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The Danny-figure smiled at Dainn and offered its hand.

“Show me,” Dainn said.

The crude, miniature figure of a horse rose out of the earth beside Danny, and Dainn knew that that boy and Steed were together. Had Danny convinced Fenrir to let Sleipnir go, or had he used the Eitr to steal Steed from Wolf?

“Where are you?” Dainn asked.

“It’s hardly polite to leave me out of this,” Loki said, appearing suddenly behind earth-Danny. “Especially since I have a friend of yours who undoubtedly wishes to keep his life.”

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said, hanging limply from Loki’s grip on the collar of his jacket. “I only followed you a little ways outside the ward, but he was—”

“There is no need for apologies,” Dainn said, meeting Loki’s gaze. “How did you find me?”

“A fly on the wall told me.”

Dainn spoke a stream of words even he didn’t understand, and Loki blanched, swung Ryan around, and held the young man like a shield in front of his chest.

“I don’t know what you just did,” Loki said, “but try it again and I will give this boy to Hel.”

Dainn knew that he wasn’t in any position to fight Loki now, and all he could do was bluff. “You won’t kill him,” he said, “because he has the ability to predict the future.”

Loki stared into Ryan’s face. “This is the
spamadr
?”

“Yes,” Dainn said. “And I do not believe you will rob yourself of such a valuable resource.”

Loki’s lips curved unpleasantly. “Should I test his worthiness now? Or will you take me to Danny?”

*   *   *

The All-father rose from his chair as if it were his throne, Hlidsjalf, looking down over all the worlds from his hall Valaskjalf.

“We have delayed long enough,” he said. “Set aside your worries, Valkyrie, and know you are strong enough to serve as my anchor to the world.”

It was a compliment to match the others he had bestowed on Mist, but she didn’t take any pleasure in it. He had told her what was expected of her: merely to hold herself steady and let him draw on as much of her inherent magic as he needed to stay connected to the real world while his spirit conducted the search for Sleipnir.

The problem was that holding herself steady wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to be actively working to keep Odin from sharing her thoughts. She’d told Dainn about Odin’s return, and Dainn had understood that once Odin was aware of Danny’s identity and abilities, the boy would become a pawn to be used by whoever got to him first.

So he and Mist had agreed that Dainn would “escape,” find Danny, and—with luck—hide his son until Odin and Loki were fully engaged with each other.

What Dainn needed now was time. He’d been gone about six hours, but that didn’t seem like nearly enough. She would have to bury her most private thoughts where even the All-father was unlikely to reach: within the Eitr. It was a guess, an experiment that might fail … but Dainn had told her that Odin had “lost” the means to work the Eitr. She hoped to Ymir that he was right. She walked a blade’s fine edge between treason and compassion, between what she knew of Odin’s dread responsibilities and what she didn’t know of his innermost thoughts.

Whatever favor he might have shown her, she understood that she was never
meant
to know.

That was the greatest danger of all.

“Take my hand,” Odin commanded.

She laid her hand in his. Immediately she felt the crushing grip of his broad fingers. The pressure lasted only for a moment, and then she became aware of Odin’s consciousness as it linked with hers.

The joining was nothing like it had been with Freya. There were no demands this time, no desperation … only Odin’s supreme confidence. She felt a warmth in him she had never found in her mother. There was no golden light or scent of primroses, but the call of one warrior to another, a true respect for her strength of will and purpose that she hadn’t expected and wasn’t sure she deserved.

“There are circles of magic within each being that wields it,” he had told her, reminding her that he was a teacher as well as a warrior, that his wisdom was as great as his pride. “Circles within circles, and only the most powerful of gods and Alfar—and you, my Valkyrie—possesses more than one. The outer circle is that magic closest to the surface, easiest to summon, requiring the least effort to wield.”

She felt a sudden tug when Odin touched that outermost circle, the simplest Rune-chants she had known even as an “ordinary” Valkyrie. She sensed his power as if it were a burgeoning storm, drawing energy from the charged air around it.

His consciousness expanded as he called on the next circle, the more sophisticated Galdr, the forge-magic she had built from her knowledge as a maker of swords and knives. Instinctively she created a strong scaffold from Rune-staves of iron and fire to anchor the densely woven filaments that bound the essence of Odin’s spirit to his incomplete body, and felt him gradually drawing away from her as he reached for the third circle.

That circle was the Seidr, the magic of soul-travel which Mist had never truly learned. Odin knew it well, however, and he found the remnants of magic that Freya had employed in her failed union with Mist, using the scraps to strengthen the soul-cord as he played it out.

It was the fourth circle she had to hide from him, shielding it from his consciousness without faltering in her grip on his soul. A single moment of inattention on her part might have alerted him, but he was deep into his search by then, and he passed by the circle without noting its existence.

Odin drifted farther away, and Mist allowed herself a moment of relief. It didn’t last. Someone screamed outside the warehouse, and she bounced back to full consciousness. The scaffolding that moored Odin’s soul began to dissolve. She snatched at the soul-cord, gripping it with all her mental and magical strength.

Odin plummeted back as the cord retracted, and the semi-solid figure of the All-father shuddered violently in his chair, still unaware of the world around him. There were more screams, cries of shock and agony, dozens of voices united in terror.

Leaving Odin where he was, Mist drew Kettlingr and ran outside. It was already dark, the stars and moon mostly obscured by the perpetual cloud cover, but there was a shadow lying over the camp that would make an ordinary night seem as bright as noon.

Hel had come to Earth.

Swinging Kettlingr before her, Mist sang Rune-spells of battle as she clothed herself and the sword in heat and light. The phantoms appeared out of the murk, caught in the glare, and shrieked their own fear, abandoning the bodies of those they had already claimed for their mistress of Death. Mist chased them, knowing that few of the sleeping mortals had the means to defend themselves from the dead. Driven by rage, she called upon the ancient magic and infused her sword with the Eitr. Wherever Kettlingr struck, a shadow-soul shattered into dust.

Alfar joined her, along with Hild and Rota, each wielding her weapon and singing her chant. Death was the Valkyrie’s province, and though these souls belonged to the mistress of Niflheim, they fled from the Choosers of the Slain.

In minutes the last of the army of the dead were fleeing, leaving a thick coating of ash and dust and powdered bone in their wake.

With a cry of anger, Mist ran after the creatures. She cut them down as she reached the stragglers, swinging wildly and without thought as they passed through the wards, unaffected by spells that were only meant to stop the living. She didn’t care if she fought alone; all that mattered was the killing. She followed the dead as they swept onto Twenty-Second Street and reached Third, where a few mortals waited at the light rail stop to catch the last train. The dead swept over them, and they toppled to the ground like felled trees.

Mist stopped. The dead, too, had come to a halt. From among them walked a woman in sweeping black and red robes, her body divided into dark and light, eyes red with a narrow rim of green.

Hel.

She smiled at Mist. “Valkyrie,” she said, inclining her head. “My father has so often spoken of you, and I have been eager to welcome you to my halls.”

Searching the ancient magic for a weapon against the goddess, Mist laughed. “I know you resent me and my Sisters, Mistress of Corpses, because we rob you of your prey when we carry the souls of heroes to Odin’s hall.”

“Ah, yes,” Hel said, sounding all too much like her father. “The glorious Einherjar. But you have been sadly lacking in employment since Valhalla ceased to exist.”

“Oh, we have employment,” Mist said, hearing the footsteps of her Sisters drumming behind her. “And right now it’s sending you back to wherever you came from.”

“But Niflheim was destroyed with all the rest of the Homeworlds, save this one.”

“You must have your own Shadow-Realm—”

“Yes. But at last I have been set free by the boy you sought to protect.”

“What boy?” Rota asked.

Mist lost track of her spell-seeking and searched Hel’s hideously beautiful face. “The daughter of the Father of Lies can easily lie herself,” she said.

“But I don’t. My brother is a child of many accomplishments, and he was only defending his home from attack by intruders.”

Defending his home?
Mist thought. Was Danny unaware of what he had unleashed? Dainn had said that he didn’t always understand what he did. If the boy had acted purely on instinct …

Odin had admitted to being the intruder, leaving a trail that would implicate Freya. He had never mentioned seeing Danny.

“I see that this disturbs you,” Hel said. “Perhaps now you will admit that my little brother belongs among his true kin.” She smiled, treating Mist to a clear view of her rotten teeth. “Think instead on what you will lose if you continue to send your warriors against Loki. I will claim all those whom my guests have slain today, all they kill tomorrow, and every other mortal who falls in this war. Do you wish such a fate on your followers?”

Almost before Hel had completed the question, Mist found what she was looking for. The Eitr surged up inside her, all light untainted by even a hint of darkness.

“I don’t think so,” Mist said, and cast the light toward her enemies. Hel’s face became even more hideous as the magic of life battered against her, and the dead around her began to howl in pain.

All at once there was a scuffle among her minions, ghost turning on ghost as dull swords and axes and daggers appeared in their hands. Mist stepped back, Hild and Rota on either side of her, trying to make sense of the bizarre spectacle.

Hel vanished. The battling dead remained behind, until suddenly one faction broke apart and began to run. Rota started after them, but Mist held her back.

“Wait,” she said.

The phantoms who had lingered laid down their crumbling weapons, indicating surrender. One of them moved toward Mist, limping as if he had taken a wound like any living creature.

Mist raised her sword, but the specter halted several yards away. His blurred face began to resolve, features coming into focus.

Features Mist knew, as she knew the texture of his hair and the weary smile.

“Geir,” she whispered.

“Mist,” he said, his voice as dry and barren as Hel’s heart. “I’ve been waiting a very long time to see you again.”

24

Mist raised her hands palm-out as if she could block the sight of him. “You can’t be here,” she said.

“But I am,” Geir said, deep sadness in his dull blue eyes. “I am dead, Mist.”

“You can’t be with
her,
” Mist said, letting her hands fall. “Not with Hel.”

“But I died of old age,” he said. “Of sickness and my body’s failure. I was never bound for Valhalla.”

She tried to touch him, but her hand passed through him and emerged coated with ash. “You were never a follower of the ancient religions,” she said.

“I was Norse,” he said. “And Hel took many who should never have gone to her.”

“Took from where? The Void?”

“I do not know
where
I was before. The laws of life and death are out of balance, and there is no means of telling where any who die will come to rest.”

“Out of balance?”

“Hel can claim nearly anyone she chooses, including every mortal who dies in this war.”

His story was so unexpected that Mist could hardly accept it. She had always assumed that those who died following any particular faith would go to the place they believed in, though she had often hoped that there would be some justice for the good and evil.

This
was wrong. Terribly wrong.

“I can get you out,” Mist said. “I can—”

“Bring me to life again?” He raised his hands, revealing layers of skin and muscle and bone all visible at once. “Even with the abilities of Freya’s daughter, you cannot restore life. But
we
can help
you
.”

She looked beyond him to the twenty or so phantoms who waited unmoving, their faces indistinct. She couldn’t even tell if they’d been men or women in life.

“You just slaughtered dozens of my people,” she said, blinking to clear her vision.

“
We
did not,” he said, gesturing behind him, “though Hel was too busy to notice those who hung back.” His eyes flickered with something like hope. “Once you and I fought side by side, resisting the Nazis. There is another rebellion brewing among the dead, and we are part of it.”

“Rebellion? Against Hel?”

“We have no wish to fight for Loki against the living. We cannot destroy Hel, but we can reduce the numbers of her willing followers, to whom she has promised great rewards.”

“If what you say is true, Hel must have thousands, millions…”

“Yes. But numbers never stopped us before.” He lifted his hand and dropped it again before Mist could be reminded that he wasn’t capable of touching her, embracing her, loving her. “We must go. I will—”

He never finished, for a voice booming Rune-spells fell like a net around the dead, sweeping them up, flinging them high, scattering them like seeds thrown carelessly onto fallow earth.

There was no trace of Geir and his fighters when Odin strode up to Mist, pushing Hild and Rota aside.