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  “I’m here,” Gabi said. She glanced at the nurse, who left her alone with Mist. It was clear that Gabi had been crying; her eyes were swollen and her nose was red.

  So were her hands.

  “You tried to heal her?” Mist asked.

  “I … couldn’t.…”

  “When?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  “Something must have happened.” Mist latched on to her anger, so much safer than grief. “Did she get the message about Freya?”

  “I don’t know about any message.”

  “Did she push herself too hard? Did she—”

  “I don’t know!” Gabi cried. She scrambled to her feet and stood facing Mist from several feet away, trembling as if she’d been struck. “I’m sorry!”

  Gods, Mist thought, closing her eyes. Gabi had loved Eir, too. She didn’t deserve to be punished this way.

  “It’s okay,” Mist said. “Do you have any idea why she looks so much better now than when she was alive?”

  Gabi hugged herself. “I did what you told me I could do if things got bad. I tried to use one of the seeds.”

  Mist nodded slowly and took Eir’s cold hand. It no longer felt like bits of bone barely held together by wasted muscle, tendon, and flesh.

  Something in the Apples had worked. Just not well enough.

  “I know you did all you could,” Mist said. She rose, kissed Eir’s mouth and forehead, and then covered her again.

  “What will you … do with her?” Gabi asked.

  “She’d want to be given back to the earth where she lived so long,” Mist said, thinking of the native spirits who had helped her and Mist fight Loki for possession of the Apples. “We can’t take the time to do that now. But we we’ll protect her body until we can.”

  “Where?”

  “With the Treasures. She can guard the Apples again.” She paced away from the bed, her hands locked behind her back. “I want you to rest. I’m pulling everyone back from patrol. We’re going to try to avoid any fights for the next few days.”

  “I saw the protest on TV this afternoon. Did Loki cause it?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out.”

  “Okay. I’m going to lie down now.”

  “Good. And try not to blame yourself, Gabi, even though I know you want to.”

  “Are you gonna take your own advice?”

  Before Mist could answer, Gabi rushed out of the infirmary. Mist remained a while longer, fighting with her grief until she was sure she had it under reasonable control. Then she went across the street to check on Freya.

  Several of the Einherjar bikers and two other mortal recruits were watching the loft. They greeted Mist with worried looks and stood aside to let her pass, clearly bursting with questions but too well-disciplined to ask them.

  Mist found the Lady in one of the spare bedrooms, but there was no guard at the door. Instead, two of Lord Konur’s healers were with the goddess, murmuring to each other in Old Elvish.

  “Lady Mist,” the female elf said, inclining her head as Mist joined them beside the bed.

  “Who sent you?” Mist asked. “Where’s the guard?”

  “We saw no guard,” the male healer said. “Lord Konur witnessed the Lady’s return. He asked us to observe her, and help if we could.”

  Funny, Mist thought, that the mortal guards hadn’t mentioned any elves. She had a strong suspicion that the Alfar had slipped past them, and she wasn’t happy about the deception. Especially since there was no apparent reason for it. It wasn’t as if the Alfar, mortals, and Valkyrie hadn’t been living, working, and fighting together—more or less—for the past nine months.

  If circumstances had been different, Mist would have interrogated the healers then and there. But she wasn’t prepared to imply a lack of trust in people whose help she badly needed, and she’d be talking to Konur soon enough.

  She examined Freya, trying to see past that blank spot in her own mind where important memories should have been. Taylor had been right: no wounds, nothing to suggest a reason for the Lady’s continued unconscious state except for the signs of aging in her face and skin.

  Why don’t I feel more? Mist asked herself. Eir’s death had devastated her, but now it seemed that she was looking down at a stranger … a stranger for whom she couldn’t spare even the most disinterested compassion.

  You’ll feel something if she dies, and you’re stuck facing Loki alone again.

  “You don’t know what’s wrong with her?” Mist asked, trying to shake off her disgust at her own icy pragmatism.

  “We have been unable to determine the nature of this illness, or its source,” the female healer said, “but we will continue to do what we can.”

  Mist left quickly, not even pausing to ask the guards outside if they’d seen the Alfar enter the loft. She was headed for the elven camp when she almost literally ran into Anna.

  The young woman nearly jumped out of her skin when she recognized Mist, her skin flushed and her movements awkward.

  “Are you okay?” Mist asked.

  “Yes,” Anna said quickly. “Yes, of course. I heard you just got back. Gabi and I saw everything on TV.” She glanced toward the warehouse. “I guess no one was hurt?”

  “Freya’s suffered some kind of attack.”

  “An attack?” Anna’s eyes widened, and Mist noticed perspiration beading along her hairline. “What kind of attack?”

  “It happened while she was working magic, but we’re still trying to figure out what caused it.”

  “Oh. Is she getting better?”

  “She’s got far too much of an ego to stay down long.” Mist smiled to ease Anna’s obvious unease. “Keep this quiet, okay? We don’t want anyone to panic.”

  “I understand.” Anna swallowed. “I just heard about Eir. I’m really sorry.”

  “She lived a good life. She died doing what she wanted to do.”

  Anna set off almost before Mist had finished speaking. Mist stared after her, wondering why the young woman seemed so particularly nervous when she usually kept her cool so well.

  Maybe she was suffering from some of Horja’s worst memories, or even Rebekka’s. Mist certainly hadn’t had many chances to talk privately with her and assess her state of mind.

  Now was obviously not the time to start, especially since Mist could already feel her mask beginning to slip again. Gabi had been right to wonder if she could take her own advice and try not to blame herself for Eir’s death.

  The simple fact was that Eir had been as much her responsibility as all the others, from the youngest mortal to the eldest Alfr. But Eir had also been a friend. A Sister, to whom Mist hadn’t even been able to say good-bye.

  But Mist knew she couldn’t let any of her troops see her paralyzed over one woman’s death, and those few she might turn to for comfort had their own important work to do.

  I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. Maybe a ride up to Twin Peaks, where she could look down on the city and pretend it wasn’t on the verge of exploding into a battlefield.

  What would happen if Loki knew that Freya was down?

  Turning her back on every one of her vital responsibilities, Mist jogged back to Silfr and sped away from the loft, merging onto 280 south and following the curve in a wide semicircle to the west. She continued on O’Shaughnessy Boulevard, Portola Avenue and Twin Peaks Boulevard, stopping when she found a safe place to pull off to one side of the winding road.

  Mist removed her helmet and shook out her hair. San Francisco did look peaceful, in spite of the ever-threatening clouds. Traffic moved in a steady stream over the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges, and the bay was calm. There could have been a hundred battles raging in back alleys all over the city, and you’d never know it up here.

  A fierce gust of wind circled Mist like a seeking spell homing in on its target, and she zipped her jacket more for the comfort of the act than because she felt the chill. She could still remember the first time she’d seen the city, b
ack in the fifties, when she’d been looking for a place to settle after the war. Then, she’d been seeking escape from the memory of other deaths, and from the burden of her own guilt and grief.

  She’d found that escape, for a while. It had taken some years, but she’d finally settled into a “normal” sort of life, though she’d kept pretty much to herself. She’d become expert at forging fine replica swords, axes, and knives for collectors, which served the dual purpose of allowing her to maintain some link with her past—a past she hadn’t yet been ready to surrender—and earn a living at the same time.

  The past had caught up with her when she’d least expected it.

  Mounting again, Mist took the road to the other side of the park and looked over Forest Hill and the Sunset District to the Pacific Ocean. Fog obscured the shore, though ordinarily the season would have been over this late in the year.

  But “ordinarily” had become a meaningless word in San Francisco, while the rest of the world wallowed in ignorance. Across that vast expanse of water, no one had any idea what was going on in this jewel of the Pacific—a jewel that was only a single piece in a setting that would eventually encompass the entire planet, no matter which side was victorious.

  “It does seem difficult to accept that the fate of this one city may determine that of all Midgard,” a soft voice said just behind her.

  Mist dropped her hand from the knife at her hip and turned. “How did you get up here?”

  Konur gazed out at the ocean, unperturbed by her irritation. Like most of the Alfar—who had always favored bright jewel tones in Asgard and Alfheim—the elf-lord had adopted darker, less conspicuous clothing that made his tall, lithe physique seem even leaner. “I borrowed one of the mortal’s motorcycles,” he said. “Unpleasantly noisy and offensively malodorous, but it is necessary to adapt.”

  Looking past him, Mist saw the bike parked a few yards away and realized that if he’d been a Jotunn, she’d most likely be dead.

  “You followed me?” she asked.

  “Let us say that I was concerned about your mental state, and believed it would be better that you not travel unobserved.”

  “It never occurred to you that I might just want to be alone for a while?”

  “It did, but your life is too important to risk.”

  “I can’t be the person you and everyone else wants me to be. Not all the time.”

  The elf nodded, sympathy in his dark eyes. “You are Freya’s daughter. Surely you are stronger than you believe.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you how Dainn used to lecture me?”

  “In this particular sentiment, he was right.”

  “What is it with elves and their habit of dodging direct questions?” She narrowed her eyes. “You never met him before, did you? In Asgard?”

  “No. After he arrived in Asgard as a mysterious wanderer, he visited Alfheim but once, and without notifying anyone beforehand. Only a very few saw him before he left again.”

  Mist remembered little hints Dainn had dropped about his dealings with his own people. She knew he’d never lived among the Alfar during his time as the All-father’s advisor, nor had he been close to any of the elves who frequented Valhalla, Odin’s hall.

  Aside from that, she knew almost nothing about Dainn’s past before the betrayal and curse … except, of course, for his affair with Loki—who had posed as Freya—and his reputation as a wise, level-headed, and rational counselor.

  “You must hate him,” she said, looking back out at the ocean.

  Konur moved up beside her. “It is true that many of my people despise him for the shame he brought upon us, as well as for his betrayal. But there was a time when the Lady did trust him … and Loki most emphatically cannot be trusted.”

  “So?”

  “Things are not always what they seem.”

  Mist started. Those were nearly the same words Dainn had written to her in his note. “You don’t think he’s a traitor?” she asked.

  “I do not know. But this question still weighs upon your mind, and a time will come when you must meet him again.”

  “Let me worry about that, okay?”

  “You say you cannot be what everyone expects of you, yet you refuse to share your burdens.”

  “I tried that once. It backfired rather badly.”

  “The tree that does not bend with the wind must break.”

  “Oh, sweet Baldr,” she said. “Please don’t do that.”

  “I will refrain.” The elf gazed at her until she was forced to look at him again. “I know you do not confide in your mother, but—”

  “Speaking of my mother,” Mist interrupted, “did you send your healers to her without telling anyone else?”

  As calm and self-controlled though he usually was, the elf-lord actually blinked. “I became aware of the Lady’s affliction soon after she was returned to camp. Is there some difficulty?”

  “Only that it seems strange that you wouldn’t tell Taylor, since he’s the one who brought her back.”

  “And he was occupied with the arrival of the new mortals,” Konur said.

  “Then why didn’t the guards he set around the loft seem to know about the healers?”

  “Did they not?” Konur’s brows lifted. “I did tell my people to be discreet, since I assumed you would not want the Lady’s state to become general knowledge as yet. Perhaps they were overly cautious.”

  “Taylor was going to send for Eir,” she said thickly.

  “Ah.” Konur bowed his head. “I grieve for your loss.”

  “It was a loss for all of us. Eir might have figured out what was wrong with Freya.” She took a moment to regain her composure. “If you didn’t speak to Taylor, how do you know what actually happened to Freya? Did one of his people tell you?”

  “No. I had hoped you could tell me.”

  Mist rubbed her arms and glanced longingly at Silfr. This, unfortunately, wasn’t something she could run away from.

  “All I can say is that it happened very suddenly,” she said, “and it felt very much like a deliberate attack.”

  “It was my understanding that you and your observers detected no sign of Loki or his minions near the location.”

  “Right.”

  “Magic always leaves its signature. I believe you would have known if Loki had been the perpetrator.”

  “That’s what I assumed. But there isn’t anyone else in Midgard who could do something like that to Freya.”

  Konur slanted her a glance she couldn’t quite interpret. But she wasn’t really paying attention, because another very unpleasant idea was forming in her mind.

  “What if her magic has failed?” she asked aloud.

  “In what way?” Konur asked, his eyes intent on her face.

  “She as much as admitted that the body she borrowed is giving out on her. Maybe this was the last straw.”

  The elf wore an expression of someone who’d just had his worst fears confirmed. “If this is true,” he said, “then another vessel must be found for her. And quickly.”

  11

  “You knew about the problem?” Mist asked.

  “I was there when Freya attained her current body.”

  “You mean when the elf-woman donated it for Freya’s use.” Mist wrapped her arms around her chest. “She’s still alive, isn’t she?”

  “She survives as the Aesir do,” Konur said, “as a mind encased in a shape that appears physical only within the Shadow-Realms.”

  “But Freya said that she helped you and the other Alfar generate true physical forms in Ginnungagap, so that you could travel to Midgard.”

  The elf raised a brow. “Did you have reason to doubt her claim? I can assure you that it is true.”

  “She also said that making the Aesir physical bodies was much harder, and that she wasn’t strong enough to pull it off yet.”

  “Indeed. And that is why, if her present body is no longer able to support Freya’s magic, she must obtain another and return this one before
it is no longer of use to its original owner.”

  Sick at the thought of what Konur was implying, Mist sat down on the brown grass beside the road. “Setting aside the question of how she’s supposed to return it, just where do you think she’s going to find an appropriate body? By traveling back to Ginnungagap and asking for another volunteer?”

  “If she is as ill as she seems, that will probably not be possible.”

  “Then you’re talking about finding a subject here in Midgard.”

  He crouched beside her. “Do you believe that to be so unlikely?”

  “Let’s put it this way. Even if you can keep someone’s bodiless mind alive in the Void, it’s not the same in Midgard. You can’t just store something like that in a bottle.”

  “Not in a bottle, no. But surely, with the use of the right spells…”

  He trailed off, and Mist recognized that even this wise, experienced elf-lord didn’t know what the Hel he was talking about.

  “You didn’t plan for this, did you?” she asked. “Freya never expected she’d fall so far behind. She thought she’d have her true shape back, and all the Aesir here fighting with us.”

  “Her expectations do not change the current predicament,” Konur said. He placed his palm flat on the weeds growing along the curb, and withered brown showed a flush of green life. “This problem is real, and we must take swift action.”

  “I’m not about to ask one of my mortals or Valkyrie to act as Freya’s host without a guarantee that their minds will be safe and they’ll get the rest back in undamaged condition.”

  Konur lifted his hand, and the weeds drooped and blackened again. “If many are willing to die to save Midgard,” he said, “then they may be prepared to take this risk as well.”

  At that moment, Mist despised the elf and his cold-blooded pragmatism. “No. I think we should go back and see if your healers have learned anything useful before we start sacrificing lives on the Lady’s altar.”

  “I know your relationship with your mother has not always been amicable—”

  Mist snorted.

  “—but you know we cannot achieve victory without her magic.”

  She turned to stare at him. “Let’s be clear about this, Lord Konur. You and I have fought side by side. You’ve led the Alfar well, and done everything I asked of you. But I also know that you and Freya have been keeping secrets you haven’t let me in on, and that doesn’t exactly inspire feelings of good faith.”