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Knocked flat on his back by an unseen hand, Heimdall stared up at the open sky of waning, pre-dawn stars, and tried to catch his breath.
The son of Odin and guardian of the old Norse gods had been hunting the Tree, moving through the forest as silent as a wolf. The Yggdrasil, the not-so-mythological World Tree, had been reborn somewhere in this Pacific Northwest forest. There was no telling which species of tree it had chosen for itself this time around—maybe cedar, oak, or even another spruce as it had been in its last incarnation.
Heimdall had checked each young sapling for some sign of the Yggdrasil, hastening his pace through the darkness to the rhythm of hooting owls and chirping cicadas. If he didn’t find the Tree—and soon—the entire Cosmos might pay the price for his failure.
Trying to shake the lingering chill along his spine, he rubbed the back of his neck under his thick mane of blond hair and stared down at his mud-encrusted hiking boots. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“What in Svartálfaheim was that?” Heimdall frowned at the old word for the home of the black elves. He and his kin had been in the New World for centuries now. He was generally better than his father or brother, Thor, at remembering to speak only English, but he still had to remind himself every now and again. Even if he were back in the Old World, so many generations had passed since the fall of the Vikings that it was doubtful any modern mortals would understand their ancestral tongue. Besides, he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a black elf.
Seven nights he had been on this trail, following the path laid by the waning moon. Seven nights he had failed—as he had each New Moon for the previous three years, ever since his mother and the Norns had divined that the old World Tree, recently deceased, had chosen to spring up again in this rainy corner of North America.
Every night on the hunt he felt the stars above him—ancient heroes and forgotten gods older than even he—looking down on him, pushing him forward.
The Tree was everything.
Dawn was coming, and he didn’t have much time before he’d have to head back to the station, change into his uniform, and start his shift as a forest ranger. The last thing he needed was to get waylaid by some prankster pixie, or a set of bruised ribs.
There had been growing unease on the successive, monthly hunts for the Yggdrasil. The young World Tree was vulnerable, as it always was at the beginning of its cycle of rebirth. Heimdall and his clan had never failed to find it again and to protect it.
But there was something different in the air this time. If Heimdall failed again to find the Yggdrasil before this Black Moon, with the planets perfectly aligned within the ancient constellations—or so he had been told; that was more Frigga’s department—there was no telling what could happen. He’d heard whispers that he and the remaining members of Odin’s lodge could face anything from a complete loss of their divine powers—already waning with every generation they lived among unbelieving mortals—to the fated arrival of the apocalyptic Ragnarok.
Twilight of the Gods. An all-out battle for control of the Universe, which only few would survive.
Chances are, it wouldn’t be good.
Heimdall shivered, and not from the crisp autumn air.
A twig snapped to his left. Without a sound, Heimdall crawled across damp pine needles and settled into a low crouch beside one of the many evergreen trees. Resting a hand against the rough bark, he slowed his breath and sniffed the air like a true predator. He pressed his other palm flat against the cool earth and listened.
He heard the trees communicating with one other—meandering conversations about rainfall, woodpeckers, air pollution and nesting squirrels. He heard the rapid heartbeats and shallow breath of rabbits in their burrows, and the lumbering gait of a trio of possums.
Below it all was the steady, slow heartbeat of the Earth herself—both a comfort and a reminder of the stakes of his quest.
Heimdall pressed his palm more firmly against the soil and closed his eyes. He frowned, straining to wade through the cacophony of vibrations passing up through his skin, looking for that one familiar beacon.
His face relaxed. Ah, there it is. Heimdall filtered out the noise of the other creatures, plants, elementals, and various sprites and faeries—possibly even other neglected deities like himself—that still roamed the planet’s few remaining wild places, and homed in on the faint, tenuous pulse of the young sapling.
The Yggdrasil.
He was getting closer.
Dusting his hands off on his blue jeans, Heimdall stood up and said a silent prayer for speedy success to the heavens above.
Odd for a god to pray. Heimdall batted away the thought as he would a mosquito. Nowadays, he was prone to prayer, even to superstition. It had crept up on him over the centuries as his divine strength had waned and as his body grew weaker and his senses duller with every passing decade.
These days, his clan—Odin, Freya, Thor, and the few others who’d crossed the Atlantic with the Vikings and the first European colonists—disguised themselves as humans. They drove cars, paid taxes, held down jobs—or tried to, anyway.
As the last words of his silent prayer passed his lips, Heimdall stepped deeper into the forest, forgetting everything but the elusive Yggdrasil. He didn’t stop to ponder who or what he might have been praying to.
His path led him into a clearing. Heimdall slowed as he stepped into this sacred place of power, revering the natural temple that today’s humans too often either took for granted or failed to notice at all. He planted his feet and took a deep breath—despite his still aching diaphragm—and felt the clean, cool air fill his lungs as a gentle rain kissed his skin. He let his eyelids drift closed, and a smile tickled the corners of his mouth as he felt the awareness of the tall trees that ringed the circle around him.
There were so few sacred spaces left.
He strode into the center of the tree-lined glade and watched the shadows cast by the light of the not-quite-dark moon overhead, knowing they concealed supernatural beings he no longer had the reliable ability to detect.
He hunched forward, squinting as his eyes darted right and left, trying to track any movement in the shadows. He was certain he’d not been followed, but he wasn’t exactly prone to falling on his butt by himself.
If a god falls alone in the forest, does he make a sound? Heimdall nearly choked on unexpected laughter, and cleared his throat instead.
“Damn straight he does,” he muttered at the dark trees.
Confident there was no immediate threat, Heimdall planted his feet and stretched his arms up over his head, prepared to call down the subtle powers of the night—even if it was more a symbolic gesture nowadays than a real divine act. He spread his fingers wide and closed his eyes, reaching out to the sky above—then contorted violently inward as a sudden, dark chill raced across his back and danced on his shoulders.
Crouched low, Heimdall dug his fingers into the damp soil to ground himself. An owl screeched behind him. Heimdall spun on his heel to face the noise, his own heart pounding in his ears. At least his body’s fight response was still strong. He closed his eyes and slowed his breath, reaching out with his hearing and ancient intuition. He felt nothing but the night. Whatever had overtaken him was gone.
Heimdall relaxed his jaw and pressed his hands deep into the dirt. He smelled fear on the air and could almost taste a tiny, terrified heartbeat, just yards away. His eyes snapped open at the shrill chatter of a surprised chipmunk, which should have been in its nest fast asleep. The cry was interrupted by burst of movement in the low-hanging shrubs. A high-pitched shriek was cut short by the quick snapping of jaws.
Heimdall sighed and sat back on his heels. “Laika.”
The bushes shuddered, and the gray-and-white head of a wolf-dog emerged. Her downcast eyes sparkled with a mix of guilt and pride over the small, bloody prey still warm in her open mouth.
“Laika,” Heimdall scolded lightly with his voice. “Come.�
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She stepped into the clearing and cocked her head to one side to study the stern expression on her master’s face. Laika stamped her front paws on the soft earth and tried wooing at him with her mouth full, but Heimdall wasn’t budging. With a labored sigh, she dropped the furry body onto the ground and sank down beside it. Resting her head on her forepaws, Laika looked up at Heimdall with pitiful, liquid blue eyes. A hopeful wag shivered through her tail.
“I told you this was no hunting expedition, not for that kind of prey.”
Laika lifted her head and nosed her kill a few inches toward her master. Her mouth fell open into a silly grin, her tongue lolling out to one side.
Heimdall laughed. It was impossible to be angry with this creature who had been the most steadfast mortal companion he’d ever had. He wagged a warning finger at her. “No, you can have it. But no more.”
She watched him for a long moment. Heimdall swore the wolf-dog sometimes looked right through him, with an intelligence surpassing even some of the gods’. But tonight she dropped her gaze and slowly crawled toward the motionless chipmunk. After one more cautious glance at Heimdall, she snapped it up quickly, and went to work picking it apart with the patient precision of an experienced sport hunter, rather than a hungry predator.
Watching her entertain herself, Heimdall frowned. He didn’t like the luxury and convenience of this so-called modern world, with food and distraction available at the touch of a button. Generations of relative peace had bred complacency. He used to long for the days of testing and survival, of true warriors and blood-soaked battles. Now that was just wistful memory. Though he’d gained enlightenment and compassion, living among these supposedly more evolved humans had softened him.
If Ragnarok were to come soon . . . ?
The cell phone in his jeans pocket chirped. Heimdall knelt on the wet ground, pulled the phone out and checked the display: TXT MSG FROM MAGGIE.
Moisture from the ground seeped into his jeans and clung to his skin. He read Maggie’s message: Can U pick up coffee (med mocha latte w/ skim) & muffins 4 brkfst this AM? (& then tell me Y U have 2 work so many nights?)
“Crap.” He’d completely forgotten about his early morning plans with his mortal girlfriend. Every month as the moon waned, he’d made one excuse after another for why he couldn’t spend his evenings with her.
Telling her he was in the forest hunting for an ancient, mystical tree so he and his immortal kin could save the world wasn’t exactly an option.
He took another look around the circle of trees, gazing as deep into the woods as his senses would allow. Nothing. Whether it was an especially cunning predator or some dark magick, whatever had moved through the forest was now gone. He glanced up at the lightening sky, then checked his watch. 7:02 a.m.
He looked down at Laika and patted his thigh. “Let’s go, girl. We’re calling it a night.”
Valhalla Page 2