“WERE WE NOT speaking of you, and your fascination for dreki, my lord?” His little mouse countered.

She smelled like wildflowers and a spring morning, of dew wet on the grass, or the breeze that cut the mountain passes. Wild and free. Untamable.

The look on her face, however, was almost frigid; a cool, biting wind from the south, coming straight off the glaciers. Rurik leaned back in the seat, perusing her with lazy fascination.

Her manner ought to have left him cold, but he found himself only curious. She had not been so wary of him when she faced him in his lair. Only now, as a man before her, did he make her nervous, and he knew precisely why.

“I am not a very interesting man.”

She arched a brow. “I beg to differ. After all, you didn’t deny the courtesy title I just bestowed upon you.”

Clever mouse. He gestured to the serving maid to bring them wine. “You demand all of my secrets, and here I have not even your name...”

That made her pretty mouth purse. “Freyja. Freyja Helgasdottir.”

Freyja. Of course. “Goddess of love and war, beauty and death. It’s a lovely name.”

“I am no goddess.”

“That depends upon whose eyes you look through.”

Pink darkened her cheeks. “I have no wish to offend the gods.”

“So, you still believe in the old gods?”

Freyja hesitated. “I have been baptized, but I believe there are some things in this world that defy explanation.” Those mismatched eyes locked on him. “And you are doing an excellent job of not answering my original question, I notice.”

“I am not a noble man, by the very definition of the word,” he said carefully. “I own no lands,”—technically true—“I have no specific title, and I claim no king.”

“Do you mean you do not recognize the Danish king? Iceland has a limited constitution now, and some autonomy. Were you a follower of Jón Sigurðsson? My father had older copies of his annual magazine, and I have read his thoughts on democracy.”

This was where she came alive. Each flicker of her eyes toward him—those beautiful, unique eyes—made his body harden.

So she was curious about his thoughts, but immune to his flattery. How intriguing.

“No. I have not heard of this Sigurðsson—I’ve been absorbed in other matters of interest—but I do believe no... no man rules the earth beneath him. Not here.” He examined the bottle of wine the serving maid brought him, then nodded. “This will do.”

Freyja’s cheeks colored. “I do not drink wine.”

“Have you ever tried it?” He remembered delicious vintages from his youth, when he’d drifted through Renaissance Italy and France, curious about these mortals around him.

“No.”

“Do you wish to?” he asked, ordering his meal.

Freyja hesitated, but there was a ruthlessly mercenary look in her eye. “I shall make do with ale.” She looked to the serving maid. “And I should like the ptarmigan stew with sliced rúgbrauð bread.”

He kept catching hints of her thoughts, thrown into the world about her with careless abandon. And right now, she was thinking of gold coins. As much as he liked gold, he couldn’t quite imagine what it had to do with wine and ale. “I never make do.”

She eyed the cut of his magnificent coat. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

Hmmm. “Bring two glasses just in case,” he instructed the serving maid, “and my lady will have ale on the side.”

Images of his hands hit him as he stroked over the table, and the way his collar tugged open when he shifted, baring the tanned, smooth skin of his throat. Freyja liked the look of him, and Rurik fought a predatory smile as she threw the thought around her.

A curious thing, to see himself through another’s eyes. Dreki were strictly forbidden to enter another’s thoughts and pillage them, though anything she projected was fair game. And her thoughts danced over his skin like rainbows, so vivid and colorful he almost tried to reach out and catch them.

A bad idea. The stiff slant of her shoulders alone told him that. If she felt his psychic touch… if she knew precisely what was sitting at her table, then he would lose all chance at seducing her.

Not yet. She was too wary. More timid than he would have ever believed of his fierce mouse. His brows drew together momentarily. What had made her like that? The idea twisted inside him like something with claws.

“So,” she murmured, “where do you hail from?” For a moment her eyes lingered on the fine cut of his coat.

Tailor-made, all the way from London. He’d paid a small fortune for the extravagance of having it and others so swiftly finished, before he returned to pursue her. But he was dreki. He would no more clothe himself in peasants’ garb than wallow in a piggery.

“I come from the south,” he murmured, eyeing her strictly cut black dress. Freyja ought to be in silk, or better yet, naked, lying on silken sheets. She deserved finer things, and he would see she had them before he was through with her.

“And you come here to seek tales of dreki? Of local superstition?”

Careful here. He could not utter a lie; the dreki were bound and honored by their word. “I am curious of what you think of such creatures,” he replied, as the wine, ale, and their dinner arrived. “Many don’t believe their existence. Mostly those in the cities, or on the Continent.”

“I have seen... proof of their existence.” Freyja frowned into her ale. “The cursed creature ate my ram.”

“Your ram?” Always that bloody sheep. Would she never forgive him for it? It had been delicious and it had brought her into his lair, when he might never have seen her.

“My village pays a tithe,” she explained. “For thirty years we have been bound to sacrifice one of our livestock each week to the wyrm, so he might leave us alone. My father tells me he and the rest of the local farmers gathered together many years ago, and struck a bargain with the beast.”

Beast? “They were either very courageous, or foolish to brave such a fierce creature.”

Freyja shrugged. “Perhaps they knew their offer would be accepted? Wyrms are lazy. Why hunt when a lamb shall be tethered out for you once a week? He used to hunt more frequently, my father claims, but now he spends most of his time lazing in his mountain, soaking up the heat of the volcano.”

“I thought wyrms to be fierce, powerful predators.”

“When they wish to be. Most of the time he leaves us alone. He is bound by his word not to harm us….” A frown tightened her brow. “Though now it seems some of the local bonders have broken their word, and hired a hunter.”

“I would not think this would trouble you.”

“It doesn’t.” Yet the worry etched on her expression didn’t fade. She sighed. “If they’ve broken their oath, then the wyrm is no longer bound by his. They are vengeful creatures, according to legend. I don’t particularly wish to incur his wrath. I can’t afford to lose any more livestock.”

And she wouldn’t. Her fierce desperation in his cave scoured him. My father and I shall starve….

“Perhaps other tithes might appease him?”

At that her mismatched eyes locked on his, a flare of her temper lighting the beautiful green and brown of them. “A virgin sacrifice, you mean? We do not take part in such barbaric practices anymore.”

“They are rare,” he admitted. “A pity.”

“Virgins? Or the act of sacrificing one?” she countered.

Rurik allowed himself a smile—and didn’t answer. “You speak as though it is a crime.”

“No woman should be forced to such depths.”

She was definitely angry now. Her eyes blazed. And Rurik caught the edge of her thoughts. There were few virgins around her farmstead. Most of the young women were either married, or still children.

Except for her.

“In olden times, women offered to be made sacrifice,” he said, sipping his wine, and watching her eyes spit sparks. Beautiful. “It was an honor.”

“To be eaten?”

So innocent.... “Oh yes. To be devoured.”

Freyja’s lashes fluttered against her cheeks, which were filling with heat. Yet she did not respond to his playful innuendo, deliberately it seemed, for she certainly understood it. “You are speaking of those foolish eddas, where the dreki walk among us.”

“Do you doubt such a thing could be possible?”

“Why would they wish to? My mother said it is the only time they are mortal and vulnerable to injury. So why would one of the dreki risk such a thing?”

“Perhaps he is lonely.”

“You are ascribing human attributes to an inhuman creature.”

“Inhuman, yes,” he countered, his own temper flaring. “Don’t ever mistake that, but perhaps all creatures yearn for companionship.”

“There are other dreki,” she replied. “Every volcano in Iceland is plagued by one. Sometimes more.”

Rurik’s fingers stilled on the edge of his glass. “Not all of the dreki welcome others. Nor are all of them welcomed. If one of their laws are broken, sometimes they cast a dreki from their ranks, exiling him to years of loneliness.”

Freyja lifted her gaze at the coolness of his tone, as if she sensed something underlying the words. “How do you know so much?”

“I have eyes. And ears.”

“You sound like my father,” she growled under her breath. “You speak, but say nothing.”

“I am curious as to how a man would allow his unmarried daughter to travel by herself?”

Rurik reached out, and captured the wine bottle, leaning forward to fill her glass. She sat so still, yet tension vibrated through her body. Captured lightning. Just daring him to reach out and touch it.

“My father is blind and ill, so he cannot travel with me.” Those glorious eyes narrowed, and a chilling little smile tightened her soft lips. “However, I am not without protection.”

As well he should know. His little mouse had claws and teeth, though neither would be truly effective against him. Still… he liked it. Liked that snap to her tone, and the way her pretty eyes narrowed as she examined him.

A challenge.

Rurik handed her the glass, their fingers brushing against each other’s as she took it. The touch of her skin sent lightning dancing through him. Like to like. What in the Dark Goddess Hel was she?

Freyja’s eyes widened slightly as if she felt it too, and then she jerked the glass close to her mouth. “Thank you.”

He watched the wine wet her lips, and leave them reddened. Plush, glistening lips he ached to trace, to caress.

Then her eyes widened and she peered into her glass. “This is delicious.”

“I know.” He wasn’t to be distracted. “You do realize you have nothing to protect yourself against when you are with me? I have no intention of hurting you.”

“Who says I am frightened of you?”

“Your manner.”

You couldn’t hurt me if you tried…. Freyja arched a sleek, honey-blonde brow, as if she hadn’t just thrown the thought at him. “Then what precisely are your intentions?”

“You intrigue me,” he admitted, watching her lick a trace of wine from her lips. Gods, how he wanted her. “It has been a very long time since such a thing has happened. Perhaps not ever.”

“Do they believe such honeyed words in the cities?”

Rurik smiled, and turned her words back upon her. “You do not like to be complimented. How curious. Is it because you believe yourself unworthy of such words?”

“I am unworthy of nothing,” she snapped.

“Then you admit you are intriguing? That I might see you as such?”

Her mouth opened… and nothing came out of it. Then she pressed those lips firmly together. “I know what you intend when you look at me.”

“Do tell.”

“I am not that kind of woman,” she replied haughtily. “Your empty compliments and blatant desires shall earn you nothing more than this meal shared.”

“That still tells me nothing of my supposed desires.”

Freyja glared at him. “You wish for carnal relations.”

Rurik leaned closer, careful not to let the predatory heat of his desire leech out. Best not to frighten her. Not yet. “I intend to have you in every way possible, Freyja. I intend to discover every last little secret you own, to know you… in every manner. This is a game of seduction, and I will not harm you nor make your choices for you. I speak of courtship only. But I think you would enjoy what I intend, very much so.” At her swift intake of breath, he leaned back. “And I am not ashamed to admit I intend to chase you. Fair warning, fair maid. You will be mine.”

Freyja tilted the wine glass to her mouth. “Fair warning, handsome stranger... you’re wasting your breath.”

How delightful she was. At least she’d relaxed at his stated intentions, as if she were so set on denial the thought he’d win her over couldn’t possibly prevail. “I like a good chase, Freyja.”

“I hope you like a long and fruitless one then. Especially if the choice of consummation is in my hands.”

“Are you not curious?” He reached out and stroked her hand suddenly.

There was that flash fire of connection between them, and her gaze jerked to his. “No,” she said as she withdrew her hand, but she’d hesitated.

“Do you know what I find so fascinating about you?”

A faint hint of pride and scorn mingled on her face as she swiftly restored herself. “My lips? My hair? My eyes?” The dancing flames of the fireplace lit her cheeks and skin with gold, until it seemed as though he stared into the face of a creature made of fire itself.

“Your fierce temper,” he whispered. “And that dare you throw at me every time you look at me. It tells me I cannot have you, that you shall not succumb… even as your body reveals it for a lie.”

Heat colored her cheeks. “You won’t have me.”

“You want me to have you,” he murmured. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Your compliments are empty, and your declarations even more so.” Standing, she glanced at the empty carafe of wine. “Do you care for more?”

Rurik glanced up from beneath his lashes. “Run, Freyja.” He smiled dangerously. “And yes, I would enjoy more wine.”

“I shall fetch it then.”

Wending between the tables, she made her way to the bar. Eyes watched her back, lingering on her. Not all of them in suspicion or distrust. The very set of her shoulders defined her untouchability, and with it, part of her allure. He was clearly not the only one affected, and she could not see it, mired in distrust, and ingrained with suspicion. Rurik scowled, his lashes lowering as he leaned back in the chair and surveyed the room. With one lash of his temper he could destroy this room and all of the men in it. Men who hungered for her.

A dangerous hunger, marred as it was by their beliefs, for there were ways to force such a woman as she to heel, and such was anathema to his dreki nature. Women should never be coerced. But a whisper in the right ear and she could be accused of things she had no control over.... Thunder rumbled outside in the clear sky at the vile thought. He watched eyes glance toward windows and smiled, more a hint of his teeth than any sign of humor.

He would protect her. Whether she thought she needed it or not.

An odd tension filled him, and his gaze went to the entrance.

It opened, wind sending a man staggering through the light-filled doorway. The sharp scent of tar, fur, and the sea filled Rurik’s nostrils as the dragon hunter stepped through the door, tugging his wolf fur close around his shoulders as he surveyed the room. His tangled blond hair whipped into chilling blue-gray eyes, and their gazes locked.

Rurik inclined his head slightly. A dangerous man, and one he would not underestimate, for the man spoke the truth on the docks as he spoke of killing three dragons. His lesser cousins were no match for dreki, but still monstrous creatures. It was a remarkable feat for a single man to have engineered.

“Would you care for company?” Haakon asked, as Freyja returned with the wine.

Rurik lifted his foot and slid the other chair back with a beckoning gesture and a hint of a wolfish smile. “Please.” The last thing he would ever do was fear a puny human.

And perhaps it would be fun.

Dragging off his gloves, the heavily muscled man took the seat and offered thanks to Freyja as she returned to the counter to fetch another glass.

“How go your recovery efforts?” Rurik asked, faintly amused.

“Badly. The tide is coming in, and the dockhands seem to think it madness to attempt to retrieve my ballista now.”

“A pity.”

Haakon shrugged, icy blue eyes watchful. “A brief setback. I’m a patient man.”

So was he. “The mark of a true hunter.”

A dangerous smile curved the hunter’s lips as Freyja settled again at the table. “What would a scholar know of such things?”

“I know many things,” Rurik countered. “Wine?” At the other man’s nod, Rurik took the carafe and poured before Freyja could. He had no intention of seeing her serve another man. Not when she was his.

“Mistress Helgasdottir.” Haakon nodded politely.

“I see you’ve been enquiring about me,” she replied.

Enough to learn her name, and no doubt more. The amount of information the locals owned about the unusual young woman was immense, and offered generously. A growl curdled in Rurik’s throat. For what he could learn, so too could others.

“What man does not enquire about such a striking young woman?” Haakon asked.

This time the compliment brought no heat to her cheeks. She remained cool, and on her guard. “You are not the only one who can learn about another. You come to hunt the dreki,” she replied, sipping her wine. “To kill him.”

“I make no lie of my intentions,” Haakon replied. “Word reached my ears of this particular beast, and so I have come to try my hand at him.”

“Word of the beast? Or word of the reward?” she asked.

“A significant sum.” Haakon leaned back in his chair. “But no, it’s the beast I’m most interested in. I am told you come from the village at the base of its lair. That you know of the creature.”

Freyja's lips thinned. "I know the creature. It stole my ram, and so I was forced to enter its lair to try and save him."

Haakon's eyes sharpened.

"Without luck, I assure you," she replied primly.

“All here know of the mighty creature,” Rurik murmured. “You should be warned: this is no lesser dragon you hunt. This is one of the mighty dreki.”

“There is a difference between dragon and dreki?” Freyja interrupted. “I thought ‘dragon’ was simply another term used in different countries?”

“No. They are cousins, but far different creatures. Many, many years ago, the dreki were born to this land. Spirits of earth, air, and fire, created by a goddess into a single creature with the powers of all three of the elements.”

“Which goddess?” He’d captured her curiosity now.

“None of yours,” he murmured. “Only she that is sacred to the dreki, born many, many eons before your gods were but a thought. Some call her Creator, some Chaos, and her name was Tiamat, or Thalatte. This mighty spirit tamed the salt waters to her mastery, and of her children there were many, which some called gods. When these gods went to war with her husband, Apsu, and killed him, she created monsters with poison for blood, to fight them. The descendants of these creatures are what we refer to as dragons. The lesser of them bred serpents of the waters, vile beasts with limited thought we call leviathan and serpents.

“But the dreki... they were different. They say when the great goddess used her powers to turn herself into an enormous serpent in the sea to fight her husband’s killers, she was slain by the storm-god Marduk. He scattered her body across the world, but her soul remained, formless yet still powerful. The sea and her waters had failed her, and when the north wind blew her soul around the globe, her soul sought solace in the warm, dark earth, where fire brewed.”

Both of them were focused intently upon him. Rurik continued, “Long did her soul brew in the heart of the volcano, Hekla, and her spirit strengthened with the force of the element of fire. She sought life again, but to form a fleshly body was beyond her. Her only hope lay in creating more children, ones that spun to life from the earth, were gilded with the power of fire, and ruled the air. Using her waning powers in one last act of Creation, the volcano exploded and with each gout of fire, the goddess created her new children. The goddess tore her soul apart, pieces of her power imbuing each spirit with strength. These were the dreki, and they carry a part of the goddess within them. Powerful spirits who ruled the elements and could tame the sky itself; those with the goddess’s own ability to shapeshift.

“The wyrms, leviathan, and serpents were slowly hunted by men, the last of them dying out centuries ago in the Persian Gulf. But dragons remain, and some say they haunt volcanoes, seeking to steal the gift of fire that eludes them.” He tilted his head toward Haakon, “These are the creatures you have faced. Fierce beasts with poisonous blood, but no breath of fire, nor mastery of the elements. Jealous creatures who yearn for more.”

“And dreki breathe fire?” Haakon asked.

“Some do,” he replied. “You have to understand there have been many generations of dreki born. They are not immortal, though they have long lives. Now, only the purest of bloodlines have the gift of fire.”

“Hekla,” Freyja murmured, “the gateway to hell.”

“So say many who believe in such a place,” Rurik agreed. Now it was the home of the dreki court, though he would not breathe word of it here.

“I have never heard such a story told,” Haakon said. “Where did you come by such information?”

Rurik shrugged and drained his wine. “Years of listening, perhaps. There are many who will exchange an old tale by a hearth on a cold night. And perhaps you were not asking the right questions?” Setting the empty cup on the table, he leaned forward, “Such as why a man sets himself on such a dangerous pursuit as hunting dragons or even dreki? Especially when he does not know the difference between them?”

Haakon’s expression tightened. “One of them stole my wife six years ago.”

“Stole?” he asked thoughtfully. “You come from Norway, yes?”

“Yes.”

“There are no dreki on the mainland in Norway,” Rurik mused. “Which means one travelled far to take her, and I assure you dreki do not take that which is not given freely.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Haakon’s face darkened.

“I am wondering how you were so certain your wife was taken by such?”

Haakon pushed his chair aside with a scrape, leaning his knuckles on the table as he growled, “Because I saw her enter the grove, and I saw the beast launch itself into the air directly after she screamed. By the time I got there, all that was left was her basket, and scattered bread loaves she’d been taking to my sister. I have not seen her since and I have spent many a long night searching." Haakon closed his eyes briefly, his voice becoming raw. "The last thing I remember is the sight of her face as she glanced one last time at me, and the look in her amber eyes....”

"Amber eyes?" A curious tale. Rurik frowned. “Describe the dreki, please.”

“What?”

“Describe him,” Rurik repeated. “What size? What shape? What color—”

“Gold,” Haakon spat. “The beast shone like newly minted coins, which is why I’m here. I’ve heard Krafla’s beast is the same color.”

Gold. Rurik sat back in surprise. Dragons could not change shape into mortal form. But dreki could. And there was only one golden dreki he knew of, beside himself.

Oh, Hel.

“Árdís, what were you thinking?” He threw the thought out into the world, and felt someone far away turn toward him as she heard it.

* * *

After a rather tense supper, Freyja escaped to check on Hanna before she returned to the inn. The wine had gone to her head, and though dinner was delicious, it left her feeling a little unsettled.

Haakon had stormed out in a huff after the confrontation over his wife, and even Rurik gave up any pretense at trying to charm her, dwelling on his wine with a frown. The story of Haakon’s missing wife bothered him more than he’d like to admit.

A storm rumbled overhead as she found herself in the courtyard behind the inn. Freyja looked up with a harsh intake of breath. Lightning lashed the mountains that surrounded the town. The houses were spread far enough apart that there was little protection from the wind.

“What is going on?” she whispered. This mood; this itch. It didn’t feel entirely natural. Reaching out, she felt the rage of the storm slip through her fingers as though it were a herd of savage horses, whipped to fury by masters she couldn’t see.

“Come.” A warm hand slid into hers, and Freyja looked down in shock as Rurik took her hand. She hadn’t realized he’d followed her out of the inn. His gloves were warm and he was the kind of hot-blooded man a woman would want in her bed on a cold night.

He wasn’t looking at her. Instead he stared toward the west, toward the origin of the storm, and that intense expression on his face deepened. His fingers slid between hers, locking their palms together.

“They say dreki ride the wings of such storms,” he finally murmured. “It would not do for either of us to be caught out this night.”

“I have to check on Hanna.”

Rurik stared at her for a long moment. “Follow me.”

Then he hurried her into the shadows of the stables. And madness of madness, she let him.