Mist

19

Loki strode toward the door and slammed his palm on the buzzer beside it. Javier opened the door and took a step back when he found himself nose-to-nose with his client.

“Two screwdrivers, Stolichnaya Elit,” Loki snapped.

Without a squeak of protest, the mortal bowed and hurried off. Loki pulled the door shut and scowled at it as if he were about to blast it off its hinges.

When he turned to face Dainn again, his mercurial temper had changed once more. “How did you manage it?” he asked in a casual voice. “Did you do to them what you unsuccessfully tried on me all those years ago?”

“I was not entirely unsuccessful, was I?”

Loki knew very well that Dainn was referring to his fear, both in Asgard and Asbrew.

“You failed,” Loki said. “I am still here.”

“I was unable to control it then,” Dainn said. “I can make the creature do what I want, whenever I wish.”

It was impossible to tell if his lie had worked, but Loki’s body was unusually tense. Dainn moved closer to Loki as if he planned to pin him against the door. Loki edged sideways and walked back to the table.

“You devoured their minds?” he asked, gesturing toward the hangers scattered around the door. They flew back to the alcove, neatly aligning themselves along the rod again.

“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 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 have to ask you to leave.”

“Of course.” Mist started away, stopped, and returned to the desk. “Silly me,” she said. “I forgot the floor.”

“Top,” Bob said. “Fifty- eighth. Penthouse.”

“Thank you so much.”

The woman shook her head sharply. Mist didn’t waste any time. She went straight to the elevator lobby. The elevators required a key card to operate, but Mist got it to work with only a little more effort than she had expended on getting past the guard in the garage, sketching Rune- staves with a number 2 pencil on the steel door where the small marks could hardly be seen. The Galdr was coming to her more easily every time she used it, but she wasn’t about to take it for granted.

And it sure as Hel wasn’t likely to work against Loki.

She entered the elevator and punched the button for the fifty-eighth floor. Just as the doors were sliding shut, both Jotunar forced their way into the cab. The one who’d been reading the paper slammed his fist on the stop button.

“Going somewhere?” he said.

“Who’s asking?” Mist said, backing into the far corner.

“Is Mr. Landvik expecting you?” the laptop Jotunn said.

Oh, so polite. This one, at least, was completely unlike Hrimgrimir and his kind—almost certainly not as powerful, but better adapted to this world. Jotunar like him would be far more dangerous than the oafs and leg-breakers.

But she’d known all along that she wouldn’t be able to walk right in without Loki’s minions getting in her way.

“You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t,” she said.

“You stink like the Sow,” the first one said, proving that his partner’s manners hadn’t rubbed off on him. His body expanded, widening and lengthening until his head threatened to bump the elevator’s ceiling.

The other one maintained his mortal size. “Please, Egil. I think Mr. Landvik would very much like to see her in one piece.” He held out his hand to Mist. “Give me your knife, Ms. Bjorgsen.”

Mist calculated how much space she had. The cab was bigger than most, easily able to accommodate twelve people at a time without crowding, but it wasn’t exactly the right size for a fight.

And she didn’t want Loki to realize she could work her own magic without the Lady’s help. Apparently these Jotunar hadn’t been affected by her glamour. Better to let them think she was just stupid than that she might actually have some hope of standing up to Loki.

That hope was still slim. She’d left the loft with only a vague idea of how she was going to get Dainn out, and she hadn’t come up with any better plan since she’d met with Vidarr.

Out of sheer desperation, she’d tried to call Freya. It was the last thing she’d wanted to do, but it was no longer a question of what she wanted.

But Dainn had been right. She didn’t seem to have the skill or strength to cross the Void with her thoughts, and she’d never felt the slightest response.

So now she was on her own. She could forget about using the Galdr, since Loki was a master of it. That left her with the Vanir magic, if she could make it work. If she could surprise Loki without giving herself away too soon.

And she still didn’t know if her magical energy would give out right when she needed it most.

“All right,” she said, carefully unsheathing Kettlingr and offering it hilt-first to Laptop. “As long as you promise to give it back when Loki and I are finished with our meeting.”

“You ain’t gonna need it once Loki’s finished with you,” Egil said.

“Oh? Do you speak for your master?” Mist asked. “Maybe he’d like to know how easily you can predict his actions.”

Laptop chuckled. “You have backbone, Ms. Bjorgsen, I’ll give you that.”

The elevator climbed to the appropriate floor without stopping, probably a bit of light magic on Loki’s part for those times when he didn’t want to be inconvenienced—in other words, every time he or his servants used it. When it reached the top, the polite giant turned to her with a pleasant smile.

“Here we are,” he said. And slugged her across the face.

Dainn was a long time responding. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, and his mouth was tight. His hatred burned as hot as any fire in Muspelheim.

Loki smiled to himself and took another very small sip of whisky. He had always found it amusing how easily he could read Dainn’s thoughts with the merest glance at his face, even when everyone else in Asgard had seen only a stoic elf with a mysterious past and little in common with his own kind.

Dainn’s power, the extent of which even Odin had never suspected, had acted like an aphrodisiac on Loki from the moment he had met the elf and recognized how utterly different he was. Loki had even felt some regret when he and Freya had stolen the very source and foundation that fed and sustained that power.

Not that Dainn remembered that life- altering event. But even before the betrayal, Dainn’s self- control had never been as effective as he wished to believe. That was what had made him such an ideal bedmate, even when he had believed he was fucking Freya and not the Aesir’s worst enemy. And Loki still wanted him, as he wanted Freya.

But not in the same way. Yes, he had desired Freya long after she had rejected him. He had come to hate her, but his hatred had not banished his need to possess her lush body.

With Dainn it was different. Loki knew himself incapable of those tender feelings the skalds sang of, but if there had been any such propensity within him . . .

“I will give you the one thing you could not take from me,” Dainn said, putting an end to Loki’s brooding.

Loki licked his lips. “Do you think I could not take it if I wished?” he asked.

“I am speaking of Alfar magic.”

Finishing his drink in one swallow, Loki set the glass down. “Is that all?” he asked. “I was expecting something much more . . . valuable.”

“Only two of the Aesir know how to work my people’s magic. Odin understands something of it, as he understands all forms of magic, but only Freyr uses it as we do.”

“Not even his sister?”

“Not even the Lady.”

“Why should I want it?” Loki said in a tone meant to convey utter boredom. “Its limitations are significant. This modern world is full of steel and concrete, crowding out the forests, polluting the streams and poisoning the earth itself. Alfar must draw upon the life of growing things. It’s true, I did admit that you were capable of brilliance in the old days. But now . . .” He shook his head gently. “Whatever you accomplished in Asbrew, I think we can find a better arrangement.”

Before he could draw another breath, Dainn closed his eyes and began to sing. The syllables were long and sibilant, curling and twisting around each other like vines laden with perfumed blossoms. They reached inside Loki and wrapped around his heart, sending needlethin tendrils into every bone, every muscle, every nerve.

Loki called up the darkest Merkstaves against the attack, Uruz and Algiz to repel and weaken, sending through his own veins poison that would have killed a lesser being. It touched the tendrils, withering them black and lifeless. Yet Dainn’s magic persisted, refusing to be completely dislodged. Loki could feel the tendrils growing again, sucking all the life from his body.

“Dainn,” he gasped.

All at once the tendrils snapped back like fingers held too close to a flame. Loki staggered, falling against the shelves behind. Bottles and glasses rattled, and several went crashing to the floor.

“Freya’s tits,” he gasped, pushing himself upright. He locked his muscles, afraid his trembling would be all too apparent.

Dainn was shaking, and it was evident that he, too, was struggling to stay on his feet. “Do you see the worth of my offer now?” he asked hoarsely.

“Indeed,” Loki said, working a quick spell to mask his consternation. “You must have drawn very deep to reach the life beneath this city.”

“Yes,” Dainn said, panting like a wolf in the sun.

Fear and excitement and lust tangled in Loki’s chest. Even though Dainn had forgotten the full extent of the power he had possessed before he’d lost lifeblood of the Eitr, even though he had shown no sign of such extraordinary abilities in the moments just before he and Loki had been violently separated by the upheaval that ended Ragnarok, even after centuries in Midgard, he had not lost himself.

But there was always a price.

“I am impressed,” Loki said. “But look at yourself, my Dainn. You’re weak as a woman’s will.” He stepped over broken glass and spilled liquor, approaching Dainn cautiously. “I could kill you now with a single word.”

But Dainn was no longer listening. He was gazing into another world, one only he inhabited. It was as if Loki didn’t exist.

No one ignored Loki Laufeyson, not even Dainn. Especially not Dainn, even the near stranger who stood before him now.

“Look at me!” Loki commanded.

Dainn did nothing, said nothing. Loki raised his hand and struck Dainn across the face with all his Jotunn strength. Dainn’s head snapped to one side, but he didn’t react. Loki struck him again, raising blood from his lips.

No effect. But Loki knew of one other way. A way that had worked most effectively on an ascetic elf who had suppressed his physical needs so long that it took only a single spark to ignite a universe of lust.

Loki leaned close to Dainn’s face and breathed a Bind-Rune against his lips, seductive and heavy with desire. He knew when Dainn’s body began to stir. His own excitement rose as well.

“I don’t believe you’ve fucked anyone in a very long time,” he purred. “You know what I can do. I can become what you most desire.”

Dainn blinked. “I want no part of you.”

“No part at all? Your body says otherwise.” Loki grabbed the back of Dainn’s neck. “Admit it,” he said. “You have never found a lover to compare with me. Take my word for it. Screwing Mist is like making love to the handle of an ax.”

Dainn jerked away, but it was clear he was still beyond the ability to resist. “Your tongue is not so agile that it cannot be removed,” he whispered.

“That would be a terrible waste,” Loki said, “when I can put it to such better use.” He flicked his fingers, congealing ice out of the moisture in the air and shaping it into a rope. With it he bound Dainn’s legs and sealed his lips. The restraints might not hold the elf long, but Loki didn’t need much time. Dainn was caught in Loki’s bonds like a fly in amber. Only his eyes expressed his rebellion. And hate.

“Easy,” Loki purred. “I promise this won’t hurt at all.” He wedged his hand under Dainn’s shirt. “Your heart is beating fast, Dainn Faith-breaker.” He slid his other hand down to cup the bulge pressing against Dainn’s trousers. Slowly he unfastened the button and pulled the zipper down. His long fingers probed inside Dainn’s fly.

“Lovely,” Loki murmured. “I had almost forgotten how very well- endowed you are.” He released the object of his desire from its confinement and began to stroke.

Dainn’s breath caught in his throat. The ice covering his mouth melted and dripped onto his jacket. “Stop,” he whispered. “I don’t . . . want . . .”

“You are the stubborn one,” Loki chided, halting his caresses. “Very well. Perhaps this will suit you better.”

And then he changed, his shape melting into something softer, something curved and bountiful in breast and hip, golden-haired and perfect.

Freya. But not Freya, of course. Only the image of her, the illusion Loki had used to seduce and control Dainn, deceive him and blind him and steal his will.

“Better?” Loki asked in the husky voice of a practiced seductress. She knelt at Dainn’s feet and went to work.

But somehow Dainn fought him, refusing to give Loki satisfaction no matter how skillfully he practiced his arts. He quickly changed himself again, becoming strong and wiry and firm-jawed, a tawny lioness, a warrior.

This time Dainn reacted. His breath came fast, and his fair skin flushed nearly to his navel.

It would be only a matter of moments now, Loki thought. And then . . .

At first he thought the vibration under his knees was coming from the floor itself, and he pulled away, anticipating an earthquake.

But there was no earthquake. The shaking came not from the earth but from Dainn himself, and when Loki looked up, Dainn had begun to change.