistance?” Dainn asked.

Javier shook his head, his eyes pleading with Dainn for an explanation. Dainn had none to give him.

The Financial District was clogged with cars, buses, and pedestrians, and Loki wrinkled his nose at the smell of gasoline fumes and the various odors of the mortals hurrying along the street, rushing in and out of shops adorned with red and green streamers, silver wreaths, and elaborate window dressings.

“This will never do,” Loki said. He grabbed Dainn’s arm, and all at once they were standing inside a spacious, elegantly furnished room with a wall of vast windows framing the darkening sky, the bay, and the hills of Marin County on the other side of the water. A Rodin statue adorned a pedestal between two leather couches, and what Dainn presumed to be a Kandinsky original hung opposite the window.

“Surely you didn’t think I would walk into whatever trap you’ve set up for me?” Loki asked.

Dainn kept his expression neutral so as not to reveal that he’d noticed Loki’s quickened breathing and the strain in his face. Teleportation, as mortals called it, required a great deal of magical energy, and Loki had expended it merely for the pleasure of temporarily getting the better of him. The beast stirred, scenting blood. Not yet, he told it. Wait.

“Drink?” Loki offered, strolling toward the bar adjoining the kitchen.

“You always drank too much, Laufeyson,” Dainn said. “You need to drink more.” Loki laid his hand over his heart. “But your concern touches me deeply, sweetheart.”

“Do you wish to know why I’ve come?”

Loki turned around, leaning his hip against the marble-topped counter. “Since you apparently don’t intend to kill me right away, I’m fascinated.”

“I want you to swear that you will not attack Mist or her mortal associates with magic or physical violence until Freya or the Alfar arrive.”

Loki crossed his ankles and examined his beautifully manicured fingernails. “You surprise me, skatten min. You aren’t usually so dull-witted.”

“Because you would never make such an oath, no matter what the compensation?”

“You do intrigue me, my Dainn. But I have already acknowledged that I will not risk forfeiting the game by deliberately provoking your Lady further.” He reached casually for a crystal shot glass. “I assure you—”

“You will forgive me if I want more than your assurances,” Dainn said.

“Ah.” Loki selected a bottle of Macallan whisky in an exquisite Lalique decanter. “Why do I feel that this request has a more personal basis than the need to safeguard one of Freya’s earthly assets?” Dainn ignored Loki’s innuendo. “Freya has authorized me to use my own judgment in such matters,” he said. “I simply wish to prevent