* * *
Having finally given up on the electronic garage gate that had refused to budge at Rita’s apartment building, Managarm had circled the surrounding blocks seven times before he found an empty parking space big enough for his dented Suburban four blocks away. He growled and cursed at the patrons ducking in and out of P.F. Chang’s, Andina, Cloud Seven Cafe, and Whole Foods. He hated being downtown on a Saturday night.
And then he’d reached Rita’s building to find that the elevators were out and only the emergency lights were working.
After climbing an endless parade of staircases—and swearing every step of the way—Managarm threw open the stairwell door onto the darkened thirteenth floor and nearly spat on the carpet in disgust. What the hell had happened while he was gone?
In one hand, Managarm carried a damp sack filled with the Sitka Spruce runes, soaked in Sally’s blood. With his other hand balled into an angry fist, he made his way toward Rita’s apartment, where he found the door standing wide open and scores of people he didn’t know milling about inside. Save for the flickering candles scattered about the great room, the apartment was just as dark as the rest of the building.
“Who are you?” Managarm scowled, scanning the room for his Berserkers. The whole place smelled strangely of cinnamon and vanilla.
Peter squeezed through the crowd, balancing more bowls of snacks and chopped fruit than he could safely carry.
“Managarm!” Peter nearly dropped a tureen of cheese puffs on the floor. “We couldn’t get in touch with you. There’s been a, a problem.”
Managarm stormed toward him, and the crowd pressed back to give him a wide berth. Peter tried to duck out of the way but Managarm caught him by the front of his shirt. “What kind of problem?”
“Loki paid a visit.” Peter’s shoulders sank, and he spilled corn chips onto the floor. “I thought he was coming to help.”
Managarm let Peter go. “Loki?” He scanned the surrounding crowd for the familiar face of his dark kinsman, but Loki was nowhere to be found among the senior citizens, a hockey team in full gear, a rowdy group of cyclists looking surly in spandex, and four guys in slick, matching suits. He then noticed the smoke rising from the stereo system, and the burnt and cracked glass of the computer monitor on the desk.
“I didn’t even think to be wary of him, since he’s the father of Fenrir and all.” Peter looked carefully up at Managarm. “It was sabotage.”
Managarm’s brows knitted together. “Sabotage.”
“Yeah. Everything started blowing up.” Still trying to balance the heavy serving bowls, Peter gesticulated dramatically, flinging sliced apples and corn chips in every direction. “The computers, the TV, everything electrical. It was awesome!”
With no appreciation for the young warrior’s enthusiasm, Managarm glowered at Peter, who wisely shrank back a few steps.
“Loki,” Managarm muttered to himself. He’d thought the god of chaos would have steered clear of this fight, particularly if it meant Fenrir’s freedom, but he’d gotten involved anyway. Still, Managarm had Berserkers. So what if Odin had Loki?
He surveyed the surrounding crowd with a more critical eye, noting with satisfaction the moon-shaped blood stains soaking through each of their shirts. But he frowned when he saw the cluster of old women in their aprons. “These are the new warriors? The ones the witch called?”
Peter nodded. “They’ve been showing up all afternoon.”
“And why does it smell like cookies?!” Managarm roared.
An older woman with a lavender tint to her silver hair stepped forward. “We’re the Angel Bakers, from Cedar Presbyterian,” she announced with pride. “We brought shortbread.”
Managarm’s jaw tightened. He doubted he’d be able to take down Odin, Thor, and Heimdall with a few dozen snickerdoodles. He felt his blood pressure rising and was about to let out an ear-splitting roar when Peter stepped quickly in front of him.
“We’ve also got the Zoobombers, see?” Peter put the serving bowls on the floor and gestured to a far corner of the room where a boisterous group of young people dressed in stretch pants, brightly colored feather boas, and sparkling top hats were digging into a half-dozen pink boxes of doughnuts, completely ignoring Managarm. “They’re Portland’s renegade cyclists . . .”
Managarm looked at Peter with raised eyebrows. He was only slightly more impressed with Zoobombers than he had been with the Angel Bakers.
“Okay, umm, and a rec league hockey team . . .”
Fifteen middle-aged men suddenly jumped to attention, their ice skates scraping up the hardwood floor as they held their hockey sticks across their chests in a kind of salute. Managarm nodded at the team’s matching gold-and-black uniforms emblazoned with an angry bee, and then pointed to the quartet with slicked-back hair and shiny suits.
“Let me guess,” Managarm grumbled. “The Young Mormons Book Club.”
Peter laughed out loud, then quickly fell silent under Managarm’s deepened scowl. The boy cleared his throat. “Umm, no, they’re from the touring cast of Jersey Boys . . .”
Managarm growled deep in his throat. These were his mighty warriors? This is what the stupid little witch had called up for him? Yes, by all means, let’s beat back Odin with 60s pop music and jelly-filled pastries. He was glad he’d given Sally to Fenrir. He hoped she’d suffered.
Peter took a step forward. “Where is the Moon Witch?”
Remembering the drawstring bag in his hand, Managarm lifted it up for all to see. Recognizing Managarm’s bag of runes—now dripping blood—Peter gasped.
“The Moon Witch has given her life for our cause!” He turned slowly, making sure all eyes were on him, even those of the boa-clad cyclists in the corner. “She offered her very blood to further our magick. Her last wish was that you would serve me as you did her.”
The new Berserkers murmured their collective assent, then looked down at the floor in respect for the fallen Moon Witch.
“She promised that whichever of you should fall in her service, will join her at the feasting tables in Valhalla!”
“Valhalla!” The Berserkers screeched as one.
Managarm motioned toward Peter. “Organize the caravan. Call Rita and let her know how many Berserkers we now number. We’re leaving for the forest. Immediately.”
Peter crossed his arms over his chest. “But we don’t have any phones. They all got fried when Loki was here.”
“Figure it out!” Managarm bellowed. Glaring around the room at his less than inspiring complement of warriors, he stalked toward the dining table and shoved a few shortbread cookies into his mouth.
Valhalla Page 49