Rolph examined the blade from a distance, never coming around to my side of the worktable. I could see in his eyes he yearned to work the forge, but he respected my space.

I heated the edge of the sword until it glowed a light yellow and then plunged it into the deep well of oil. The sharp hiss it made woke Katie. Her hair had come out of its ponytail and lay scattered across the front of her face.

"You should be proud," Rolph said after I wiped the blade down with a cloth. "My old master was the last to reforge this blade successfully."

I held the blade up, turning it to catch the reflection of the red embers in the runes that ran down the blade. The rune that had been obliterated by the repair was like a blank slate. A place to mark a change to the sword's destiny.

"It was whole when I found it," I said, lowering it and looking at Rolph.

"Poorly mended is not reforged," he said with a rueful smile. "The last to touch this did a service by keeping the blade from being lost." He shrugged his huge shoulders. "But that did not make the blade whole. Not in the way you have."

I held the blade in my left hand, extended it to the full reach of my arm, twisting my wrist from side to side. It seemed, for just a moment, as if some sort of energy ran from the sword, down my arm, danced along the back of my skull, and flushed through my body like a fever. For three heartbeats an intense surge grew from my belly and exploded through me in a shudder. It took me a moment to realize Rolph had continued to speak.

". . . such as it is. But, each time it was used to slay the enemies of the light. And each time, Father Odin saw fit to shatter it once again. I am pleased to have witnessed the cycle renewed once more."

"Thank you," I said, biting my lip at the shiver that echoed through me. A minor aftershock of the previous jolt. The blade felt good in my hand. The balance and weight were better than any blade I'd used in sparring at the Society. "So, the last to attempt this, he who attached the blade-why was that not sufficient?"

Rolph shrugged. "Smithing brings together the four elements, earth, water, wind, and fire. It takes a smith of great skill and spirit to accomplish such a task." He paused, watching me across the worktables, his eyes large and brimming with pride. "The previous smith failed in the joining. He was not worthy. But," he held up a thick finger for emphasis, "once the blade is properly imbued with hammer and fire, it can only be sundered by the will of Odin himself."

That thought gave me pause. Was I really that good? Don't get me wrong, I knew I'd done my best work tonight. It was like a runner's high, the endorphins were kicking in my head. I'd done something special. And it was beautiful-but magical?

"So, now, about the dragon," Rolph said.

I set Gram on the workbench. The second my hand left the pommel, a whisper of loss slithered through me. I crossed my arms and faced Rolph. "No dragons, thanks."

Katie yawned.

"But, the glory . . . the treasure . . ."

"Look," I said. "I can use this sword in the movies and make enough money to keep smithing. Besides, I have all the treasure I need."

He followed my eyes to Katie, who drooped in the chair, almost asleep again.

"But Gram deserves glory."

I could hear the yearning in his voice-the lure of fame and fortune beyond my wildest dreams.

Instead, I raked the coals with a shovel, pushing the coke against the back of the forge to be used later. It would burn down quickly, now that I'd scattered it.

"Do you not want glory?" he asked.

I set the shovel aside with a sigh, running my fingers over the pommel. "The glory of Gram will be in movies," I said. "No more bloodshed, just hack actors chasing guys like you in rubber goblin suits."

Rolph frowned. "You could cleave this anvil in two with that blade."

I glanced at the sword. The memory of its touch was a flame in my mind. I reached out, picking it up once again, letting the heft settle into my arm.

"Sure, I believe you." Honestly I did. The sword sang to me, thrilled me in ways that scared me. I could feel the pulse of power through the leather pommel. Or was I imagining it, pushed on by suggestion and exhaustion? Sometimes good work did that, gave you a thrill. "But I'm a blacksmith. I create. I don't destroy."

I turned and opened the safe.

"But you do not understand!" He slammed his fists down on the workbench. The two blades I'd made earlier hopped a bit, sending the longer blade to the floor with a clang.

I tensed. My first thought was for my hammer, instead of the sword I held in my hand. I stared at him, adrenaline slipping into my veins. Gram shuddered in my grip.

For a moment I knew the sword's need-the vibration as it sought to strike the foe. I shuddered once and slipped it into the safe. Once my hand left the grip, I shuddered again, closing the door with my hip.

As soon as the lock clicked into place, Rolph slumped against the bench, the fires in his eyes quenched in despair.

"So it shall be," he whispered.

I spun the combination and stepped back to the workbench. He hadn't moved; his long black hair fell down over his face. For a moment, it sounded as if he wept.

"I'll take it tomorrow night and let JJ swing it around a bit more. Carl will pay me enough for another ton or three of coal and a good dozen sword forms. I'll drink mead with Katie and sing raunchy songs while high schoolers and old men buy my swords in hope of becoming Beowulf."

"He was a fop," Rolph said. The disappointment was heavy in his voice. "I have searched long for a hint of Gram. To see it reforged is glorious. Perhaps that is enough."

"It's time to call it a night," I said. "I need to be back here in six hours to work. I'll see you at Carl's tomorrow night, right?"

He nodded. "But, aren't you going to put an edge on the blade?"

"Are you kidding? And have JJ cut off his left foot? No thanks. I get paid to make everything look as authentic as they can afford. Getting the talent mortally wounded would end all that."

Rolph sighed. "Oh, for the days of Weyland and Migard. For the Valkyries and the cries of battle."

"Go home, Rolph. Before the sun rises."

"Of course," he said, glancing at the window. "There are not enough of my people left in this world."

I watched him leave, listened as he drove his pickup truck down the gravel drive.

So much for legend and myth.

I swept the shop, letting Katie sleep while I cleaned up.

I'd done my best work and felt mighty. I could easily see how adrenaline and fatigue would make me feel the blade react. Silly, I know. That and having Katie and Rolph acting like the rainbow factory was opening up and all the leprechauns were coming to tea didn't help. This would all be silly under the light of day, I was positive.

I packed the last bottle of mead in the cooler and put Katie's guitar in its case before waking her.

"Come on, sleeping beauty. Let's get you to bed."

She leaned against me as we walked toward the door. "Only if you stay over."

I flicked off the light and pulled the door shut behind me. Children's stories. Odd, twisted myths, I thought. But who would believe for a second that there were dwarves in pickup trucks and dragons in pinstripes? I mean, seriously.

The world was stranger than the movies.

Eight.

FREDERICK SAWYER SURVEYED THE CROWD AROUND HIM AND smiled. Young men and women dressed in tuxedos wandered the crowd carrying trays of drinks and small bite-sized nibbles.

Through double doors set in the far wall, rows of auction items were laid out, each to be perused by the folks there who would overbid on frippery to show their support for the homeless, or the addicts, or whatever this group shepherded through his city.

He smiled and nodded at gray-haired men and women who beamed at his attention. Each controlled a company or a board, a neighborhood committee or a council of some ilk that found themselves indebted to or in need of Frederick's generosity in one way or another.

The gaggle of octogenarians who ruled the local garden clubs each stopped to greet him. He touched each one, a pat on the hand, a kiss on the cheek. Each of the women left his presence with a smile and a livelier step. Keep them happy was his ultimate goal. Let them see how much he cared for them, how much he deserved their love. The smile on his face was genuine. He did not fake this. These were his people, his chattel. Through them, he was mighty.

The blonde carrying the champagne scooted into his view, distracting him from the briefest of greetings from an eager volunteer with the charity du jour. He nodded at the young man, shook his hand, and turned to intercept the blond champagne girl. She looked particularly yummy.

As she paused in front of him, he smiled at her, staring into her pale blue eyes. Such a pretty girl, he thought to himself. The things I could do to her.

She smiled back at him, demurely for a moment, but as the edges of his lips curled into a bigger smile, her lips parted as she let out a quiet exhalation. He pushed her, just a little, with his eyes-let her see the flames for the briefest of moments. The sharp intake of breath pleased him.

Her eyes lost focus.

He could feel her pulse racing. Given enough effort, he could enthrall her completely. The prospect was not unpleasing. With no thought to her surroundings, this young woman unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. She did not blink as she loosed the next, and finally a third. Just as things were getting interesting, and the first hint of a pink bra came into view, he blinked. Her hand paused. He watched the blush rise across her chest, up her neck, and over her cheeks-her body reacting to the heat that he called in her.

"Excuse me, sir," Mr. Philips said, appearing at his left elbow.

Frederick growled low in his throat. "This had better be important."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Mr. Philips took a glass of champagne from the tray the young woman still balanced on one hand.

The movement caught her attention and she looked away from Frederick. He sighed as the connection evaporated in a puff of steam.

She glanced at Mr. Philips for a moment, blinking. When she looked back at Frederick her lips rose into a wicked smile and she tilted her head at him. Then she turned, carrying the tray into the crowd, not bothering to button up her blouse.

"Oh, I do so love pink," Frederick said, handing an empty champagne glass to his assistant.

"Playing with your food again, Frederick?" asked a man's voice, a voice of pain and mockery.

Mr. Philips winced.

Frederick turned sharply. The beast that lay so loosely below his skin shook itself. He turned an icy stare at his rival, his enemy, his kith and kin.

"Jean-Paul," he said, the loathing dripping from his voice as bitter as the acid that coursed through his veins.

"I'm very sorry, sir," Mr. Philips said, handing his master another champagne-filled glass. "Mr. Duchamp insisted on speaking with you."

Frederick looked from his able assistant, Mr. Philips, to the garish fop who stood beside him. Jean-Paul Duchamp was a bottom-feeder of the worst sort. Frederick stuck out his hand to shake, but Jean-Paul pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose instead of taking the proffered hand.

"You'll pardon me," Duchamp said. "I so rarely mingle with the commoners. How do you stand the smell?"

Frederick was slightly amused at the jibe, for while these creatures were only human, they were the creme de la creme of Portland's wealthy, mingled with the CEOs of Fortune 500 companies and the earnest young volunteers and executives who ran the nonprofit organization they were all here to honor. But then again, Jean-Paul was not one known for being subtle.

"I find it quite fulfilling to support many causes," Frederick said with a smile. "Unlike yourself, Jean-Paul. What in the world brought you out of seclusion? Another of your pig farmers forget to cover your tracks?"

Jean-Paul stiffened for a moment, much to Frederick's delight.

"He is my guest," Qindra said, moving from behind Jean-Paul, trailing her fingers across his broad shoulders and down his arm.

Jean-Paul stiffened at her touch.

"Ah, so Nidhogg's witch has deigned to lower herself to our company."

"My mistress asked that I check on your activities," she said with a smile.

Her father's Middle Eastern heritage colored her exquisite features, but it was her mother's Icelandic ancestry that lent her the breathtaking beauty.

Frederick bowed, taking Qindra's hand in his own. "I am honored by your presence." He paused, gently kissed her knuckles, then rose to watch her face. "Tell your mistress, our greatest and most ancient progenitor, that I am humbled by her interest in my little protectorate."

Jean-Paul snorted, but Qindra bowed toward Frederick. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw her kick Jean-Paul in the ankle as she did.

"Mr. Philips," she said when she stood to her full six feet once again, "would you be so kind as to escort me through the auction?"

Mr. Philips didn't even look at Frederick. He just held out his elbow, waiting for Qindra to place her lovely caramel hand on his arm. As her long fingers lay on his forearm, he covered her hand with his, and turned, leading her away.

Once they had taken several steps, Frederick focused his attention on Jean-Paul. "So, the ancient one sends her favorite son to-what?" He shrugged. Jean-Paul was several inches shorter than Frederick, but broad like a small hill. He glared up at Frederick, a scowl on his face.

"She bids you caution in your moves of late," he said. "The witch was supposed to relay the message. I was but a reminder of possibilities."

Frederick knew full well the possibilities that awaited him. Nidhogg had no love for him. Oh, she understood his position, but he was not of her brood. Not like the derelict and wayward Jean-Paul.

Where he looked to arts and charity to grow his power, enthrall his city, Jean-Paul used drugs and vice-fear and addiction. And yet, Nidhogg, the Corpse Gnawer, biter of the world tree and most ancient of dragonkind, loved her offspring with every darkened chamber of her icy black heart.

Frederick was neither a fool nor a coward. Therefore he transgressed lightly this close to Nidhogg and her prized progeny. Still . . .

"How is your frigid mother?" he asked, with a toothy grin.

Jean-Paul snorted, not deigning to look at Frederick. Rather he watched the crowd, as if sizing up his next meal. "You know very well how she does," he said, finally. "And she leaves me to my affairs."

Yes, Frederick thought-if by affairs one meant killing prostitutes, mostly underaged runaways, and feeding their broken bodies to pigs. Frederick loathed anyone who preyed on the sick and helpless. Not that he had any problem with the hunt, or the demands of ruling his people. No, quite the contrary. He lived for the power, but understood it came as much from his people's will as from his own mightiness.

Jean-Paul, on the other hand, was not worthy of his station. There were others of their kind who had fallen in the global rivalry for power. It was their nature, of course. Predators sometimes fell to corruption, fearing no one but their own kind. And none of them had fallen any other way in recorded time.

Case in point-the last steward of Portland had fallen to the machinations of his own kind. He of the quick temper, and steady flame-Carlos Estrella-had risen to some fame during the Spanish conquest of Mexico. How he ended up the ruler of Portland had not been shared with Frederick. Not that it mattered a whit.

He had sown his own wild oats as a young stripling, of course, burning a village here or there, devouring a few children . . . but who kept count.

Frederick had been ready for the ascension before the broken body of Carlos Estrella had been found at the bottom of Multnomah Falls. That had been a hundred years ago, when Frederick had first come to these shores.

No room for expansion in the old world. The Americas still had cities for the taking, chattel to control. More than enough for those of his kin who roamed this continent.