Her wrist screamed, and her other wound, the one she pressed on with all her glamouring might, was beginning to make itself felt.
“These two,” Raven waved the plates at the two birds, “have decided to accept the names Huginn and Muninn, at least for the time being, as a tribute to your… injury.”
Raven knew the truth behind Dag’s glamour. She still wasn’t about to drop it, though. Not in front of the still-breathing St. Martin. “Thank you,” she said to the two birds.
They preened and clucked at Dag the way they would to a chick.
“Now you and I make a deal,” Raven said.
The moment of truth. No trickster would appear to an elder elf unless he or she wished a boon.
Raven kicked St. Martin. “Wake up, dumbass.”
He moaned. She kicked him again, and Huginn and Muninn returned to resting on Dag’s thighs.
St. Martin groaned. He tried to move, but screamed when he realized his leg wasn’t much of a leg anymore.
Raven tucked the plates into her pocket as she squatted next to his head. “Would you like me to save you? You and I can make a deal, little Renfield.”
He stared up at her wide-eyed.
“That’s right, you pathetic pile of dung. I’m the real deal.” Raven flicked the tip of his nose.
“The genie said—”
Raven sat back on her heels. “Genie! You cannot seriously be that stupid.”
“But…” St. Martin visibly tensed. His rage was cresting over his pain.
“Here’s the thing, ugly weasel boy—you are, as the kids say these days, the worst.” She flicked his nose again. “You come rolling into town all wrapped up in your petty rage over a slight on your French honor.” Raven slapped St. Martin. “Your ‘genie’ sent you here to test the magical waters of Alfheim, you moron. He doesn’t care if you drown.”
He wheezed out words Dag could not make out.
“What’s that? Not feeling so well? Did Dagrun the Wanderer kick the living mediocrity out of your pathetic ass? Poor boy.”
That “genie’s” magic had kicked Dagrun in the face. And the gut. She pulled her magicks tighter, to hold her wrist together.
And just about every place else.
Raven squeezed St. Martin’s chin. “You were incidental. Your target, as such targets usually are, is just a woman trying to live her life.”
“She killed my—”
Raven slapped him so hard his opposite cheek slammed against the ground. “Shut up.”
He groaned again and fell silent.
“I could force you into a servitude not unlike the purpose you serve right now, but I think you’d like it too much.” Raven rolled her eyes. “Or I could ignore you and concentrate on the bigger picture.”
She stood and wiped her hands on her pants as if slapping him had left slime on her palms. Gingerly, she stepped over his body.
She sat cross-legged next to Dagrun. “His so-called genie did you grave injury, Dagrun Gallows’ Burden.”
Dag leaned against the altar again. “I will heal.”
Raven elbowed her gently. “I bet you always say that.”
She did. “Good times, huh?” If good times meant wounds and watching mundanes die.
St. Martin’s head lolled to the side, and his breathing became erratic. He was about to expire.
“I don’t have the magic to save him,” Dag said.
Raven sniffed. She did, she just didn’t want to. Dag had no desire to argue about it.
One last exhale, and he stilled.
The pews vanished, as did the door and the church window, but the altar stayed. St. Martin’s corpse cooled in the snow, but the World Tree continued to shelter Dag and the trickster world spirit.
Raven pulled the two plates from her pocket. “Your friend traded the proof these plates hold for the extra strength she needed to make it to her pack.”
This, Dagrun knew. She’d sensed Axlam making the deal. There’d been something with Frank, as well. Something she could not remember.
Raven smoothed her hand over one of the sleeves. “Your friend made it, by the way.”
Dagrun exhaled for what felt like the first time since St. Martin’s attack. “Thank all the gods.”
Her husband would find her the moment she sent away the trickster. She could go home. Rest. And figure out the best way to move forward. “What do you want?”
Raven clucked, and Huginn and Muninn took up pecking at St. Martin’s now-blue corpse. “I want what is mine by name.”
She wanted Raven’s Gaze. Dag shook her head. “The pub belongs to Bjorn Thorsson. It is not mine to give.”
Raven laughed.
Dag frowned.
The sly grin on Raven’s lips meant only one thing—she thought she had already won. “Your husband will find you shortly.” She leaned closer. “I like him more than your ex. He lives up to that whole aspect thing. Plus he’s one fine man.” Raven touched her ear. “It’s the notches. They’re battle-scar sexy.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Dag said.
Raven fiddled with the plates. “Frank told you about Las Vegas Wolf and his dire-pups.” Her words were not a question, but a statement.
“Yes,” Dag said.
“You know of the World Wolf. All wolves feel it, the World Wolf.”
“Yes.”
Raven pulled one of the plates from its sleeve. “There is a wolf,” she said. “One that is rage and hunger. One that, if it breaks its chains, will come for the world.”
The same wolf whose presence she’d felt in St. Martin’s “genie” magic.
“It is good to know that we are on the same page,” Raven said.
Dag slowly exhaled. “Why do you care, Raven?” She was too tired to be polite, and the altar had begun to fade. The blizzard’s chill touched her wounds and only added to the throbbing.
Raven straightened her knit hat. “Because the rest of the world is sick of suffering the side effects inflicted by your one worst wolf.”
Each time that wolf broke his bonds, the elves and their mundanes did not suffer side effects. They died.
Dag slowly took the plate with her non-damaged hand. The seer had gotten enough distance on St. Martin to reveal the full size and extent of the magic he channeled—and the shape of its
