Inside the parsonage Skadi heard Odin’s words and smiled.

Nat, at her side with the Book of Words open and ready, turned to her with an inquiring look. He looked pale, and feverish, and half mad with impatience; at his fingertips the Word crackled like kindling.

“Is it time?” he asked.

Skadi nodded as she spoke the tiniest of cantrips, and at Odin’s feet there was a gleam of response. The handkerchief she had dropped seemed to come into focus: a lovely thing, fashioned with care, embroidered with rosettes and forget-me-nots and edged with cobweb lace. As she’d planned, the rune Fé caught his eye; he picked up the scrap of embroidered lace and for a second held it out, uncertain, before taking a long step forward to make his bow, the handkerchief held between his fingers, at the elegant feet of the goddess of desire.

“Now,” said Skadi, and at her side Nat began to read from the Book of Invocations.

And in the doorway of the parsonage, a third watcher drew a deep breath and took a first, faltering step out of the shadows.

Ethelberta Parson had had much to bear during the last twenty-four hours. In that short time she had seen the overthrowing of her household, the plundering of her wardrobe, the ransacking of her cellars, and the apparent seduction of her staid husband by a band of degenerates who were even now preparing to return to the parsonage and raid what was left of her wine store.

She could deal with this, she told herself firmly. All it would take was a little common sense. Now was the time to take charge, to oust these interlopers from her home, and if Nat didn’t like it, then he could join them, as far as she was concerned, but they would not step inside her house again, nor would she let them take so much as a rag of hers-no, not if the Nameless itself ordered her to.

Her first step was unsteady as she left the shadow of the doorway arch. It took her into a circle of light-not moonlight, she thought, for the moon was down. Ahead of her the one-eyed peddler stood, head bent, in front of the flax-haired jade who had stolen Ethel’s green silk dress (and the fact that it suited Freyja far better than it had ever suited her made Ethel gnash her teeth with unladylike violence), and from them both, that strange, unseasonal light shone, making giants of the beggar and the harlot, making them more beautiful, more radiant, more terrifying, than any mortal has a right to be.

And as Ethel took another step, her mouth hanging open now in wonder and fear, the peddler held out his hand to the whore, and there in his palm was a scrap of something, a web-spun, tantalizing wisp of lace and moonlight, which he offered to the woman in the green dress, saying, “Yours, my lady?”

This was the moment Nat had awaited. He’ll give her the handkerchief, Skadi had said. At that moment-and at that moment only-may you unleash the Word. A second too soon and all will be ruined. A second too late and we’ll lose the bastard. But if you get it right, Parson, then vengeance will be ours-and with the blessing of the Vanir as recompense.

Of course, Skadi thought now, the loss of Freyja would hit them hard. Her lip curled as she considered it-in her estimation it showed very poor taste-but she was sure that they would take some consolation in the pursuit of their revenge.

Try forging an alliance with them after that, she thought, and growled with pleasure in her throat as at her side Nat Parson waited, trembling now but filled with the Word, teeming with it, glowing with it.

It was a marvelous feeling: his blood felt volatile, as if every vein and artery had been filled with hot brandy. He was not quite himself, he knew-he was maybe even a little insane-but why should he care, if it felt like this?

And then Ethelberta stepped out into the light.

“That’s my wife,” said Nat in surprise.

Skadi cursed and flung her glam.

“Now!” she repeated, cursing again, for Ethel was in the way, damn her, Ethel was between them, snatching at the thing in Freyja’s hand and shouting, “No more, lady, not even a rag!” while the Vanir watched, some smiling, still unaware of their peril. And now Skadi cursed again, more fiercely this time, in a demon tongue, because the Word-the canticle that should have frozen Odin to the spot as the Vanir watched and Freyja fell lifeless to the ground-the Word had failed her, Nat had failed her, saying, That’s my wife, in that numb, stupid voice as the glamour shot from his fingertips, missed Odin by a gnat’s wing, and went on to freeze a bird from the sky three miles from the village, while in the courtyard of the parsonage the following things all happened at once:

In a second the circle of Vanir broke apart.

Heimdall threw himself to one side, mindbolts at his fingertips.

Bragi sang a song of protection.

Frey drew his mindsword and made for the house.

Freyja shifted into the form of a red-tailed falcon and soared out of the danger zone, leaving Ethelberta’s green silk dress empty.

And such was the riot of glamours, movement, and noise that for a time no one noticed the parson’s wife lying dead on the ground or the fact that somehow, in the confusion, Odin One-Eye had disappeared.

Inside the house Skadi flung Isa at Frey, freezing him where he stood. She turned to Nat. “Can you do it?” she demanded. “Can you stop them all?”

Nat hesitated. “Ethel,” he said.

“Forget her,” said Skadi. “She got in the way.” She grabbed Nat by the arm and forced him to look at her. “Now tell me, Parson, can you do it?”

For a moment he stared at her. The Huntress in Aspect is a fearsome sight, even to the gods. Nat felt sick. The Word and the feelings it had conjured inside him had evaporated; it might return, he told himself, but he would need time to recapture it, time to prepare…

“Magister,” he whispered.

“What?” she said.

“A gift,” said the parson. “For loyal service.”

Skadi cursed and flung another mindbolt into the night. This was what came of dealing with the Folk, she told herself fiercely. She’d thought him different; the more fool she. The man was weak, his mind was wandering, and any second now the Vanir would finally understand who had betrayed them and come running.

Once more she cast Isa into the courtyard. Njörd froze, one hand on his harpoon. But it would not last. Without the Word to immobilize them and make them helpless, the Vanir outclassed her by a long way.

One last time Skadi turned to the parson. He was pale and sweating. Shocked, perhaps, by the death of his wife, but looking into his haunted eyes, Skadi didn’t think so. She had seen trances that looked like this in men who had worshiped her in the distant past. After the ecstasy, the horror. She saw it in Nat Parson’s eyes, the gaping, empty horror, and knew then that they had lost. Odin was gone, and in seconds the Vanir would be upon them.

Till next time, then, the Huntress thought. She put her hands on the parson’s shoulders.

“Listen to me, fellow,” she said.

Slowly his eyes turned toward her. “Don’t…call…me…fellow,” he whispered.

Ah. At last, a reaction. Good, she thought. “If you want to live, then do as I say. Do you want to live?”

Wordless, he nodded.

“Then come with me, Parson, if you can. Take your Book. Follow me. And run.” And with that she shifted into her snow-wolf form, shot through the open back door, her pads soundless on the hard ground, and vanished like smoke into the night.