The Banished Gods Box Set: Books 1-3

by L. A. McGinnis

  “I wondered how you managed that feat, traitor,” Tyr mocked softly. “Thought he’d use the opportunity to get rid of you, once and for all.”

  “The girl traded herself to get him back. Which is why she’s in this mess to begin with.” Mir pursed his lips, sizing up Tyr before shifting his gaze over to Loki and Fenrir. “I for one, am in. Whatever you need from me, my brother, you got it. I say we go get her back.”

  Loki’s eyes glowed bright as he stalked toward Tyr, explaining, “Odin killed Morgane because she defied him. See, Odin sent her to the Underworld to do his dirty work, to retrieve Balder. Problem is, she not only succeeded, she brought back her sister too. For some reason, Hel wants her…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’m not sure yet but there’s a bigger game being played, and I mean to figure out what it is.”

  Tyr’s jaw dropped. “Balder’s back? He’s alive?” Mir nodded. “You’re serious? A mortal went into the Underworld and brought him out, by herself?”

  Loki’s feet stopped and his voice slowed as he chose his words carefully. “Once, Tyr, you believed in something worth fighting for. We all did. But that was a long time ago. You still don’t think a mortal life is worth the effort? Then so be it. At least get out of our way.”

  30

  Odin felt oddly…remorseful. Especially now, sitting here, listening to Balder blather on and on about the supposedly dire consequences of forcing Morgane to pay a debt she shouldn’t have to pay. Blah blah blah.

  Always arguing for the rights of the weak.

  Always trying to do the right thing.

  Balder, the golden boy.

  Once, he’d been the favorite. Now the gold had dimmed a bit, tarnished, dulled down to a brassy finish. Not that it made him wrong.

  Thousands and thousands of years they’d been stuck on Midgard. Since before this world had a single city, or building, or road. Hadn’t they paid enough? Centuries of pointless battles. Fighting Hel’s endless stream of demons. And for what? To do it over again? Maybe that was the point of punishment, he mused, a never-ending loop from which there was no escape.

  So yes, when Hel had poofed up here and offered to swear an eternal blood oath to him, vowing to remain in the Underworld forever, granting him dominion over a peaceful Earth, Odin had agreed immediately. Whatever price you name, it’s yours, he had promised her. With a careless wave of his hand, if he recalled correctly. At the time, it seemed worth it. Ending centuries of war, loss of mortal lives, bloodshed.

  All of that in exchange for one, pitiful mortal life, which meant nothing in the big scheme of things.

  Except today, he felt slightly…dirty. Sure, these days his moral compass was eternally set on south and never so much as ticked a degree off to either side, but killing Morgane had struck him as suddenly too great a cost. Of course by then, regret came too late.

  Balder had always believed in a better world.

  While Odin knew there was no such thing. Better worlds were far behind them. Better worlds than this had been consumed in ash and fire, and now they were stuck here on this backward planet. But at least they’d live out the rest of their miserable, immortal lives in peace. Maybe he’d take up knitting or some such bullshit.

  In truth, he’d been looking for a way out of this Groundhog Day existence for eons. Only a god could kill another god, and he’d about given up on the prospect of ever properly dying. But when Morgane had double-crossed him? Grief had almost turned Loki into the perfect weapon to accomplish that task. A little nudge here, a snarky comment there, and they’d come so close in the Throne Room, he could still feel the God of Fire’s hands encircling his throat.

  So close and yet? So far.

  He’d given Morgane fifty-fifty odds, at best, when he’d sent her on that half-assed rescue mission. Since rules were rules, and because the Underworld was strictly off limits to him, he’d concocted that scheme to steal back his favorite son. Yet not only had the human succeeded, she’d defied him and brought back the sister too. Almost the mother, too, if the stories were to be believed.

  Morgane had beaten him at his own game, by his own damn rules, in his own damn house.

  So yes, were he completely honest, the whole affair chafed.

  And when Hel had crept back up here and demanded the girl’s soul? He’d been all over it. Loki was probably right. He had been played. But he’d been angry. He’d wanted Morgane to pay.

  There had been a time, long ago, when he’d been a good father. A good king.

  Once he’d been everything they said he was. But that was a long time ago.

  If this world fell, there would only be seven realms left. Looking back, Odin realized they’d let Asgard go without much of a fight. And for some reason, this seemed like their last stand. The strange thing was, he’d never felt like this before, not even when they’d been damned here for the rest of their eternal lives.

  This felt bigger.

  Odin didn’t need to listen to Balder’s words to know he was right. Balder had always been the best of them. From the time he was a child, he’d never believed in violence. War. Killing. He was needed up here, which was precisely why Odin had sent the mortal down after him in the first place.

  And while Odin listened to his favorite son going on and on about truth and honor, something shifted in the universe. Odin sat up straighter as a darkness brushed up against him—the slightest surge of shadowy power—but before he realized what it was, it was gone.

  31

  Stunned, Tyr looked from one face to the other. “There’s no fucking way a mortal brought Balder back. I thought the bitch meant to keep him forever.”

  “Morgane isn’t any mortal. She’s…unique. She came to Chicago to avenge her family and ended up killing Grim in the streets, same as us. Hel put her here, same as us. From what we know, Hel murdered Morgane’s family, and then maneuvered Odin so that Morgane bargained her soul away. This whole thing has been a set up. From beginning to end.”

  Time ticked past as Tyr’s dark eyes began to clear. He finally nodded to Loki, to Fenrir. “Fine. I’ll go. I suppose you’ll need the muscle, if things go south. Tell me where we’re meeting, and I’ll be there.”

  Mir let out a low laugh. “Fuck…all right.” He swung his head over to Fen. “We need a way into the Underworld, one that Odin won’t be watching. Get in touch with the Dagda if you know where to find him…

  “Or worst-case scenario, her.”

  Since Odin guarded his portals like a rabid watchdog, Fen was forced to ask for help from another race. From another realm. Good news was, he knew the way in. Bad news was, the Tuatha De Danann killed any and all intruders on sight.

  But Fenrir didn’t need telling twice. He took the steps two at a time to his chamber and slid down the wall bathed in moonlight, letting the silvery rays play over him. Let himself fall and fall and fall until he slipped from the mortal realm into the Fae realm, praying it wouldn’t take him forever to find who he was searching for.

  The Dagda, King of the Fae, existed in Annwn, a realm similar to the Otherworld. But maybe not so different from Seattle, Fenrir mused, his eyes straining to penetrate the gray nothingness pressing in around him. The Tuatha world was even older than Asgard, one of the very first worlds created by The Three. And the immortals who inhabited it, the Dagda and the Morrigan, were so powerful and so reclusive, they had to be handled with kid gloves.

  But Fen knew someone would be along soon. The Tuatha De Dannan kept a close eye on their borders, and there’d be hell to pay once they sensed someone had broken through. Sure enough, moments later, a large hooded figure floated toward him.

  “Dagda. That was fast. Here I thought I would have to wait.” Fen did take the time to bow, keeping his eyes on the god’s sword the whole time. Baring the back of his neck, he wished he’d come as the wolf and not in this vulnerable, mortal-looking body.

  “Fenrir. Son of Loki. You need a bath.” The Dagda sniffed the air as Fenrir tried to keep his temper.

&n
bsp; “And you need to learn some manners.” Fenrir bared his teeth and the sun god smiled back. He eyed the god’s tall, beefy form. The slightly slanted, golden, otherworldly Fae eyes, the pointed ears, the way their magic painted everything in this world with a faint shimmer of glamour. The Dagda could have come as anything. A giant, a man, a dragon, but he had chosen to show his true form, which Fenrir took as a good sign. “But no matter, as I am here to ask a favor.”

  The Fae’s laugh shook the ground underneath him. “Better I should have sent my sister to meet you. She might have brought back your head as a trophy. But humor me, wolf, and tell me what you want.”

  “We need a way into the Underworld. We cannot go through our usual doorways. If you let us use one of yours, we would be eternally grateful.” Fenrir bowed as he spoke, letting his words sink in before he rose and held the god’s fiery gaze. “A few hours is all we ask.” He kept his eyes locked with the Dagda’s as he explained.

  The Tuatha could be trusted, under the right circumstances. And for the right price. “So you came to me?” Fen nodded, this time baring the nape of his neck. A cool wash of relief flowed through him when he didn’t feel the bite of cold steel. “There will a cost, as usual.”

  “I expected it.” Fenrir firmly held the god’s gaze. “Name your terms.”

  “Six in, no more than seven out. We will keep the doorway open for no longer than sunset to sunrise.” Dagda paused then held out a hand as Fen opened his mouth to speak. “And you will pay the price I name at the end.”

  “Done.” Fenrir agreed, precious time ticking by.

  The Dagda gave a sigh of exasperation before lifting his eyes to the sky, as if begging for eternal patience. “You know how my sister is sometimes…determined when she gets an idea in her head?” Fen nodded. That was putting it mildly. The Morrigan was known to burn worlds to the ground to get her way.

  “Among our histories, there is a legend called the Amanna Deiridh or the end of worlds. It’s an old story of darkness and light, one our people have heard from childhood, since the start of time.” The Dagda waved an elegant hand in the air, speaking rapidly. “It revolves around a young girl returning to the living world after death, carrying the power of chaos inside of her. A power capable of swallowing up this world and all others. Her return precedes the rise of a dark god, one who will destroy all in his path. The legend also speaks of a key that unlocks the realm of the living, opening a white door between the two realms. A door the dark god will pass through. Whether the girl and the key are one and the same, is not known.

  “My sister believes this time is upon us. That this dark god is on the verge of returning.” The Dagda’s gaze grew long, thoughtful. “If she is correct, this darkness would destroy not just one world but all worlds. Remember the name MacAskill. For that is the name of the key that opens the door. You swear to me you will kill anyone with that name, without hesitation, and the doorway is yours for tonight.”

  “Whatever you say.” Fenrir nodded, already backing away.

  “It will open at sundown. Use the doorway wisely, wolf. Fetch what you need. And be gone.” And with those words ringing in his ears, Fen found himself sitting in the middle of nowhere, alongside a field hemmed in by a rusting fence, forty miles west of Chicago.

  Couldn’t the bastard have returned him to the Tower or at least Oak Park?

  Fenrir got up and dusted himself off. And began to run.

  He seriously didn’t have time for this shit.

  Shut into the small room, Loki stared at a dusty, sweaty Fenrir, the phone hanging useless in his hand as his son finished relaying the Dagda’s message in its entirety. “The good news is, we now have a way in. We just need to be there at sundown.”

  The bad news is, the Tuatha believe the end of the world is coming.

  “This might not have anything to do with us. It could just a story.” Loki’s face was ashen. “It’s entirely possible he was working an angle to get something he wants.”

  “The guy sounded pretty damn serious, Loki. And the name MacAskill, it’s pretty damn specific, it’s not like he threw out Jones or Smith.”

  That part was true enough, but there was no time to consider what this meant. The only important thing was they had a way inside. Morgane had been down there for hours already. Too long.

  Pulling up a map of the city on his phone, he paused as a heavy, rhythmic pounding and someone shouting his name, echoed through the thick oak door. Flinging open the door, he heard Vali’s voice, yelling his name from downstairs, and he broke into a run, thundering toward the chaos.

  32

  Ava sat in the commissary, a donut in one hand, her other tangling round and round in a strand of hair as she chewed. She was dressed in the tattered remains of whatever clothes she’d come back in. It had been days since she had last seen her sister. Even though she might have mentioned she would like to be left alone forever, it wasn’t like she meant it. Not really.

  This place was a mausoleum. It was as if Morgane had completely dropped off the face of the earth. Worse than that, Ava felt all alone.

  And for a bunch of big, beefy guys, they sure seemed skittish. None of them even spoke to her. They avoided her mostly. Although sometimes she could feel their eyes boring through the back of her head any time she stepped out of her room.

  Which meant she stayed upstairs. But she was starving and had snuck down here to forage for food. Plus, she was tired. Tired of this pushing, pulling thing inside of her struggling to get out. She was tired of fighting it. It had been two whole days, and she figured this was as good a spot as any to wait for Morgane to show up, because duh, everyone needed to eat, right?

  So here she was.

  On her fourth donut, her fifth cup of coffee, and still, no sign her sister even existed. Ava was about to move to Plan B. Which was track down this Loki dude and wring some answers out of him. Problem was, she couldn’t find him either. The thought crossed her mind they might be holed up in his room. She had gone so far as to stand outside the door, hand raised to knock, but that had seemed creepy. So she’d turned on her heel, came back to the kitchen, and now was actually contemplating eating a fifth donut.

  Her eyes tracked the man who stalked in. The tall, handsome one who fought with Morgane after they came back from the Underworld. The one who made her insides freeze up. The one with the long, moon-silver hair and the pale gray eyes that seemed to cut you right in half when he looked at you.

  Like he was doing right now.

  She popped the rest of the donut in her mouth and chewed. Kept her face steady. Focused. Felt the darkness in her begin its slow, determined rise. Straightening her spine, she tamped it down while he stalked closer.

  Because that’s what he was doing. Stalking.

  Intimidation was the purpose, using his body to make her feel small. Using the room to his advantage, and her seated position to make her feel trapped. The caveman routine probably worked for him most of the time. She relaxed, allowing a flicker of the darkness out, licking an icy path up her spine. She reached out for the last donut and paused, lifting it to her lips. “I’ve had five…four already, so I suppose another one won’t hurt.” Held his gaze. “I’d leave you one, but frankly, I’m hungry and bored, and your food is about the only upside to me being stuck in here, so I might as well enjoy it.”

  She practically saw the rage unfurl, like a spiraling, living thing. It crawled through him as he went rigid, his eyes snapped open, turning flinty, the planes of his face shifting, hard and unyielding. Unbidden, a ripple of wicked glee flit through her. As if she were the conductor and he the orchestra, and the possibilities of the symphonies she could conduct with this man were endless and infinite.

  This.

  This made her feel alive, fed the dark monster inside of her, made it happy, made it want more, more, more. “I’m Ava, by the way. Avalon Burke, Morgane’s sister.”

  The silver god came closer, moving with a swagger that bespoke his rank here. The king shit, s
o to speak. The dark thing in her squirmed and fought, rose up a bit higher. Good, she was so tired of fucking around.

  “I’m well aware of who you are. Ava.”

  His deep, rich tenor voice was burnished with careless cruelty, ridged with an undercurrent of an emotion she could not quite place, sounding almost like triumph. A kernel of warning settled into the pit of her stomach as a slow, cunning smile curved his sensual mouth. “Looking for anyone in particular?”

  Ava tossed the donut back onto the plate, noting with satisfaction the bite out of it. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Your coffee sucks and I’d like to lodge a complaint. Happen to know who that might be? Or do you guys have a form I need to fill out?”

  “You have the same smart mouth as your sister, I see.”

  Worse, if truth be told, but now might not be the time to get into it.

  “Runs in the family, I guess. Like high cholesterol and pattern baldness. I’d say permanent dickishness runs in yours, but I’d have to meet your father to know for sure.” She swung her feet up onto the chair next to her with a solid clunk, leaned back, and held his stare. “Could come from your mother’s side, of course,” she continued, “but being a dick is such a male thing. I’ll just assume—”

  “Shut up, woman.”

  Ah. Mommy issues it was.

  “Let me guess, you didn’t get the teddy bear when you were five? Or a pony for your tenth birthday? Or enough hugs? Well boo fucking hoo.” Part of her was horrified at the words coming out of her mouth, but the other part? Well, that part was riding a delightfully slippery slope of exhilaration, remembering how this asshole had pushed Morgane around. That part of her found pleasure in each bloody nick she was taking out of him with every word rolling off her sharp, wicked tongue.