“I have an enormous overbred dreki working for me. Sirius can smell when a human is lying, he tells me.” Haakon winked, but a commotion near the door caught both their attention.
The door banged loudly against the wall, as if torn from someone’s grasp.
A stranger appeared, clad in a dripping cloak that covered their entire body, the storm lashing their clothes around them. Tormund wouldn’t have paid them a second glance except for the glint of a sheathed knife at their hip. Dangerous, then.
But more than that, there was a crackle in the air, and he didn’t know why but he felt a little breathless.
Lifting his hand and staring at the way the hairs along his arm rose, he slowly returned his gaze to the newcomer just as they flung the hood back from their head.
Holy. Shit.
His breath caught. His eyes popped wide open. And someone, somewhere, stole every thought in his head.
Haakon’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Enjoying yourself?”
“That is one hell of a woman,” Tormund breathed, eyeing her from head to toe.
And there was a significant amount of woman in between.
The stranger stood a good inch or two over six feet tall, with straight shoulders that bore an almost regal stance, and thick red-gold hair that tumbled down her back in a mess of a plait. She rested a hand on the hilt of the knife at her hip as she shot an angry glance around the room, and he couldn’t help noticing there were plenty of curves half-hidden by the cloak.
Haakon whistled under his breath. “She looks like she could wrestle a bear.”
“Hush,” Tormund said, shooting him a glare. “That’s my future wife you’re talking about.”
“Future wife?” His cousin burst into laughter. “Or tonight’s pursuit?”
“Either.”
The woman strode to the bar, where she engaged in a swift conversation with the innkeeper. Tormund pushed to his feet, as if drawn by an invisible tether.
“No.” Haakon grabbed his wrist. “We don’t have time for this.”
“You would stand in the path of destiny?”
“I think destiny is about to hand you your teeth.”
“There she is.” Sirius returned with a swirl of his dark cloak, his gaze turning narrow with predatory intent.
“Who?” A breathless sensation filled Tormund, for the dreki’s focus was based behind him.
On the bar.
On the woman.
“Our informant.” Sirius lifted a chin as the woman looked around, giving an imperious nod.
She strode toward them, one hand resting idly on the hilt of the sword at her hip.
“Jesus.” Tormund could barely breathe.
She was pure, utter perfection.
Handfuls of soft flesh molded over hard muscle. Powerful thighs were barely contained by tight leather trousers, and as she slipped sideways between two old men, he caught a glimpse of an ass a man could grasp with two hands as he buried his face between those thighs.
And the way she stared at them as if she was seemingly fearless made his cock harden.
“You have gold?” she demanded, in a voice both soft and husky, as she reached their table. The lamplight behind her softened her features, and he could just make out a set of pillowy lips.
Fuck.
Haakon kicked his chair under the table, then straightened. “Maybe. For the right kind of information.”
The woman placed both hands on their table, leaning forward with a predatory gaze. “You wanted to speak to the blacksmith’s wife.”
“Are you the blacksmith’s wife?” Tormund asked, leaning back in his chair as his heart sank like lead. It was plausible. She looked like she could swing a hammer more ferociously than any blacksmith he’d ever encountered.
Those green eyes met his. “No. Though I represent her interests.”
Thank all the gods.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Tormund offered a friendly smile.
“My name is Bryn. And I’m not your sweet anything.”
“Tormund,” he said, resting all four feet of the chair on the ground again. “And this is my cousin, Haakon, and our… um, friend, Sirius. Would you like an ale?”
“I’m here to offer information, and that’s all I’m interested in.”
Sirius snickered into his mug. Haakon splayed a hand over his mouth as though trying to hide a laugh.
Bastards.
“Then sit,” Haakon directed, gesturing to the chair in front of her.
“The blacksmith indicated there was coin in this job.”
Haakon drew a small pouch from his belt and let it fall on the table, where it chinked. “There is. Provided the information is worth the coin offered.”
“Oh, I think you’ll be interested.” Bryn draped her dripping cloak over the back of the chair. A tunic of braided leather covered her breasts. “He came through here. This prince you’re looking for.”
“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Tormund asked, because pretty or not, he wasn’t interested in traipsing all over these mountains looking for something that didn’t exist.
“Because he has a golden crown tattooed on his ass and the smile of a devil.”
Haakon considered Bryn for several long seconds.
And then he opened the pouch of coins and slid a pair of them across the table toward her.
Bryn sank into the chair, her eyes glittering. “He was seeking directions for the völva of Grøa.”
“Völva?”
“She lives in the hills and practices seidr. Some say she dabbles in darker arts too, and it is known that those who seek to find her often don’t return.”
Fucking magic. Dark magic. Tormund pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew what was going to happen next.
“How do we find this völva?” Haakon asked.
And there it was.
Bryn smiled a wolfish smile and swept the handful of coins toward her before making them disappear. “I will show you. I too have questions for her and will act as your guide.”
“Guide, hmm?” Tormund bent and hauled his pack up onto his back, glaring at the sun as if it had done him a personal grudge by rising.
Bryn continued buckling the enormous leather belt around her waist, ignoring the way his gaze settled on her. The second he’d seen her, he’d made it clear he found her attractive, but it was her first glimpse into those deep, dark eyes that knotted her tongue in her mouth.
The man looked like pure sin poured into leather and fur.
He had a smile like Loki, a set of arms to send Heimdall weeping, and a pair of thighs that would have made Thor green with envy. Thick dark hair was gathered back into a leather thong at the nape of his neck, and a neatly trimmed beard lined his jaw. Every inch of him was either carved by the gods or molded directly from her dreams.
And he towered over her.
Her personal weakness.
Freyja, grant me strength.
Bryn forced her tongue to work, but the words came out awkward and snappish. “Did you think me a lonely shepherdess or a farmer, looking for a man to warm my bed of a night?”
“Not with that knife, no.” His gaze slid to the sword strapped to her hip. “Or that sword.”
This was easier to counter. Bryn smiled dangerously and leaned closer. “Scared?”