Chicks Kick Butt (32 page)

She struck in turn, swinging Kettlingr upward as the hand descended. The
jötunn
howled. Hot black blood splattered over her as her rune-kissed blade sank into flesh.

Mist jumped back, ready for another attack. It never came. The vapor fell like a curtain in front of her, a writhing wall of white maggots sheathed in ice. She swung again, but her sword whistled through empty air. The vapor began to recede as quickly as it had come, crackling angrily and leaving a crystalline film on the grass.

Shaken, Mist let the battle-fever drain from muscle and nerve and bone. A cold sweat bathed her forehead and glued her shirt to her back.

This was no nightmare. A
jötunn
had returned from the dead, bringing with him an evil no child of Mist’s adopted city could imagine.

Wiping her moist hand on the leg of her jeans, Mist sang Kettlingr back to its former size and sheathed the knife. The shock was nearly gone, yet the sense of unreality remained. Where had Hrimgrimir come from? No
jötunn
could walk the earth unnoticed for long. If there was no Jötunheimr, where could such a creature have found refuge from the final battle? Had she been drawn to the park tonight because she had felt his presence? Why had he tried to kill her?

Because no giant can meet a servant of the Aesir without enmity
. But it was more than that. He’d known who she was. He’d been waiting for
her
.

“You will tell me where it is before you die.”

Mist stared blindly at the trail of blackened grass Hrimgrimir had left in the wake of his retreat. All the assumptions she had made that morning crumbled like bones scoured by the relentless assault of time and nature. Odhinn had been right. The ancient evil had come for the Swaying One.

She fought off a wave of panic and forced herself to concentrate. Hrimgrimir had threatened her, but he’d given up and fled in the middle of the duel. And what use would a lone survivor, evil or not, have for Gungnir when there were no battles left to fight?

“You might have lived to see the new age.”

Whatever he’d meant, a “new age” didn’t sound like something one
jötunn
could create on his own.

Moving quickly, Mist followed the giant’s trail, her boots crunching on the frozen grass. The park was still silent save for the wind in the treetops and the distant roar of a motorcycle on Lincoln Way. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood as rigid as a newly forged blade. She had gone only a few hundred feet when the track disappeared completely. No trace of the
jötunn
remained.

And yet, as she stood still and opened her senses to the unseen, the feeling of something out of place began to grow again. Something different this time. Something that froze her blood as surely as the
jötunn’s
cruel wind.

From her jacket pocket she withdrew the small piece of driftwood she always carried, though she had never thought to use it for such a purpose. She was a
valkyrja,
not a sorceress
.
The magic might fail, or even turn against her.

Still, she had to try. She unsheathed the knife, held the driftwood against the trunk of the nearest tree, and began to carve. The runes sizzled as she cut them into the wood:
Ūruz
,
Thurisaz, Ansuz.
As she completed the last, the wood twitched in her hand as if it were alive and seeking freedom.

She couldn’t grant it life, only fulfillment in the flames. She sheathed the knife, withdrew a lighter from her other pocket, and set fire to the driftwood.

In three breaths it was consumed. The runes, drawn in crimson strokes, hung disembodied in the air. Then they, too, faded, and Mist felt their power seep through her skin and pierce her heart.

Without hesitation she turned onto a narrow, dusty path that wandered among a dense grove of Monterey pines. Her search brought her to a heap of discarded clothing spread over the pine needles, half hidden under a clump of thick shrubbery.

Mist cursed. The magic
had
turned against her, mocking her meager skill. She’d wasted too much time already. She was about to leave when the pile of ragged garments heaved, and a hand, lean and pale, reached out from a tattered sleeve. She gripped her knife. A low groan emerged from the stinking mound. She smelled blood, plentiful but no longer fresh.

Against her better judgment, she knelt beside the man. She expected an indigent, perhaps injured by some thug who found beating up helpless vagrants a source of amusement. But the hand, encrusted with filth as it was, appeared unmarked by the daily struggle for food and shelter. It was long-fingered and elegant, more accustomed to lifting golden goblets of mead than sifting through rubbish in a Dumpster.

She started at the thought. Mead had been the most favored beverage of gods and heroes and elves. And dwarves, and giants, and all the others who had fought for the dark at Ragnarök.

But this one was no giant or dwarf. Hesitantly she touched then pulled aside the blankets. A tall, lean form emerged, dressed in shirt and trousers too short and wide for his body. He lay on his belly, legs sprawled, cheek pressed against the damp earth.

And his face …

Mist had seen its like countless times in Valhöll, laughing among the Aesir and the warriors, fairer to look upon than the sun. It had always been accepted that the most beautiful of all creatures were the
ljólsálfar
, the light-elves of Álfheimr, allies of the gods.

This man was not so beautiful. His face was a mask of gore and mud, one eye swollen shut and his nose broken. Yet his features could not be mistaken.

A
jötunn
had come to Midgard. Now one of the
álfar
had come as well, risen against all reason from the final death. It couldn’t be coincidence.

Mist touched the
álfr’s
shoulder. “Can you hear me?” she asked in the Old Tongue.

The elf stirred, his fingers digging into the soil. He made a sound that might have been a word, rough and raw. Mist had no water to give him, no spell to ease his pain.
Álfar
healed quickly; she had no choice but to let nature take its course.

“Who…,” he croaked, opening his one good eye. “How…”

“Be easy, my friend.” She removed her jacket and laid it over him. “You’re safe.”

The eye, bright blue amid the red and brown of blood and dirt, regarded her with growing comprehension. “Safe?” he whispered. With a sudden jerk he rolled to his side, pushing her jacket away. “The
jötunn…”

“There is no
jötunn
here,” she said, pushing him down again. “Lie still, jarl of the
álfar.
All is well.”

The sound he made might have been a laugh. He lifted himself on one arm and looked into her face. “Who … are you?”

Mist hesitated. She had never been afraid to use her real name among men, for there had been no one left to recognize her for what she was. Now things were different. The laws of Midgard—the natural, mundane laws that had ruled her for centuries—had been broken.

But he was of the
ljölsálfar,
who had fought alongside the gods at Ragnarök. And he might have the answers she desperately needed.

“I am Mist of the
valkyrjur
,” she said.

He closed his eye and released a shuddering breath. “Then my coming … was not in vain.” He lifted a shaking hand to rub his swollen lips. “I am Dáinn.”

Dáinn. She recognized the name. It was not uncommon among both elves and dwarves
.
But she knew in her heart that this was no common elf.

“Bringer of the Futhark,” she said slowly. “Teacher of the runes.”

He raised himself higher and sat up with a wince. “Yes.” There was a great weariness in his voice. “I have been gone a very long time.”

Gone. The memories flooded back, images of bloody conflict and hopeless courage. The elves had fought beside the Aesir, and died beside them.

All but one. Dáinn the Wise, who had walked away when Heimdall had sounded the call to arms. Dáinn the coward. Dáinn the cursed.

Mist drew away from him as if he were Fenrir himself. “Is that why you’re here?” she demanded. “Did you flee to Midgard when you ran from the great battle?”

The
álfar
had always been proud, but Dáinn made no effort to refute her accusation. He began to rise, a little of his elvish grace returning, then sank back down again like the faithless weakling he was.

“The great battle?” he said. “The final destruction of the gods?” He sighed, gazing into the darkness. “Does it seem to you that the world has ended?”

Mist couldn’t pretend that she didn’t understand his question, and it stung all the more because she had been thinking the same thing that very morning.

“Have you seen Baldr return from Hel?” Dáinn asked, relentless in his strange detachment. “Where are Vídarr and Váli and the sons of Thor?”

She could have told him that Vídarr and Váli were alive in this very city, one the owner of a Tenderloin bar and the other a common drunk. The sons of Odhinn were living proof that the prophecies had failed.
They
had known all along how useless it was to cling to the old ways. Mist had finally admitted they were right.

Now she knew they had been very, very wrong.

“There was an ending, yes,” Dáinn said into her silence. “The Aesir and their allies were scattered, sent into limbo and robbed of their power. But there was no Ragnarök. The gods did not die. And their enemies—” He broke off, and when he spoke again it was in plain English. “Their enemies still live.”

Mist felt the shock pass through her body and settle in her gut, roiling and churning like worms in a corpse. Somewhere the gods lived on, forgotten by men. Freyja, Heimdall, Tyr. Odhinn himself. The Allfather, who had passed Gungnir to her with his final breath.

“Go to Midgard,”
he had said.
“You will not fare alone. Each of your sisters will bear a weapon that must not fall into the hands of the evil ones. As long as you live, you will guard Gungnir. Until…”

He had died then, slain by Fenrir, and with the other
valkyrjur
. Mist had left the dying to their fates. She had believed she would have little time to guard the spear, since she, too, would be obliterated in the final destruction.

The joke had been on her. Odhinn himself hadn’t believed the prophecies. He’d known that the world to come would be just as cruel as the old; riven by war, greed, and suffering. He’d known that his enemies would survive.

“They have returned,” Dáinn said, struggling to his feet. “The
jötunn
Hrimgrimir has come to Midgard in search of the treasures. I was sent ahead, but he—”

“Who sent you?” she demanded, gripping his arms. “Have the Aesir also returned?”

“The Aesir have no power here. Not yet. Freyja came to me in a dream.…”

Freyja. Freyja the beautiful, the Lady, who received half the slain warriors chosen by the
valkyrjur
. Mist remembered the other things Hrimgrimir had said before his attack.

“Sow’s bitch,”
he had called her. Syr, the Sow, was another name for Freyja. But Mist had always been Odhinn’s servant. It was for him she had fought, for him she had abandoned the honor of death in battle in favor of an immortal life of solitude.

“A dream?” she echoed, pushing her dark thoughts aside. “Why the Lady? Why should she come to
you
?”

Dáinn acknowledged her contempt with a twist of his lips. “I still have some small magic remaining to me, and the Lady has not lost all her power. She still has the
seidr
, her spell magic. It is that which keeps the gods alive.” His gaze turned inward. “The Aesir can see but little from where they now reside, yet what they see is worse than any seer’s foretelling.”

“Tell me!”

“She charged me to find the treasures and warn their guardians against the invasion.”

The invasion. The “new age.” How many
jötunar
had come to Midgard? If the giants had found the other
valkyrjur
, the other treasures …

Panic surged in Mist’s throat. “Was it Hrimgrimir who attacked you?” she asked, giving him a shake. “How did he get to Midgard?”

“There are passages, ways between the worlds that have been opened by dark
seidr
.”

“What worlds? Does Jötunheimr still exist? Asgard?” She grimaced at her own stupidity. None of that was important now. “How did he find you?”

“I do not know, but he knew I was looking for you.”

“And you couldn’t stop him? What happened to
your
magic,
álfr
?”

For the first time a flicker of real emotion crossed Dáinn’s face. “I had to let him win. My task was more important than any temporary victory. It was necessary that he believe I was no threat to him or his allies.”

Mist didn’t believe him. He’d let himself be beaten to a pulp and ground into the dirt like an ant on a battlefield. He was worse than useless.

But there was no time to question him further. “I have to go back,” she said. “Gungnir—”

“Is it safe?”

Mist didn’t bother to answer him. She jumped to her feet and began to run. She was halfway home when Dáinn caught up with her. She ignored him and kept on running.

The streets of Dogpatch were quiet now in the small hours of the morning. Dáinn was on her heels as she came to a skidding stop at her door and released the ward that guarded it from anyone but her and Eric. A dozen long strides carried her to the display room.

The case was open. Gungnir was gone.

Mist spun to the nearest wall and slammed it with her fist. Dáinn burst through the doorway, rags flapping.

“Loki’s piss!” Mist swore. “Short-wit, incompetent…”

“It will do no good to curse yourself now,” Dáinn said, unnaturally calm. “We must find him. Do you know the runes?”

“Of course I know them,” she snapped.

“Then help me.”

He sat cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes. Mist sat across from him, preparing her mind and body for the
galdr.
Dáinn began to sing. His voice moved through the air in eddies and swirls like water in a stream.