Thor squirmed in the back seat of Bragi’s Subaru Forester, trying to get comfortable as he dozed. Squeezed between dented metal and shabby upholstery for six hours while Frigga shot down every single one of his elaborate and exceptionally clever conspiracy theories was not his idea of a good time. Thankfully, Frigga had dozed off somewhere around Pendleton as they headed to the Northeastern corner of Oregon.
Sleeping fitfully, Thor dreamt Odin had convinced Bragi to trade in his battered Subaru for a diesel-powered truck, but then he’d been jarred awake to find himself looking out the same moss-covered windows.
“Rugged chic my left kneecap,” Thor grumbled low enough for no one to hear, then fell back asleep.
He next awoke to the smell of coffee and a bag of pastries landing on his chest. The sudden proximity of food cleared his head, but he sat up too fast and smacked his head against the car’s ceiling.
“Oof!” Thor rubbed the top of his head, then pounded the ceiling above, leaving a sizable dent. “Stupid horseless machinery.” He made several thundering, retching noises that sounded like he might be trying to dislodge one of his own lungs—what qualified for Thor as clearing his throat in the morning—then sniffed at the contents of the paper bag. He frowned. “No jelly?”
“No.” Bragi paused at a stoplight to hand a cup of coffee back to him from the driver’s seat. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with two cream-filled, three cake doughnuts, a half-dozen bear claws, and some others.”
Thor pulled out a custard-filled pastry. What was the point of a road trip without jelly doughnuts? He eyed the pastry warily and bit off two-thirds of it in a single bite. Custard oozed out the sides of his mouth and glopped onto his jeans. He chewed, muttering curses to the effect of Eastern Oregonians being wretched creatures trapped in the dark ages of confectionery, and something about the baker’s questionable relationship with a pig, then took a massive gulp of the piping hot coffee, which burnt about two layers off skin off the roof of his mouth. Thor just grunted and shoved the rest of the pastry into his mouth.
“Joseph already?” Thor looked out at the rosy pink sky and guessed it was close to 6 a.m.
“Just.” Frigga took a tiny bite of a cranberry-bran muffin and monitored Bragi’s driving. “We’ll go another six-tenths of a mile and then turn onto Wallowa, then take a left onto Lake Street headed toward Mountain Home . . . And slow down! We’re in a 35 mile-per-hour zone.”
“Yes, mother.” Bragi caught Thor’s gaze in the rearview mirror and rolled his eyes. “You know, I’ve only been driving for the past 82 years. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you here to give me turn-by-turn directions and point out whenever I’m going a full two miles over the speed limit.”
Thor started to laugh, earning him a sharp backward glance from Frigga. He lowered his head and bit into a sticky bear claw.
“All right, smart aleck.” Frigga took another nibble of her muffin. “You want to run the meeting with Loki, too?”
“No.”
She turned to look at Thor. “What about you, tough guy?”
“Mmnfk.” Thor swallowed a mouthful of pastry and took another gulp of coffee. “No, that’s okay.”
“I didn’t think so.” Frigga fluffed her hair before reaching over to pat Bragi’s arm. “You boys really should relax. I’m sure Loki will be happy to see us.”
Thor shoved another pastry into his mouth to choke down the sarcastic comments that threatened to come flying out. Even with the peace that Odin had negotiated with Loki, none of the clan was particularly comfortable around the dark god—nor vice versa, Thor imagined.
It was highly suspicious that Loki was the only one to retain any divine strength, and Thor hadn’t decided whether or not he believed Loki had truly lost control of his powers.
Sure, ice cream melted in grocery store freezers and milk cartons burst their seams whenever Loki tried to go shopping. Loaded guns went off by themselves when he got too close. Once he’d complained of a mild headache in the middle of a bank, and triggered the fire alarms of every building on the block. Traffic lights malfunctioned as he crossed intersections, leaving scores of fender benders and even a few fatalities in his wake. Another time, Loki sneezed, and a dam eighty-two miles away ruptured; seventy-nine people lost their homes in the deluge.
Even Odin’s Lodge wasn’t safe. After a dozen too many exploding cast-iron pots in Frigga’s kitchen and monthly calls to the electrician to correct the Lodge’s wiring, Loki was effectively banished from the homestead.
It had been twenty-seven years since Loki had moved 300 miles away. Still, whenever the god of chaos’ name so much as came up in conversation, Thor was instinctively on-guard.
Turning onto a single-lane road that led out of town, Bragi reached into the back seat and held out an open hand. “How about another pastry up here?”
Thor popped the last bit of his sixth cinnamon twist into his mouth, crumpled the empty bag into a ball, and dropped into Bragi’s hand. Bragi scowled at the paper ball and tossed it to the floorboards at Frigga’s feet.
“Classic.” Frigga reached down for the discarded pastry bag and dropped it neatly into a trash bag she kept tucked under the passenger seat. “Not much farther now.”
Bragi made a left onto a dirt road that wound around a steep hill. About three-quarters of the way up, he turned right and guided the car up an even steeper dirt driveway, finally coming to a stop on a level patch beneath a trio of tall pine trees.
The three sat silently in the car, looking out at Loki’s rustic cabin, built from trees that had gratefully given up their wood for the home of one of the old gods—when the trees at least had still recognized them as deities. The cabin’s simple, unpainted frame was darkened by weather and time. A neat flower-bed lay to the side of wide steps leading up to a porch that ran the width of the cabin.
“Hmm. He’s kept up the place rather well.” Frigga unbuckled her seat belt and got out of the car.
“Right.” Bragi pushed open the driver’s door—which protested with a loud squeal—and climbed out, stretching his long arms as he tried to work out the kinks that had settled into his spine after driving all night. He glanced across the top of the car at Frigga. “You’re driving back.”
She sipped the last of her coffee. “I’ll make sure we stop for some decent food, then.”
Thor lumbered out of the back and growled as the car, suddenly free of his hulking mass, sprang up six inches. The door sounded like a screeching chicken when he slammed it shut. Thor stomped around the car for a few minutes, cursing and kicking at the dirt. Frigga glanced his way with a single raised eyebrow. Thor paused, then started stomping in place..
“My feet fell asleep.” Thor looked over at Bragi and squared his shoulders. “No wonder, packed in this tuna can all night long.” He thumped the top of the Subaru, denting the roof—again—and smiled when he saw Bragi wince. “When are you going to get a decent car?”
Bragi rolled his eyes and looked away.
His brother hadn’t taken the bait, so Thor kicked at the car tires — mostly for show. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck changing another blown tire on this gods-forsaken vehicle. Still, the hubcap split in two and fell off. Thor looked sideways to make sure Bragi hadn’t seen, then quickly pushed the evidence under the car with the toe of his boot. He straightened up and rested his meaty hands on his hips. “Well? Are we going in or not?”
As if on cue, Loki opened the front door. For someone who left so much bedlam and disorder in his wake, he was surprisingly unimposing in the flesh—a modest 5’9”, in loose-fitting jeans and a faded corduroy shirt that probably used to be black. Beneath wavy salt-and-pepper hair that hung loose to his shoulders, his gray eyes were more curious than intimidating.
Loki slid his hands into his jeans pockets and leaned against the doorjamb. “From the looks on your faces, I’d say this wasn’t a social visit.”
“Well, we couldn’t exactly call, could we?” Thor grumbled. “Since no t
elephone will work longer than three-and-a-half seconds around Loki.”
Ignoring both comments, Frigga strolled over to a few herb bushes the size of small boulders just as the morning sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Frigga inhaled deeply and smiled.
“Rosemary, lavender, and . . .” She opened her eyes and looked around and spotted the tell-tale vine trailing up the side of Loki’s cabin. “Honeysuckle! Now how on earth do you get that to bloom in October?”
Loki shrugged. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, great,” Thor grumbled. “Perfumey.” He stepped up next to Bragi and leaned close to whisper. “Maybe we should bring Rod up here.”
Bragi sniggered before he caught himself. Frigga looked back and fixed them both with a cold stare, then straightened her shoulders and walked toward Loki.
“I’m afraid we’re here on business, old friend.” Frigga stopped at the bottom of the cabin’s wooden stairs and surveyed the herb garden. “Sage, wormwood, foxglove, yarrow, burdock, mugwort, marjoram, agrimony, coriander, fennel . . .” Frigga turned back to Loki with a quick wink. “Someone still keeps up the old ways.”
Loki laughed as she climbed the stairs. “That was never my art. I just like a little rosemary in my bread.”
Thor hung back and watched Loki through narrowed eyes. He didn’t trust any god who could melt cell phones by accident or who voluntarily baked his own bread. He wanted desperately to make some comment about how unnatural it was for the Norse god of mayhem to be puttering around the garden, but he was already looking at another long car ride back to Portland and didn’t want to give his mother any more cause for complaint.
Loki opened his arms and took Frigga into a strong but brief hug. She pulled away to make room for Thor and Bragi as they climbed the steps. Loki looked into their stern expressions and sighed.
“I suppose you should come inside.”
If Thor had been expecting a proper gods’ welcome, complete with an extravagant feast and warrior games, he would have been sorely disappointed. Loki was a warm but frugal host, having adopted the more thrifty gastronomic ways of modern men—so no singing bards to greet arriving guests and returning heroes. Thor cast an appraising eye around the main room of Loki’s cabin, which served as kitchen, dining room, and den with a short hallway leading to the single bedroom and bath. But the windows overlooking the back porch offered a magnificent view of the property’s upward sloping back yard and its great trees adorned in autumn colors. There was even a rope hammock slung between two tall oak trees, and a simple swing swayed in the gentle breeze.
Thor couldn’t help himself. He hooked his thumb in the direction of the yard. “Have a lot of tea parties, do you?”
Loki glanced out the back window. “The swing is for the neighboring children. They like to come over and play.”
Thor raised his eyebrows. “How do their parents feel about their kids romping about a dark god’s yard?”
Frigga hissed and grabbed Thor’s arm. “I’m sure you didn’t mean—”
Loki ignored the insult. “Sometimes I make them smoothies while they build forts. They like to pick fruit and berries from the yard in the summer. The figs, raspberries, apples, and plums grow like crazy around here.”
Bragi smiled. “Let me guess. That’s in your yard only?”
Loki shrugged. “At least wild, undirected chaos is good for something.” He winked at Frigga. “Of course, it makes pizza delivery impossible. Guido’s started boycotting the entire hill, since the pizza warmers in the delivery cars blow out every time they get within a mile of here.”
He motioned them toward a small sitting area just inside the front door. Frigga sat down on the love seat underneath the main room’s front window. Loki set pots of strong coffee and herbal tea on the coffee table and let his guests pour for themselves while he fetched plates of sliced apples, wafer cookies, and homemade biscuits still steaming from the oven.
Frigga tilted her head and looked up at Loki. He smiled weakly and shrugged. “Just had a feeling I’d have company this morning.”
“What would have given you that idea?” Thor struggled to get comfortable in the worn, mission-style chair at the end of the table. He was coming to the realization that he was simply too large for conventional furniture. Grunting and flushing red, he wedged himself between the oak armrests. He heaved a sigh, and the chair frame creaked in protest.
Loki settled into a simple rocking chair on the other side of the coffee table. “Something in the air didn’t feel quite right.” He poured himself a cup of tea then chewed thoughtfully on an apple slice and rocked slowly. “That, and the fact that my postman yesterday got halfway to my mailbox, then suddenly stripped naked and dashed off into the woods screaming. Left the whole hill’s mail just sitting in the dirt.”
“Berserker,” Thor grunted.
Loki responded with an unconcerned nod.
Bragi put down his cup of coffee and leaned forward in his chair. “So, what did you do?”
Loki pursed his lips and glanced out the window at the brightening morning sky. “I picked up the mail and delivered it myself.”
“YOU WHAT?!” Thor tried to launch himself out of his seat, but the chair gripped his broad hips and wouldn’t let go. He tried to stand, but managed only to lift the chair a couple of inches off the hardwood floor and then slam it back down again when he gave up.
“You’ve got a bloody Berserker running around your yard, and all you think to do is deliver the mail?!” Thor’s face and neck burned beet red, his large hands clenching the armrests and threatening to pull the chair to pieces.
Loki raised a hand. “Would you please try to keep your temper in check? I’m afraid you will be the death of my furniture. Handmade, you know.”
Thor looked to Frigga for help, and it took a second for him to register the glimmer in her eye and the hint of a smirk at the corners of her mouth. Loki was baiting Thor. It worked every time.
Frigga nibbled at the edge of a biscuit and exclaimed in delight. “Loki! When did you learn to bake like this? You’ll have to give me the recipe.”
Loki nodded. “Of course. I got that recipe from my neighbor, Jane. We have kind of an informal exchange up here—the people who live on this hill.” He smirked at Thor. “We call ourselves the Mountain Cottage Wives. I’ve given them the old recipes for oatcakes and what the ladies are calling Viking Barley Bread, and I’ve come close to mastering fruit pies and scones. I also make a mean buffalo chili.”
Thor eyed the plates of fruit and baked goods with skepticism, then leaned back in his chair, which squealed again under the strain.
“There really was the Berserker, though.” Loki took a long sip of hot tea. “But there wasn’t anything for me to do. I figured that was more your department.”
Thor nodded, the flush on his cheeks fading.
Loki watched him with interest. “I gather there have been others?”
Frigga poured herself some tea and picked up a thin wafer cookie. “One that we know of. One of Odin’s students.”
Loki abruptly stopped rocking in his chair and looked at her, then resumed the motion as he sucked his breath in through his teeth. “That’s a young one.”
“Only by today’s standards,” Bragi offered.
Thor remembered how common it was to find boys as young as thirteen or fourteen in the warrior ranks in the old days, when going into battle was a right of passage and an honored duty. A boy wasn’t yet a man until he had spilled enemy blood. Only then could he enjoy the rights of property and status befitting a true warrior. Reaching the age of eighteen without being battle-tested was not only shameful, it was unheard of.
“Loki.” Thor leaned forward, trying hard not to do any more damage to the groaning chair. “The student awoke in front of Odin, and me.”
Loki raised his eyebrows. “And?”
“And nothing. The Berserker didn’t so much as acknowledge either one of us. As though we weren’t even there.”
Loki reached for another slice of apple. “So,” he chewed as he spoke, “you think someone else has called the Berserkers—and not very efficiently, so perhaps it stands to reason you’d come questioning me.” His voice remained calm and even. “You surmise I might have something to gain by putting Berserkers into service against my estranged kin?”
Thor drummed his fingers on the wooden armrest and glared across the table at the god of chaos, but Loki turned to Bragi and stared him down.
“That’s not why we’re here,” Bragi said. “Nobody thinks that.”
Loki smiled. “Perhaps the reason the Berserker ignored Odin—and I’ll remind you, my postman ignored me when he awoke—is because you’ve all finally lost every last shred of divinity, and are now nothing more than mortal beings.”
Bragi let out a startled squeak, which he tried to cover with a cough and a long gulp of coffee. “Well, given those options, I suppose we should be happy that it’s the former. That it’s someone else.”
Thor leaned forward again, with the chair’s wooden frame squealing warnings of imminent splintering, and said cooly, “It’s Managarm.”
“Managarm,” Loki echoed. He narrowed his eyes and nibbled the edge of a flaky biscuit. “The Moon Dog.”
“Yeah, you know, the dark, grumpy lesser god who, not unlike yourself, disappeared into the woods when the clan relocated to the Pacific Northwest,” Bragi spat.
“That’s enough, Bragi.” Frigga lifted her chin.
“The last I heard of my wolf cousin, he’d joined a survivalist group in the Cascades Mountains to wait out the coming Apocalypse.” Loki sipped his tea. “When was that? A century ago?”
Thor watched Loki closely. Loki swallowed hard and glanced sideways at Thor, then turned to Frigga to speak.
“You think Managarm seeks to bring about Ragnarok.” It was more statement than question. Loki finished his tea and rested his cup back on the table. “So, let’s talk about my son.”
~ twelve ~
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