Little chance of rain on his wedding day.
He smiled. He’d been advised that the actual wedding and its many trappings—the food and the flowers and the guests and the gifts—were more about the bride than the groom, but he found himself rather looking forward to it.
The Lodge needed a happy celebration after too much loss, and Thor didn’t mind not being the center of attention. So what if Rod complained that Thor was turning into a groomzilla with his exacting input on napkin colors and the reception menu? Wasn’t it Rod’s job as the groom’s wedding liaison to make sure Thor had a voice in the planning?
Thor had even shrugged off the ribbing from Heimdall about attending a bridal show in Bonnie’s stead. The bride was overbooked and needed a break, and Thor thought he’d done rather well narrowing down the bridesmaids dress selections to an off-the-shoulder tea-length dress in egg-shell organza, a strapless A-line in sage taffeta, and a tasteful empire-waist frock in lilac dupioni silk. He wasn’t entirely sure what an empire waist was, only that it was supposed to flatter every figure.
Now all he had to do was get through these next few days of questing. Then he and Bonnie would depart for their honeymoon in Greenland.
Assuming he could remain close to the brook, and that he’d have an ample respite from Hugh and his head-cracking stick, Thor imagined it wouldn’t be such a harsh vision quest after all. When it came to the part with the siatco, he’d improvise.
Thor watched the deepening blues and purples of twilight waltz slowly across the sky, day giving way at last to night. It wasn’t exactly the Northern Lights, but beautiful nonetheless.
Hugh’s question crept again into his mind, and Thor frowned as he turned the problem over.
“When is a god not a god?” Thor asked the darkening sky.
“When he’s impersonating a beached whale?” a familiar voice replied from the other side of the stream.
Thor lifted his head too quickly, and a wave of nausea threatened his newly full and sloshing stomach. When his vision stopped swimming, his eyes widened. “No. You’re not here. You can’t be here.”
The shade of Freyr appeared to consider this. Then he crouched down and trailed his fingers in the water. Or tried to. The water remained undisturbed. “And yet, here I am.”
Thor sat up and closed his eyes tight. He took a few deep breaths and waited for the nausea to subside. When he cracked his eyes open, his gaze fell again on his deceased cousin.
“It’s no use,” Freyr told him. “You’re not rid of me so easily.”
Thor wrung the water out of his long sleeves. “Even in death you persist in pestering me.”
“Perhaps we’re joined at the hip, karmically speaking.”
Thor didn’t want to think about what that might mean for his approaching honeymoon or the rest of his unnaturally long life.
Freyr laughed. “But the real question would be, regardless of whether or not I’m really here—which I am, I assure you—“
“Isn’t that what hallucinations always say?” Thor interrupted him. “Arguing with me over my own sanity?”
“You’ve had a lot of experience with hallucinations then?”
Thor waved him away with an exasperated huff.
“If I’m merely in your head, you must have conjured me. Or conjured my memory, for some reason. Or maybe you just haven’t been getting enough fiber.”
Thor frowned. “That’s what you think the real question is? How much bran is in my diet?”
Freyr smirked. “Actually, I was going to ask what you’re doing sprawled by a forest stream. But I think the question of why you’d choose my ghost to accompany you on this quest of yours is much better.”
“You would,” Thor grumbled. “You short, cranky little . . .”
“Now, now,” Freyr tsked. “Shouldn’t you be on your best behavior this weekend? No growling, no cursing? Don’t want to upset granny.”
“Bloody, pig-sucking trolls!” Thor picked up a stone and tossed it into the brook. He picked up another stone and hurled it squarely at the ghost’s head. Freyr didn’t so much as flinch as the stone sailed through him.
“Exactly what I’m talking about,” Freyr said. “You’re going to ruin your vision quest with outbursts like that.”
Thor grew quiet. He needed to think, but his hungry belly kept demanding his attention. Just focus on the task at hand. He unlaced his boots and stripped off his soggy footwear and socks. He kept glancing at Freyr from beneath his lowered eyebrows, expecting the Vanir to disappear any second.
“You can stop that,” Freyr said. “I’m apparently staying whether you like it or not.”
Thor wanted to reply that he’d like very much for his cousin to stay. He’d missed the skinny pest. He wanted to grab the slender Vanir in a massive bear hug to welcome him back to the world of the living. If he was actually back. Thor didn’t think so.
But as much as he worried that dehydration and stress had him hallucinating, he was just as afraid that any false move would have this shadow of Freyr dissolving in a puff of smoke.
“Stay, then, if you want,” Thor grumbled. “Just don’t distract me.”
Freyr tried splashing his fingers in the stream again, to no effect. “Distract you from what, exactly?”
Thor laid his socks on top of his boots to dry, then stretched out his legs to rest his massive feet on a patch of springy moss. “Finding my totem animal. I think.”
Freyr burst out laughing and rolled over onto his side.
Thor started to growl, then stopped himself. “Laugh all you want, nature boy.”
Cackling with abandon, Freyr held his hands against his sides and tried to get his breath under control. “No, I’m sorry, it’s just . . .” Freyr coughed and wiped tears from his eyes. “I was just trying to imagine what kind of animal would choose you as its spiritual kin.”
Thor’s expression darkened. “Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Freyr fought against another burst of giggles. “Maybe a banana slug?”
Heimdall sat on the ground and rested against the thick trunk of a pine tree. He guessed it was closing in on 9 o’clock. The shadows had grown long and then disappeared altogether.
He honestly hadn’t thought it would take this long, though they seemed no closer to locating their kin now than they had at the outset.
He and Laika had followed a promising scent trail for hours, but then found themselves traveling in broad circles. After they passed the same group of trees for the fourth time, Heimdall called for a halt. He and his wolf-dog both needed rest, even though Laika was itching to keep moving.
Waiting for Heimdall to give the signal to continue the hunt, Laika snuffled at the base of a tree a few yards away, then moved to its neighbor to perform a similar inspection. After getting several snootfuls of damp, earthy scents, she lifted her head and looked to Heimdall.
“Anything new?” he asked. She blinked her blue eyes at him, then moved on to the next tree.
The meandering, back-tracking trail across miles of forest was maddening. Heimdall couldn’t check GPS for their location and his Forest Service radio was back at the station. Short of smoke signals, he had no way to check in with his kin—and he wasn’t about to start a fire in the middle of the forest.
For all Heimdall knew, Thor, Sally, and Opal had returned safe and sound from their misadventures and were now just waiting for Heimdall to give up his fool’s errand and come back out of the wilderness. Even if he couldn’t find his own way out, Laika would lead him back to his brethren if he asked her to.
Heimdall pulled up his socks. They kept slipping down inside his hiking boots. It was irritating. He was still trying to piece together why someone would go to the trouble of disrupting what should have been a straightforward nature walk and vision quest—assuming anything could be straightforward when Norse magick and shamanic practices were combined.
What was the point of interference? Who would even care enough to attempt it? Laika continued
her sniffing around the trees as Heimdall sorted through the possibilities. Not many people knew about these quests to begin with. Not quite so few as to count them on one hand, but still a limited number.
Might one of the roaming Morrigan sisters be responsible? Badbh had retreated to her cauldron beneath Dublin Castle, but Nemain and Macha remained free. It wouldn’t take much to incur the wrath of such battle goddesses, but at worst they’d been merely inconvenienced by Badbh’s call to Ireland. Then they’d quietly gone on their way. No harm, no foul. Nemain had supposedly returned to Africa to observe and no doubt incite tribal warfare, and Macha was reported to have reappeared in her familiar Central American stomping grounds to stir up violent trouble there. Everything was ostensibly back to normal.
If the Frost Giants were involved, Heimdall was certain he would have seen them coming this time. One sucker punch in Oslo was enough to put him on permanent Frost Giant alert. Plus, they weren’t the craftiest of creatures and they preferred mountains to forests or high desert. The last time he checked there were still only the three of them, and they were more concerned about getting dates than messing with Thor.
Before he could prevent it, an image sprung to Heimdall’s tired mind of Valthrudnir surfing potential brides on MythMate.com: “Old-fashioned descendant of Ymir seeks long-term mate for patrols along mountain peaks, cuddling under animal skins, and perpetuating the species. Must be big-boned, cook a mean meat stew, and smell like a yak . . .”
Heimdall chuckled.
Laika looked up. She was farther away now, still searching for the trail they’d lost.
“It’s okay, girl,” Heimdall said. “You’ll find it.”
Laika cocked her head to one side, then lowered her nose to the ground and moved on to the next tree.
It couldn’t be the Køjer Devils. This was not their brand of chaos. If any of their kind remained after the thrashing they’d taken, they would be deep beneath the Earth’s surface, lounging about in lava pools or whatever they did down there. Heimdall didn’t know much about Køjer Devil habits, and he had no interest in finding out.
Laika lifted her head and peered deeper into the woods. Heimdall leaned forward to see if he could catch sight of what had gotten her attention, but she lowered her nose back to the ground and circled another tree.
What if it’s not about Thor? What if whoever orchestrated all this is after the Rune Witch?
The thought hit Heimdall in the solar plexus like a blow from Valthrudnir. But who would want to harm Sally? No. Not harm her; control her.
An image of Managarm and his fistful of bloody runes rose to Heimdall’s mind but was quickly replaced by the memory of how Sally had stood up to the traitor. How Sally survived an attack by the Køjer Devils. How Sally stood beside Freya to confront Badbh. In Heimdall’s book, the little Rune Witch was all right.
But she was still human. Vulnerable. Mortal.
A shiver ran the length of his spine.
Despite the increasing incidence of zombies in popular culture, Heimdall couldn’t imagine the sudden rise of the draugar from their tombs. A sea beast like Jormungand wouldn’t go hunting in a land-locked forest, and it was doubtful Sally was on Hel’s radar. Heimdall quickly ran out of supernatural options to support any hypothesis involving Sally and Opal as prey. Most every immortal adversary he could think of had been killed off or simply disappeared long ago.
Heimdall clenched his fists. He had become too accustomed to crisis. Maggie had said as much the last time he’d visited her at the Well. At least a crisis gave him something to do. A means of being useful.
So, back to Thor as the target. If Sally and Opal had been lured into the forest simply to get them out of the way . . . Ancient deities and monsters aside, Heimdall tried to imagine who would be stupid enough to mess with Thor on the eve of his wedding—as malicious payback for some festering wrong, or just some kind of bachelor prank. Heimdall sighed. That list was pretty long.
He scratched the back of his head where the tree bark was irritating his scalp. These circular thoughts weren’t getting him anywhere. Odin was probably sitting by the Lodge fire engaged in similar brainstorming, but Odin had Frigga to strategize with him.
Too many Old Ones had fallen in just these past few years, and there were fewer and fewer around the Lodge fire. Bragi had been killed by Managarm. Iduna sacrificed herself to save Maggie. And then Freyr made his last stand.
Laika lifted her head and froze in place, her ears and nose twitching.
Heimdall pushed himself onto his hands and knees. “Laika?” he whispered. “What is it?”
A shudder ran across her shoulder blades and the hair at the base of her neck rose up tall. Heimdall crept toward her, careful not to disturb whatever presence she sensed.
Laika lowered her head and stretched her neck forward, her nostrils quivering as she sniffed at the air. After a few seconds her pupils widened dramatically, and she let out a low growl.
Danger.
Heimdall peered past Laika into the darkening woods. He tuned out the birdsong and branches rustling in the breeze. Laika huffed and scratched at the dirt.
“I don’t see it,” Heimdall whispered. She growled again. “What’s got you spooked?”
It was a tiny sound, a pile of dried pine needles being flattened by a large paw, but it was enough to train Heimdall’s attention on the hulking shadow not even a hundred feet in front of them. The dark creature seemed to materialize before his eyes. Heimdall dropped flat on the ground, even though the huge wolf had already had ample time to make their position.
Laika whined.
A chill settled over Heimdall as soon as his brain caught up with what his senses were screaming at him. He wanted to shake it off as impossible, but of course it wasn’t. Just because the black wolf hadn’t been heard from in years didn’t mean the Randulfr couldn’t be in these very woods.
Laika growled again and bared her teeth. The black wolf pressed his shoulders back and bristled.
“No, Laika.” Heimdall reached for the thick fur at the base of her neck. “Leave it. Stay with me.”
His fingers grazed Laika’s back and tail as she leapt out of his grasp and tore into the woods, making directly for the massive black wolf.
“Laika! No!” Heimdall shouted. She was already at the wolf’s last position before Heimdall could even get to his feet. Of course, the black wolf had turned tail and run. Clever move. Laika would think she was chasing prey, but Heimdall knew better.
Fenrir was only drawing her in.
6
Rod dodged trees and leapt over broken roots in his mad scramble to keep up with Grace. It was dark, and he didn’t have a flashlight. All of his gear, except for the dented metal cup still in his hand, was back at the camp. If he could just catch his breath, convince Grace to turn around, he wouldn’t have to worry about being stuck in the woods overnight without a tent or even a canteen.
The old woman moved with unexpected ease through the forest, relying on her wooden walking stick as though it were a part of her. She’d paused now and again to examine a low-hanging branch or to puzzle out the pattern of some fallen pine needles—just long enough for Rod to catch up, but not enough for him to protest her unscheduled and ill-supplied foray into the forest. Then she pressed forward again, with the occasional backward glance to make sure Rod was still with her.
“The siatco,” Rod called ahead in a huff that he hoped sounded like a light-hearted laugh. He swung his empty camping cup as he jogged behind Grace. “It’s a real thing?”
Grace looked over her shoulder at Rod, rolled her eyes, and grunted without slowing her pace.
“I mean . . .” Rod coughed and tried to take a deep breath. “If the siatco is part of Thor’s vision quest, and now there might also be some Bigfoot hunters on its trail—”
Grace halted and turned to face him. Unable to stop his forward momentum so abruptly, he diverted and caught himself against a tree to Grace’s left to avoid running over her. He gr
imaced at the THWACK of his metal cup against the sturdy trunk.
“Here.” Grace motioned for him to hand over the cup. She dumped out the dirt and pine needles and pulled a water bottle out of her bag.
“The siatco is a sacred being.” Her voice was stern as she filled the cup with water and handed it back to Rod. “Those ridiculous people with the television show will be disappointed.”
Rod gulped down the water with a grateful nod, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He winced at a small tear in the cuff of his flannel shirt.
“They’re working on a TV show?” Rod held the empty cup to his chest. He hoped Grace would offer to fill it again, but he didn’t want to seem greedy or presumptuous. Grace slid the water bottle back into her sack and pulled out a bag of dried fruit instead.
“Pfff,” Grace hissed as she held out a handful of wrinkled apricots. “Conspiracy theorists. Eccentric game hunters with too much money and too much time on their hands. They don’t know the true cost of their trophies.”
“Trophies?” Rod chewed carefully on the dried fruit, trying to keep any bits from getting stuck in his teeth. He didn’t have dental floss with him. Or a sleeping bag. As the woods grew darker still, he eyed Grace’s bag and wondered what else she might have stashed in there.
“Sasquatch pelt,” Grace said flatly. She shoved a handful of fruit into her mouth and stuffed the rest back into her bag. “People think wild things exist to be tamed. Or hunted and killed for sport.” She spoke as she chewed, and Rod turned away to avoid the show of her mastication.
“Problem is, they pay well.” She kept chewing, then swallowed hard. “Some on the res are all too eager for a paycheck and a little publicity.”
“Mmm,” Rod commented without conviction. Now that they had stopped moving, he was more conscious of how sharply the temperature was dropping. “So, why don’t we head back now? We can try again in the morning. Okay?” Rod held out his arm to her, flashing the most gentlemanly smile he could muster.
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