Curran stretched his shoulders and walked out into the clearing.
“I heard you were looking for me,” Dagfinn growled. His voice matched him, deep and torn about the edges.
“She has some runes she wants you to look at.”
Dagfinn leaned to the side to look at me. “Kate? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m with him now.”
Dagfinn looked at Curran. “You and her are…?”
“She’s my mate,” Curran said.
Dagfinn swung his axe onto his shoulder. The runes sparked with pale green. “Well, how about that? You know what, I don’t care, I’ll still beat your ass, but I like her so I won’t kill you.”
Curran’s eyes turned gold. “Thanks.”
Dagfinn waved his arm at him. “Well, go on. Do your transforming thing.”
“No need.”
“Oh, there is a need,” Dagfinn assured him.
“Are you going to talk all day? I’m a busy man,” Curran told him.
“Fine. Let’s get to it.” Frost condensed on Dagfinn’s hair. His skin turned dark. He grew, gaining half a foot of height, his shoulders spreading wider.
“Have fun, baby,” I called.
Pale tendrils of cold spilled from Dagfinn’s body. The icy mist danced along his skin, clutched at the runes tattooed on his arms, and drained down in a brilliant cascade onto his axe. The weapon burst with bright green.
I braced myself against the stone wall. Dagfinn swung his axe.
Curran jumped aside. A flash exploded to the left of him, blinding white and searing. Thunder slapped my ears. An air fist slammed into me. Curran flew a bit and rolled up to his feet.
A three-foot hole smoked in the grass where Curran had stood. Dagfinn roared like an enraged tornado. A blast of frigid air whipped from him, striking at Curran. The Beast Lord dodged again.
Dagfinn remained firmly planted. The last two times we’d fought, he’d moved at me and I’d taken him down. There were dozens of ways to use an opponent’s movement against him: trip him, knock him off balance, gain control of a shoulder or a leg, and so on. Dagfinn must’ve decided not to give Curran that chance.
Dagfinn spun the axe. A barrage of frost missiles shot out. Curran leaped back and forth, circling Dagfinn. On the battlements the shapeshifters roared and howled.
“How are we doing, baby?” I called out.
“Trying not to show off,” Curran yelled.
Dagfinn brought the axe down. A sonic boom smashed into me. Curran flew backward.
“Bring it!” Dagfinn roared.
The shapeshifters booed.
Curran bounced back up and dashed forward.
Dagfinn spun, but the Beast Lord was too fast. He dodged left, right, and collided with Dagfinn. The huge Viking staggered back from the impact, whipped around, picking up momentum, and charged, roaring, gripping the axe with both hands, and bringing it up for an overhead blow.
Curran lunged forward.
What the hell was he doing?
Dagfinn chopped down with all his strength.
Curran caught the axe with his right hand.
Dagfinn
The Viking strained, right leg forward, left leg back. Muscles rippled on his arms. Frost ate at Curran’s hand, but the axe didn’t move.
“Done?” Curran asked.
Dagfinn snarled.
Curran raised his left hand. His fingers curled into a fist.
“Not in the head!” I yelled. “We need his brain intact.”
Curran yanked the axe forward. Dagfinn jerked back, trying to regain his balance, and Curran swept his left leg from under him. Dagfinn crashed down like an oak chopped at the root.
Curran tore the axe out of his hands and tossed it aside. Dagfinn swung at him with his right fist. Curran leaned out of the way and sank a vicious punch straight down into Dagfinn’s gut.
Ow. I hurt just from looking. The shapeshifters watching on the wall made sucking noises.
Dagfinn curled into a ball, trying to gulp in a lungful of air, which was suddenly missing.
Curran pulled Dagfinn up, swung him over his shoulder, and carried the Viking toward me.
Curran dumped purple-faced Dagfinn by my feet. “Here is your expert, baby.”
The shapeshifters on the wall whistled and howled.
“Thanks, show-off,” I told him. “Let me see the hand.”
“It’s fine.”
“The hand, Curran.”
He held it out. Blisters covered his right palm. Frostbite, probably second-degree. It had to hurt like hell. Lyc-V would fix it in a day or so, but meanwhile he’d have to grit his teeth.
“I said don’t touch the axe.”
He leaned over and kissed me. The shapeshifters on the walls cheered.
Dagfinn finally managed to remember how to breathe and swore.
I leaned over him. “He won. You’re going to read my runes now.”
“Fine,” Dagfinn growled. “Give me a minute. I think something’s broken.”
According to Doolittle, nothing was actually broken. Dagfinn treated the diagnosis with open suspicion, but given the circumstances, he decided to deal with it. Curran, on the other hand, got a plastic bag with some sort of healing solution tied around his hand. He liked it about as much as I expected.
“This is ridiculous.”
“With the bag, the hand will be usable in two hours,” Doolittle informed him. “Without the bag, it may be usable by tomorrow. It’s your choice, my lord.”
Curran growled a little, but kept the bag on.
I put Julie’s drawing in front of Dagfinn.
He squinted at it. “Whoa. Was this on a weapon?”
“No, it’s on a gold necklace that’s killing a child. Looks like Elder Futhark, but not exactly. Is this a spell?” I asked.
“This isn’t Elder Futhark.”
“What is it?”
“It’s dvergr.”
I sat down into the nearest chair. “Are you sure?”
Dagfinn pulled back the sleeve of his tunic, displaying his tattoos. “Look here.”
The last two characters on his shoulder matched the last two characters on Julie’s paper. Dagfinn drew his fingers along the tattoo. “This says, ‘Wielder of Axe Aslaug, born from the blood of Earth shaped by the hands of Ivar.’” He tapped the paper. “This says, ‘Apprentice of Ivar.’ Yeah, I’m sure.”
“What is dvergr?” Curran asked me.
“Dwarf,” I told him. “Old Norse dwarf: magic, powerful, skilled with metalwork. Makers of weapons for the gods. They’re often portrayed as embodiments of greed—they lust after power, women, and most of all gold.”
