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remained frozen except for his mouth, which dropped open almost comically.
    Smoothing the silk of her ruby-red gown over her hips, Freya smiled. “We really don’t want any trouble, do we?” she purred. “Why don’t you boys forget this ever happened, and go about your business.”
    The cop with the dropped jaw closed his mouth and turned his head to look at his partner. The other cop bent to pick up his gun, holstered it, and turned back for the Interceptor. They drove away at a snail’s pace, craning their necks to keep Freya in view until they were in danger of breaking them. The bystanders drifted away, encouraged by Freya’s judicious use of what Mist called the “anti-glamour.”
    When the Interceptor had turned the corner onto Bush Street, Freya lifted her skirt and walked back to the alley, gracefully poised on four-inch spike heels. Her face burning, Mist cast a rueful glance at Konur.
    “I guess they weren’t Loki’s” she said.
    The elf-lord frowned. “This is no time for levity,” he said. “You were exceedingly foolish to fall for such a trick.”
    “You saw the Jotunn’s face?”
    “You well know that some Jotunar are capable of assuming other features,” Konur said. “This one knew how to draw you out.”
    Because, Mist thought, she went into every battle wondering if the Jotunn she fought could be direct kin, like Svardkell. A cousin, an uncle, a brother …
    “It won’t happen again,” she said.
    She was still furious with herself when she and Konur reached the alley. Freya stood in the middle, wrinkling her pretty nose with distaste at the smell of blood and sweat. Mortal eyes followed her every move, as they had previously followed Mist’s. Only the elves seemed indifferent. Or pretended to be.
    Dainn had been anything but indifferent, in another time and place. Freya had used his weakness to control him. If he had betrayed Freya, she had betrayed him first.
    Unfortunately, he’d also betrayed Mist.
    Curse it, Mist thought. Get out of my head .
    “Take the wounded,” she said to Konur, resuming control of herself and her fighters. “I’ll be along soon.”
    The elf-lord nodded to his fellow Alfar, who jointly worked another concealing spell and carried the wounded toward the other end of the alley. Konur lingered, observing Freya from under his dark, slender brows. She gazed back at him, smiling slightly, as if they shared some vaguely unpleasant secret.
    “You have my leave to go, Lord Elf,” she said.
    Konur glanced at Mist. “Do you wish me to remain?” he asked.
    “What do you fear will happen?” Freya asked with a musical laugh. “That I might spank her?”
    “Stay out of it, Konur,” Mist growled.
    “Wise advice,” Freya said to the elf-lord. “You did, after all, agree to serve me for a very generous reward.”
    “What reward?” Mist asked.
    “I have not forgotten,” Konur said, ignoring Mist’s question. He turned to go, and Mist just kept herself from calling him back. She’d decode the mysterious conversation when she could speak privately with Konur, because she knew she cursed well wouldn’t learn anything more from Freya.
    Pretending her mother wasn’t there to comment on her distinctly inelegant magical technique, Mist worked a fairly simple Rune-spell to clean the alley of most of the mess left by the battle, brushed her hands briskly against each other, and realized that her arm was bleeding again. Konur was right: it was beginning to hurt.
    But it would heal more quickly than her pride.
    “We must talk,” Freya said when she was finished. “I believe there is a coffee bar not far from here.”
    Mist didn’t bother arguing about the wisdom of discussing divine business in a very public place. Freya had a way of taking care of those little problems.
    Together they walked around the corner to Bush and north two blocks to the coffee shop, where sleepy work-bound mortals congregated in search of early morning restoratives. Not one of the men