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And a storm hung over the city, swirling clouds that seemed to spin around and around in a crazy dance. Sometimes lightning flashed horizontally from one edge of the constantly spinning circle to the other, making the clouds glow from within.

From here, you couldn’t tell that there was a battle raging in San Francisco. It wasn’t on the news. No one blogged about it … well, almost no one, except the people everyone thought were crazy, the kind who believed there were signs and portents hidden behind the bizarre weather and the shadows that crept through the streets, slowly stealing what light remained.

Of course most of those crazy people weren’t crazy at all. And Ryan had seen Loki in videos, pictures of him in places he didn’t have any right to be.

“What do you see?” Mother Skye asked.

“Nothing,” he said.
Thank God
. “Nothing but the bridge and the city and the storm.”

The old woman touched his arm. “You can control your gift now. You’ll know when a true vision comes.”

At a price,
Ryan thought. There was always a price, and he wouldn’t necessarily be the one to pay it.

Zipping his jacket up to his chin, he imagined Dogpatch as he had last seen it, the neighborhood swathed in snow and ice and dangerous magic. He was dreading this reunion, knowing what it would dredge up: emotions he didn’t want, unrequited feelings for the elf who could never return them, memories of a foolish boy who had been too stupid to recognize the part he was to play.

At least Gabi was okay. Mother Skye had made sure he was up to date on the basics. She just couldn’t tell him what the future would hold, even though that had once been her job.

Now it was
his
.

“If you’re ready…” Mother Skye said.

With a sigh, Ryan returned to the car. It was as beat-up looking as Mother Skye. Both had earned their dents the hard way.

He pulled onto the Golden Gate Bridge, wondering if he’d feel the changes before he saw them. He didn’t know how many mortals Mist had recruited for the fight for their world, how many allies she’d brought over from the Void, or if Loki had managed to summon his three monstrous children to join in the battle.

He didn’t even know who was winning.

“You sure you won’t come all the way?” he asked Mother Skye, though she’d answered the question about six times already. “It’s not like you’d be unwelcome. If you just explained—”

“They would demand the very things I can no longer give,” she said in her soft, aged voice, staring out the window at the tollbooth. “And you cannot tell them what you have become, lest you change Fate before the time comes.”

“But I’ll
have
to give them some proof if I’m to stay with them,” he said, “or they’ll just try to send me away again.”

“Only something small. Never let them guess the magnitude of your abilities. Not until it is unquestionably necessary.”

“And I’ll know when that is,” Ryan muttered.

“You will.” The words held a note of sadness, and Ryan knew why.

Before the war was over, a lot of people were going to die. He would have to be very careful about sharing his gift, because every time he intervened he could set the future on a path even he could not predict.

Except for the sacrifice. He knew that would come in any possible turning of Fate. A terrible sacrifice that he couldn’t see.

And never wanted to.

“Be strong,” Mother Skye said. “You are the only one who can complete this duty. You are the last Norn.”

*   *   *

No one saw the skirmish. Like all the rest, it was warded from mortal sight. That was one of the few “rules” of engagement, such as they were—like the prohibition against firearms—and so far the enemy had stuck to them. More or less.

Mist swallowed a battle cry as she hacked at a frost giant, slicing a ragged piece of flesh from his half-armored shoulder. He yelped in pain, but the wound hardly slowed him. He swung his arm, adorned with a hundred razor-sharp icicles, at her head.

Konur, lord of the elven allies, caught the blow on his own sword, staggering a little under the weight of the blow. He recovered quickly, elf-swift, and danced aside. Mist slipped into his place and stabbed at the Jotunn’s belly.

Fortunately, this particular giant was more bulky than fast, and he failed to get out of the way in time. He moaned and fell like an ancient redwood cut down by elements even its formidable strength couldn’t withstand.

Mist pulled Kettlingr free and wiped the blade on the Jotunn’s clothing. She caught her breath and brushed her hand across her forehead, sweeping up a damp strand of hair that had come loose from her braid, and watched the dark-haired elf-lord take on another frost giant.

For a moment she imagined Dainn fighting there, just as swift and sure, concealing a savage beast behind his dispassionate face. She was barely prepared when another Jotunn came at her from behind.

Fury beset her whenever she thought of Dainn, and this time was no different. She spun wildly to catch the Jotunn’s ice-sword on hers, and felt the frost giant’s weapon cut through her sleeve.

Chanting the Galdr as she built the Rune-staves in her mind, she added the smallest touch of forge-magic, as if her blade had just been pulled from the fire. The Jotunn was briefly confused by the glint of flame and attacked empty air. Mist cut off his head.

Two of the surviving Jotunar fled for the mouth of the alley and the relative safety of Grant Avenue. Mist knew better than to pursue them; true dawn was still a good half-hour away, but on a Tuesday morning there would be people already headed to work, drivers and pedestrians not quite groggy enough to ignore a sword-and-ax fight in the middle of the street.

She turned back, ready for the next opponent. But there was no one left to fight. The asphalt was slick with melting ice, the buildings on either side splashed with blood both red and blue. One mortal lay dead. Two mortals and one elf were wounded, but Mist’s warriors had accounted for three Jotunar.

Mist sheathed her sword and knelt beside the human warrior, sketched Runes of peace and protection on his brow and gently closed his eyes. She knew his name, but little of his life or what had drawn him into this fight.

It wasn’t easy keeping track of the two hundred or so mortal recruits who’d trickled in over the past spring and summer, especially since they were spread out all over the city countering Jotunar assaults and tracking the giants’ increasing encroachment into the city’s underworld.

Hel, Loki practically ran all of it now. And more.

A lot more.

“He died well,” Konur said, coming up beside her. “Do not grieve for one who willingly gave his life to save his world.”

Mist wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “He wouldn’t have died at all, if we hadn’t brought this war down on mortalkind.”

“
We
did not bring it,” Konur said, cleaning his own sword before sheathing it and reducing it to the size of a small dagger. “He was as like to have died in one of the mortal’s own wars, and for a far lesser purpose.”

Biting back a sharp retort, Mist got to her feet. “What about your people?”

“Only the one is injured, and not severely. Our healer sees to the mortals.” He concealed the dagger in his jacket—the Lord of the Alfar still looked bizarre to Mist in his very ordinary human clothes—and glanced up at the lightening sky. “We must go as soon as they are able to travel.”

Mist followed his gaze, clenching her fingers around Kettlingr’s hilt. Konur touched her shoulder.

“You are hurt,” he said.

She glanced at her bloodied sleeve. “I can’t even feel it.”

“You will.”

Yeah,
she thought.
It’s always afterward, isn’t it?
Pain, grief, guilt. Regular as clockwork.

“Why don’t you ever sweat?” she asked Konur, pretending she hadn’t heard him. “Too good for such distasteful bodily functions?”

“We try to avoid them as strenuously as possible,” he said, mockingly grave. Like Dainn had been.

Fighting the pull of memory, Mist went to check on the two injured mortals. The man was only half-conscious, but the young woman managed to smile at her with something disturbingly like hero-worship in her eyes. It was an embarrassing cult of personality Mist knew was fed by the unwanted glamour she had inherited from her goddess-mother Freya.

But without the magic of attraction, love and lust, she might not have mortal allies at all. Gods knew that Freya hadn’t done anything to pull in ground troops.

And neither have you,
Mist thought, wielding guilt against revulsion as she had done so many times in the past. Revulsion kept on winning, but she knew it was only a matter of time before—

“Mist!”

She jerked out of her thoughts to find the young woman pointing toward the mouth of the alley. A lone Jotunn stood there, ax in hand, as if he were about to challenge her to single combat. She drew Kettlingr and jumped to her feet, rage warring with sense.

Sense was winning when she finally noticed the Jotunn’s face.

He looked like Svardkell. Svardkell, the Jotunn father she had never had the chance to know. The one she’d killed, believing he was Loki’s spy.

Before she could think, she was running toward the street. The Jotunn waited until she was almost within reach, and then spun and ran north toward Bush Street. Mist had nearly caught up with him when she heard the squeal of tires and the whooping of a siren.

A moment later the sleek black-and-white Interceptor was nearly on top of her, and someone was shouting at her to put the weapon down. She lowered Kettlingr and turned to face the cops. Both had their pistols trained on her, and one was already calling for backup.

Mist weighed her options. If these were Loki’s men, they wouldn’t be able to shoot her. But there was a loophole in the “no modern weapons” rule Freya and Loki had agreed to in their original “game,” and still abided by; “unaffiliated” mortals weren’t bound by it, and there were still a few good cops who hadn’t been caught in the web Loki had been industriously spinning around the city.

Those good cops were fighting an uphill battle against a system that used their honesty against them, turning them into unsuspecting weapons, and Mist didn’t want innocent blood on her hands. A passing car had slowed down to rubberneck, and a couple of teenagers had stopped to stare, seemingly unconcerned that they might be drawn into a violent confrontation.

This could get bad very fast.

“Put down the weapon!” one of the cops yelled. “Hands behind your head!”

Slowly and carefully, Mist laid Kettlingr on the sidewalk and raised her hands. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t—”

A gun went off. Mist felt strong fingers grip her arm and yank her aside as the bullet whizzed past her ear.

“Go back,” Konur hissed, pushing her in the direction of the alley. “I will—”

“How many times must I tell you not to put yourself at risk?” a new voice interrupted, honeyed and dulcet as always in spite of the scolding words.

Freya waved Konur away and insinuated herself between Mist and the cops, who stared at Freya in utter confusion. Even in a borrowed elven shape—dark-haired, indigo-eyed, a body far more slender than Freya’s own—the goddess projected a sensual allure that required no glamour to work its magic.

But she
did
use the glamour, and the cop who’d prematurely ejaculated lowered his gun and carefully laid it on the ground. The other remained frozen except for his mouth, which dropped open almost comically.

Smoothing the silk of her ruby-red gown over her hips, Freya smiled. “We really don’t want any trouble, do we?” she purred. “Why don’t you boys forget this ever happened, and go about your business.”

The cop with the dropped jaw closed his mouth and turned his head to look at his partner. The other cop bent to pick up his gun, holstered it, and turned back for the Interceptor. They drove away at a snail’s pace, craning their necks to keep Freya in view until they were in danger of breaking them. The bystanders drifted away, encouraged by Freya’s judicious use of what Mist called the “anti-glamour.”

When the Interceptor had turned the corner onto Bush Street, Freya lifted her skirt and walked back to the alley, gracefully poised on four-inch spike heels. Her face burning, Mist cast a rueful glance at Konur.

“I guess they weren’t Loki’s” she said.

The elf-lord frowned. “This is no time for levity,” he said. “You were exceedingly foolish to fall for such a trick.”

“You saw the Jotunn’s face?”

“You well know that some Jotunar are capable of assuming other features,” Konur said. “This one knew how to draw you out.”

Because, Mist thought, she went into every battle wondering if the Jotunn she fought could be direct kin, like Svardkell. A cousin, an uncle, a brother …

“It won’t happen again,” she said.

She was still furious with herself when she and Konur reached the alley. Freya stood in the middle, wrinkling her pretty nose with distaste at the smell of blood and sweat. Mortal eyes followed her every move, as they had previously followed Mist’s. Only the elves seemed indifferent. Or pretended to be.

Dainn had been anything
but
indifferent, in another time and place. Freya had used his weakness to control him. If he had betrayed Freya, she had betrayed him first.

Unfortunately, he’d also betrayed Mist.

Curse it,
Mist thought.
Get out of my head
.

“Take the wounded,” she said to Konur, resuming control of herself and her fighters. “I’ll be along soon.”

The elf-lord nodded to his fellow Alfar, who jointly worked another concealing spell and carried the wounded toward the other end of the alley. Konur lingered, observing Freya from under his dark, slender brows. She gazed back at him, smiling slightly, as if they shared some vaguely unpleasant secret.

“You have my leave to go, Lord Elf,” she said.

Konur glanced at Mist. “Do you wish me to remain?” he asked.

“What do you fear will happen?” Freya asked with a musical laugh. “That I might spank her?”