“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 Ragnar?k 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.