She couldn’t grant it life, only fulfillment in the flames. She sheathed the knife, withdrew a lighter from her other pocket, and set fire to the driftwood.
In three breaths it was consumed. The runes, drawn in crimson strokes, hung disembodied in the air. Then they, too, faded, and Mist felt their power seep through her skin and pierce her heart.
Without hesitation she turned onto a narrow, dusty path that wandered among a dense grove of Monterey pines. Her search brought her to a heap of discarded clothing spread over the pine needles, half hidden under a clump of thick shrubbery.
Mist cursed. The magic had turned against her, mocking her meager skill. She’d wasted too much time already. She was about to leave when the pile of ragged garments heaved, and a hand, lean and pale, reached out from a tattered sleeve. She gripped her knife. A low groan emerged from the stinking mound. She smelled blood, plentiful but no longer fresh.
Against her better judgment, she knelt beside the man. She expected an indigent, perhaps injured by some thug who found beating up helpless vagrants a source of amusement. But the hand, encrusted with filth as it was, appeared unmarked by the daily struggle for food and shelter. It was long-fingered and elegant, more accustomed to lifting golden goblets of mead than sifting through rubbish in a Dumpster.
She started at the thought. Mead had been the most favored beverage of gods and heroes and elves. And dwarves, and giants, and all the others who had fought for the dark at Ragnar?k.
But this one was no giant or dwarf. Hesitantly she touched then pulled aside the blankets. A tall, lean form emerged, dressed in shirt and trousers too short and wide for his body. He lay on his belly, legs sprawled, cheek pressed against the damp earth.
And his face …
Mist had seen its like countless times in Valh?ll, laughing among the Aesir and the warriors, fairer to look upon than the sun. It had always been accepted that the most beautiful of all creatures were the ljólsálfar , the light-elves of álfheimr, allies of the gods.
This man was not so beautiful. His face was a mask of gore and mud, one eye swollen shut and his nose broken. Yet his features could not be mistaken.
A j?tunn had come to Midgard. Now one of the álfar had come as well, risen against all reason from the final death. It couldn’t be coincidence.
Mist touched the álfr’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?” she asked in the Old Tongue.
The elf stirred, his fingers digging into the soil. He made a sound that might have been a word, rough and raw. Mist had no water to give him, no spell to ease his pain. álfar healed quickly; she had no choice but to let nature take its course.
“Who…,” he croaked, opening his one good eye. “How…”
“Be easy, my friend.” She removed her jacket and laid it over him. “You’re safe.”
The eye, bright blue amid the red and brown of blood and dirt, regarded her with growing comprehension. “Safe?” he whispered. With a sudden jerk he rolled to his side, pushing her jacket away. “The j?tunn…”
“There is no j?tunn here,” she said, pushing him down again. “Lie still, jarl of the álfar. All is well.”
The sound he made might have been a laugh. He lifted himself on one arm and looked into her face. “Who … are you?”
Mist hesitated. She had never been afraid to use her real name among men, for there had been no one left to recognize her for what she was. Now things were different. The laws of Midgard—the natural, mundane laws that had ruled her for centuries—had been broken.
But he was of the lj?lsálfar, who had fought alongside the gods at Ragnar?k. And he might have the answers she desperately needed.
“I am Mist of the valkyrjur ,” she said.
He closed his eye and released a shuddering breath. “Then my coming … was not in vain.” He lifted a shaking hand to rub his swollen lips. “I am Dáinn.”
Dáinn. She recognized the name. It was not uncommon among both elves and dwarves . But she knew in her heart that this was no common elf.