Tucked between the wealth of Nob Hill and the busy downtown of Civic Center, the Tenderloin was an abrupt descent both figuratively and literally. She and Dáinn ran past liquor stores, strip joints, and more than one dealer on the prowl for addicts looking to score. Panhandlers and drunks stared after them in astonishment, but they were only a blur in Mist’s eyes.
Though it wasn’t even eight o’clock, Mist knew that Bifrost would already be jumping. No cops would come knocking, for the simple reason that Vídarr had set runes to repel them; she could see them glowing in the air and feel their potency. Vídarr might have rejected his heritage, but he still used magic when it suited him.
Mist opened the door and walked in. Vídarr employed a doorman to keep out any “undesirables” who might slip past the wards, but she didn’t recognize the big man standing just inside the door. He did a double take when Dáinn came up behind her.
“Where’s Vid?” she asked the doorman.
He folded his massive arms across his chest. “Vid ain’t available,” he growled.
“He’ll see me.” She shoved past him.
“Hey, bitch!” He clamped one beefy hand over her shoulder. “You ain’t—”
Mist spun around and punched him in the stomach. He let her go with a woof of astonished pain. She nodded to Dáinn, and they continued into the black, smoky pit of the bar. A dozen sets of eyes assessed them from the shadows. The radio blasted Norwegian death metal from huge speakers hung on the walls. Sullen kids with multiple piercings huddled over tables strung against the wall opposite the bar, and hipsters ignoring the city-wide smoking ban, argued over coffee and cigarettes.
They were of no interest to Mist. She didn’t bother to ask the bartender where she could find Vid, but kept moving through a tightly packed crowd of inebriated slackers and entered the door behind them.
The clientele in the back room was of a far different caliber than the kids in the public area. The dozen men and women were all mature, attractive, and reeking of wealth … the kind who dined every night at French Laundry, had their clothes tailor-made in Paris, and lived in apartments and penthouses worth more than all the Lady’s gold.
But there was something strange about them, a strangeness that stopped Mist in her tracks. They stared at her as if she had crashed an exclusive wedding wearing nothing but her sword. As if she were an enemy.
“Leave,” Dáinn whispered at her back. “Leave now.”
Mist barely heard him. “Who are you?” she asked, looking at each hostile face in turn.
Glances were exchanged, but no one answered. Dáinn gripped her arm. “There are too many,” he said.
And suddenly she knew. “Where is he?” she demanded of the crowd, loosening her knife. “Where is your master?”
Hard eyes fixed on hers. Several of the men began moving toward her, getting taller by the second. Faces blurred, becoming coarse and ugly with hate. Fists lifted. An unmistakable chill rose in the room.
Hrimgrimir emerged from the crowd, grinning with hideous delight. “So we meet again, halfling. Or should I call you ‘cousin’?” His pointed teeth were red in the dim light. “You must be eager for death. We will be happy to oblige you.”
Pulling her knife free, Mist sang the change. Dim light raced along Kettlingr’s blade. Her chances of survival were slim, but she had no choice. No choice at all.
“You have more strength than you know,” Dáinn said from very far away. She felt a light touch on her cheek. “Feel it, warrior. Let it come.”
Some force beyond understanding burst inside her. Hafling cousin. She had no time to digest the revelation. Dáinn was gone, and Hrimgrimir and his kin were already upon her.