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  How could he blame them? They rightfully saw him as a traitor to all they fought for, a personal affront to Alfheim, if Alfheim had still existed.

  They remembered the way he’d been in Asgard, before the Last Battle. Before Loki. Wise, rational, Odin’s very sane counselor.

  He’d fallen as far as any being could. And they wouldn’t let him forget. No more than he could forget.

  Dainn touched his throat. He still couldn’t speak. The collar wasn’t the cause of his affliction. Nor was it the influence of the beast, which had gone dormant again … thanks to Danny.

  The other Danny, the false one, had made Dainn believe that Mist was Freya, that she was hunting his son to his death. Laufeyson had deliberately provoked Dainn and the beast into attacking her.

  But not to kill her. The altercation had served a very different purpose. Sleipnir had been taken, in spite of the real Danny’s unexpected arrival at the hotel.

  For a moment Dainn waited, listening. Waiting for the beast to make some mocking remark, a threat, a reminder of the perpetual shadow it cast over his soul.

  But it was silent. Instead, another voice rang in his memory. Mist, defending Danny. Begging Dainn to recognize her. Telling him that Loki had tricked them.

  Asking him if he was hurt.

  And still he hadn’t been able to warn her about Freya.

  Dainn touched his throat again. Mist had asked Konur if he had placed a spell on Dainn. She had seemed to believe the elf-lord when he denied it.

  But Konur had deceived her. It was the Lady the elf-lord served, even though he had ostensibly accompanied Mist to the reception in order to assist and protect her.

  Did he support Freya’s scheme to destroy Mist? If he did, he would have every reason to keep her away from Dainn, and find an excuse to silence Dainn permanently. Dainn had no choice but to consider the elf-lord his enemy.

  He would have to escape without calling upon the beast. As long as it remained silent, he had a chance.

  Closing his eyes, he turned inward and quieted his heart. He let his thoughts drift. What would Loki do with Danny, knowing that his son had interfered with his scheme and left the house without his permission? He wouldn’t hurt Danny, surely, but he would doubtless try to find a stronger way to bind the boy so that he couldn’t make another unauthorized venture into the outside world.

  But an “unauthorized” exit from this cell was exactly what Dainn intended to make. He had worked magic—an inexplicable kind of magic—against Loki’s Jotunn guards not long before the beast had returned. His magic and the beast had always seemed inextricably linked, and there was always the risk that any use of magic might strengthen his other side.

  Nevertheless, he had to try. He called upon the abilities that came so naturally to his kind, seeking the weeds that had forced their way through cracks in cement and pavement outside the cell. He grasped at their tenacious life and built upon them, enhancing their strength until they burst through the floor of the cell and sent green tendrils crawling toward the door.

  It was working. He flexed his fists and concentrated, urging the tendrils to invade the door’s hinges, filling the smallest gaps between metal and wood. If he could weaken the hinges sufficiently, then he would be prepared when the guards changed shifts, or if the—

  The door creaked as it swung inward, shattering the spell. The weeds contracted and disappeared into the tiny cracks in the floor. Dainn sprang to his feet.

  “Wait!” a familiar voice whispered. “I’m here to help!”

  Ryan. Dainn released his breath slowly and remained where he was, half-afraid that the beast might wake again.

  “It’s okay,” Ryan said. He closed the door carefully and squatted a few feet away. “I know you can’t talk, so just listen. I was here when they brought you back. I’ve been watching for a chance to talk to you.”

  Shaking his head with three sharp jerks, Dainn pointed at the door.

  “They don’t know I’m here,” Ryan said. “I made sure of that.”

  Dainn opened his mouth. A hoarse growl emerged.

  “I’m not in any danger,” Ryan said. “But you are.”

  Touching his throat, Dainn tried again. “V—” he began. “Vis—”

  “I don’t need a vision to know that. Those elves out there don’t like you.”

  It wasn’t quite possible to laugh, but Dainn managed a reasonable approximation. Ryan didn’t smile.

  “Mist is in another council meeting,” he said. “I found out last night that Danny escaped from Loki, and that Loki doesn’t have Sleipnir, either. I thought you’d want to know right away.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I can get you out of here now. It may sound strange, but I have a … a sort of new technique. I can predict people’s movements just before they happen.”

  Dainn shook his head again, though his thoughts were running wild with speculation about Danny and Sleipnir.

  “I don’t have those seizures anymore,” Ryan said, correctly interpreting Dainn’s concern. “This technique isn’t dangerous, as long as I don’t do it too often. We just need to get you out of the elves’ camp and somewhere safe.”

  “Mist,” Dainn grunted.

  “I know you’re not the traitor everyone says you are, no matter what you did. Mist needs you, even if she doesn’t realize how much. You have to talk to her again, in private.”

  Peering into the young man’s eyes, Dainn wondered if Ryan, too, knew of Freya’s plans for Mist. If he did, it would be recent knowledge. Perhaps it had even brought him back from his self-imposed exile.

  Why, then, would he not tell Mist himself?

  “Are you okay?” Ryan asked, his voice rising with anxiety. “I mean—”

  Dainn curled his fingers into claws, raked them across the floor, and then drew a line through the invisible marks with his fingertip.

  “Good,” Ryan said with obvious relief. “Then all you need to do is stick close to me. Every time I make a signal to move, like this”—he raised his bent arm and clenched his fist—“you have to be ready.”

  Close on Ryan’s heels, Dainn ran at a crouch out the door and into the central area of the warehouse. No one had been guarding his cell. He froze when he heard the whisper of elven footsteps, but Ryan urged him on with a frantic gesture.

  They continued toward the back door of the warehouse, keeping close to the internal walls. Three times Ryan stopped abruptly, and moments later Dainn would hear one or more mortals passing, sometimes speaking in soft voices, others on silent patrol. They had nearly reached the door when Ryan abruptly stopped and pushed Dainn to the floor. Five Alfar walked in, and Dainn heard his name.

  “We have about thirty seconds to get out once they’ve passed us,” Ryan whispered.

  Dainn readied himself, and at Ryan’s signal they ran toward the door. Once outside, facing a wide stretch of broken concrete leading down to an equally decrepit wharf, Ryan pointed east toward the bay. The air was frigid in the filmy, early morning sunlight, and the water smelled of fish.

  “There’s an old pier you can hide under,” he said. “I’ll find a way to get Mist down here.”

  As he turned to go, Dainn gripped his arm and held it firmly. He smiled, and Ryan embraced him briefly but tightly before letting him go and setting off to the north.

  He ran directly into Konur, who caught Ryan and held him easily. The elf-lord looked over the boy’s head and met Dainn’s gaze.

  “Do not blame the young one,” Konur said. “I knew of his feelings for you, and had him watched.” He glanced down again as Ryan struggled in his grip. “You did well to come so far.”

  “Let him go, you fucking asshole,” Ryan spat, utterly unlike himself. “I know Freya wants to kill him. I can stop—”

  Konur released him, and Ryan staggered back, fists clenched. Dainn hesitated, listening for the beast.

  It was there. He could reach it easily. But he was done making deals with the darkness. He felt his magic rise to his call, as eagerly as an a
rrow held too long in its quiver.

  Dirt erupted through the cracks in the concrete, rushing toward Konur in a wave of rock, soil, and wood from an old landfill. The wave parted around Ryan and struck the elf-lord full-force.

  When it collapsed on itself, Konur was still standing, his arms raised. A ward shimmered around him, drawn from Runes of air. He reshaped the Runes and hurled a great wind at Dainn. Again Ryan was untouched, but the wind knocked Dainn off his feet.

  Air was the most difficult of all natural elements to control. Few Alfar possessed the knowledge, art, or natural talent to do so, beyond making use of simple seeking spells. Only a handful of the Aesir and Vanir could match Konur’s ability.

  Mist did, through the ancient magic. But Mist wasn’t here.

  “If you continue,” Konur called, “you will release the creature again. I feel it even now. Can you control it, or will it rampage through this camp, killing everything that stands in its path?”

  Dainn got to his knees and pressed his hands to the broken surface beneath them, letting the sharp edges cut into his palms. Ryan ran up to him and knelt beside him.

  “Don’t,” Ryan begged. His voice was thick. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see him coming.”

  “O … kay,” Dainn whispered.

  “Don’t touch him,” Ryan hissed as Konur came to stand over them.

  “I will not harm him,” Konur said, dropping into a crouch.

  “Even if Freya tells you to?”

  “Is this something you have seen in your visions, boy?” Konur asked.

  Dainn stared into Konur’s eyes, willing the elf-lord to remember what he had said of the beast moments before. And what it could do to him.

  “The mortal will be safe, I promise you,” Konur said, meeting Dainn’s gaze.

  “Who are you?” Ryan asked suddenly. “What do you have to do with the frost giant who attacked Mist at the loft nine months ago?”

  The frost giant, Dainn thought. Svardkell, who had revealed himself to be Mist’s father before dying of wounds received after he had been forced by Loki to attack his own daughter. Dainn remembered briefly speaking to Ryan about the captive Jotunn after the giant’s death had abnormally affected the young man’s mind, but he had given very little detail.

  And he would never have linked a long-dead Jotunn with Freya’s elf-lord.

  “I do not understand you,” Konur said to Ryan. But Dainn saw that his eyes had grown hard, almost threatening, and Dainn realized that Konur did understand.

  Moving quickly, Dainn seized Ryan’s arm and pulled him away from Konur. Ryan permitted himself to be dragged a few feet and then locked his knees.

  “His name was Svardkell,” Ryan continued, mouth tight. “I felt him die. I know you’re connected with him somehow.” He jerked up his chin. “Were you already here then? Did you kill him?”

  Dainn tensed, ready to take whatever measures were necessary to protect Ryan. But Konur’s expression changed to one of grim resignation.

  “You are far more than you have led Freya to believe,” he said. He glanced at Dainn. “There is something I would tell you. If you could speak, I would wait. But I am confident that my spell will hold as long as I require it to, and perhaps you will trust me when you understand.”

  “Lie,” Dainn rasped, lunging forward. Ryan grabbed him.

  “Why did you put a spell on Dainn?” Ryan asked.

  “There are more important matters to discuss,” Konur said. He turned to Dainn again. “Does the boy know that the giant was Mist’s father?”

  “Mist’s—” Ryan released Dainn as if all the strength had gone out of his wiry body. “Dainn?”

  Dainn nodded, trying to convey his regret with his gaze.

  “Evidently he did not,” Konur said. “Does Mist?” Dainn stared at him. “I see that she does.” He met Ryan’s eyes. “It must have been a terrible thing to feel a stranger’s death. But given your close association with Mist…” He sighed. “I do not know how much else you may be aware of, but there are still secrets that must be kept. Secrets that, I assure you, will harm neither Dainn nor Mist.”

  “Why should I believe anything you say?” Ryan asked hotly.

  “Perhaps you will believe that I, like Svardkell, am Mist’s father.”

  19

  Find the other fathers, Dainn thought, setting aside his shock. That was what Svardkell had told Dainn as he died, words which Dainn had never passed on to Mist.

  He had no reason to believe Konur. But he did. It was obvious to him now … now, when he was helpless to act on the knowledge.

  “Mist has two fathers?” Ryan whispered. “But that isn’t—”

  “We speak of a goddess, young mortal,” Konur said. “I knew Svardkell. He was a good man.”

  “But he tried to kill Mist!” Ryan said.

  “I did not know how he planned to reach Mist,” Konur said, “but he sought to bring her a message. If he attempted to harm her, it was because he was coerced.”

  “Lo … ki,” Dainn managed.

  Konur’s eyes narrowed. “Another crime for which he must pay, among ten thousand others. But now, perhaps, you will understand that I would never hurt my own daughter. I care for her deeply.”

  “You still haven’t proven that you don’t work for Freya,” Ryan said.

  “Have I attempted to kill your friend?” Konur said, nodding toward Dainn.

  “Will you stop Freya if she tries to hurt Dainn or Mist?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “She—” Ryan turned bright red and clamped his lips together. That was when Dainn was sure that Ryan knew what Freya intended.

  But it made no sense that he’d keep such knowledge to himself. Perhaps, if Freya had somehow discovered what he knew, and threatened him …

  But surely she would have had him silenced, permanently. Short of such foul measures, she couldn’t stop Ryan from taking a risk, even a very dangerous one, to help a friend. He was not afraid for himself.

  Dainn broke from his thoughts to find that Konur and Ryan were still speaking, Ryan asking questions and Konur clearly growing more angry by the moment. Calling on the attenuated natural life that still clung to the fragments of buried ships and old piers—once transported from other parts of the old city to extend the city’s reach into the bay—Dainn drew that life into his body, and ran. With every pounding step his speed increased, until the beast began to rise, pumping his veins full of animal vigor.

  Then the shockwave hit him, and he knew no more.

  * * *

  “She is awake, and wants to see you,” Konur said.

  Mist raked her fingers through her loose hair. She’d barely slept, and she longed for a shower the way Odin’s wolves Geri and Freki hungered for meat. But it had been nearly twelve hours since she and Freya had returned from the battle for Sleipnir, and all that time Mist had been haunted by the question she had never quite found the right moment to ask.

  She’d hoped she’d think of another way to learn the truth. Freya still had no reason to admit any complicity in Danny’s attempted murder. And once the accusation was made, there would be no going back.

  Pushing the pile of reports across the table to Roadkill, she got up and tried to clear her thoughts of names and numbers and locations. It had been remarkably quiet on the streets since Sleipnir’s abduction; the Jotunar bully-boys who drew Mist’s warriors into alley fights and midnight battles had all but vanished.

  If both Danny and Sleipnir were lost to Loki, at least for the time being, it made sense that he wouldn’t attempt any kind of assault. Considering that Mist had managed to put off her “mass summoning” of mortal allies once again, she wouldn’t be ready if Loki decided he could afford to throw all caution to the winds. She wondered if she should go to Ryan and learn if he’d foreseen trouble in the near future.

  But she’d promised him she wouldn’t ask. And he wasn’t talking. As she threw on her jacket, Mist realized that she hadn’t laid eyes on him or Gabi since
just after Ryan’s reappearance.

  She hadn’t talked to Dainn since his recapture, either. He’d been unconscious when Konur brought him back, and she hadn’t even taken the time to make personally sure he was okay.

  She put that thought out of her mind, along with all the others. “Give me a few minutes, Konur,” she said. She took the shower, restoring her hair to its natural color, and followed Konur across the street.

  Bryn met her at the front door—Bryn, alight with vitality for the first time since she’d voluntarily taken on the job of Freya’s personal assistant. Her brown eyes sparkled; her skin and hair, nearly the same tone, were glossy with health. Her petite, wiry body seemed to shed raw energy like a storm about to break.

  “Mist!” she said, holding out her arms.

  It took Mist about another three seconds to realize what was wrong. She stopped abruptly, and Konur nearly ran into her.

  “Where’s Bryn?” she asked, her voice beginning to shake.

  “I see I didn’t deceive you,” Freya said, lowering her arms. “No matter. Bryn is perfectly well. She lent me her body for a time, but her soul is quite safe.”

  “Where?”

  “Because of her generosity, I had the strength I needed to secure her soul in one of the Treasures … the one she once carried for the Aesir.” She touched her chest, and Mist saw that the Falcon Cloak hung in its tiny feathered pouch from a cord around her neck. “She will be safe here, against my heart.”

  “What happened to the body you occupied before?”

  “I have placed a spell upon it, to hold it in stasis until it can be properly healed and returned to its rightful owner in Ginnungagap.”

  “You had no right to take Bryn,” Mist said, still caught up in a fog of denial and disbelief.

  “It was her choice,” Freya said with an air of impatience. “I hear that Sleipnir is in the wind. I thought you would consider it a priority to regain him and retrieve the Aesir.”

  “You think you can manage that now?”