The robe that Hrímnir kept for him was still hanging beside the door. Gary wrapped himself in it and tied the belt. Nakedness didn’t bother him much, but there was no denying that clothing made for better conversations. And he needed to have a conversation.
His eyes fell upon a harp sitting on the floor beside the only chair in the small living room. It was a Celtic harp, graceful and well-made. Silver and turquoise inlay managed to evoke Native art without actually looking like any traditional art that Gary was familiar with.
It was a knee harp, nearly three feet tall rather than the tidy little instrument the lyre had been. It was properly conformed, too, as if, this time, someone had studied what an actual harp should look like. When he touched it, it knew him.
He picked up the instrument and sat in the chair that was too big for him but still managed to be comfortable. He began tuning the harp, recalling a conversation he’d once had.
He’d picked up the lyre and experimentally run his fingers over the strings.
“You play?” Hrímnir had asked, almost plaintively.
“You don’t?”
The frost giant shook his big head. “No. I had a—”
“Lover?” asked Gary, surprised at the gentleness in his own voice. Gary was not a gentle man, but Hrímnir was one of the loneliest beings he’d ever met.
“Yes.” Hrímnir touched the silver face on the lyre. “She was fated for other things, though.” Then, in an obvious desire to change the subject, he asked again, “Do you play?”
“No,” Gary said, his soft voice feeling like an intrusion in this quiet room as he answered in the same words he’d given Hrímnir. “Now, if it were a harp—a Celtic harp, not one of those big orchestral things—I could have played one of those.”
He’d had a lover in Europe who played the harp and taught him a little. A small skill that Gary had pursued whenever the whim took him. As his father said of one of Gary’s half brothers, “Of course he’s an extraordinary idiot. Take any skill and add years of practice and you get extraordinary.” Modesty not being one of Gary’s virtues, he knew he was a good harpist. He enjoyed it all the more because he didn’t look like someone who would play a harp. Guitar, maybe, but not a harp.
It amused him that the harp, which all but vibrated with the magic it held, took so much tuning, as if it were an ordinary harp with new strings. But eventually he was satisfied.
He put his fingers to the strings and started to play.
Fiddly to tune it might have been, but the sound it made was extraordinary. Eventually, he lost himself to the music.
He didn’t even hear the snowmobile. The first hint that the owner of the cabin was back was Garmr’s cold nose on his bare foot. Without slowing his fingers, Gary smiled at the dog, who wagged his tail happily in return.
When the door opened and Hrímnir stepped inside in a wave of cold air, Gary did cease playing, stopping the strings with a careful hand.
“I didn’t expect to see you back here,” said the frost giant, closing the door.
Gary didn’t know if he was happy to see that Hrímnir was in his most human shape or not. The frost giant was smarter and more rational like this than in any other of his many forms, but Gary wasn’t sure that would work in his favor.
“I came to apologize,” Gary said. “I feel I owe you that.”
“Sorry you stole the harp?”
“The lyre,” Gary said. “I’m not sure I could have sneaked out with something this big. But no. I’m not sorry I stole it. My father didn’t tell me everything, but he does not lie to me. It was necessary for me to steal the lyre.”
“Then what are you sorry for?”
Gary couldn’t read Hrímnir’s tone or expression, but Garmr, with his nose resting firmly on Gary’s left foot, wasn’t alarmed.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said. He stood up and set the harp gently on the floor. Then he took two steps forward, rose on his toes, and kissed Hrímnir lightly.
Big arms closed around him, and Gary felt a wave of relief. He was forgiven, it seemed.
“I am leaving soon,” the frost giant told him. “It is time for me to find a new place.”
“I will not stay,” Gary said, thinking of Honey. Then, choosing words the frost giant would understand, words Hrímnir himself had given him, Gary said, “I am fated for other things. Another person.”
Hrímnir nodded. “But not today.”
“Until you have to leave,” Gary said solemnly.
“Yes,” agreed the frost giant in a voice like the wind in the trees. “Until I leave.”
Epilogue
MercyWe headed home two days later—as soon as the roads looked passable. We had to guess because neither the Internet nor any of the cell phones, sat phone or not, were working yet. Probably some lingering effect of the storm or the marriage interfering. The lodge’s landline hadn’t worked in years.
As we drove through Libby, its citizens in the process of digging themselves out, Adam asked, “When do you think we’ll start forgetting the wedding?”
“I don’t think we will,” I told him. “I talked to Liam about it before the wedding.” I’d told him what Hrímnir had told me in the barn. “He thinks that because of the spark of divinity I carry because of who my father is, the forgetting part of the spell won’t affect me. He was pretty sure that our bond would keep you from forgetting, too.”
Adam’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Good. Having Sherwood in the pack makes the thought of someone altering my memories unwelcome.”
“Doesn’t it,” I agreed.
It wasn’t until we came down from the mountains at Bonners Ferry that our phones started working. We took turns returning calls.
I wasn’t surprised to hear that my brother had recovered just fine. He’d headed out as soon as they opened the interstate, and we’d probably pass him at some point. Mary Jo was still fighting with Renny, but Honey thought that relationship might still go somewhere, because people like Renny weren’t quitters. In New Mexico, Darryl and Auriele had killed the bad guys in a way that wouldn’t get anyone in trouble and were headed home.
“The upshot,” I said when we were done making calls, “is that the pack, your business, my business, and the Tri-Cities all survived us being away. It’s kind of lowering finding out we aren’t as important as I thought we were.”
Adam laughed. The winter sun struggled through the frost-edged windshield to love my husband’s face. I really didn’t care that he was beautiful—but I wasn’t blind.
“I love that dimple,” I told him, reaching out to touch his face.
His laughter quieted, his lovely eyes focused on the road ahead. He leaned his face into my hand, but I knew that he didn’t really enjoy compliments on his appearance—which, he observed now and then, was an accident of birth and nothing to do with him. He used his looks as he used every talent, every bit of knowledge, and all of his strength and cunning: to keep the pack—and me—safe.
“Ask me why,” I said.
“Why?” His voice was a little dry.
“Because it only comes out when you are happy,” I told him. “I like it when you’re happy.”
He glanced at me and away—but the dimple deepened.
My phone rang and I answered it. Silence drifted through the SUV’s speakers, and the dimple disappeared as if it had never been.
Its disappearance made me angry.
“Hi,” I said in a fake Southern accent. “Thank you so much for takin’ my call. Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to talk to you.”