Chicks Kick Butt (33 page)

A prickle of bone-deep awareness washed through Mist as Dáinn’s spirit mingled with hers. It was like a violation, unseen hands reaching and plucking at her soul.

Sorrow. Such profound and terrible sorrow.

Breathing deeply, she tried to let the distraction of Dinny’s presence roll away like summer’s fog in autumn. It was no use. Her disdain for him was too strong. She could only hinder him now, and failure could have consequences too terrible to contemplate.

Careful not to disturb the elf, she got to her feet and walked into the kitchen. The cats were nowhere in sight, but on the table lay a folded piece of paper, not the one Eric had left before. A sense of unfocused dread stiffened Mist’s fingers as she reached for the paper.

“It was not the
jötunn,
” Dáinn said from the doorway.

The needle-sharp prick of ice filled Mist’s lungs. She picked up the note and unfolded it. The runic script seemed to pulse on the page like entrails spilling hot from a warrior’s belly.

My apologies, sweetling,
it said.
I had hoped to enjoy you one last time, but it was not to be. I will cherish your gift. You may be sure I will use it well.

The final symbol was the figure of a coiling snake. It came alive as she watched, hissing and seeming to laugh with its gaping jaws. Then it was still again, and Mist dropped the paper onto the table. It burst into flame and disintegrated into black ash.

“Eric,” she whispered.

“Loki Hel’s-Father,” Dáinn said. “You
knew
him?”

The accusation in his voice was well deserved. She had been far worse than the short-wit and incompetent she had called herself. Eric had never loved her. He had deceived her from the moment they’d met. She hadn’t been wise enough to see through the shape he had taken to seduce and set her at her ease.

Hrimgrimir had been no more than a distraction. It had always been Eric.

“I didn’t know,” she said numbly. “I believed…”

“You
believed
.” His short laugh was raw with despair. He ran his finger through the ashes. “No one knew
he
had pierced the veil. We share two burdens now, shield-maiden.”

Mist didn’t ask what the second burden was. All she could see was Eric’s laughing face when she had told him he had become nearly as good as she was.

“I’ll kill him,” she said.

“As Heimdall killed him?”

His mockery was all the more savage for its gentleness. She met Dáinn’s gaze across the table.

“Can you find him?” she asked.

“If he hasn’t left Midgard.”

The questions she wanted to ask nearly choked her, but she left them unspoken. “Start looking,” she said.

Dáinn dipped a finger into the ash and lifted it to his forehead. With quick, sure strokes he sketched a bind rune above and between his brows. It seemed to catch fire, and Dáinn grimaced in pain.

“A passage,” he murmured.

“What do you mean?” She leaned over the table, forcing him to look at her. “
What
passage?”

“A bridge to the otherworlds.” He smeared the ash with his fingers. “‘Gullin’ is its name.”

Golden
. The Golden Gate Bridge. An echo of Bïfrost, which had once joined Midgard with the realm of the Aesir.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“There is no certainty.”

To Hel with that. It was the only lead they had, and there was no time to waste. The bridge was nearly eight miles northwest as the crow flies, longer on surface streets. Dawn was just breaking; there wouldn’t be much traffic, and that meant the car would be faster than going on foot.

“Let’s go,” she said.

She ran into the shop, snatched up several small, dusty pieces of wood she kept on a high shelf, and dashed for the garage. Dáinn caught up with her as she reached the Volvo and threw open the door. She didn’t wait to ask if the
álfr
had ever been in an automobile before, but he didn’t hesitate to get in. She was already pulling out of the garage by the time he had closed his own door.

Chanting a hurried runespell to hold any overzealous cops away, Mist kept her foot on the gas all the way up Van Ness and screeched a reckless left turn onto Lombard. In minutes they were on 101 and nearing the bridge.

“Where?” she asked.

He touched his forehead, tracing the runes afresh. “Over the water,” he said. “We must go on foot.”

That was cursed inconvenient. There wasn’t any way for a pedestrian to get onto the bridge from the San Francisco side without attracting unwelcome attention.

“We’ll have to drive across,” she said. “You tell me where to stop.”

“If I can.”

“You will.” She gunned the engine and sped for the toll plaza, slowing only to pay the toll and pretend she had no intention of breaking every speed law on the books. The moment she was on the bridge she pushed on the accelerator, passing slower vehicles as if they were standing still.

“Here,” Dáinn said when they were half a mile across. Mist stopped in the right lane and jumped out.

There was nothing to show that this span of the Bridge was different from any other. Dáinn vaulted over the railing that separated the pedestrian walkway from traffic. Mist followed him to the suicide barrier. Blue-gray water seethed far beneath them, choppy with a rising wind driving west from the Bay.

The faintest pressure in the air lifted the hairs on the back of Mist’s neck. “I feel it,” she said.

Dáinn wasn’t listening. He cocked his head and closed his eyes. The air around him shimmered, and the ground under Mist’s feet vibrated with barely leashed energy. The “passage” the
álfr
had spoken of was in this very place, an invisible mouth waiting for the right spell to open it again.

And there was more. She could feel Eric’s presence, a shadow of his being altered and twisted into a form almost unrecognizable. She drew her knife.

“Where is he?” she asked him, struggling to control her seething emotions.

The
álfr
spread his hands in front of him as if he were reaching for something solid. “He was here, but he did not pass through. Something blocked his path.”

“Then where has he gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you
do
know?”

Dáinn bent his head. “Even Loki would need a refuge. Evil always seeks evil.”

Evil
. What did that mean in a world of turmoil and endless conflict? The gangs? The suppliers of illicit drugs, who killed as easily as they breathed? The corrupt politicians and greedy businessmen who set policies that made thousands suffer?

Too many possibilities. They could spend weeks sorting through every dark soul in San Francisco, both high and low. But there
was
someone who might help them. Someone she’d hoped never to see again.

Maybe Vídarr already knew about the incursion. If he did, and hadn’t warned her …

Never. Not the son of Odhinn.

“We’re going to Vídarr,” she said.

Dáinn stared at her. “He is here?”

“The prophecies said he and Váli would survive Ragnarök and live in the new world. That part was half right.”

“Freyja said nothing about—”

Mist jumped over the barrier and returned to the Volvo. A red Jaguar streaked past, blaring its horn.

“You said the Aesir can’t see everything,” she said over her shoulder.
And you’re as blind as they are
. She opened the passenger door. “Are you coming?”

He got in. Mist slammed the door shut, released the brake, and made a sharp U-turn. By the time they were off the bridge Dáinn was singing again.

She let him be. His magic, such as it was, was still stronger than hers. She didn’t dare rely on him, but she couldn’t afford to throw away even the smallest advantage, or the weakest ally.

Vídarr’s club was in the Tenderloin, a scarred and graffitied doorway squashed between a seedy hotel and a pawn shop. In spite of the dubious neighborhood, Bifrost was popular with artists, musicians, and the more affluent youth from other parts of the city. Mist hadn’t been inside the door for a decade, and she’d planned to keep it that way.

Plans of any kind were useless now. Mist wove through the increasing traffic, cutting through back streets and ignoring one-way signs. But her efforts to avoid the worst congestion weren’t good enough. It was taking too damned long.

She pulled up to the nearest curb. “We’ll have to run,” she said.

Dáinn was out of the car a second after she was. She set off south, fiercely grateful for the chance to move her body again. She might not trust her own magic, but legs and arms, muscle and bone, were tools she honed to obey her will without thought or hesitation.

Tucked between the wealth of Nob Hill and the busy downtown of Civic Center, the Tenderloin was an abrupt descent both figuratively and literally. She and Dáinn ran past liquor stores, strip joints, and more than one dealer on the prowl for addicts looking to score. Panhandlers and drunks stared after them in astonishment, but they were only a blur in Mist’s eyes.

Though it wasn’t even eight o’clock, Mist knew that Bifrost would already be jumping. No cops would come knocking, for the simple reason that Vídarr had set runes to repel them; she could see them glowing in the air and feel their potency. Vídarr might have rejected his heritage, but he still used magic when it suited him.

Mist opened the door and walked in. Vídarr employed a doorman to keep out any “undesirables” who might slip past the wards, but she didn’t recognize the big man standing just inside the door. He did a double take when Dáinn came up behind her.

“Where’s Vid?” she asked the doorman.

He folded his massive arms across his chest. “Vid ain’t available,” he growled.

“He’ll see me.” She shoved past him.

“Hey, bitch!” He clamped one beefy hand over her shoulder. “You ain’t—”

Mist spun around and punched him in the stomach. He let her go with a woof of astonished pain. She nodded to Dáinn, and they continued into the black, smoky pit of the bar. A dozen sets of eyes assessed them from the shadows. The radio blasted Norwegian death metal from huge speakers hung on the walls. Sullen kids with multiple piercings huddled over tables strung against the wall opposite the bar, and hipsters ignoring the city-wide smoking ban, argued over coffee and cigarettes.

They were of no interest to Mist. She didn’t bother to ask the bartender where she could find Vid, but kept moving through a tightly packed crowd of inebriated slackers and entered the door behind them.

The clientele in the back room was of a far different caliber than the kids in the public area. The dozen men and women were all mature, attractive, and reeking of wealth … the kind who dined every night at French Laundry, had their clothes tailor-made in Paris, and lived in apartments and penthouses worth more than all the Lady’s gold.

But there was something strange about them, a strangeness that stopped Mist in her tracks. They stared at her as if she had crashed an exclusive wedding wearing nothing but her sword. As if she were an enemy.

“Leave,” Dáinn whispered at her back. “Leave now.”

Mist barely heard him. “Who are you?” she asked, looking at each hostile face in turn.

Glances were exchanged, but no one answered. Dáinn gripped her arm. “There are too many,” he said.

And suddenly she knew. “Where is he?” she demanded of the crowd, loosening her knife. “Where is your master?”

Hard eyes fixed on hers. Several of the men began moving toward her, getting taller by the second. Faces blurred, becoming coarse and ugly with hate. Fists lifted. An unmistakable chill rose in the room.

Hrimgrimir emerged from the crowd, grinning with hideous delight. “So we meet again, halfling. Or should I call you ‘cousin’?” His pointed teeth were red in the dim light. “You must be eager for death. We will be happy to oblige you.”

Pulling her knife free, Mist sang the change. Dim light raced along Kettlingr’s blade. Her chances of survival were slim, but she had no choice. No choice at all.

“You have more strength than you know,” Dáinn said from very far away. She felt a light touch on her cheek. “Feel it, warrior. Let it come.”

Some force beyond understanding burst inside her.
Hafling
cousin. She had no time to digest the revelation. Dáinn was gone, and Hrimgrimir and his kin were already upon her.

Kettlingr flew up to meet the attack. The blade skittered against a wall of ice that dissolved as soon as the sword completed its swing. Mist sang, and her
jötunn
blood, the blood she had not known she possessed, sang with her. Strength greater than that of mortal or Valkyrie throbbed in blood and blossomed in bone. Battle runes flared before her eyes. The giants retreated with cries of rage and dismay. She advanced, slashing at any flesh within reach. For a moment it seemed that she might even win.

But the new power didn’t last. She felt herself falter under the weight of uncertainty. They were her
kin
. Any one of them might be …

She never completed the thought. Hrimgrimir roared and swung a giant fist, knocking her against the wall. Somehow she kept her grip on Kettlingr, but the blow had paralyzed her arm. She knew then that she was going to die, and
she
would not be returning.

Sliding up the wall, she grinned into the giant’s face and prepared herself for the final, crushing blow. Hrimgrimir bellowed and raised his hand. The back door swung open, and a thickset blond man staggered into the room, his head swinging right and left in confusion.

“Wa’s goin’ on here?” he drawled, leaning heavily against the door frame. “Can’ a man ge’ any sleep?”

Hrimgrimir and the other
jötunar
swung to face the man. “Get out!” Hrimgrimir snarled.

“Mist?” The man took another step into the room, eyes widening. “Issat you?”

She caught her breath and worked her shoulder, feeling it come back to life again. Váli was a drunk and a slackard, but he wasn’t as stupid as he looked. He had some part in all this. He
knew
what was happening, and he was trying to help her.

With a hoot of laughter, Váli stumbled his way past the
jötunar
with arms extended. “So … gla’ to see you,” he said, his full weight crashing into Mist. “Missed you.”