Mist (20 page)

“Then I’ll just find out what she wants.”

She flung open the door. There was no one there, nor anywhere within sight. Muddy mid-morning sunlight crowded the shadows crouched at the foot of the wall.

“She’s gone now,” Mist said. “Do you think Loki’s already recruited mortal spies?”

“Perhaps.” He hesitated, considering whether or not he should tell her that she would have to become accustomed to being pursued by total strangers. “I sensed nothing unusual about her.”

She closed the door almost reluctantly, as if she regretted the necessity of sealing herself in with Dainn. “We should have set fresh wards as soon as we got here,” she said. “Are you up for it?”

Dainn’s body ached, and there was a hovering blackness behind his eyes he couldn’t dispel. “We will not be able to stop Loki,” he said, “but we will be warned if any Jotunn approaches.”

“That’ll have to be good enough for now. Same as before?”

He couldn’t risk joining their minds and magic again so soon. He was in no condition to prevent her from unconsciously attacking him as she had before, or keep her from inadvertently provoking the beast.

And this time she might remember.

“
I
will do it,” he said.

“I don’t think—”

“An alarm ward requires relatively little effort.”

The hollows under her eyes suggested that she was too weary to argue for the privilege. She turned and walked toward the kitchen. Dainn followed. The cats had vanished, though Dainn smelled their presence nearby, just as he smelled once- green grass somewhere behind the loft.

He continued through the adjoining laundry room, out the back door to a tiny yard and sat cross-legged on the brown, weedy patch of lawn. After he had called up the Rune-wards, he paced out the perimeter of the entire building and set them in place, tracing intricate, intertwining variations on the walls with his finger and reinforcing them at the laundry room door, the front door, and a door opening onto to the driveway that ran alongside the loft. After he was done, he did the same to the windows, giving special attention to those facing the crumbling factories along the waterfront. Of the intruder there was no further sign.

When he was finished, he returned to the loft, almost tripping over the threshold. Mist was waiting there and caught him by the arm.

“I assume even Alfar have to sleep,” she said, quickly releasing him. “You’d better get some rest.”

Exhaustion and exasperation battered at Dainn like Jotunar fists. “You still intend to go after Gungnir,” he said.

“I intend to find out what Loki’s up to.”

“You must not.” He sighed. “Not without me.”

Her mouth set in stubborn line. “You aren’t in any state to help me.”

It wasn’t his intention to touch her, but an impulse beyond rational thought made him seize her arm in an iron grip. “We already discussed the inadvisability of your getting to close to him, and you certainly cannot risk a confrontation.”

She stared down at his hand on her arm as if it were a loathsome insect. “I never said I’d hide from him, did I?”

“Your magic is in its infancy. Loki will not long be deceived by any attempt you make to imitate your mother’s power.”

“I’ll be careful,” she said, snatching her hand out of his.

“You neither know nor understand what he is capable of.”

“And you
do,
because you helped him.”

Dainn’s hand trembled as he fought off the urge to take hold of her again. “Loki may have been set at a small disadvantage by his confrontation with you, but he cannot have sent all his Jotunar away, and Hrimgrimir escaped. You have some Jotunar magic, some small knowledge of Galdr, and a brief acquaintance with your mother’s skills. But even if you had the smallest chance of defeating them with the little knowledge you have now, you must still find them first.” He made no attempt to hide his mockery, which effectively concealed his desperation. “Undoubtedly you can locate lost car keys or a misplaced cell phone, but could you have found Loki the first time without my direct help?”

“Loki will leave a trail of magic a mile wide.”

“One
I
might follow. You are not ready.”

Yanking her loose hair behind her head, she began to braid it again with ungentle fingers. “I’m going to try.”

“Then promise me that if you find a trail of any kind, you will wait for me. I will find you.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what I told you. No one, least of all you, is giving me orders.”

“It is a request,” he said.

Leaving her thick hair only half braided, Mist reached inside her inner jacket pocket and pulled out several small squares of wood. The fact that Mist knew she needed them for carving the staves was proof enough that she had no confidence in her ability to use the mental Runes he had begun to teach her.

She tucked the pieces of wood back into her pocket and drew the knife from her belt. She weighed it in her hand and turned it over to display the Runes etched into its silver blade. “Don’t come after me,” she said, sheathing the weapon again.

“Mist—”

But she was already striding toward the front door. He took a few steps after her and staggered, beaten down by exhaustion. Exhaustion that held him back from pressing his magic too hard, weakening his hold on his other self. He could not help Mist in this state.

He went to his room, took off his boots and lay on the narrow bed. It was far more comfortable than anything he had slept on in many months.

Sleep, however, was not on his agenda. He lay awake, monitoring his strength, waiting for the moment when he could safely follow Mist. The sounds of human activity thumped and rattled and hummed outside, automobile engines and streetcars and raised voices from busy Third Street with its peculiar mixture of small stores, ware houses, and residences.

When the soft footsteps came, Dainn rose, left his room and went barefoot to the front door. He lunged outside, grabbing for the slight figure who was already turning to run. He glimpsed a thin, brown, defiant face before the girl squirmed around to attack him, scratching with fingers bent like claws and kicking frantically at his legs. She was all wiry muscle and very little spare flesh, remarkably strong for her size and weight.

Dainn held her away from him and kept his grip as she cursed and struggled and screamed at him in Spanish. He knew almost at once that his first assessment of the mortal at Mist’s door had not been correct.

This one was no ordinary girl. She was either Loki’s spy, or the first of the Mist’s Midgardian allies.

It was too easy.

When Mist returned to stand outside Asbrew, she smelled traces of Loki in the air, as if he had left the residue of his evil wherever he walked, like a snail laying down a trail of slime.

Of course he hadn’t
walked
out of Asbrew. He’d made a dramatic exit, disappearing into thin air. But he couldn’t fly unless he turned himself into an eagle, as he’d done more than once in Asgard, or made use of his flying shoes. Mist was pretty sure he didn’t have those with him.

No, he’d have found a taxi. It was even possible that he’d had transportation waiting for him somewhere out of sight when she and Dainn had arrived at Asbrew.

And that was the problem. If she could sense Loki with so little difficulty, Dainn was probably right. Loki might very well have laid a trap for her, and only the Norns knew what was lurking in it.

Still, she went around the corner and into the narrow street between Asbrew’s block and the block on the opposite side. The lingering traces of magic were stronger here. She knelt to touch the cracked pavement where a large vehicle had left black skid marks on the road.

Loki’s escape car. Not big enough to hold a dozen giants, so he obviously hadn’t intended them to ride with him when he left Asbrew. Assuming, of course, that he’d expected them to leave with him at all. Mist wondered if he knew where she and Dainn had sent the Jotunar and if—when—Loki would succeed in getting them back.

But that worry was for another time. She pulled a piece of wood from her pocket, laid it flat on top of the tire marks, drew the knife, and carved three Runes deeply into the surface. She nicked her finger and squeezed the blood into the staves. When they were filled, she removed her lighter and put the small flame to the corner of the wood.

It was consumed in a few seconds. Remembering what Dainn had done at the loft, she dipped her slightly bleeding finger into the ash and drew the same Runes on her forehead. A young woman walking a dog paused at the entrance to the street and stared at Mist while her terrier barked frantically.

Mist looked up, and the woman beat a hasty retreat. But Mist wasn’t worried about observers. She had focused all her concentration on the Runes sketched across her forehead, imagining them burning into her brain.

Suddenly she could feel something—a sense of direction, of movement continuing north on the street. She got up slowly and followed her hunch.

It didn’t take long before she found evidence that the vehicle had pulled into a side alley, made a sharp Y-turn, and reversed direction.

She was about to return the way she had come when she heard the choked cries coming from the alley. Without hesitation, she ran into the dim corridor, racing past colorful graffiti with fat letters the height and width of a man and skirting malodorous garbage blown in by the winter wind.

Two Jotunar in reasonably human shape were crouched in the alley where a battered chain-link fence blocked pedestrian traffic. They weren’t the biggest Mist had seen, but they were considerably larger than the figure lying on the dirty cement between them.

A boy. Or, more accurately, a young man, flat on his back and jerking wildly as if he was in the midst of a seizure. Mist launched herself straight at the Jotunn on the left, drawing Kettlingr as she attacked and chanting it to its full and lethal size.

The first giant wasn’t prepared. He fell backward as Mist slashed down, belatedly raising an arm the width of a small tree trunk to fend off the blow. Kettlingr bit deep, and the giant roared in pain.

By then the other Jotunn was on Mist’s back. He drove her down with the weight of his body, and only her quick reflexes saved her from being reduced to a red splotch on the pavement. She rolled out of his way, gasping as a cracked rib grated in her chest but somehow managing to maintain her grip on her sword. The second giant began a chant as harsh and booming as a wrecking ball slamming into a decrepit apartment building. Mist’s breath turned to fog, denser than any ordinary cold could produce.She knew then that they didn’t intend to kill her. The first giant, still grunting with pain, had joined the second in creating the spell, and Mist felt her jacket begin to crackle with a heavy layer of frost. It penetrated her jeans and crunched inside her boots, cracked her lips and rimed each hair of her eyebrows. They would encase her in layer after layer of frost, transforming her into a sculpture of living ice.

But they had forgotten about the boy. He was no longer shaking but had rolled onto his side, grasping a length of rebar in his slender hand. He swung it at the first Jotunn’s legs with surprising force.

The giant staggered and lost his balance. As he turned on the young man, fist raised, the boy jumped up and ran between the Jotunar like a mouse scurrying under the legs of a hungry cat. The first Jotunn, the wound in his arm still bleeding freely, set out after him.

But the spell was broken, and the ice slicking Mist’s clothes and body began to melt immediately. As soon as she could move, she raised Kettlingr and ran after them. She found them just outside the mouth of the alley, the boy hanging between them as if he weighed no more than a handful of snowflakes.

Mist yelled and swung Kettlingr at the Jotunn she had already wounded. The blade seemed to catch fire, blazing as if it had drawn the weak rays of the sun and multiplied their light a hundredfold. The moment it hit the Jotunn, he screamed with real terror and let the boy drop. The second Jotunn backed away in confusion, his gaze fixed on the burning steel.

All at once the giants gave up, spun around and ran, the injured giant clasping his smoking side. Mist followed them a short distance, heard the screeching of tires on Eddy, and stopped. She stared down at the sword in her hand. It was normal again, Rune- etched metal a dull gray as the sky clouded over.

“Are you okay?”

She turned to face the boy. He was Caucasian, about seventeen, maybe eighteen . . . lanky, boyishly good-looking and clearly scared out of his wits. He had a small cut on his chin, and Mist was sure he’d have a whopper of a black eye in a few hours. She suspected there were more injuries she couldn’t see. It was more than a little ludicrous that he’d asked if
she
was okay, especially since she was holding a sword in her hand.

“I’m fine,” she said, ignoring her cracked rib. “Are you hurt?” The young man shook his head. “A little roughed up,” he said, his voice still hoarse with fear. “But I’m used to that.”

Mist didn’t ask what he meant. She had a pretty good idea. “Why were they after you?” she asked.

“Those . . . men?” he asked, shivering hard. “I don’t know.” He looked down at Kettlingr. “That’s real, isn’t it?”