Loki stared at the note, reading it again for what felt like the hundredth time:
We have awakened. As your kin, we require your assistance. The control of Midgard hangs in the balance. For the love of Niflheim, alert no others to this communication.
Loki’s hands shook. He looked again at the bottom of the hand-written text, printed in neat calligraphy. The note was signed simply, “An Olde Friend.” Not a threat. Not a ransom note. The stylized block lettering could have been rendered by any of several dozen “olde friends.”
In the shaky aftermath of the Battle of the White Oak and Managarm’s failed attempt to take possession of the Yggdrasil—plus Bragi’s death in battle, and Fenrir’s escape into the wild—Loki wasn’t entirely sure whom he could count among his friends anymore.
But other than Odin and his clan at the Lodge, what other kin did Loki have in North America? Had other gods arrived in the New World?
Loki sighed and leaned against the railing of the 11:43 p.m. ferry to Staten Island. He stared at Lady Liberty, illuminated against the darkness, as wind churned the dark water of the New York Bay and whipped through his black-and-gray mane.
Dangerous to cross water at night, even if these modern humans thought they’d worked out the kinks in navigation through their computers. To be on the safe side, Loki steered clear of the bridge, the engine room, and any other part of the vessel that might be remotely important to the ferry not sinking or running aground.
The random release of his chaotic magick was more problematic than ever. There had been a temporary stabilization after the defeat of Managarm the previous October. The others had even felt their old powers surge again, but it proved fleeting. Now Loki’s accidental entropy was increasingly uncontrollable and destructive.
He’d abandoned his secluded mountain cottage in Joseph, Oregon, when he realized the freak—but frequent—rock falls that endangered his neighbors, blocked roads and brought down power lines, all coincided eerily with the nagging new pain in his left knee.
He’d journeyed up the road to Pendleton, where residents were both delighted and terrified by the electrical storm that struck overnight when Loki had a fit of insomnia in the Motel 6 just outside of town. There were no injuries, though a lightning strike destroyed an elderly farmer’s garden shed—rumored to be a hothouse for decidedly non-medicinal marijuana—and St. Bartholomew’s Lutheran Church nearly burned to the ground when its steeple was hit.
Loki fared no better in Portland. He’d been banned from the Lodge after Odin’s brand new, industrial strength super grill iced over in the middle of a family barbecue—exactly six-and-a-half minutes after Loki stepped onto the property.
Just last week, he’d tagged along with Thor to Home Depot to pick up a cordless drill and a table saw, but they never made it inside the store. As soon as they pulled into the parking lot, the building’s sliding glass doors sealed shut, trapping customers, salespeople, and twenty-odd senior ladies attending a gardening workshop.
Loki had hitchhiked cross-country to get to New York City for this midnight meeting, catching rides with amiable truckers and partying college students starting their summer break. Flying had always been out of the question, but even Loki’s standby, Amtrak, was no longer an option—after three trains in a row lost electricity, communications, and pretty much all mechanical ability within minutes of his stepping aboard.
Now he was getting migraine headaches, sometimes two or three in a week. His hair was going gray, fast. Some mornings his bones ached so deeply it was a wonder he was able to pull himself out of bed.
Loki had been almost grateful for the mysterious summons. The short note got him away from Oregon—and away from the widening swath of destruction he invariably left behind. This “olde friend” had drawn Loki’s attention away from the fact that he was in the midst of full-on deterioration, and that it was happening at an alarming rate.
The ferry slowed in its approach to the Staten Island platform. Loki folded the note along its deeply worn creases and slipped it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Steadying himself, he climbed over the railing and leapt down to the worn concrete of the dock. No sense taking the chance that his presence might interfere with the ferry’s docking procedures.
He started toward the monument.
“Ridiculous bloody nuisance,” Loki cursed under his breath as the toe of one of his heavy boots caught a crack in the pavement and nearly pitched him onto his face. He regained his footing, angrily tucked his long hair behind his ear and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He wasn’t quite sure what day it was—still late May, or June?—but even in this early summer, he couldn’t shake the chill in his bones.
“The Staten Island Memorial. Sure,” Loki muttered. A giant pair of stone, wing-like postcards loomed ahead, curving upward as if to take flight.
“Midnight at the next freaking New Moon.” He spat on the pavement and pounded forward, making good time. Whomever he might find waiting for him, Loki would be sure to give him or her a good talking to about the unnecessary air of melodrama and intrigue.
Loki came to an abrupt halt several hundred feet in front of the illuminated memorial. Plenty of lights were on, and security cameras were running, but the area was deserted of tourists and mourners. He was early. His eyes flickered over the stone-carved silhouettes of the September 11 victims as he weighed his options.
He could circle the perimeter, get a feel for the terrain before the appointed meeting. He could hike to higher ground and wait for his mysterious friend to arrive.
Or Loki could rest back on his heels. He had come this far. This anonymous compatriot would have to come to him.
Loki craned his neck upward to get a look at the night sky—one of the last pleasures left to Old Ones like himself, who yearned for some connection to a wilder, more heroic age. But within seconds, he felt dizzy. His vision began to tunnel and darken.
Loki pushed his weight forward and rested his hands on his knees. He breathed in slowly and deliberately through his mouth, waiting out the golden stars that streaked past his head as his vision cleared.
Heavy footsteps approached and stopped within two feet of him, but Loki couldn’t look up just yet. He raised a hand toward the owner of the massive boots planted within his field of vision. “Just give me a minute.”
A strong hand dug painfully into his shoulder and yanked him upward. “You are late.”
Blinking back nausea, Loki found himself face-to-chest with an imposing and unrelentingly solid man clad in dark wool.
“Actually, I believe I’m on time.” Loki’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. If not for the strong hand still gripping his jacket, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to stand on his own. “Early even.”
Slowly—so as not to induce a sudden fit of vomiting all over the snug black sweater worn by this mountain of a man who might or might not be a friend—Loki trailed his gaze upward, over the massive chest and the broad shoulders, past the thick neck and the hard, stubbly jaw. He blinked and missed the full, slightly snarled lips and the prominent nose, but opened his eyes again just in time to meet the hard, ice-blue stare of someone he’d not seen, literally, in centuries.
“Thiassen,” Loki choked, then coughed, then swallowed the bit of blood he tasted on his tongue. “You’re probably the last . . . person I expected to meet here this evening.”
Loki paused for a moment, frowning. Somewhere in the back of his mind swam a memory of upheaval and battle, of punishment and ice. There was a reason this gargantuan should not—no, could not—be standing before him. But Loki's vision began to dim again, and he lost the thought.
Instead, he smiled vaguely up at Thiassen. “In fact, your face never sprang to mind at all these last days, since receiving your note.”
The giant loosened his grip on the aging god, then grabbed him by both shoulders when Loki’s knees started to buckle. “By the Nine Realms, Loki, what is wrong with you? Can you not stand?”
Under threat of
toppling over, Loki reached up to grip Thiassen’s elbows, weakly. He attempted a smile and shook his head. “I’ve been feeling a bit unwell.”
Thiassen walked him over to a damp park bench and sat him down. Loki collapsed in what was not exactly a heap, but close. The old god of chaos leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stared at the pavement and tried to get his eyes to focus.
“You got skinny,” Thiassen grunted. “Like a weakling calf. Look at you, with your manufactured garments just hanging off of you.”
Loki pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. Finding and securing the Yggdrasil was supposed to have restored them all to health and vitality. But not even Frigga and Freya’s fussy ministrations, herbal compresses, and weed-based salves had made the slightest difference. He just kept getting worse.
Thiassen leaned back heavily, and the bench groaned in complaint. “You need the apples, do you not?”
Loki looked up at him through his stringy hair.
Thiassen sniffed and nodded. “How long has it been for you, since the last harvest? Four centuries, at least.”
Loki carefully rested back against the bench and breathed deeply. Iduna’s apples, from the sacred grove behind the mists, in the sunlit region where the land of the gods and the land of mortals touched. He remembered meeting the cargo ship in Virginia after the trees last produced, spotting Bragi in that ridiculous colonial costume as he unloaded dozens of wooden chests after so many months at sea.
Loki hadn’t envied him that duty—languishing on the open water with a gaggle of religiously fervent and enterprising mortals making the crossing from the Old World, and having to artfully evade questions about his own purpose and cargo. Maybe Bragi had told them his crates contained hand-lettered Bibles by which to teach the local savages to read—but in truth he’d been escorting a vital shipment of immortal apples.
Loki smiled at the memory of the reinvigorating feast Odin’s clan enjoyed that season.
Had it been four hundred years already?
“Is it going as badly with the All Father and his lot, then?”
Loki glanced at Thiassen and studied his face. All Father. That’s a title he hadn’t heard applied to Odin in a very long time. How was it this particular immortal came to be sitting here with him now?
Loki remembered the note in his pocket. “You need my help with something . . . ?”
Thiassen chuckled, then shrugged. “My apologies for the vagueness of my request. I had to get you out here somehow, and could not risk the consequences should my missive fall into enemy hands.”
Loki frowned. Enemy hands.
Thiassen looked out over the water. “I had thought of forging some kind of ransom note regarding your son.”
Loki sat sharply upright and tried to ignore the vice-grip his migraine had on his skull.
“No, no,” Thiassen waved off his worry. “Fenrir is safe. Or I assume as much, at least. In truth, I have no idea where he is.” He paused. “And I assume you do not, either?”
Loki looked away and focused on the winged monument instead.
“I was surprised, in truth, to find you so close to Odin and his clan,” Thiassen sniffed and leaned over the side of the bench and spat the bitter taste of Odin’s name out of his mouth. “I would have expected you to remain closer to home—and far away from that nefarious lot.”
Loki started to defend his often estranged kin, but stopped himself when he caught the conspiratorial glint in the giant’s eyes. Loki managed a wan smile instead.
“So, you want to tell me why I’ve traveled all this way, in my weakened condition, just to sit with you on a wet bench in the middle of the night?”
Thiassen lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “I would have thought the mere sight of me would have been clear enough.” He studied Loki’s face in the dim light. “You are dangerously close to the edge, indeed?”
Loki shrugged.
Thiassen stood up and stepped in front of Loki. “That is no matter at this stage. I have come to convey you home.”
“Home . . . ?”
One corner of the giant’s mouth ticked upward. “You have stayed far too long in this foreign land. It is no wonder, with so much busy-ness, so many bright lights, and too much noise.” Thiassen surveyed the street lamps and the illuminated monument. “A couple of centuries of this strange madness could disorient anyone, I suppose.”
Then the giant shook his massive head and wrinkled his nose. “And the close, pungent scent of mortal beasts! How do you stand it?” Thiassen shivered.
Loki leaned forward and caught him with a hard stare. “You’re cold?”
Thiassen smiled but didn’t make eye contact. “Millennia of ice, my old friend.”
Loki inhaled sharply. Ice. “I’m guessing you weren’t suddenly released on your own recognizance?” Loki thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and crossed his ankles. “Time off for good behavior?”
Thiassen snorted. “The Earth herself has mercy on our kind.” He reached a hand down to Loki. “And as such, it is time for you to return to your homeland. To take your rightful place at the head of the new Frost Giant Army.”
Loki started to laugh. “You think so, do you?” He struggled to get up. Thiassen reached out to help him, but Loki fell back to the bench. His heart pounded, and his head was swimming. He looked first to the sky and then to where the trees should have been, but all he saw was stars.
And then everything went black.
~ Acknowledgements ~
Jeff Robinson, for telling me how cool the story sounded and lending his expert design assistance.
Tuffy Black for being a long-distance cheerleader and one of the manuscript’s pre-publication readers.
Terri Kleinberg for Thursday morning writing meetings, and listening patiently to me thinking out loud about mythology, plot points, and character conflicts, which eventually all somehow fell into place.
The Coffee Coven for helping me name The Cauldron & Crumpet, and just for being so awesomely witchy.
Chris Baty and the team at National Novel Writing Month and the Office of Letters and Light—and, heck, anyone who’s ever done NaNoWriMo, particularly those who are active on the online forums. Valhalla began as my NaNoWriMo project for 2008, and without the framework of this annual month of literary insanity, there’s really no telling how long it would have taken to write the first draft of Valhalla or many other stories. (Seriously, if you want to write a novel, give NaNoWriMo a shot!)
The City of Portland—and surrounding counties—for being so delightfully eclectic and open.
Mike—who snagged the dedication but still deserves additional recognition—for believing so strongly in the story that he became something between an evangelist and tyrant in pushing me to publish, staging spontaneous readings for just about anyone who walked into the living room, being my model for Loki, and giving me a soft place to fall.
The many friends, family members, and even acquaintances who listened to me talk about this story ever since I started the first draft. Valhalla has come a long way since then, and your enthusiastic response let me know it was a story that needed to be told.
( . . . And, I suppose, the Norse gods themselves, for lending their mythology and legends to the telling of this tale . . . )
~ About the Author ~
Jennifer Willis is an author, essayist, and journalist in Portland, Oregon. In her non-fiction work, she specializes in topics related to sustainability, spirituality/religion, history, and health. Her articles have appeared in The Oregonian, The Christian Science Monitor, Salon.com, The Portland Tribune, The Writer, Ancestry Magazine, Aish.com, Skirt!, InterfaithFamily.com, Vegetarian Times, Spirituality & Health, and other print and online publications at home and across the globe.
In fiction, she focuses on urban fantasy and playful mayhem.
This is her second novel. Her previous book, rhythm, was released in 2001.
Author photograph by Rachel Hadiash
ar.
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