Page 162 of Veil of Blood and Bone

Then what?

I squint and duck low, the blast of cold sending me flying backward several feet. What the hell do we do then? Will we be blasted off the great tree of life and into oblivion? Will it be the end of our looping?

The curse will never be broken.

Our souls will be lost, and if we do meet our death, even the harrowing halls of Hellheim won’t be restful.

Magic pulses in the air. The scent sharpens the closer I get to the heart of the storm.

The raven is more powerful than the man. I lean into its instincts now, gaze scouring the ground for the small pulse of calm and the source of this wintery skitr.

I pull up, tearing through the sky, pushing my body harder. My beak opens on a gasp. There is something here.

A presence not meant for this world.

Wind and ice ruffle my feathers and send me careening off course. I tumble through the air, ass overhead, a tailspin. A crash.

Heat burns through my muscles before I manage to control myself.

Flapping, I take off to the left, cutting under a second burst of sleet.

I’ve lived long enough to mark the individual feelings of the god’s magic. They each carry their own signature, written in the energy of their power. Loki is pure chaos and this storm reeks of compunction and command.

This is too bitter to be Odin. He may be reckless, but he is never regretful over his actions, and bitterness evokes a sensation of regret with it. Always.

Another outpouring of cold carries me forward, and then the snow moves.

It separates and the shaggy head of a wolf made of ice lifts his face to mine. The outline of the frost giant crouches in the gloaming, its form solidifying.

Massive. And mean.

Its frosted maw pulls away from sharp teeth designed to splinter through flesh and tear through bone.

I can’t take on the thing myself. And with its presence, I won’t be able to find my girl, either.

Not alone.

The frost giant tracks my path through the sky, and I duck, cursing.

Too weak to take on a little jötun? The voice in my head clucks. What’s the matter, Muninn? Losing your edge?

The words are a taunt, a summons to attack.

Instincts demand I flock to the giant and probably die, swatted away like an insect.

I clench figurative teeth, heading into the nearest tree. My hold on my magic weakens with the loss of my memories. I have enough of it, enough power, to land a few good hits and injure it. But jötun are not trolls.

They are not wraiths or Unseelie or anything easy to take down.

To kill a frost giant is costly.

How long did it take Beowulf to dispatch Grendel and his mother? How much chaos did they cause, ravaging the hall of Heorot, before they went down? Even the strongest warriors were necessary to battle a frost giant of this size.

As much as I hate to admit it⁠—

I take off, the landscape beyond like a bead of blood breaking through skin. The town.

There's no safety there. Head down, I push through, heading back to the old Victorian. At least we are together. There is nothing in this world the three of us can’t accomplish.