by Rick Riordan
“The goat-killer could still be working for Loki,” I said. “He could be a giant. He could be—”
“He could be anyone,” Sam said. “The way you describe him—how he fought and moved—he sounds like an einherji. Perhaps even a Valkyrie.”
My stomach dropped. I imagined it rolling across the pavement and coming to rest next to Otis’s porkpie hat. “Somebody from Valhalla. Why would anyone—?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Whoever it is, he or she doesn’t want us following this lead on Thor’s hammer. But I don’t see that we have any choice. We need to act quickly.”
“Why the rush?” I asked. “The hammer’s been missing for months. The giants haven’t attacked yet.”
Something in Sam’s eyes reminded me of Ran the sea goddess’s nets, the way they swirled in the waves, stirring up drowned spirits. It wasn’t a happy memory.
“Magnus,” she said, “events are accelerating. My last few missions into Jotunheim…the giants are restless. They’ve summoned huge glamours to hide whatever it is they’re up to, but I’m pretty sure whole armies are on the move. They’re preparing to invade.”
“Invade…where?”
The breeze made her hijab flutter around her face. “Here, Magnus. And if they come to destroy Midgard…”
Despite the warm sunlight, a chill settled over me. Sam had explained how Boston sat at the nexus of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. It was the easiest place to pass between the Nine Worlds. I imagined the shadows of giants falling over Newbury Street, the ground shaking under iron-shod boots the size of panzer tanks.
“The only thing holding them back,” Sam said, “is their fear of Thor. That’s been true for centuries. They won’t launch a full-scale invasion unless they’re absolutely sure he is vulnerable. But they’re getting bolder. They’re starting to suspect the time might be right—”
“Thor’s only one god,” I said. “What about Odin? Or Tyr? Or my dad, Frey? Can’t they fight giants?”
As soon as I said it, the idea sounded ridiculous. Odin was unpredictable. When he showed up, he was more interested in giving motivational PowerPoint presentations than fighting. I’d never even met Tyr, the god of bravery and personal combat. As for Frey…my dad was the god of summer and fertility. If you wanted flowers to bloom, crops to grow, or a paper cut to heal, he was your guy. Scaring away the hordes of Jotunheim? Maybe not.
“We have to stop the invasion before it happens,” Sam said. “Which means finding the hammer Mjolnir. You’re sure Otis said Provincetown?”
“Yeah. A wight’s barrow. That’s bad?”
“On a scale of one to ten, it’s up there in the high twenties. We’ll need Hearthstone and Blitzen.”
Despite the circumstances, the possibility of seeing my old buddies lifted my spirits.
“You know where they are?”
Sam hesitated. “I know how to get in contact. They’ve been hiding in one of Mimir’s safe houses.”
I tried to process that. Mimir, the disembodied god’s head who traded drinks from the well of knowledge for years of servitude, who had ordered Blitz and Hearth to keep an eye on me while I was homeless because I was “important to the fate of the worlds,” who ran an inter-world pachinko racket and other shady enterprises—Mimir had a collection of safe houses. I wondered what he was charging my friends for rent.
“Why are Blitz and Hearth in hiding?”
“I should let them explain,” Sam said. “They didn’t want to worry you.”
That was so not funny, I laughed. “They disappeared without a word because they didn’t want to worry me?”
“Look, Magnus, you needed time to train—to settle into Valhalla and get used to your einherji powers. Hearthstone and Blitzen just got a bad omen in the runes. They’ve been taking precautions, staying out of sight. For this quest, though—”
“A bad omen. Sam, the assassin said I should be prepared to lose my friends.”
“I know.” She picked up her coffee. Her fingers trembled. “We’ll be careful, Magnus. But for a wight’s tomb…rune magic and underground skills could make all the difference. We’ll need Hearth and Blitz. I’ll contact them this afternoon. Then, I promise, I’ll fill you in on everything.”
“There’s more?” Suddenly I felt like I’d been sitting at the Thanksgiving kiddie table for the past six weeks. I’d missed out on all the important conversations among the adults. I didn’t like the kiddie table.
“Sam, you don’t need to protect me,” I said. “I’m already dead. I’m a freaking warrior of Odin who lives in Valhalla. Let me help.”
“You will,” she promised. “But you needed training time, Magnus. When we went after the Sword of Summer, we got lucky. For what comes next…you’ll need all your skill.”
The current of fear in her voice made me shiver.
I hadn’t considered us lucky when we retrieved the Sword of Summer. We’d come close to dying multiple times. Three of our comrades had sacrificed their lives. We’d barely managed to stop Fenris Wolf and a host of fire giants from ravaging the Nine Worlds. If that was lucky, I did not want to see unlucky.
Sam reached across the table. She took my cranberry orange scone and nibbled off the edge. The icing was the same color as her bruised eye. “I should get back to school. I can’t miss another AP physics class. This afternoon I have some fires to put out at home.”
I remembered what she’d said about Loki trying to mess up her personal life, and that little hitch of doubt when she’d said Amir’s name. “Anything I can help with? Maybe I can stop by Fadlan’s Falafel and talk to Amir?”
“No!” Her cheeks flushed. “No, thank you. But definitely not. No.”
“So that’s a no then.”
“Magnus, I know you mean well. There’s a lot on my plate, but I can handle it. I’ll see you tonight at the feast for the…” Her expression soured. “You know, the newcomer.”
She meant the soul she had gone to reap. As the responsible Valkyrie, Sam would have to be there at the nightly feast to introduce the newest einherji.
I studied the bruise under her eye, and something dawned on me.
“This soul you picked up,” I said, “this new einherji punched you?”
Sam scowled. “It’s complicated.”
I’d met some violent einherjar, but never one who would dare punch a Valkyrie. That was suicidal behavior, even for someone who was already dead. “What kind of idiot…Wait. Did this have anything to do with that wolf howl I heard from across the Common?”
Sam’s dark brown eyes smoldered, right on the edge of combustion.
“You’ll hear about it tonight.” She rose and picked up the assassin’s ax. “Now go back to Valhalla. Tonight you’ll have the pleasure of meeting…” She paused, considering her words. “My brother.”
A Cheetah Runs Me Over
WHEN CHOOSING an afterlife, it’s important to consider location.
Suburban afterlives, as in Folkvanger and Niflheim, may offer lower costs-of-not-living, but Valhalla’s Midgard entrance is right in the heart of the city, on Beacon Street across from the Boston Common. You’ll be within easy walking distance of the best shops and restaurants, and less than a minute from the Park Street T station!
Yes, Valhalla. For all your Viking paradise needs.
(Okay, sorry. I told the hotel management I’d put in a plug. But it was pretty easy getting back home.)
After buying a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans at the coffee shop, I made my way through the Public Garden, passing my old camping spot under the footbridge. A couple of grizzled dudes sat in a nest of sleeping bags, sharing garbage-bin leftovers with a little rat terrier.
“Hey, guys.” I handed them Otis’s trench coat and hat, along with all the mortal money I had on me—about twenty-four bucks. “Have a good day.”
The guys were too startled to respond. I kept walking, feeling like I had an ax sticking out of my sternum.
Just because I’d been killed by a fir
e giant two months ago, I got to live in luxury. Meanwhile, these guys and their terrier ate from garbage bins. It wasn’t fair.
I wished I could round up every homeless person in Boston and say, Hey, there’s a big mansion right over here with thousands of comfy suites and free food forever. Follow me!
But that wouldn’t work.
You couldn’t bring mortals into Valhalla. You couldn’t even die on purpose to get in. Your death had to be an unplanned selfless act, and you had to hope there was a Valkyrie around to see it.
Of course, that still made Valhalla better than the high-rise condos sprouting up all around downtown. Most of them were full of empty luxury apartments, too—shiny fourth or fifth homes for billionaires. You didn’t need a brave death to get in, just a lot of money. If the giants did invade Boston, maybe I could convince them to do some strategic condo-stomping.
Finally, I reached the Midgard facade of the Hotel Valhalla. From the outside, it looked like an eight-story mansion of white-and-gray stone—just another piece of super-expensive real estate in a row of Colonial town houses. The only difference: the hotel’s front garden was completely enclosed by a fifteen-foot-tall limestone wall with no entryway—the first of many defenses to keep non-einherjar from trespassing.
I jumped straight over and into the Grove of Glasir.
A couple of Valkyries hovered in the branches of the white birch tree, collecting its twenty-four-karat-gold foliage. They waved to me, but I didn’t stop to chat. I marched up the front steps and pushed open the heavy double doors.
In the cathedral-size lobby, the usual scene was going on. In front of the roaring fireplace, teenage einherjar hung out playing board games or just chillaxing (which is like chilling, except with battle-axes). Other einherjar in fuzzy green hotel bathrobes chased each other around the rough-hewn pillars that lined the hall, playing hide-and-seek-and-kill. Their laughter echoed off the ceiling high above, where the rafters gleamed with the points of thousands of bundled spears.
I glanced over at the reception desk, wondering if Sam’s mysterious eye-punching brother might be checking in. The only person there was the manager, Helgi, glowering at his computer screen. One sleeve of his green suit had been ripped off. Chunks of his epic-size beard had been pulled out. His hair looked even more like a dead buzzard than usual.
“Don’t go over there,” warned a familiar voice.
Hunding the bellhop sidled up next to me, his warty red face covered with fresh scratches. His beard, like Helgi’s, looked like it had recently been caught in a chicken-plucking machine. “Boss is in a foul mood,” he said. “Like, beat-you-with-a-stick foul mood.”
“You don’t look so happy yourself,” I noted. “What happened?”
Hunding’s beard quivered with anger. “Our newest guest happened.”
“Samirah’s brother?”
“Hmph. If you want to call him that. I don’t know what Samirah was thinking, bringing that monster to Valhalla.”
“Monster?” I had a flashback to X, the half-troll Samirah had once admitted to Valhalla. She’d gotten flak for that, too, though X had later turned out to be Odin in disguise. (Long story.) “You mean this newcomer is an actual monster, like Fenris or—”
“Worse, if you ask me.” Hunding brushed a tuft of whiskers off his uniform name tag. “Cursed argr nearly tore my face off when he saw his accommodations. Not to mention the complete lack of a proper tip—”
“Bellhop!” the manager shouted from the reception desk. “Stop fraternizing and get over here! You have dragon teeth to floss!”
I looked at Hunding. “He makes you floss the dragons’ teeth?”
Hunding sighed. “Takes forever, too. I gotta go.”
“Hey, man.” I handed him the bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans I’d bought at the Thinking Cup. “Hang in there.”
The old Viking’s eyes turned misty. “Magnus Chase, you’re a fine lad. I could hug you to death—”
“BELLHOP!” Helgi shouted again.
“ALL RIGHT! HOLD YOUR EIGHT-LEGGED HORSES!” Hunding scurried toward the front desk, which spared me from a hug to the death.
As low as I felt, at least I didn’t have Hunding’s job. The poor guy had reached Valhalla only to be forced into servitude by Helgi, his archenemy from mortal life. I figured he deserved some chocolate now and then. Also, his friendship had already proven invaluable to me several times. Hunding knew his way around the hotel better than anybody, and he had all the juicy gossip.
I headed for the elevators, wondering what an “argr” was and why Sam would bring one into Valhalla. Mostly I wondered if I had time for lunch and a nap before this afternoon’s battle. It was important to be well fed and well rested when dying in combat.
In the corridors, a few einherjar gave me sidelong glances. Most ignored me. Sure, I’d retrieved the Sword of Summer and defeated Fenris Wolf, but the majority of my fellow warriors just saw me as the kid who’d gotten three Valkyries killed and almost started Ragnarok. The fact that I was a son of Frey, the Vanir summer god, didn’t help. His offspring weren’t usually found in Valhalla. I wasn’t cool enough to hang with the popular crowd—the children of war gods like Thor, Tyr, and Odin.
Yes, Valhalla had cliques just like high school. And while high school seemed to last for eternity, Valhalla actually did. The only einherjar who truly accepted me were my hallmates on floor nineteen, and I was anxious to get back to them.
In the elevator, the Viking easy-listening music did not help my mood. Questions swam around in my brain: Who had killed Otis? What had the goat wanted to warn me about? Who was Sam’s brother? What were Blitz and Hearth hiding from? And who in their right mind would want to record “Fly Me to the Moon” in Old Norse?
The elevator doors opened at floor nineteen. I stepped out and promptly got sideswiped by a large animal. It was moving so fast I only registered a blur of tan and black before it turned a corner and was gone. Then I noticed holes in my sneakers where the animal had run over them. Tiny geysers of pain erupted from the tops of my feet.
“Ow,” I said, belatedly.
“Stop that cheetah!” Thomas Jefferson, Jr. came charging down the corridor with his bayonet fixed, my other hallmates Mallory Keen and Halfborn Gunderson close behind him. They stumbled to a stop in front of me, all three panting and sweating.
“Did you see it?” T.J. demanded. “Where’d it go?”
“Um…” I pointed to the right. “Why do we have a cheetah?”
“It wasn’t our idea, believe me.” T.J. shouldered his rifle. As usual, he wore his blue Union Army uniform, his jacket unbuttoned over a green Hotel Valhalla T-shirt. “Our new hallmate isn’t happy to be here.”
“New hallmate,” I said. “A cheetah. You mean…the soul Sam brought in. A child of Loki. He’s a shape-shifter?”
“Among other things,” said Halfborn Gunderson. Being a berserker, he had the physique of Sasquatch and wore only hide britches. Runic tattoos swirled across his massive chest. He banged his battle-ax on the floor. “I almost got my face smashed in by that meinfretr!”
Since moving to Valhalla, I’d learned an impressive number of Old Norse cusswords. Meinfretr translated as something like stinkfart, which was, naturally, the worst kind of fart.
Mallory sheathed her two knives. “Halfborn, your face could use an occasional smashing.” Her brogue got thicker whenever she was angry. With her red hair and flushed cheeks, she could have passed for a small fire giant, except fire giants were not as intimidating. “I’m more concerned about that demon destroying the hotel! Did you see what he did to X’s room?”
“He took over X’s old room?” I asked.
“And proceeded to tear it up.” Mallory made a V with her fingers and flicked them under her chin in the direction the cheetah had fled. Miss Keen was Irish, so her V did not mean peace or victory—it meant something much ruder. “We came by to welcome him, found the place in ruins. No respect!”
I remembered my own first day
in Valhalla. I had thrown a sofa across the living room and put my fist through the bathroom wall. “Well…adjusting can be tough.”
T.J. shook his head. “Not like this. The kid tried to kill us on sight. Some of the stuff he said—”
“First-rate insults,” Halfborn conceded. “I’ll give him credit for that. But I’ve never seen one person do so much damage….Come have a look, Magnus. See for yourself.”
They led me down to X’s old room. I’d never been inside, but now the door was wide open. The interior looked like it had been redecorated by a Category 5 hurricane.
“Holy Frigg.” I stepped over a pile of busted furniture into the foyer.
The layout was a lot like my own suite—four square sections jutting out from a central atrium like a giant plus sign. The foyer had once been a sitting area with a sofa, bookshelves, a TV, and a fireplace. Now it was a disaster zone. Only the fireplace was still intact, and gouge marks scarred the mantel as if our new neighbor had taken a broadsword to it.
From what I could see, the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom wings had been similarly destroyed. In a daze, I moved toward the atrium.
Just like mine, it had a huge tree in the middle. The lowest branches spread across the apartment’s ceiling, interweaving with the rafters. The upper branches stretched into a cloudless blue sky. My feet sank into green grass. The breeze from above smelled like mountain laurel—a sort of grape Kool-Aid scent. I’d been in several of my friends’ rooms, but none of them had an open-air atrium.
“Was it like this for X?” I asked.
Mallory snorted. “Hardly. X’s atrium was a big pool—a natural hot spring. His place was always as hot, humid, and sulfurous as a troll’s armpit.”
“I miss X.” Halfborn sighed. “But, yes, all this is completely new. Each suite arranges itself to fit its owner’s style.”
I wondered what it meant that my atrium was exactly like the newcomer’s. I didn’t want to share styles with a murderous wildcat son of Loki who ran over people’s feet.
At the edge of the atrium lay another pile of wreckage. Freestanding shelves had been overturned. The grass was littered with ceramic bowls and cups—some colorfully glazed, others unfired clay.