“A dream?” she echoed, pushing her dark thoughts aside. “Why the Lady? Why should she come to you ?”
Dáinn acknowledged her contempt with a twist of his lips. “I still have some small magic remaining to me, and the Lady has not lost all her power. She still has the seidr , her spell magic. It is that which keeps the gods alive.” His gaze turned inward. “The Aesir can see but little from where they now reside, yet what they see is worse than any seer’s foretelling.”
“Tell me!”
“She charged me to find the treasures and warn their guardians against the invasion.”
The invasion. The “new age.” How many j?tunar had come to Midgard? If the giants had found the other valkyrjur , the other treasures …
Panic surged in Mist’s throat. “Was it Hrimgrimir who attacked you?” she asked, giving him a shake. “How did he get to Midgard?”
“There are passages, ways between the worlds that have been opened by dark seidr .”
“What worlds? Does J?tunheimr still exist? Asgard?” She grimaced at her own stupidity. None of that was important now. “How did he find you?”
“I do not know, but he knew I was looking for you.”
“And you couldn’t stop him? What happened to your magic, álfr ?”
For the first time a flicker of real emotion crossed Dáinn’s face. “I had to let him win. My task was more important than any temporary victory. It was necessary that he believe I was no threat to him or his allies.”
Mist didn’t believe him. He’d let himself be beaten to a pulp and ground into the dirt like an ant on a battlefield. He was worse than useless.
But there was no time to question him further. “I have to go back,” she said. “Gungnir—”
“Is it safe?”
Mist didn’t bother to answer him. She jumped to her feet and began to run. She was halfway home when Dáinn caught up with her. She ignored him and kept on running.
The streets of Dogpatch were quiet now in the small hours of the morning. Dáinn was on her heels as she came to a skidding stop at her door and released the ward that guarded it from anyone but her and Eric. A dozen long strides carried her to the display room.
The case was open. Gungnir was gone.
Mist spun to the nearest wall and slammed it with her fist. Dáinn burst through the doorway, rags flapping.
“Loki’s piss!” Mist swore. “Short-wit, incompetent…”
“It will do no good to curse yourself now,” Dáinn said, unnaturally calm. “We must find him. Do you know the runes?”
“Of course I know them,” she snapped.
“Then help me.”
He sat cross-legged on the floor and closed his eyes. Mist sat across from him, preparing her mind and body for the galdr. Dáinn began to sing. His voice moved through the air in eddies and swirls like water in a stream.
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 j?tunn, ” 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.