Mist

future . . . misunderstandings.”

“Yet it seems, in spite of your victory, that you are uncertain of your ability to protect our little Valkyrie.” He poured the whisky and held the glass close to his nose, closing his eyes in appreciation.

“Did Mist send you?”

“Do you believe she would?”

“No. But I don’t believe you’ve been completely forthcoming with me. Or her. Is the Sow’s reliability in question, perhaps?” Dainn held Loki’s gaze, careful not to reveal how uncomfortably close he had come to the truth. “I told you we did not require her assistance.”

“Then perhaps you are afraid that Mist will act recklessly and attack me without Freya’s assistance.” He sipped his drink and sighed.

“That’s a rather significant problem for you, isn’t it? Not merely protecting Mist from me, but from herself. And, not incidentally from you.”

“Why would I harm Freya’s daughter?”

“You misunderstand me. I have never actually seen the two of you together, of course, but your behavior is reminiscent of what I so very intimately observed in Asgard. You helped Mist at Asbrew because you were obligated to do so, but now . . . now that Freya has possessed our Valkyrie, perhaps she has no need of her mother’s immediate presence to work the charms she never possessed before.”

“If you are suggesting she has used glamour on me . . .”

“Has she?”

“If you believe she would, you never knew her.”

“Even your words betray you, my Dainn. I know you too well to believe you feel nothing for her.”

“Your belief that you know me is badly mistaken.”

“How many women have you had since you’ve been wandering Midgard?” Loki asked. “Before we began our affair, all Asgard thought you celibate and above anything as crude as sex. You quickly proved them wrong . . . with the right encouragement.” He lifted his glass in salute. “I have been told more than once that one of my greatest weaknesses is arrogance. Freya’s is the belief that some emotional force called ’love’ outweighs the necessities of self-interest and true freedom. You believed yourself in love with her. Now you’re thrown into the company of a woman who can become her mother. You’d like to get her in your bed as much as I’d like to get you back in mine.”

“Neither will ever happen,” Dainn said, swallowing bile. “And of course, Freya would strongly object. She trusts you with her most valuable possession, in spite of your feelings. Still, sweetheart, I fear for your state of mind.”

“I gladly absolve you of any responsibility for my welfare.” Loki drained his glass and poured another three fingers. “Very well. Let’s go back to your proposition. You want me to stay away from Mist and her ‘human associates.’ Leaving aside the fact that the parameters are too broad to be acceptable”—he held the glass up to the light, admiring its flame-amber color—“What are you prepared to offer me in return?”

* * *

The Century Tower, all clean modern lines, glass, and gleaming steel, loomed over the Financial District, fifty-eight stories rooted at the corner of Mission and Beale and thrusting upward like a crystalline spear sheathed in ice.

Mist entered the subterranean parking garage and worked a very simple Rune- spell to get past the guard and barriers. She found an empty parking space and cast another warding spell, preserving her energy by drawing the staves with chalk on the concrete around the bike. If anyone noticed the motorcycle, they would see only the vehicle that belonged in the space. She didn’t intend to be around long enough for the spell to become stale.

Either she’d get Dainn back, or she’d be dead.

The lobby was immense, with a fireplace set in a huge marble block, two fountains, a gallery of exclusive art on the high walls, and clusters of luxury armchairs, sofas, and tables scattered throughout. A pair of mortals, male and female, stood behind a reception desk, ostensibly to assist the residents, but Mist knew they were also security personnel who could act decisively in case of emergency.

They might even be Loki’s.

Two men sat in chairs on either side of a round table, one with his nose in a tabloid and the other working on a laptop. Neither looked up as Mist walked across the black marble tile floor, but their mortal appearance didn’t deceive Mist in the slightest. They were Jotunar.

At least Mist knew she was in the right place.

She paused near a square pillar some distance from the reception desk to assess the situation. She had no sense that Dainn had walked here, no sense of his presence.

He could be dead by now, for all she knew.

No. That she would have known.

Her heart pounding more out of fear for him than for herself or the future of Midgard, Mist approached the bank of elevators.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” the male receptionist said, coming up behind her. “Will you come to the reception desk?”

There was no way out of it, so Mist followed him. The woman gave her a probing look.

“Have you come to see one of our residents?” the man asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Lukas Landvik.”

He picked up a clipboard. “Your name, ma’am?”

“Brenda Jones.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have no listing by that name.”

“There must be some mistake.”

“Perhaps you would like me to call Mr. Landvik?”

That was the last thing Mist wanted. She already knew the Jotunar were listening. Her assumed name hadn’t deceived them. Her one chance of getting past the receptionist- guards was to use the method she had sworn never to repeat.

But Dainn’s life was at stake. This time she had to be in control. She closed her eyes, letting the glamour come. The scent of primroses drifted around her head. The female receptionist sniffed and frowned at Mist.

But it didn’t take long before Mist felt her mother’s power. Her power. Her body relaxed. She smiled and opened her eyes.

“What’s your name?” she asked the man, looking into his brown eyes.

His gaze flickered this way and that in confusion, and he blushed. “Shaw,” he stammered. “Robert. Bob.”

The woman threw him an astonished glance and then began to study Mist with narrow- eyed intensity.

“Well, Bob,” Mist said, leaning over the desk, “I really need to see Mr. Landvik. It’s so important to me, and he’s expecting me. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to make either one of us angry?”

“Excuse me,” the woman said. “I think you should leave, ma’am.”

“No,” Mist said, meeting her gaze. “I don’t think I will.”

The woman flinched. Mist hadn’t been too sure how the glamour would work on the woman, but it was obviously having some effect..

“Bob,” she said, “You can see I won’t do any harm. Look at me.”

She stepped back, imagining her body seductively curved, her breasts heavy inside her shirt. She didn’t even need to show anything, because Bob was transfixed.

“Will you look on the list again?” Mist asked. “I’m sure my name is there.”

He looked, running his finger down the page. “Here it is,” he said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

“Let me see it,” the woman said. She scanned the page. “Ms. Jones . . .”

Mist moved along the desk toward her. “Look at me,” Mist said. “It’s really not a problem to let me go up, is it?”

The woman’s lips compressed. She fidgeted, as if she were trying to throw off Mist’s influence.

In the end, she gave in, if reluctantly. “You can go up,” she said, “but if Mr. Landvik isn’t expecting you, we’ll