* * *
Managarm forced what he hoped appeared to be a gentle smile onto his face. He rose from his chair, grimacing at the squeak of metal against the linoleum floor—like a bullet to his throbbing brain, the pain nearly as bad as the hangover he’d suffered after a three-day mead binge on the eve of the midwinter holiday of Jul back in the 1580s.
Managarm stepped across the floor toward Sally, ignoring the Berserker’s protests as he blocked the television screen. He enjoyed watching her young, pale green eyes in the prematurely wrinkled face grow wide at his approach. “When was the last time you rested?”
Sally gestured awkwardly toward the computer. “I’m trying to track down another ritual source. You know, to figure out what went wrong . . .”
Managarm lifted his eyebrows. He thought he heard the young witch squeak—and the pain in his head began to subside.
“But I’m looking for something to help you, too.” She fidgeted with her hands in her lap. “There might be another computer, so we can work faster.”
One corner of Managarm’s mouth ticked up into a half-smile. “You must relax, Sally Dahl. You’re no good to me if you persist in this anxious state.”
“You’re right, of course,” Sally choked. Her face started to flush red.
Suddenly clearheaded and free of pain, Managarm leaned down and rested a hand on her thin shoulder. He smiled at the feel of her aged, brittle bones beneath his fingers. It would be so easy to break this little witch apart. “Take a breath.”
Panic spread on her face as her diaphragm froze. Her wide eyes darted left and right as her cheeks began to purple from lack of oxygen. If he weren’t pressed for time, Managarm thought he’d quite enjoy torturing this mortal pretender at his leisure.
Try to steal my Berserkers from me? I’ll chew you up like fresh game before the rising of the Black Moon.
“Sally. Sally, look at me.” He pressed down hard on her shoulder, and the pain seemed to snap her back into focus. “You need to relax. Now, breathe . . .”
Sally sucked in a desperate breath and coughed as she exhaled.
“Good. Again, but with a little less distress this time, hmm?”
Sally smiled as her skin color faded to her more normal ivory. By her fourth inhalation, she was breathing easily.
“All right then.” Managarm straightened up and stood over her. The pain in his head came screaming back with the effort, and he doubled over in pain, groaning.
Sally was instantly on her feet. “Oh! Oh, no! Let me help you!” She guided him into her chair.
Managarm shivered at the feel of her bony fingers through his flannel shirt, but instead of taking the hint, the girl pressed her palm against his forehead.
“You don’t feel hot. But . . . Do gods have the same body temperature as humans? Tell me what to do?”
Managarm stared dumbly at her. What in bloody Bilrost is she talking about? He pushed her hands away from his face and barely restrained himself from growling, then softened his tone when he saw the startled expression on Sally’s face. “My apologies. I will be fine, just as soon as you find a way to heal me.”
And for your sake, that had better come sooner rather than later. He smiled silently.
Beneath the table, Baron crawled halfway out of Sally’s backpack. With a fierce growl, the cat reached out one of his forepaws and took a swipe at Managarm’s ankle.
“By the flames of Muspellheim!” Managarm hissed and scooted back from the table, grasping his ankle.
Horrified, Sally yanked her pudgy cat out of the bag and held him far away from Managarm. “Baron! What did I tell you about that kind of behavior!”
Over Sally’s shoulder, Managarm locked eyes with the feline beast. The cat had been snarling at him ever since Managarm had climbed into Opal’s car at the coffee shop.
The cat knows. The old god stared into Baron’s hazel eyes and bared his teeth as Sally continued to scold the cat. The cat didn’t blink.
Sally turned and headed toward the bathroom. “I’m so sorry!” she practically shouted over her shoulder. “He’s been in such a bad mood lately.”
She tossed Baron into the bathroom and shut the door. “There. Did he hurt you?”
Managarm could feel his blue jeans sticking to the blood trickling down into his boot. He forced himself to smile. “No harm done.”
“Here it is!” Opal burst in from one of the bedrooms carrying her roommate’s laptop. She stopped short when she saw Managarm sitting at the computer table. “I know my roommate’s password. Sally can hunt down that cure or whatever, while I look for the book she wants.”
“Very good.” Managarm rose from his chair and offered it to Sally. She stood there, nervous and uncertain. Managarm silently cursed, certain her fidgeting was going to drive him mad before the Black Moon finally arrived. He nodded quickly to Opal and walked back to his seat in the window, passing David who was now bouncing on the sofa cushions in time to a soda pop commercial and barking out a vague approximation of the melody.
Sitting down, Managarm again felt sharp daggers of pain flare up in his skull and radiate down his spine. Either the witch would have to come up with a solution soon, or he’d have to go back to frightening the bejeezus out of her to relieve his own agony. Killing her outright might produce an instant cure, but he couldn’t afford to cut her loose just yet. Too much left for her to do.
Like calling and—Managarm growled at the thought—controlling more Berserkers. Preferably warriors who did more than eat and watch cartoons all night.
As if on cue, David plopped down from the back of the sofa, landing hard on the cushions. “This is boring. I’m hungry,” David called over to Managarm. “Are there any doughnuts? Or tacos? I could really go for some cheese puffs.”
Managarm sighed darkly. This first Berserker was a complete waste of space. He’d forgotten how impossible the warriors could be during downtime, and how many had often gotten themselves killed off as nuisances. Managarm decided David had better find a way to prove his worth before the next sunset, or he’d find himself the first casualty of Managarm’s war on Odin’s clan.
Valhalla Page 19