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After a few seconds, Zee jerked his hand away and walked back to the other side of the kitchen to give Gary space, shaking out the hand he’d used on my brother as he did so.
I was surprised I hadn’t felt a surge in the magic in the room, given how much reaction both men had shown. Maybe my senses were just overloaded. I tried not to feel hopeful that maybe whatever the Soul Taker had done to me was fading. Or could get overwhelmed and fizzle out. I’d take either option.
“Pest,” Zee said. “I am sorry, Mercy. This is not something I can break without damaging him.”
And my concerns about myself disappeared, telling me how much confidence I’d had that Zee could take care of it.
“The Jötnar work their own kind of magic,” he said. “This is subtle and powerful—the work of one of the old ones, I think.” He frowned. “There is one who could tell you more and he feels obligated to you, but I am not sure it is a good idea to involve yourself with him.”
I knew who he meant. I’d just seen Ymir at Uncle Mike’s.
A couple of years ago, under the influence of someone else’s malicious magic, Ymir had shown his true form and nearly destroyed Uncle Mike’s pub. Mary Jo had been killed—or almost killed, depending upon who you talked to. It hadn’t been the Jötunn who had damaged her, but he’d been part of the problem. I’d broken the spell and—though fae do not say thank you—it had been implied.
The Jötnar weren’t properly fae. Or maybe they were; I knew that the lines between fae and not-fae were blurry. In any case, the Jötunn at Uncle Mike’s called himself an ice elf—and elves were a type of fae.
There were a lot of classifications of fae that had been made up to satisfy government forms—Zee called himself a gremlin, which is a term that he predates to a ridiculous degree. “Ice elf” was no more a real classification for the being who’d run amok than the abominable snowman would have been. But when a frost giant told you to call him an elf, you did it.
“The ice elf?” I asked.
“Snow elf,” Adam corrected me absently, staring at Zee. “Ymir calls himself a snow elf.”
“Oops,” I said without meaning it. Either way, they were ridiculous terms, conjuring up something that should be helping Santa Claus deliver presents instead of destroying the world in the fated Ragnarok.
“Ymir,” Adam said, talking to Zee, “has power over wolves.”
That was true, assuming our Ymir was the one in the stories.
“Ja,” agreed Zee. “That is one reason not to invite him to your home.”
“Omelet’s done,” announced Jesse. “Tad, can you move the table back so I can feed my step–half uncle?”
Once Gary was eating again, I said, “I’ve been wondering about this since I heard Uncle Mike call him Ymir. Ymir is supposed to be dead, right? Odin and a couple other Norse deities killed him and used his body parts to form the earth, right?”
“Origin story,” huffed Zee dismissively.
“So he’s not dead?” I asked. “This is the real Ymir we’re talking about?”
“I don’t know whether or not the landmasses were formed from Ymir’s body,” Zee said. “I wasn’t alive yet. But I have my doubts. I suppose that your mate is the first human because he uses that name? He is the husband of Eve and Lilith, who came before?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t try to be funny. It doesn’t suit you. It’s not my fault that I’ve spent the last few years meeting people—beings—who I’m just finding out are real and living here. Baba Yaga. Guayota.” I narrowed my eyes even more because I was really grumpy at this one. “Wayland Smith.”
Zee grunted.
“If Wayland Smith is repairing Volkswagens in Kennewick, Washington, then it is not out of the realm of possibility that Ymir died to form the land we stand upon,” Adam said, his tone just this side of amused—enough to take the temperature down without leaving Zee insulted. When he wasn’t angry, my mate was pretty good at managing situations.
Zee threw up his hands. “All right. Yes. I see how you might think that. Most origin stories are ridiculous, which does not make them untrue—or at least does not make the allegory of the story untrue.”
“Well, then,” I said. “Ymir is supposed to be dead.”
“Ymir is…” Zee let his tone drag out as he translated his thoughts. “Ymir is an honored name among the Jötnar. There is only one who wears that name at any time. They must hold the power of Winter”—I heard the capital letter there—“and call wolves, but it is more than that. They must be a worthy Power and able to defend their use of that name. There are none among the Jötnar who have objected to this snow elf—who now lives here, in this time—taking that name. Or none who lived.” He frowned. “Ymir becomes a worse idea the longer we talk about him. Instead, we could call in Uncle Mike, who is better with this kind of spellcrafting than I am. Or your Sherwood Post.”
“You don’t think they can help,” I said. I could read this Zee.
He shook his head. “No. But they are safer options.”
Adam looked at my brother, who was dividing his attention between us and his food, tension never really leaving his body. “Would you invite the Jötunn to our house for us?”
Zee assessed my mate, and for just an instant I could see that unfamiliar something look out of his eyes. He glanced at me and as quickly as that, he was my friend again.
