Lesley Livingston - Descendant

“What kind of story do you want to hear?” she asked.

“Oh, anything. Tell me about . . .” He paused, his bright eye rolling as if he searched the empty air for an interesting topic. Then his gaze fell on Mason again and he continued, saying, “Tell me about the medallion you wear. Is it yours? It’s a very interesting design. Unique . . .”

Mason’s hand drifted up to the iron disk, and she ran her fingertips over the raised, knotted designs on its surface. “It’s not mine,” she said. “At least it shouldn’t be. It might be . . . now.” Her throat tightened. She couldn’t bring herself to think of what had happened to Fennrys after Rory had shot him. Wounded him. Just wounded . . . it had to be. Any other possibility—she couldn’t bear to even contemplate. Mason realized that she’d fallen silent and the chained man was watching her.

“Who gave it to you?” he asked.

“His name is Fenn.”

The blue eye drifted closed again, and the lines of his face softened as he turned his head away from the torch burning nearest Mason. “And what kind of a person is this . . . Fenn?”

“He’s perfect,” Mason blurted out the word without thinking. But then she stopped, startled by her own sudden proclamation and a little embarrassed. She was pretty sure she hadn’t meant to say that. At least, not out loud.

The man on the stone slab laughed softly. “Surely not.”

No, he was far from perfect. He was damaged and fragile and, at the same time, too strong and stubborn for his own good. He was reckless and hard-edged and quick to anger. But never at her. He had done terrible things and tried to make amends and just wound up in even worse situations because of it. He didn’t play nice with others. He’d said to her on more than one occasion that he wasn’t good for anything . . . except her. For Mason, he was perfect.

“Well, no.” She could feel her cheeks warming at the thought of every imperfect thing she loved about him. “I mean . . . of course he’s not perfect. He’s just . . . Fennrys.”

“Interesting name,” the man said softly, his gaze drifting from her face.

“Yeah . . .” Mason cocked her head and regarded the man steadily. “He was named after a god. Well, more like a monster. You know . . . the Fenris Wolf . . .”

“Why would anyone name their child after a monster?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because they wanted him to be strong. Protected. Maybe they didn’t want anyone to mess with him. I mean . . . you tell me.” She crossed her arms and waited for his response to that. When he stayed silent, she leaned forward so that he was looking up at her again. “ You should know, right? I mean—whoever named him, they named him after one of your mythical monstrous brood . . . Loki .”

“Ah.” The corner of his mouth bent upward. “So you know me.”

“I know of you,” Mason said, doing her damnedest to keep her tone conversational. “I’ve read the stories. When I was little, I had them read to me.” She shrugged. “And—in my current psychosis or dream state or pharmaceutically induced episode or whatever this is—I sort of recognize the trappings. The chains, the serpent . . . the super-charming demeanor.”

“You flatter me,” said Loki, the trickster god of the Norse, opening his eye and grinning up at her. The prank-playing, charming—yes, he was definitely that, even with only half a face—chief engineer of the eventual end of the world. The architect of Ragnarok. At least according to the myths.

“Also? The whole ‘for I am the God of Lies’ thing? That was kind of a tell. Although I suppose you could have been . . . y’know, lying about that. At any rate, whatever. It’s fine. I don’t believe you’re real anyway,” Mason said.

“Why not?” Loki asked. “Because if I was—real and here and in this place—then that would mean you’re really here, too? In this place?”

“That’s the thing, though—I don’t think I am ,” Mason said. “I think something has happened to me. Something bad. I think . . . maybe I’m coping.”

Loki laughed, and it was a warm, inviting sound. “Coping is such a passive response, Mason. If I were you, I’d take that sword you wear so well and use it to start fighting my way out of here.”

Mason smiled back at him—she couldn’t help herself—but she shook her head and loosened her grip on the rapier’s hilt. She’d been unaware that she was holding it so tightly. “Right. Okay,” she said. “And because you’ve just suggested I do that, it’s highly unlikely that I will.”

Loki pouted comically. “You really don’t trust me.”

Mason snorted. “Should I?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so!” He rolled his head back and forth on the rough-hewn stone slab. It seemed as if the pain of his venom wounds was easing. In fact, it almost seemed as if he was healing slightly, before her eyes. “I am the master of lies. According to Odin’s press agent, at least. Arrogant bastard, may the winds of Jotunheim frost his pasty arse and tear his soul to pieces for his infernal ravens to feast on! My eye grows back, you bastard!” he shouted at no one. “You hear that?”

“Wow . . .” Mason blinked at the sudden burst of cheerful acrimony. “Pissed much?”

“Have I not reason?” The chains clanked.

“I guess you do.” Mason levered herself up to sit on the edge of the stone on which Loki was bound. If she was going to stay where she was, chatting amiably with a nefarious, chaos-loving ballbuster of a god, she might as well make herself comfortable.

It was funny, but something about the whole situation reminded her of the first few—entirely surreal—conversations she’d had with Fennrys. That thought, in fact any thought of Fenn, warmed her. Anyway, there was something about Loki she just kind of . . . liked. Found appealing. And Mason couldn’t really think of anything else to do in that particular moment.

“Where’s the real wolf?” she asked, a bit worried that the gigantic, god-devouring wolf—the one that, according to the myth, was supposed to be bound by unbreakable chains until Ragnarok started to roll—that Fenn had been named after might be imprisoned somewhere nearby.

“My terrible, monstrous pup?” Loki asked with a bit of a chuckle. “I can honestly say, I do not know. There was a time when I did. When I could hear his cries and whimpers as he fought against his chains and I would try to whisper soothing things for him to hear. Poor pup. I could feel his anguish in my bones. Not anymore. Perhaps I’ve just been here too long.” He looked at Mason, his gaze piercing. “What do you think, Mason?”

“I think if you’re trying to convince me to help you escape, you’re the one barking up the wrong tree.”

Loki laughed. “Why’s that?”

Mason shook her head in bemusement. “Aren’t you here because you want to destroy the world?”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

“You know it is. And from where I sit, I’m guessing they’re right . . . and that’s still somehow on your agenda. I mean, you’re pretty sanguine for a guy who’s getting his face melted off on a regular basis.” She noticed that, in fact, his other eye seemed to have repaired itself somewhat. It was still a milky blue and there was no pupil that she could see yet, but at least there was an eye in the socket. “Your attitude is pretty telling.”

“What does it tell you?”

“That you know something.” Mason shrugged. “That it’s not always going to be like this for you. That you have some kind of an endgame in mind.”

“Perhaps I’m just resigned to my fate.”