Myths & Magic - A Science Fiction & Fantasy Anthology - First Chapter Previews

Heart of Fire, by Bec McMaster

The old eddas speak of dreki—fabled creatures who haunt the depths of Iceland's volcanoes, and steal away fair maidens.

Freyja wants none of such myths. Dreki seducing young ladies? Ha. They probably eat such foolish girls. But when the local dreki steals her last ram—costing her any chance of feeding her ill father through the winter—Freyja intends to confront the fearsome myth.

Sentenced to a life of exile from his clan, Rurik is fascinated by the furious woman who comes to claim her ram. She reeks of mysterious magic, and challenges him at every step. He intends to claim the passionate firebrand, but to do so he must take mortal form.

It's the only time the dreki are vulnerable, and with a dragon hunter arriving on the shores of Iceland, he can barely afford the risk—but lonely Freyja, with her elf-cursed eyes and pragmatic soul, tempts him in ways he's never felt before. Is she the key to reclaiming his heritage? Or will she be his downfall?

~*~*~

Chapter One

Iceland, 1880

"HERE, FATHER," FREYJA murmured, tilting the steaming cup of broth to his lips. "Perhaps this will take away the chill?"

Her father slurped at the watery soup, his eyes blue and vacant as his trembling hands tried to cup hers. "It's delicious, Freyja. One of your best."

Freyja pasted a smile on her face, even though he couldn't see it. Bitterness burned in her throat. "Yes, Papa. It is, isn't it?"

There were more vegetables than lamb in the broth, and more water than both, but the fact that he sought to spare her feelings made her shoulders hunch. It had been such a long winter, with little food or respite from the storms. The few coins they had left were drying up and her small herd of ewes was dwindling. She couldn't justify slaughtering another just to add more flavor to their soup.

Her father coughed, that same dry, hacking cough that had haunted him all winter. Freyja grabbed a rag and helped to dry his cheeks with it. Sometimes she wondered if he would survive to see another winter.

A fluttery feeling rose up to choke her, and she forced it down ruthlessly. No point in being maudlin. He was here and this was now. The future could wait.

"How was the village this afternoon?" her father asked. "You didn't see Ingmar's boy, did you?"

If she had, then Benedikt would have no interest in her. Not a respectful interest anyway. He had already hinted that he might have means to offer her coin to keep her larder stocked through the spring. Telling her father that, however, might send him to an early grave. He had such hopes. Freyja intended never to enlighten him; with his poor health, their dwindling resources, and her eyes, she was unlikely to make any sort of respectable match.

"He must have been busy, I'm sure," she replied, squeezing his hand, then levering to her feet. Gathering the ceramic bowls together, she crossed to the kitchen. "He has all that land to tend, after all."

Some of it theirs—or what she'd been forced to sell after her father's eyes faded and he could no longer work the land. She'd done what she could, but tending to him took a lot of her time.

The shutters banged on the windows as the winds lifted. Freyja glanced through the glass toward the enormous storm clouds boiling on the horizon. A storm from the north then, and bound to be bitter with the kiss of Arctic winds on its breath. She could feel it in her bones, tingling beneath her skin as if she herself were tied to the storm. It would blow a mighty gale, tearing its way through the mountains that shielded their little homestead, then blow out by morning. She knew it, with some inexplicable sixth sense.