Valknut: The Binding (20 page)

Here was Gleipnir, the ribbon that had bound
him when the largest iron links could not. Its coils stretched to
the floor from a hook set higher than his head. He rolled a hank of
it in his fingers. Hundreds of string-thin strands slid loosely
within the twisted length. He remembered how the ribbon had once
cut into his flesh. The feel of it set his fingertips afire with
the ghost of agony, yet he gripped it firmly, letting the pain feed
a hatred more ancient than the oldest human city.

“May the cowards rot with Hel for
eternity.”

The curse should have been empty, worn flat
from countless repetition, but it resounded with the fury of its
first utterance.

He cursed himself as well, for his naiveté
those thousands of years ago. With uneasy trust, he had accepted
the Allfather’s challenge to test his lupine strength. He stood
like a ruminating cow while the Aesir bound him with Gleipnir. Tyr
rested his hand between Fenrir’s teeth as collateral against his
release should he fail the test. Tyr, whom Fenrir trusted and
called friend.

Tyr, whose blood Fenrir still tasted—a bitter
payment for the loss of his freedom.

The Aesir laughed at his struggles. “Gleipnir
is made of the sound of a moving cat, of a woman’s beard and the
roots of a mountain,” they said, mocking him even as he devoured
Tyr’s hand. “It has the strength of bear sinew, the weight of
fishes’ breath, with bird spittle to keep it supple. It cannot be
broken, even by you.”

Fenrir howled at his betrayal, bucking and
straining, but Gleipnir only grew tighter until he could no longer
move.

Still, the Aesir were not done with him. They
anchored him to the ground and, as he lay panting, drove a sword
into the roof of his mouth, jamming the hilt against his lower jaw
so he could not bite.

“Why?” he howled as they did this to him.

“The prophecy.”

Then they told him the words of the Norn,
foretelling the day when Fenrir, who had never ventured near the
smallest village nor taken a farmer’s weakest stock, would swallow
the Allfather and bring forth the flaming end of the world. Thus
justified, they bound his head so they need not see the agony in
his face. And when his whimpers became more than they could bear,
they drove him far under the ground.

For thousands of years, Fenrir dreamt of the
Allfather’s death and vowed that this much of the prophecy would
come true: The Allfather would die. But he, Fenrir, would survive
to rule the new world.

Almost reluctantly, Fenrir dropped the
strands of Gleipnir from his fingers. The memory of its bite fed
his need for vengeance. Without that focus, he would lack the will
to maintain this ridiculous human facade and would rampage the
earth in wolf form, destroying, killing, until these new humans
found a way to destroy him.

No, he thought, running a hand down the
length of a rocket launcher. It was better to help the humans
destroy themselves.

A beer can ricocheted off the far wall and
clattered to the floor. Muffled giggles burst from a king-sized
mattress sprawled in the farthest corner of the building. Fenrir
lifted his head, nostrils wide, confirming the musky scent of sex
in the melting pot of odors. Monte had brought a woman into the
lair. Another rule broken. A growl rose in Fenrir’s throat and his
eyes narrowed to yellow slits.

It was time for his meeting with Monte.

He approached silently. A thin stream of
smoke rose from a joint smoldering in a hubcap near the bed. A
crumpled pile of cans added the stench of stale beer to the
polluted air. Humans fouled their surroundings with their every
action. A mound of stained pillows and uprooted blankets squirmed
on the mattress. A bare ass, hairy and muscular, bobbed in and out
of the heap, accompanied by grunting and feminine moans.

“Monte.” A ridiculous name, well suited to
the man. “I need to talk to you.”

The bobbing continued.

“Monte.” Fenrir put the snarl of the wolf
into his voice. Blankets flew. Monte’s shaggy head and pale
shoulders appeared. His eyes widened in surprise. Fenrir had not
yet taught him enough fear.

“El Lobo!” His gaze darted to the joint and
back to Fenrir. He smiled nervously. “You’re early.”

“This is unacceptable, Monte.”

Fenrir noted the glint of defiance in the
gang leader’s eyes. A soft arm tipped with gold-lacquered nails
reached out of the blankets to pull Monte back. He shook it off.
The girl sat up, not caring when the blankets slipped off, leaving
her naked. Her gaze fell on Fenrir and widened with interest. She
was round of thigh and belly and large-breasted, yet slender of
waist. She might have been of the Jotnar, the people of Fenrir’s
father, but for the sun-browned skin and thick, black hair. She
arched her back and smiled invitingly. When Fenrir didn’t respond,
she sneered and bit Monte’s shoulder. From the red marks on his
torso, it seemed she had done so before.

Monte winced. “Later, Loralee,” he said,
flinching away.

“Hey, baby,” the girl said in a voice both
petulant and teasing. “Don’t leave me hangin’.” She ran a
gold-tipped finger up her body and plunged it into her mouth.

Monte watched her, licking his upper lip.
“Not 
now
, Loralee. I’m talking to El Lobo, the big
guy himself.” But his gaze fixed on her breasts.

Loralee pouted and rubbed her leg across
Monte’s thigh. “But, Monte, you said you were the
boss.”

She slid her hand under the blankets on his
lap. Monte’s eyes shot wide, then lost focus. He reached for the
girl’s breast.

A low growl rumbled in Fenrir’s chest. Monte
didn’t seem to hear, or perhaps he didn’t care. Snarling, Fenrir
grabbed a handful of Monte’s hair and yanked him off the bed.
Loralee screamed and tried to run, but Fenrir caught her by the
neck. She clawed at his arm and tried to twist free. “Let go of me,
you bastard!”

The rage of eons threatened to burst from
Fenrir. He saw himself as wolf, with blood-matted fur, bodies piled
around, crushing those smelly cars and stale houses the humans so
loved. It would be so...good.

Then he saw himself dead, the Allfather
walking free on the earth.

Focus.

Gold flashed, and the girl’s fingernails laid
open his face.

Control.

Fenrir squeezed just enough to shut her up
and make her concentrate on breathing. Then he turned to Monte, who
dangled from his other hand, kicking and thrashing, his forehead
stretching visibly. Something gave way with the sound of weeds
tearing from the earth, and Monte jerked closer to the floor. He
screamed and grabbed Fenrir’s arm, trying to pull himself up. Blood
trickled past his hairline and down his neck.

The blood scent inflamed Fenrir, weakening
his control. Drool ran from the corner of his mouth and his breath
hissed through bared, pointed teeth. He thrust his face close to
Monte’s.

“I told you, I need to talk to you.”

Monte’s eyes rolled back into his head and he
stopped struggling. “I’m sorry!” he cried. “I’m sorry, I’m
sorry...”

The urge to bite off Monte’s face was almost
irresistible, but Fenrir listened to colder thoughts. He had
hand-chosen Monte to lead the Brotherhood of Rail Riders. The gang
leader had the instinctive intelligence, the connections, the
charisma to unite urban gangs all over the United States,
regardless of colors. Unfortunately, the very qualities that made
him valuable also made him difficult to control without ruining
him. But perhaps Fenrir had coddled him too much.

He dropped Monte to the floor. The gangbanger
huddled where he fell, holding his bleeding head. Fenrir pulled
Loralee closer, savoring the stench of sweat and sex and fear. She
fought for air, her eyes round, her arteries throbbing under his
fingers. An answering heat pulsed from his loins. He ran his tongue
over dagger-sharp teeth, wishing he could tear into the soft flesh
under her chin. Saliva filled his mouth. He could almost taste the
warm blood, feel it running down his throat.

But, said the cold part of his mind, that
might be too much for Monte. He wanted to inspire the man with
fear, not render him useless.

With great effort, he controlled the madness.
Instead of ripping the girl open, he lifted her by the neck. She
made satisfactory gagging noises. Her tanned skin turned darker,
taking on a purple tinge. Her tongue protruded, bleeding, cut by
her own teeth. She rolled bulging eyes toward Monte and managed a
plaintive squeak for help. Monte watched in slack-jawed horror,
never moving.

Fenrir brought her face close to his. “Don’t
worry, baby,” he said. “
I
 won’t leave you hanging.”

He began to squeeze. She struggled and clawed
at his hand. One gold-lacquered nail lodged in his wrist and broke
off. His fingers tightened, crushing muscle and tendons, rupturing
arteries. Blood oozed through his fingers, hitting the floor in
bright circles. She kicked wildly, missing him. Something snapped
with a resounding crack, deep in her neck. She went rigid, back
arching, then drooped in his grip like a wet towel. He held her
long after the twitching stopped, feeling her life bleed away even
as the blood lust drained from his eyes.

At last, sated, he threw her into the pile of
empties, sending cans skittering across the floor. Turning to
Monte, he pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and
carefully wiped his hand.

“Like I said, I need to talk to you.”

Monte sat unmoving, his hands still pressed
to his head. His mouth still hung open and his eyes were glazed
with shock.

“Hmmm. Perhaps I overdid it, after all.”

He grasped Monte and lifted him to the
bed.

“Monte.”

The gangbanger’s expression didn’t change

“Monte, listen to me.”

Slowly, Monte’s head swiveled and his gaze
fixed vacantly on a spot of blood on his master’s lapel.

“Listen carefully.” Fenrir said each word
slowly. “I’m not going to kill you.”

Monte swallowed hard. He let go of his head,
but kept his hands out as though he expected a blow. “You–you’re
not?”

Fenrir patted him on the shoulder. “No. You
see, I need you.”

Monte met Fenrir’s gaze and his pupils
dilated, reflecting yellow. “You do?”

Fenrir spoke to him patiently, like a father
explaining a difficult concept to his child. “Yes. You are still
part of the great plan. In fact, you have a starring role.” He
paused, watching hope seep back into Monte’s maddened eyes.

“But there are rules. You remember the rules,
don’t you, Monte?”

Monte nodded, apprehensive again. His gaze
wandered to the hubcap next to the bed. It had overturned in the
struggle. Loralee’s blood-spattered arm lay across it. He shuddered
and looked away.

“The rules apply to you, too. Is that
clear?”

Monte nodded again, this time more eagerly.
Good. His mind was broken, but he would still prove useful.

“Very well.” Fenrir looked around the floor
as though it were littered with dirty clothes and broken toys. “Now
get this mess cleaned up. And then—”

He thought of the Valknut. And the woman who
wore it. “Summon the Ragman. I have a job for you both.”

Chapter 12

The ride to Minneapolis seemed interminable
to Briggs. He hadn’t slept in more than forty hours and his eyes
felt like dusty marbles. He leaned against the bulkhead and tried
to nap. The dull, steady roar of the engine lulled him, but every
time he drifted off, he was jolted awake by the nagging feeling he
had forgotten something back in his office. He started rummaging
through his grip for a third time and noticed the engineer smirking
at him.

Briggs grinned wryly. “Must be getting
obsessive-compulsive in my old age, eh, Squibb?”

Herbert Squibb was old enough to be Briggs’s
grandfather and had been completely deaf for as long as Briggs had
known him. Squibb nodded as if he’d heard and grinned a mouthful of
oversized dentures.

“You look like a fella on a hot date who done
lost his condoms.” He chortled, obviously pleased with his quip,
then stopped abruptly and clamped his mouth shut. Something shifted
behind his lips. He slurped, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and gave
his denture plate a little shove. Smacking his lips, he squinted at
the track ahead. Random tufts of gray hair on his head quivered
with each bump.

Briggs chuckled. Some people strove for
eccentricity. Others had it thrust upon them.

The grip still lay open before Briggs. A
third search wouldn’t change its contents. He zipped it shut and
slumped back against the bulkhead. Every muscle ached with
exhaustion, but the nagging feeling wouldn’t leave him alone. He
tried to retrace those last few minutes in his office. No matter
how hard he concentrated, the memory slid from focus, leaving him
with vague impressions obscured by a blue haze. He didn’t even know
what had made him so certain James “Jungle Jim” Tuttle would be at
the Greater Midwest Railroad Days.

Aggravated, he shifted position. Maybe his
brother was right. A quiet job in Northfield sounded pretty good,
just now. Maybe some beautiful, blond Ole from St. Olaf College
would think he wasn’t too old. A leggy music major with a thing for
cops…

The daydream deepened into sleep. Random
images flitted through his dreams. He was in his office, but the
computer desk was replaced by an elegantly set dinner table. A
plateful of steak and potatoes steamed before him. A cold beer
appeared, dripping condensation on the tablecloth. His mouth
watered, but as he reached for the fork, the table disappeared. Now
a beautiful blond girl stood before him, singing “Ave Maria” in a
pure soprano. She wore a black, leather cat suit, neckline plunging
to her navel. He could see her abdomen tighten as she sustained the
crescendo.