Émilien squinted, his excellent vision failing him as the fiery border coalesced in its macabre dance, blurring everything in front of him. “Who? Where?”
“Follow my finger. It’s difficult to make him out from the surrounding flames, but you can see his blackened appearance when he moves his sword. The metal flashes.”
With his eyes almost closed, he barely made out a giant black form that seemed to undulate in and out of the massive flames. “Ithink—no, I can see him. Damned difficult, though. He blends into the fire.”
Hel chuckled. “Heisfire.” He must have had a disbelieving expression on his face because she exhaled and shook her head. “I’m serious. Surtr is a god of fire. His body can ignite, explode, whatever he needs it to do to continue the spread of flames throughout Muspelheimr. His body is the accelerant or the fuel that ignites the flames. Without them, my world can’t exist. The Void is the beginning, but fire and ice come together and create the universe. We are all tied together. If one world falls, we all cease to exist.”
Émilien rubbed his aching head. “During the war on Midgard, Freyja told me Óðinn was able to initiate or instigate the violence and used his minions to ramp up the chaos and absorb the intensity in Asgard. Is this the same thing?”
“It is. I also believe that’s why Heimdall can see in all worlds. He is like the Void—primordial. No one knows much about him. Do you?”
Émilien shook his head. “Not really. I’ve heard the rumors like everyone else, that he’s a son of Óðinn, rumored to have eight or nine mothers, which even for a god is impossible. I just think he’s a very powerful entity, and it shouldn’t matter where he comes from or who his family is. As far as I know, he helps anyone who asks something of him and is more than generous to those going through difficult times, which we all have.”
“I agree. Heimdall helped me after I lost Shalendra—”
He narrowed his gaze at her. “Helped you how? And did you not miss me?” Flaring her nostrils, she closed her eyes. “What?” he asked, not liking her reaction.
Her eyes popped open, her black gaze spearing his. “Leave it to you to ask such an asinine question—which doesn’t deserve a response, by the way. Whether you like it or not, I am going to visit Heimdall and see if he has seen anything regarding the death realms. You can follow if you want.” She gave the fire god a quick wave goodbye then disappeared.
“Do you understand women?” he asked Surtr. Instead of answering, the giant turned and walked into a wall of fire that appeared behind him. “Didn’t think so,” Émilien muttered. With one last glance at the fiery realm in front of him, he transported to Heimdall’s home in Asgard.
Standing just behind Hel in front of a massive golden-etched door, he reached around her and lifted the heavy golden ring and let it fall. The metallictingsounded almost puny to his ears in relation to the door’s size.
Hel glanced at him over her shoulder with a scowl. “I am quite capable of knocking on a door, you know.”
Hearing the piqued tone in her voice, he bit back a grin. “It’s called chivalry, Hel. You know, manners? I may be an animal, but I refuse to succumb to animalistic tendencies, so you’d better get used to me opening doors and pulling out your chair.” His gaze fell to her mouth, her silvery lips sucked between her teeth.
“Is there a problem out here?” Heimdall’s low voice interrupted.
Hel’s head whipped around, her pale skin a touch flushed, and Émilien forced his gaze to the gatekeeper’s face instead of lingering on his ex-wife’s, which was what he’d rather do.
He tilted his head in deference to the dark-skinned god. “I’m sorry to barge in on you, Heimdall, but can you spare a few minutes to answer some questions?”
The gatekeeper’s eerie golden gaze met his and a second later, a smile appeared, softening the god’s serious countenance. “Émilien!” Heimdall reached out, his large hand grasping his forearm as warriors of old used to do. “It is good to see you again, old friend. I was wondering where you’d run off to.”
Émilien hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“When you left Midgard and returned to the Shadow Lands, one minute you were where you were supposed to be and the next, I couldn’t see you. What happened?” Heimdall dropped his arm and stepped back into the hall with a slight flourish, motioned for them to enter.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Émilien answered, following Hel and Heimdall down the wide hall, Heimdall stopping in front of a blank wall and drawing an arch in the air along the top a few inches from the ceiling. What looked like a solid gold door appeared where the space had been blank, without any decoration or hardware. Hel let out a tiny gasp beside him. The gatekeeper laid his palm on the door, which slowly opened under his touch.
Stepping into the Bifröst control room, Émilien’s gaze was automatically drawn to the massive golden sword in the middle of the domed space. The wide blade was nestled in what looked like a giant metal ball placed on a circular platform. Heimdall snapped his fingers and a two-person sofa appeared near one wall, with a larger high-backed chair beside it.
“Come and sit. We have much to discuss before you go to your next location,” Heimdall said and sat in the chair. Hel threw a quick glance at Émilien before sitting on one side of the sofa, her back poker straight and her long legs pressed together in what looked like an uncomfortable, uptight position.
Émilien lowered himself onto the other side, careful not to break the elegantly scrolled legs, which looked like a feather could cut them in half. He squirmed but when the sound of wood grinding together followed by a few crackles, he immediately stopped and wondered if he even dared to breathe.
“Relax, the wood is magically protected against breakage. Now, tell me everything.” Heimdall leaned forward and draped his thick forearms over his leather-covered thighs.
Not knowing what to do with his paws, Émilien laid them on top of his own thighs, careful to keep the long claws from ripping anything as they had the tendency to do, especially in a civilized setting. Give him the open wilderness, and he flourished. Inside a nice home with tailored things around him, and he became an instant klutz.
“When I left Midgard, I was irritated at the recent turn of events. Unbeknownst to me, two small units of draugar and werewolves were sent to me for housing and training. Evidently, Raisa and her annoying husband decided I would be perfect for the job.”
Hel chuckled. “You love Ailuin, so stop complaining. Besides, you weren’t the only one chosen. I, too, was given a group of each to train. It will do you good to help them.” She grimaced. “We haven’t been very good teachers so far, though. We really need to wrap up whatever this is and get back to them.”
“Humph. Anyway, when I got to the Shadow Lands, everything seemed a bit too quiet. When my housekeeper didn’t show up at the cave entrance and berate me for not going straight there, I knew something was wrong. When I got inside, I was attacked by some unseen force. At the time, I thought the voice sounded familiar, but now I’m not sure. Even injured, Madoc was able to free me, although we almost lost him.”
Heimdall stared past them, the Bifröst’s colors sparkling in the depths of his golden gaze. The hues were so brilliant, they even glistened in his black hair. Tiny braids framed his face while the rest of the mass had been braided in a thick plait that draped over one shoulder. “Did you ever figure out who the voice belonged to?”