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“Can you deal with the police yourself?” Taylor asked.

“I’ve got a call in to Freya.”

Rick snorted. “Good luck with that. She’s probably watching this on TV in some bigwig’s penthouse. She won’t get her hands dirty.”

“Just do what I told you. Captain Taylor, you’re in command. Good luck.”

Without waiting for any last-minute protests, Mist worked her way through the crowd toward the cops. Some of them were armed with riot guns, and she also saw canisters of tear gas. Loki could get around the no-firearms rule because these particular cops wouldn’t be in his army.

But if Loki was behind this and anyone was really hurt, especially a child, it could backfire badly on him and his political cronies. Maybe Loki was hoping that she’d slip up and reveal herself, appear on the news or get herself arrested. But he couldn’t be stupid enough to believe she’d allow
that
.

The bellow of police megaphones drowned out the shouts and cries of the mob, demanding that the protesters put down their weapons. The command had no effect. Mist found herself at one of the barricades and strengthened her spell, shifting the air around her so that she could become as close to invisible as possible.

The hastily erected barricades consisted of the typical “bike rack” steel fencing, with the rounded top bar less than two inches wide. Mist sucked in a deep breath and jumped to the top of the nearest segment, precariously balancing herself and looking out over the commotion.

The cops in riot gear were beginning to press in on the crowd, and the cries of protest became shouts of defiance. The police with riot guns and canisters waited for the signal to let loose. She had to halt them in their tracks, and not with her sword or risky offensive magic.

She knew what she had to do. But she couldn’t maintain the “invisibility” spell properly when she was concentrating on other magic. Though none of the police seemed to notice her, a sharp-eyed newswoman had turned in her direction, gesturing for her cameraman to focus on a particular area of the barricade.

Working quickly, Mist began to weave Runes-staves of protection to form a veil—not opaque enough to hide her completely, but capable of preventing anyone from making a positive identification. The news cameras would see a figure at the barricades, and nothing more.

Blocking her rage at Loki and her own self-disgust, she turned toward the nearest cops and drew on the seductive, honeyed warmth of the glamour. It seemed to flow up from the soles of her feet, through her legs and into her torso, pulsing around her heart, reaching out toward her arms and fingers.

She spread her arms and cast the warmth out from her body, aware of it as an almost physical thing that settled like sunlight on the hats, helmets, and shoulders of the men and women ready to strike. Some looked around in confusion; others lowered their weapons, dreamy smiles crossing their grim faces.

Then the glamour failed, rushing back to her, into her, nearly lifting her off her feet. She fell from the barricade, landing hard on her knees. Every last trace of magic was knocked out of her, leaving her helpless and exposed.

“Having trouble, Daughter?”

Freya appeared beside her, dressed with surprising restraint in a long cashmere sweater, destructed skinny jeans, and glossy leather knee-high boots. She surveyed the crowd with interest.

“Oh, my,” she said. “This looks most unpleasant.”

Mist scrambled to her feet, her face hot with shame. “We need to stop this,” she said, “or innocent people will be hurt. Maybe killed.”

“Rather modest of Loki, don’t you think?” Freya said, wrinkling her nose. “Couldn’t he have found a more … dramatic display, if he really wanted to impress us?” She glanced at Mist. “You attempted the glamour, did you not? What went wrong?”

“We don’t have time to discuss it.”

Freya examined her daughter through hooded eyes. “You failed because you are still afraid. But if you allow your fears to rule you now, you will never be free of them.”

“Whatever you can do, do it
now,
” Mist said, gritting her teeth. “
Please
.”

The Lady’s hair drifted outward from her face, forming a halo, and there was a terrible light in her eyes that belied her smile. “There is no better time than now for me to help you learn to use the tools with which you were born.”

7

Freya extended her hand. Mist stared at the outstretched fingers, so delicate and fine and beautiful, nails glossy and perfect.

Red nails, like poison-tipped claws. Poison that would tear into Mist’s skin if she touched them, replacing her blood with something hot and dark and full of rage.

Like the beast.

Illusion,
Mist thought. A hallucination brought on by her own selfish fears. But she ignored Freya’s invitation and stepped back, shaking her head.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m not ready.”

Freya’s expression grew cold. “Will you sacrifice more lives because of your cowardice?” she demanded. “Will you forever be less than you were meant to be?”

“I need to be ready to fight,” Mist said, flinching from the contempt in her mother’s eyes. “This will be easy for you. We can try another time, when it isn’t—”

“There
is
no time,” Freya said. She crooked her fingers, and Mist felt the pull of the glamour, the power of distorted, incongruous love.

Acting entirely on instinct, Mist threw up a shield of forge-Galdr, steel polished to a mirror sheen that reflected Freya’s magic back upon herself. The goddess swayed, her lips parting in astonishment.

And then she laughed. “Very well,” she said. “Watch me, and learn.”

Freya lifted her hands, and the magic that felt so unnatural to Mist rose to swirl around her like thousands of iridescent butterflies, trailing the scent of primroses. Golden light radiated outward from her fingertips, as intangible as a painting of the wind. It drifted down on the police at almost precisely the moment when the first riot shield was about to strike the first protester.

The effect was almost instantaneous. People on both sides of the line slowed to a halt, as if they were walking through cold honey. It didn’t take long before weapons were lowered and signs and rebar and chips of concrete dropped to the ground, angry voices dwindling to a confused murmur. All the faces—of cops, protesters, even Mist’s own soldiers—turned toward Freya with awe and wonder, rapidly verging on outright worship.

And Freya was eating it up.

“Thanks,” Mist said, trying to grab her mother’s attention. “But I think my people and I can handle it from here.”

“Oh?” Freya didn’t even glance down at her. “How will you disperse the crowd once I am gone? What if these police are still under Loki’s—”

She broke off, and her face drained of color. Her skin seemed to sag, losing its resilience, as if she’d subjected herself to one too many plastic surgeries. Hard lines bracketed her mouth, and her hair turned the color of gray mold.

Mist was too shocked to speak. Freya cast her a frightened glance and began to fall. Somehow, Mist caught her in time and eased her to the ground.

There was no curse quite adequate to encompass the situation, but Mist did her best. She jumped back up on the barricade and tried to snatch the withering strands of Freya’s magic out of the air before they, too, disappeared.

She caught them just in time, feeling the warmth and love and soft, nurturing light envelop and embrace her. She let the emotions and the light flow out to drift over the crowd like a gentle fog made of summer breezes and lullabies.

For a moment Mist was lost in her mother’s magic, only vaguely aware of words floating like flower petals through her consciousness, encouraging her to open herself to all that was, all she could have again, all she could ever be.

And all she had to do was reach out and take it.

A strong hand gripped her arm. She looked down at the mortal standing below her, into light brown eyes and earnest, battle-worn features.

She recognized him. His name was Captain Antoine Taylor, and he had been among the first mortals to come to her after the fight with Jormungandr. Her legs began to give way beneath her, and Taylor helped her down from the barricade.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“What did you say to me?” she asked. “‘Not yet,’ what?”

He took her gently by the jaw and turned her head toward the crowd. “You did it,” he said.

Mist looked. The protesters—no more than seemingly harmless individuals again—began to scatter and drift apart, their purpose forgotten, as the cops put away their weapons and began to withdraw.

“What in hell happened to
her
?” Taylor asked.

Following his gaze, Mist felt a stab of alarm. Freya was sprawled inelegantly on the asphalt, her hair lifeless, her face ravaged as if by years in harsh weather. She was unconscious, but there were no signs of visible injuries.

And Mist didn’t remember how it had come about. There was a blank in her mind that started from the moment she’d fallen from the barricade.

Had she turned to the ancient magic, and lost herself for a brief time? Would Taylor have recognized such a change in her?

“I … don’t know,” she stammered. “She was fine a few minutes ago.” She ran her palm over her damp hair. “You didn’t see anything?”

“I couldn’t tell exactly what was going on up here. I assumed you were shielding yourself from view.” Taylor crouched beside Freya to check her pulse. “Slow, but she’s breathing okay. I never thought I’d see her…” He squinted up at Mist. “Did Loki do this?”

“If he could do something like this to her, he’d already have won the war.” She knelt beside her mother and lifted her hand. “Gather your people and get her back to HQ. Maybe Eir can figure out what’s wrong.”

“We should keep this quiet, I think.”

“Yes. It won’t be possible to hide this from our people indefinitely, but we should try to buy some time for her to recover, or at least figure out what the Hel went wrong.” She laid Freya’s hand on her chest and rose. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“You got it, Chief.”

While Taylor put in a call to his lieutenant, Mist went looking for Hild, Rick, and the others. Her gaze caught on the figure of a man standing on the other side of the rapidly emptying plaza, an immovable object amidst the current of the dispersing crowd.

From a distance, he looked exactly like Vidarr.

Mist started across the plaza at a fast jog. No one had seen Vidarr since Orn and Anna had been kidnapped and escaped, and Loki had beaten him within an inch of his life. She’d figured that he was either dead, or in hiding.

If he was here, it couldn’t be coincidence. And he had to know he might be recognized.

But he’d once said he’d be happy to stand back while Mist, Freya, and Loki destroyed each other. Presumably, he still had some divine magic to call on, but it wouldn’t be enough to spark a riot like this one.

“Mist!”

Hild stepped into her path, forcing her to a sudden stop. By the time she dodged around the Valkyrie, Vidarr—or the man who looked like him—had vanished.

“Did you see him?” Mist demanded.

“Who?” Hild asked, looking over her shoulder.

Mist cursed under her breath. “Come on. Let’s find the others.”

Rota, Rick, a couple of the Einherjar, and three more recent recruits were crossing the plaza to meet them, while a third group, led by Bryn, were gathered at the corner of McAllister and Larkin. When they were all together, Mist led them to a quiet area of Fulton beside the Asian Art Museum, well away from any potential eavesdroppers.

Mist was relieved that no one spoke up about Freya. Either the others hadn’t seen her fall, or they thought better of advertising the fact.

“Did you find any Jotunar?” she asked.

“That’s the weird thing,” Rota said. “We didn’t.”

“Tall, blond hair and beard, shoulders like a linebacker?”

“Sounds like you’re describing Vali,” Hild said, dropping a weathered hand to the hilt of her sword, which, to mortal eyes, was no larger or deadlier than a small knife. “Did you see him?”

“I’m not sure who I saw,” Mist said.

“If it
was
Vali,” Rick said, “that would prove that Loki’s involved, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. Something’s off about this whole thing. It’s lacking Loki’s usual flair, and he wouldn’t have done it just to show off. He’d have something specific to gain.”

“He’d have known you’d show up for something like this,” Bryn said. “He’d probably have expected Freya, too.”

“A trap?” Hild asked.

“At this point, we have no idea if Loki was involved at all.”

“You mean this thing just blew up for no reason?” Rick asked.

“There’s plenty of reason for people to be pissed off,” Rota said. “But if Loki didn’t start it, he knows about it now.”

“We’ll talk about that when we’re back at HQ,” Mist said. “Bryn, you and your people spread out and make sure it’s really over. Report anything or anyone unusual, no matter how trivial it may seem. Hild, take your team home. We’ll debrief in two hours.”

While the others separated to carry out their orders, Mist returned to the side street where she’d left her bike, Silfr. The news crews had already packed up and left, the cops had dispersed, and the plaza was as silent as if nothing had ever happened … except for the litter of signs and rebar and concrete the protesters had left behind them.

Mist knew cursed well that it wasn’t really over.

Bending low over the handlebars, Mist accelerated as she wove through the freeway traffic, and wondered how things could get any worse.

The wind snatched the laugh from her throat.

*   *   *

Gabi switched off the TV.

“Shit,” she said. “That was close.”

Anna shivered. “Close” didn’t begin to describe it. She still wasn’t sure how she’d been able to observe Mist and Freya when hardly anyone else in Civic Center Plaza had noticed them; even Gabi, who’d been with Mist almost from the beginning, hadn’t really
seen
how mother and daughter had worked their magic to calm both the police and the protesters. It was as if they’d been completely invisible.