Still behind the wheel of his pick-up truck, Heimdall sped along the tree-lined gravel road that wound its way to the Lodge. It had been nearly two hours since he’d called the emergency family meeting—he’d been been in the middle of the forest on the other side of the mountain and had had to find another ranger to cover the rest of his shift. He’d also had to break another date with Maggie.
The mid-afternoon sun hung low in the October sky, but it was already much darker in the woods. He could have navigated the private road blind-folded, but Heimdall switched on the headlights out of habit. Rain drops splattered the windshield as low-hanging pine branches scraped the top of his truck.
No doubt he’d be the last to arrive, and that his father would have something to say about it. He could just make out the lights of the clan’s current homestead, built by the gods’ own hands a full century earlier. In those days the property they’d bought half-way up Mt. Hood was far enough from Portland that they had no fear of accidental trespassers stumbling across their family bonfires and raucous holiday celebrations. They also hadn’t imagined too many others wanting to build on a dormant volcano.
Now, however, resorts and vacation cabins were being constructed all over Mt. Hood, encroaching closer and closer on the Lodge. At least a half-dozen times each winter, a carload of ski bums or snowboarders wandered onto the property looking for Government Camp or Timberline Lodge. But Odin refused to so much as put up a gate on the private road leading to the homestead—he’d sooner relocate the entire clan than erect something as vulgar as a fence in the forest.
They were already looking for a new location—yet another scouting expedition Heimdall would have to lead as soon as he found and secured the Yggdrasil. Heimdall clenched his teeth and took a bend in the road a bit too fast. The truck’s back wheels skidded slightly on the wet gravel, and Laika whimpered anxiously.
“Sorry, girl.” Heimdall took a deep breath and flexed his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to relax his body. He knew Laika was reacting more to his stress levels than his driving. “Just a few more minutes, and you’ll be in Frigga’s kitchen lapping up feast scraps.”
Laika yipped happily and sat up tall in the passenger’s seat.
The previous Lodge had been on the Oregon Coast—more convenient to the Sitka Spruce Yggdrasil, on the other side of Portland. But that Lodge had mysteriously burnt down. Heimdall’s investigation hadn’t determined a cause beyond “spontaneous combustion,” and most of his family still believed the compound of log cabins and longhouses had been a casualty of one of Loki’s “accidents.”
Catastrophe had been narrowly avoided twenty years earlier, when Loki was dissuaded from what he thought was a great prank: getting a janitorial job at the nuclear reactor facility in Kelso, Washington. The disasters that struck Three Mile Island and even Chernobyl would have been a walk in the park compared to what might happen if the god of chaos got anywhere near one of those towers.
Heimdall rounded the last turn of the long drive, and Laika pawed excitedly at the dashboard as the Lodge came fully into view. Barely waiting for his truck to come to a complete stop under the giant cedar tree at the Lodge’s front entrance, Heimdall cut the engine and slid out from behind the wheel in a single motion, his mud-caked boots landing squarely on the soft dirt and pine needles. Laika leapt down after him.
The current homestead was a temple of wood and glass rising up among the old-growth trees. Frigga had wanted something more modern after the old compound was destroyed. With its squared columns, lofty archways and exposed wooden beams, the family’s great hall looked more like a Frank Lloyd Wright design than any of the longhouses Heimdall could remember.
Heimdall dutifully wiped his muddy boots on the bristly welcome mat and smiled at Laika mimicking his movements. “All clean now?”
Laika’s tongue hung out of her mouth, and she lifted a dry forepaw to press against the heavy wooden door.
Heimdall smiled and pushed the door open. He and Laika shook off the rain as they stepped onto the all-weather carpeting just inside the doorway. Glancing down at Laika, Heimdall hooked his thumb in the direction of the ceramic wall plaque that greeted every new arrival: “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
Laika whined and stamped her front feet. Enticing aromas of roasted chicken and turkey and stewed vegetables wafted into the foyer—but so did the echoes of worried voices.
Heimdall eyed the impressive collection of boots already lining the walls of the entryway. The clan was fully accounted for.
Heimdall stooped to slip off his heavy boots, hung his damp jacket in the hall closet, and retrieved a pair of sheepskin boots—all in deference to his mother.
Patting his thigh to invite Laika to follow him, Heimdall padded down the oak flooring of the long hallway in his handmade, soft-soled boots. The promise of Frigga’s cooking drew him forward, the flavorful smells awakening his dulled senses with every step. It had been days since he’d gotten a decent night’s sleep in a real bed. Heimdall’s boundless energy and lack of need for sleep had once been legendary, but right now just the thought of a down comforter made his eyelids heavy.
When had sleeping on the forest floor started leaving him so achy?
Stifling a yawn, Heimdall ran a hand across his bare face. The only time he missed his traditional, full beard was when he was in the Lodge with his kin gathered for the feast. It still gave him a start sometimes to see his clean-shaven brothers in their blue jeans and t-shirts instead of skins and armor.
“Hey, Heimdall.”
Heimdall stopped short and glanced into Frigga’s craft room, where his mother’s loom and spinning wheel lorded over assorted knitting and sewing projects sitting in orderly piles on a half-dozen work tables. In the middle of it all, Rod hovered over a floor-mounted heating grate and waved a screwdriver in greeting.
Laika pawed at the air to return the salutation, while Heimdall simply nodded his head at his mother’s human handyman. Rod was the only mortal who knew who—and what—Heimdall and his family were. He’d gradually put the pieces together over the nine years he’d spent around the Lodge installing kitchen cabinets, upgrading light fixtures, and repairing all manner of damage to furniture that resulted whenever Thor watched a televised hockey game.
“Raccoons in the ducts again.” Rod fitted the antique metal grille into the vent and started replacing the screws. “But your mother won’t stop leaving food outside for them, so . . .”
Heimdall watched Rod work the screwdriver with a subtle flair often missing from construction workers, and he tried hard to hide his smile. Rod was a talented handyman and a loyal friend to the Lodge, and it was just an added bonus that his presence made Thor spectacularly uncomfortable, no matter how many times Frigga had tried to explain that homosexuality was actually trendy these days.
“Everyone’s already here.” Tightening the last screw, Rod nodded in the general direction of the den, then looked up at Heimdall. “It’s pretty tense in there. Anything I can do?”
Heimdall gave a noncommittal grunt and continued down the corridor.
Laika drew up short as they approached the end of the hallway. She glanced up at Heimdall as he stood on the threshold, watching his kin in the open kitchen and adjoining den as they huddled around platters of steaming food—two roasted turkeys, a smaller broiled chicken, a dozen crusty loaves of dark bread, and heaping bowls of potatoes, simmered greens, peppered cabbage, and more.
Laika pawed at his leg. When Heimdall looked down at her, Laika glanced at the food, then back at Heimdall. She then glanced at Frigga seated in the den, and back at Heimdall, and lifted her worried eyebrows.
Heimdall patted her head. “You hungry?”
Laika smiled and panted.
“Come on, then.” Heimdall stepped into the kitchen and grabbed the last empty plate. He wasn’t sure how Frigga had managed to prepare so much food on such short notice—though this spread paled in comparison to the sumptuous feasts she normally served. Then again, his mot
her was always cooking something.
The traditional dishes tasted somewhat different these days. Ingredients from the old recipes weren’t often available—some of the savory herbs had long since died out, and modern pasteurization left an odd taste to the butter and cream. But Frigga had adapted and invented new dishes to satisfy the Norse appetite. It had taken Odin’s clan a while to get used to pastas and curries, but “Viking pizza”—roasted lamb, cabbage, and goat cheese piled high on flat bread—had been an instant favorite.
Much to Frigga’s chagrin, Odin did periodically demand a turducken—a culinary monstrosity Frigga could barely bring herself to look at, much less cook—after Saga had bought one on a whim at the grocery store one year during American Thanksgiving.
Heimdall stood at the counter and started serving himself. At least a dozen dishes had already been picked over by the rest of the clan, but there was plenty left for him—and possibly a full complement of Vikings. He elbowed his way between his colossal brother, Thor, and his more slightly built cousin, Freyr, to grab a handful of dinner rolls.
Thor grunted without even looking at him. “About time you got here.”
Heimdall scooped cabbage and squash onto his plate and reached for a turkey leg, pausing to toss a hunk of meat to Laika waiting patiently behind him. “Drove as fast as I could. Forest roads aren’t like open highways, you know.”
Thor sniffed hard and rounded the end of the counter that separated the kitchen from the den, stepping down into the sunken family room where he found a seat on a leather-covered settee with his back to the kitchen. Heimdall let Laika lick a mound of mashed potatoes out of his hand.
“You think it’s true? They saw a Berserker?” Freyr scooped up the last of the braised beets and oranges. The nature god was shorter and more slender than Heimdall—though Heimdall himself was fairly lean by Viking standards.
Heimdall shrugged.
“That must have been rough, getting dissed by a Berserker like that.” Freyr licked a trickle of beet juice off the side of his hand.
Heimdall stared solemnly at his brother’s broad back. Thor would be the last of his kin to admit any such sensitivities. But to be ignored by one of his own warriors—even a new Berserker fresh from his awakening—must have been one of the greater shocks of his very long life.
From the black leather sofa where he sat next to his wife, Odin trained his eye on Heimdall and Freyr loitering at the formica kitchen island.
“Get in here, both of you!” he bellowed. “This is no time for stragglers.”
Freyr stepped down into the den, but Heimdall lagged behind to fill a ceramic bowl with a little of everything from the platters of food on the counter while Laika sat by his feet, licking her chops. When he put the overflowing bowl of food down for her, she looked up at him, tentatively wagging her tail.
“It’s okay, really.” Heimdall gestured toward the bowl. “Just eat it, will you?”
Laika sniffed hungrily at the bowl, then cocked her head at the sound of Frigga’s voice in the den.
“She won’t be mad. I promise.” He nudged the bowl toward her with his foot.
Grudgingly, she started eating from the bowl.
“You are the weirdest dog . . .”
She looked up at him and bent her ears back in disapproval. Heimdall laughed. “Okay. Wolf-dog. You are the weirdest wolf-dog.”
Satisfied, Laika bent back down over her bowl. Heimdall collected his plate and headed into the den where his kin were already deep into their late afternoon dinner.
Freyr had snagged the last comfortable seat, sharing a leather sofa with his twin sister, Freya, and his cousin, Saga. Odin and Frigga occupied the matching sofa on the other side of the massive coffee table Rod had crafted from stone tile—after Thor had broken the previous table by sitting on it.
The other two sides of the table were bounded by Thor, taking up the space of three people on the leather settee, and on the other end by the great hearth where there was always a roaring fire, regardless of the season. Tonight, with rain starting to pound against the Lodge’s roof and picture windows looking out on the small clearing behind the house and the darkening forest beyond, Heimdall figured the hearth bench was probably the best seat in the house.
He skirted behind the sofa where his parents sat, trying not to spill any of his food. Frigga reached back and grabbed his wrist as he passed. The light from the hearth glinted off her short, black hair as she eyed his plate and frowned. Apparently it wasn’t sufficiently overloaded with her home-cooked, hearty fare.
“A crisis is never a good time to stop eating properly.” Frigga flashed a masterful, guilt-inducing smile and dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin.
Heimdall kept moving, careful to hide his grin from his mother. Even after many centuries of living among supposedly more “civilized” peoples, the sight of any Norse god using a napkin always struck Heimdall as funny. Frigga was determined to master modern etiquette, but her sons still preferred to wipe their greasy fingers on their socks.
“Woman!” Odin bellowed, even though he was sitting right next to Frigga. “Leave the boy alone. If he’s hungry, he’ll eat.”
Finished with his own meal, Odin tossed his ceramic plate onto the stone coffee table and belched loudly as his utensils clattered onto the hardwood floor.
Frigga sighed in familiar exasperation. She rose from her seat and reached for Odin’s plate, checking it for cracks, then examined the coffee table for damage.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to throw the dishware?” She picked up his fork, knife, and spoon and wiped a few bits of food off of the floorboards with his discarded napkin. “I swear, you can take the god out of the Jutland . . .”
Odin laughed heartily and smacked his wife on her broad backside. She stood upright, scowled at him, then strode toward the kitchen, shaking her head. Odin laughed harder, then thumped the flat of his fist against his chest and belched again.
“Ugh!” On the other side of the room, Saga wrinkled her nose in disgust, a near perfect imitation of her mother. “For frigg sake, Dad!”
Odin wagged a stern finger in her direction. “Don’t take your mother’s name in vain, young lady.”
The eternal teenager, Saga collapsed back against the dark leather of the sofa, her long, dark curls falling forward into her face. “Whatever.”
“WHAT IS THIS?!” Frigga shrieked from the kitchen. She appeared again in the den, dragging Laika behind her by the scruff of her neck. The poor dog’s tail was between her legs and she hunched her shoulders, trying to crouch down and away from Frigga’s firm grasp.
“Heimdall! What in the Nine Realms is this animal doing in my house?!”
Heimdall looked at Laika, who gazed forlornly up at him. “Umm, she comes inside all the time . . . ?”
“Not since I put in my new floors, she doesn’t.” Frigga dug her hands deeper into Laika’s fur. Laika whined, her eyes darting around the room for an escape route.
Heimdall put his plate down and walked toward Frigga and Laika. “I forgot. Sorry,” he said more to Laika than to his mother.
“I should think so, bringing in this beast to scratch up my hardwood.” Frigga released Laika to Heimdall and then fluffed her neatly coiffed hair. “You can put her outside.”
“It’s raining pretty hard out there.”
Frigga sighed loudly and rested her hands on her hips. “On the porch, Heimdall. There’s a roof. She’ll stay dry.” She leaned over Laika and lightly patted her head. “I’m not completely heartless.”
Laika nervously edged closer to Heimdall.
“Yeah, okay. Outside.” Heimdall retrieved Laika’s bowl from the floor and refilled it with scraps from the counter. When he opened the kitchen door leading to the raised porch, Laika cried in protest.
“Don’t be such a baby,” he said loudly, for Frigga’s benefit.
Head hanging low, Laika walked slowly to the door. She stopped on the threshold, g
lanced up at Heimdall with a stifled groan, and stepped out onto the wet porch. Heimdall leaned out the door and put her bowl down for her.
“I guess you were right to be nervous about Frigga, huh?” He crouched down next to her and rubbed her ears. “You’ll be okay out here.”
Laika sniffed at the hard rain coming down beyond the shelter of the porch roof, then lay down and shifted her big blue eyes sadly from side to side.
Heimdall stood and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not falling for that poor puppy routine anymore. You be a good girl.”
He stepped back inside and shut the door, careful to wipe off on the doormat what little moisture might have spread to the bottoms of his boots.
Grabbing his plate as he stepped back to the hearth, Heimdall nearly tripped over his younger brother, Bragi, stretched out on the floor in front of the fire.
“Sorry about that, man.” Heimdall kept his food from spilling, but he did drop his fork into Bragi’s lap.
Tucking his chin-length, dark hair behind his ear, the younger god just rolled his eyes and handed the fork back to his brother. “Nice of you to join us. Considering you’re the one who called this meeting.”
Heimdall stepped over Bragi to take a seat on the low, stone ledge of the fireplace, and paused to adjust the screen so a stray spark from the roaring fire wouldn’t catch his fleece pullover. It had taken Bragi two such accidents just in the last century to learn the same lesson. So much for the Bard of the Gods—gifted in poetry and prose, klutzy with fire.
Just as Heimdall took a massive bite out of his roasted turkey leg—with hot juice running down his chin—his mother reached out to pat his knee. “There you go, I knew you’d get your appetite back.”
Frigga smiled and laid a napkin on his thigh. He frowned at the linen on his blue jeans, then noticed that Frigga’s hands were shaking. Chewing slowly and using the napkin to mop at the hot juice that dribbled down his chin, Heimdall glanced around the room. His family were chowing down hard like it was any other dinner—except for the silence, punctuated by the occasional forced laugh.
Heimdall swallowed. “Thanks for dinner, Frigga.”
She nodded absently with the same smile frozen on her face.
Heimdall tucked his napkin into the collar of his pullover, knowing it would please her, then cleared his throat. “By now you’ve all heard about the Berserker. And about my experience in the woods.” He nodded toward his cousin on the sofa. “Freya was also on the hunt, in a different location, and sensed no such disturbance.”
Freya nodded sharply.
“What about the rest of you?”
At the other end of the room, Thor’s loud sigh turned into an awkward, echoing hiccup. He patted his chest and reached for his beer stein. Freyr looked across at Heimdall and rolled his eyes.
Freya stood up. “I’ve been thinking about that.” She gestured toward Odin and Thor. “You were there with the Berserker. You felt the Calling that initiated his awakening. And Heimdall must have been near the source of the Calling, or in its direct path as it went out.”
Heimdall shook his head. “There was no one else out there, I’m certain of it. Whatever that was, it felt like it moved right through me. Knocked me flat on my back.”
Odin inhaled sharply. “Yes, just before. Like a shade flew over me.”
“Sounds like someone’s been working magick.” Freya rested her hands on her knees as she sat cross-legged on the sofa.
“You think it was one of us?” Freyr raised his eyebrows at his sister.
Freya lifted her hands in the air and shrugged.
“Berserkers don’t just awaken by accident,” Freyr reminded her. “Loki’s the only one with any kind of raw power anymore. But even if he wanted to do some fool thing like call up a Berserker, he couldn’t, right? He can’t control his power.”
Saga leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “Assuming it really was a Berserker.”
Thor was picking at his bottom teeth with his fingernail. “I know what I saw,” he grumbled. He pulled his hand away from his face, examined the bit of carrot his nail had dislodged, then sucked the orange shred back into his mouth.
Saga shook her head. “Okay, but . . . Have you looked at the world we’re living in lately? The humans have all kinds of disorders now. Some of the people who come into the bookstore are crazy as loons! Maybe you saw some guy who’d just dropped acid or smoked crystal meth or something. But a Berserker? You can’t be serious.”
Odin looked across the room at his youngest child and sighed. “I wish it had been as you’ve suggested. Drugs. Heavy metal music. Whatever the latest scourge on human civilization happens to be. But I’d recognize that look anywhere—the sudden, mad gleam that flared in the boy’s eyes . . .”
Odin rested back into the sofa and closed his eye. “It was most definitely a Berserker.”
The Berserkers had served Odin for centuries. Born mortal, they acquired impenetrable protection when the gods sent out a Calling for the warriors to awaken, and they fought with wild enthusiasm under the leadership of Thor. Legends told of axe blades shattering on their shoulders and skulls, and that no spear could pierce the warriors’ skin. Most of them lost their minds in the transformation from mere mortal to crazed warrior, and many Berserkers ran into battle with no armor—sometimes without any garments at all—leaving in their wake the bloodiest corpses their enemies had ever seen. The Berserkers had never been defeated.
“But it’s been centuries since the Berserkers were called,” Freyr protested. “Not since the last battle with Fenrir.” Freyr leaned forward, looking directly at Odin. “You don’t think that scurvy Randulfr has managed to free himself . . . ?”
Odin dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.
Heimdall remembered that battle, when the gods had scarcely beaten back the final, fated confrontation that would destroy them all.
Vague murmurs of Ragnarok—the prophesied battle that would wipe out Odin’s clan and create the Cosmos anew—arose from time to time. The Fenris Wolf was still imprisoned. They themselves were weaker, but still standing. But these troubling developments on the eve of the stars coming into alignment, and no new Yggdrasil in sight . . .
Heimdall swallowed hard, forcing down a half-chewed piece of bread. “You’re sure you didn’t call the warrior?”
“I think I’d damned well know if I’d called up a Berserker.” Odin shot his son an impatient scowl. “We were talking about a mathematics competition. The kid was sitting there doing geometry problems, and then . . .”
“Berserker,” Freya hissed.
“Berserker,” Odin grunted in agreement.
Heimdall took a huge bite out of the turkey leg. Frigga was right. Even when the fate of the Cosmos hung in the balance, there was no sense letting food this good go to waste. But his chewing slowed to a standstill when he saw Rod emerge from the utility room off the kitchen and approach the den. The man folded his work gloves neatly and tucked them into the leather belt looped through his snug blue jeans.
Heimdall turned to Frigga and frowned. “Muh, mubbe Rud shundn beh hruh feh zish?”
She cocked her head and sighed. “You will swallow before speaking. Just because you’re at the Lodge with your kin doesn’t mean you check your manners at the door.”
Heimdall chewed furiously, trying to swallow enough to be understood. But before he could ask again, Odin caught sight of Frigga’s auburn-haired, human handyman standing on the step leading down into the den.
“Rod, this is a family meeting and doesn’t concern you.” Odin scowled as he puffed out his chest.
Frigga rested a hand on her husband’s arm. “Don’t be silly. Have a seat, Rod. Or, do you want something to eat?” She gestured toward the steaming platters on the kitchen island.
“No, thank you. I think I’ve had plenty.” He smiled and patted his lean mid-section, then smiled down at the hulking frame of Thor on the settee close by.
The g
od of thunder bristled at Rod’s nearness and his attempt at eye contact. Thor glanced at his mother for help.
“Move over, darling. Let Rod sit down.”
Heimdall saw a shudder run through his brother’s body. Thor grumbled something unintelligible and scooted over slightly on the leather. Rod stepped down into the den, and sat down beside Thor.
The god of thunder promptly moved over even farther to give Rod a much wider berth than his fit frame required, so that Thor nearly spilled off the end of the settee. The concentration of his hulking mass lifted the other end—and Rod—a few inches off the floor. Heimdall calculated that one move in the wrong direction could catapult Rod across the room and through the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Lodge’s back yard.
But the handyman appeared to enjoy the hulking god’s discomfort. Rod gripped the edge of the settee to keep from sliding toward Thor, and nodded appreciatively at Frigga. “Thanks for allowing me to join you.”
Thor turned his back on Rod and inched away from him on the settee.
“By the tears of the Valkyries!” clucked Frigga. “You’re not going to catch gay cooties.”
Thor’s face flushed bright red. He grabbed his heavy stein off the floor and gulped down his beer, then slammed his stein down on the coffee table, making his mother cringe at the threat to her furniture. With a patronizing smile, Thor scooted a few inches closer to center on the leather bench. The raised end of the settee hit the floor with a dull thud that nearly bounced Rod onto the floor.
“Thanks.” Rod released his tight grip on the leather.
Odin pointed a meaty finger at the handyman and turned angrily to Frigga, but she cut him off before he could even open his mouth.
“Rod already knows everything. He understands what’s at stake. As we’re fast running out of time, I’d say we can use all the help we can get.”
Odin squinted his one eye at Rod, but the human didn’t flinch.
Heimdall was impressed, but he laughed when Odin leaned over Frigga and said, “I still don’t like that he’s prettier than Saga.”
Thor grabbed his stein and raised it to his lips. “As long as he doesn’t think he’s getting his hands on my hammer,” Thor grumbled into his beer. “Thing is sacred.”
Rod sighed in exasperation. “You know, I’m sitting right here. I can hear you.”
Thor took another large swig, then wiped a massive hand across his face as beer dribbled down onto his shirt.
“Ugh. Barbarians,” Frigga hissed. She grabbed the napkin out of the front of Heimdall’s pullover and tossed it to Thor.
Heimdall smiled. “Mother . . . We ARE barbarians.”
“Were, darling.” She leaned over and patted his knee. “Were.”
“Please, everyone.” Rod inched forward on the settee. “I don’t mean to be a disruptive element. I’m here to help, as I’m able.”
Heimdall nodded graciously. “Thank you.” He turned to Odin. “Any past instances of a rogue Berserker arising like that, without being called?”
Odin scowled and shook his head. Heimdall didn’t like seeing his father so lacking in direction, and it was getting worse by the day. His students might cower in Odin’s presence, but leadership of the Lodge was falling increasingly to Heimdall.
Frigga propped an elbow on the back of the sofa. “Is there any possibility that the Tree called the Berserker?”
Freya leaned back and stared up at the ceiling to think. “The new Tree is young. Its energy is not very strong, but it could be misdirected. Or manipulated.”
Freyr nearly laughed. “Who outside of this room would even have a clue how to do something like that, much less get the idea to do it?”
Thor growled low in his throat.
“Okay,” Freyr said. “Besides Loki?”
Freya crossed her arms over her chest. “Loki wouldn’t dare.”
“You sure about that?” Thor grumbled.
“We have his son. Even if Loki wanted to go stirring up old trouble, he’d know that he’d be putting Fenrir in danger.”
The cell phone clipped to Heimdall belt chirped. “Hang on a second.” He checked the display and read the message from Forestry Dispatch: SITKA SPRUCE VANDALIZED.
His blood ran cold. “No.”
Frigga leaned forward. “Heimdall? What is it?”
Heimdall stepped away from the hearth as he pulled up the Forest Service’s internal website on his phone. “This has got to be a mistake.”
Heimdall went to stand by the picture window and scanned through the electronic alerts. He kept an ear on the conversation as he scrolled through bulletins on a minor collision between two vehicles on a heavily traveled service road, a small band of marijuana growers discovered on government property in Central Oregon, and the burned out campsite he was supposed to have surveyed earlier in the day.
“I didn’t even know they still existed,” Bragi said in a low voice. “Berserkers.”
“Why would you say that?” Heimdall asked over his shoulder.
“I suppose I just assumed they died out,” Bragi shrugged. “With the last of the Vikings.”
Saga looked hard at Bragi. “With us, you mean.” She stretched strong arms over her head and shifted in her seat. “The last of those who worshipped us, anyway.” The I Dream of Jeannie theme song suddenly pervaded the room.
Heimdall turned to frown at Saga, but Odin beat him to it.
Saga shrugged off her father’s and brother’s stern expressions as she slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and turned it off. “Sorry.”
Heimdall went back to the tiny screen of his phone. “Come on. Where is it?”
Rod caught Saga’s eye. “You’re still around. Why shouldn’t there still be Berserkers?”
Thor stamped his foot on the floor and stood up. “There must be war brewing then!” His eyes lit up as he paced back and forth, the stone tiles of the coffee table—and the plates and silverware on top of it—shaking with his every step.
“Berserkers arise for one purpose: Battle. That must mean that we are rising again, too.” Thor stopped suddenly, and several utensils clattered to the floor. He clenched his hands into fists, mimicking the earth-shattering thunder bolts he used to throw.
Rod stared into the fire and shrugged. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“The planetary convergence. The rebirth of the Yggdrasil. Think about it, Heimdall.”
“Hmm?” Heimdall turned back to face the room and found his hulking brother’s expectant face. “Yeah, maybe,” he answered distractedly. He struggled with the phone’s miniscule navigation keys and finally found a link to the alert about the Sitka Spruce:
BULLETIN
ROUTINE PATROL REPORTS EVIDENCE OF VANDALISM AT KLOOTCHY CREEK GIANT (SITKA SPRUCE) ON US HWY 26. A PORTION OF THE TREE HAS BEEN SAWED OFF AND REMOVED. ESTIMATED TIME OF INCIDENT BETWEEN 3 PM WED AND 3 PM THU PDT. INVESTIGATION PENDING.
“Kamphundr!” Heimdall shouted. “Ormstunga!”
Frigga swiveled her head around to look at him. “Who’s a carrion eater, darling?”
Heimdall stepped back beside the hearth, his head swimming. He glanced around the room, trying to remember how to form English words.
Odin sat up straight on the sofa and locked his gaze on Heimdall. “Speak.”
“It’s the Tree, the old Tree,” Heimdall stammered. “Someone’s hacked into it, stolen its wood. This is about more than a single Berserker.”
The gods immediately rose to their feet. Rod looked around in confusion. “So, this is bad news?”
Frigga sucked in a sharp breath. “An aimless Berserker on the loose, with no master.” She looked at Heimdall. “And the burnt up campsite? Could it belong to the one who desecrated the old Tree?”
“It’s a completely different part of the woods. The campsite was in Forest Park, inside Portland city limits.” Heimdall’s jaw tightened. “But, yes. That’s what I’m thinking. No way that’s a coincidence.”
“And that,” Thor
offered, turning toward Rod, “definitely isn’t good.”
Rod looked up at Thor, and the god of thunder froze.
“Not that things were good to begin with. Because they weren’t. So this is worse,” Thor stammered. “Worse than it would be otherwise. Not that things still couldn’t get worse. Worse than this. Because they can. And this doesn’t come close to making it better.”
Odin sighed loudly.
Thor tried again, looking down at Rod. “It’s bad. That’s what it means.” He turned to Odin and hooked a thumb in the handyman’s direction. “Sorry, but this guy gives me the willies.”
Rod groaned. “Like I said. I can hear you.”
Heimdall swallowed hard. “I’ve covered about 100 acres since we narrowed down the location to Pierce Forest.”
“We need more boots on the ground,” Freya said to the others.
Rod scooted to the front edge of the settee. “I can help.”
A familiar howl arose from the back porch, accompanied by scratching at the door. Heimdall smiled tensely as he crossed the floor and let Laika into the house. She circled his legs impatiently and barked.
“Mother, forgive me—”
Frigga cut him off with a shake of her head. “Go. Four feet are just as good as two right now.”
Valhalla Page 13