by Kevin Hearne
The entrance to his house was a kitchen and dining area. A hallway from this led to other rooms, and after I was finished with my preparations, I hid around the corner and sat in the hall.
Hours passed, during which I had ample opportunity to reconsider, but I convinced myself that, in a very real sense, it was either him or me. If I didn’t kill him, I would die—eventually. If I did, I wouldn’t die, period. I had killed men in battles but never plotted a murder before. It didn’t sit well with me, but neither did the prospect of gasping my last breath.
When Dian Cecht finally came home, he brought a chicken with him to pluck for his dinner. He clutched it tightly against his chest with one hand—his sword hand. When I leapt out of my hiding place and shouted, “HA!” with my own sword drawn, I killed him. Or, rather, the chicken did.
He let go of the chicken to reach for his sword, and the creature exploded from his grip and slapped him several times in the face with her beating wings as she pecked at him. In his attempt to shy away from the chicken and also draw his weapon, he slipped on the greasy floor, cracking his head open on the edge of a worktable near the door as he fell. He was dead before he hit the ground. And that’s when I first met the Morrigan. Though I had never crossed swords with Dian Cecht, the intent had been there, and thus our confrontation had fallen to her sphere of influence. She had chosen Dian Cecht, not me, to be slain, and she let me know.
She couldn’t choose him for death against Miach, because Miach had never tried to fight back. And Miach thwarted her again when he made Airmid promise not to kill her father. I was an acceptable work-around, however, and she said at the time we would meet again. I thought she meant she’d choose me to die in battle soon; I had no idea at the time that our association would last so long.
I took the chicken back to the inn where I’d met Airmid and had them cook it for me. She came in as I was finishing up and I told her that the deed was done.
“Where did you cut him?” she asked.
“I didn’t use my sword,” I said, then pointed at the bones on my plate. “I used this chicken.”
I told her what had happened and she seemed pleased. True to her word, she gave me the sum of her notes and showed me the binding I needed to use to create Immortali-Tea, as well as several other bindings for other special brews. And that is how I not only gained the secret to eternal youth but gained the herblore of the greatest herbalist ever to walk the earth. Plus a great chicken dinner.
Odin set down his fork and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He looked at Frigg and said, “I hope the fourth course won’t be a chicken dish.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Good.” He turned to me and said, “I can see why you prefer to keep that story to yourself. It is a terrible thing to be henpecked.”
The fourth course was a veal sirloin stuffed with morel mushrooms and another attractive arrangement of vegetables on the side. I tore into this since I’d never enjoyed a bite of the third course, occupied as I was with the story. The gods enjoyed their wine but didn’t touch the food. Apparently they don’t do veal. Perhaps they would have enjoyed chicken after all.
“I have had much time to ponder the ramifications of your actions in Asgard,” Odin said as I was eating. “And much time to ponder my response. In the old days, there would be no question—we would have killed you and any known associates. But this is a different time, and the simple vengeance we crave would not serve us well in the long run. We would rather, instead, that you serve us well.”
I stopped chewing. “I beg your pardon? Are you suggesting some sort of indenture?”
“No. A blood price. Ragnarok is coming soon, and since you have killed or assisted in the killing of many gods who were to fight on our side, we wish you to take their place.”
I very nearly choked and needed to drink a bit to clear my throat before I could speak. “You want me to take the place of gods?”
“Not entirely by yourself. It would be helpful if you could recruit some others. You clearly have the powers of a classical hero, and your assistance would be invaluable. All that matters is defeating the forces of Hel and Muspellheim: Next to that, our vengeance is a trifling matter. Fight with us, and the blood you shed on our behalf will expiate your debt. That, and one other thing.”
“What?”
“I would appreciate the return of Gungnir.”
“Promise not to throw it at me again?”
A flicker of irritation crossed Odin’s face. “Yes.”
“Okay, sure, I’ll return it. I have no use for it. Send Hugin and Munin to visit me in Arizona three days from now. I’ll tell them where to pick it up.”
“Thank you. And Ragnarok?”
I thought about Hel and her attempt to kill me near Kayenta. I thought about the world overrun with draugar. Even people who were preparing for the zombie apocalypse would have trouble with those things. “If the shit goes down, Odin, I’m on your side.”
“Excellent. Will you fight with him, Morrigan?”
The Morrigan, like Frigg, had remained silent for much of the meal. Now she gave a thin smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss that particular battle. The Valkyries will have to suffice.”
Odin’s expression darkened. We had killed twelve of the Valkyries when we raided Asgard. I don’t know how many remained, if any. To change the subject, I said, “Can I ask what happened to Thor’s hammer?”
“Why?” Frigg asked. “Did you promise someone you’d steal it?”
The nastiness of the question surprised me. We’d been getting along so well. But I tend to react when provoked. “No,” I said. “If I had, it would already be in my possession.” Frigg seethed and Odin chuckled softly.
“You were supposed to keep my anger in check,” he said.
The fourth course was cleared away—the waiter making sure we were all okay, since the gods hadn’t touched the veal—and the fifth was laid before us. Five different well-aged cheeses were attractively presented on a white rectangular platter with crackers and fruit compote. Some were sliced in triangles, some in thin, translucent pieces. It was a superlative achievement in both geometry and dairy. The sommelier served us something from Italy; I didn’t quite catch it.
“Mjöllnir rests in Gladsheim,” Odin said once the servers had retreated.
“No one wields it now?”
The Norse gods frowned as if I’d asked something particularly inane. “Like who?” Odin said.
“I was thinking maybe some other, later aspect of Thor. The one from the comics is popular right now.”
Odin scoffed. “Popular, perhaps. But he is not worshipped, and you know what that means: He can’t muster magic enough to manifest himself! He has to be played by a human actor in his own movies. He’s nothing but cheap entertainment. Surely you know this.”
I did know it, but it never hurts to let possible antagonists think they are smarter than you.
“Well, if he can’t do it, then surely some other aspect of Thor can?”
“They are all comfortable in their current situations, and none is as strong as the original. I wouldn’t want a single one of them at my back. No, Thor’s responsibility is now yours.”
“Mine? You want me to face the world serpent?”
“Or find someone else to do it, yes.”
This twist in the conversation reminded me uncomfortably of Cleopatra on the ceiling. I looked up and examined it again past the glow of the chandelier, and, while I did, the gods directed their attention to the cheeses.
The artist had taken quite a bit of license; Cleopatra reclined, leaning on her right arm, while her left hand held a snake up to her breast, inviting it to bite her. I thought the snake would have simply bitten her hand when she reached to pick it up, but that was the least of the odd choices the artist had made. For some reason, he had decided to give Cleopatra European features and provide her with a Rubenesque figure; my archdruid would have described her as “festively plump.” She also appeared to be dr
essed in Greek style rather than anything Egyptian. Though still quite beautiful as a work of art, the inaccuracy bizarrely exposed what I think is the true tragedy of Cleopatra: No one really understood her or her decision. But maybe some could empathize with the feeling of being trapped by circumstances. I certainly could.
“I can’t agree specifically to a cage match with Jörmungandr,” I said, “but I will fight on your side against Hel, see if I can recruit additional aid, and return Gungnir to help make amends for my wrongs against you.”
Odin opened his mouth to reply but closed it again as the sommelier arrived to bring us a dessert wine for the final course. It was to be a macaron filled with Bavarian vanilla and strawberries and served with champagne jelly, and he assured us it would arrive shortly. But I never got to try the macaron. Never got to hear Odin’s stifled reply.
As the sommelier drew close behind me to deposit a glass over my right shoulder, several things happened in quick succession in a fraction of a second. The Morrigan’s left hand blurred and pushed me so violently from my seat that my head hit the floor while my ass was still in the chair. Glass tinkled. The sommelier cried out and fell backward, to hell with the wine. The report of a rifle cracked in the air. Odin and Frigg lurched to their feet.
After the second passed, the Morrigan’s words floated down to me as I struggled to stay low but get in a defensive position. “There, Siodhachan,” she said, amusement in every word. “I saved your life. Now you can stop whining about our agreement.”
Someone had tried to shoot me in the head through the window and had shot the sommelier instead. Since he’d taken the bullet in the hip and had been standing behind my right shoulder, that meant the shot had come from the roof across the street and had been aimed more or less at the top left side of my face.
The sommelier clutched at his hip and loudly informed the room, in case they missed it, that he’d been shot. Upper-class squeals and calls for emergency personnel filled the restaurant, but I blocked that out and kept my eye on Frigg and Odin. It seemed insane to me that they would go through that whole charade of a dinner just to kill me anyway—especially since they didn’t have Gungnir back and didn’t know where it was—but I had to suspect they were responsible, because they had good reason to kill me and they were the only ones who knew I was here, apart from the Morrigan. I ruled the Morrigan out as a suspect, because she could have killed me anytime she wanted to in the last two millennia without any witnesses. The only possible reason to arrange it like this would be to blame it on the Norse—but why would she have cause to do that?
Still, she obviously had known the shot was coming, or she wouldn’t have known when to push me. She must have divined it and, in so doing, might have seen other things.
“Who pulled the trigger, Morrigan?” I asked, watching the two Norse gods and keeping my back to the wall.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I foresaw the attempt on your life, but the assassin is shielded from my sight. Tracking him or her down should provide us some after-dinner entertainment and will aid digestion.” She calmly rose from the table and tossed her napkin down. “Shall we begin?”
“No, wait,” I said. “How do we know they didn’t order it?” I gestured at Odin and Frigg. Odin was looking up at the ceiling rather than at me or anything else. It was an odd moment for art appreciation. Frigg spoke instead.
“Of course we didn’t order it. Odin is sending the ravens now to follow the shooter.”
“Well, then, Odin’s using magic, isn’t he? I’d like to use some to heal this poor guy, if it’s all right with you.” Our waiter and the maître d’ had crouched down next to the sommelier, who was telling his colleagues that, if he died, he wanted all his worldly goods to be given to his hamster. I didn’t think it would hold up; he wasn’t of sound body and might not be of sound mind anymore.
“No, let me do it,” Frigg said, coming around to help the sommelier. Her necklace flashed in the light of the chandelier. “He’s one of ours. You three go find the assassin.”
“Go find someone who wants to kill me accompanied by a god who wants to kill me?” I said.
Odin tore his gaze from the ceiling and spoke. “I don’t want to kill you; I want you to die horribly in Ragnarok. But not until you tip the scales in our favor.”
“He will,” the Morrigan said, but it was unclear whether she was speaking of tipping the scales or dying horribly. Or both.
Frigg knelt down next to the sommelier and laid a hand on his forehead. His eyes rolled up, locked on her face, and he quieted. The maître d’ rose to attend to other matters; there were customers to calm and emergency services to greet. Our waiter remained next to the sommelier.
Even if Frigg and Odin weren’t directly behind taking a shot at me, it had to be someone they knew. I sincerely doubted Odin had been careless enough to reveal this meeting in someone’s hearing, but if it hadn’t been a careless word, then the security leak had to have come from some other source. Before the Morrigan could stop me, I triggered the charm on my necklace that would cast magical sight. Through that filter, I saw the white nimbus of magic around Odin’s gray head. Two strong ropes of it wound away and through the ceiling, which I assumed were his connections to Hugin and Munin. The rest of his body looked completely human; he was doing nothing but communicating with his ravens.
Frigg was another matter. Her entire body was suffused with a soft white glow, though at the moment it was concentrated in two places: her right hand, placed on the sommelier’s forehead, and around the necklace she wore. Her hand was clearly serving as a chill pill for the panicked shooting victim, but what was that necklace doing?
I moved away from my position on the wall, figuring it was safe now and the Morrigan would slap me out of the way of any further shots. As I crouched down next to Frigg and the sommelier, a hint of annoyance crept into her tone.
“I told you I would take care of him,” she said.
“You’re taking excellent care of him,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t dream of attempting to do any better. I’m curious about your necklace.”
Her left hand drifted up to touch it. “My necklace?”
“Yes. What purpose does it serve?”
Exasperated now, she ground out, “It is personal adornment. Is this some sort of trick or an attempt to make me feel stupid?”
“Forgive me, I meant to ask what magical purpose it serves.”
“None. My magic comes from within.”
“Then why is it awash in magical energy?”
“What?”
“Confirm it for yourself. Morrigan, Odin, please look at Frigg’s necklace. It is not merely jewelry, is it?”
The Morrigan’s head tilted slightly to one side and Odin focused his gaze on the necklace. The Morrigan spoke first.
“It is enchanted with something, but it is not a binding of the Tuatha Dé Danann or the Fae.”
“No, it is not,” Odin said. “It is Norse magic.” This horrified Frigg so much that she took her hand off the sommelier, who abruptly remembered that he hadn’t finished panicking properly.
“Wauuggh!” he cried, and Frigg returned her hand to his forehead to shut him up.
“Odin, get it off me,” she said, using her left hand to sweep her hair away from the back of her neck and reveal the clasp of the necklace. “I want to take a good look.”
Sirens began to wail in the distance; police and ambulances were on their way.
Odin came around the table and unclasped the necklace. As soon as he did, the magic glow extinguished.
“That’s interesting. The magic is gone,” I said. “Odin, would you mind clasping the necklace together again for a moment?”
He did so and the magic glow returned. The Morrigan said, “Interesting indeed.”
Odin unclasped it, the glow faded, and Odin placed it on the table.
“Does the magic return every time it’s clasped?” I wondered aloud. Odin connected the two ends together once more, but nothing happened.
“No. Only when it’s worn,” he said. “Clever work.”
“Do you know what the spell does?” I asked.
“It is a tracking spell. A locator.”
“And who would want to know Frigg’s location badly enough to enchant her jewelry?”
“I do not know,” he replied. “But I dearly wish to find out.”
The waiter, who’d been focusing on his friend and keeping silent, and thus had been ignored until this time, made an unwise decision to speak up. “You people keep talking about magic and calling one another by the names of gods. Are you mental?”
“Frigg, if you please?” Odin said. His wife sighed and placed her left hand briefly on the waiter’s forehead. He collapsed next to his friend. Frigg’s eyes flicked up to mine.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s merely in oblivion. An effective talent for healing but surprisingly useful for occasions like this as well.”
The sirens outside grew loud and car doors slammed. Lots of people got shouty.
“We should make our exit now,” I said.
“Allow me to camouflage us,” the Morrigan said.
“Not me,” Odin said. “I’ll use my own methods.”
I still felt sorry for the aging sommelier who had an inordinate fondness for his hamster. Why had Frigg not sent him to oblivion? She somehow inferred what I was thinking and said, “Go. He will be fine.”
“Meet you outside,” the Morrigan said.
The slight tingle of camouflage settled over my skin, and I began to thread my way past customers and staff and then police and paramedics until I was in a bit of free space on Kirkegata. The Morrigan’s sandpapery voice entered my head.
Across the street, Siodhachan, she said.
Turning my head, I saw that the Morrigan and Odin had dropped their concealment and were staring at me from the other side of the street. The sensation of camouflage left me and I became visible as well. After waiting for another couple of cars to pass on the street, I jogged across to them.