“Hey, guys,” Sigmund said. “This is Lain. Lain, Simon, Ben, Chris, Wayne, and Em.”
Lain greeted everyone as they took their seats at the table. The men were noncommittal, and Em was busy with her books and dice, but Wayne’s eyes went very, very round. The second Lain’s attentions were elsewhere, she mouthed Wow in Sigmund’s direction, making a little heart shape with her fingers. Sigmund tried not to blush. Or feel inadequate.
“You’ve got two choices,” Em said to Lain. “Dwarf Paladin or Tiefling Warlock.”
“Ugh, dwarfs.” Lain’s repulsion seemed oddly authentic. “Give me the tiefthingie.”
It was Sigmund’s unspoken job to explain the game as they went along, which he did. Not that Lain needed many hints, and, after a while, he confessed to having studied up on the sourcebooks during the week. Sigmund felt warm inside at that, particularly when Lain’s knee bumped against his under the table and just sort of stayed there for the rest of the evening.
About an hour in, Paul came around and took money, returning some time later with pizza. Sigmund shared one with Wayne and Em, and they all watched Lain devour a whole three-sixty degrees by himself, followed by everyone else’s leftovers. Lain ate like it was going out of style, which Sigmund thought was totally unfair for a guy with not a single ounce of fat on his body. On the other hand, that was not a single ounce of fat on Sigmund’s boyfriend’s body they were talking about and, oh wow. Boyfriend. There was that word again.
For his part, Sigmund kept shooting glances at Lain throughout the evening. Checking for any signs of boredom, he supposed, but none appeared. As far as Sigmund could tell, Lain was having a great time. He’d taken to his warlock like a man born to wield the chaotic energies of the universe, and even ended up role-playing them all out of a bad situation with a local baron. Chris and Ben wanted to fight it out, Wayne suggested rolling Diplomacy. Lain just started talking, in character, and after ten minutes they’d waltzed out with new gear and a sack of treasure. Em looked a bit shell-shocked for a while afterward, as if not even she was exactly sure what had happened.
Sigmund thought he might just be in love.
“So you had fun, then?” he asked later, as they were making their way back to the car. They’d said their good-byes, and Lain’s tiefling had been filed into the characters box rather than returned to the pile of premades. Sigmund took it as a good sign.
“Man, I can’t believe I’ve never played that before.” Lain’s grin was like honey and razor blades.
“Well, we try and play at least once a month, barring emergencies.”
Lain stopped walking, and, thanks to their linked hands, Sigmund did too.
“Can I kiss you?”
Sigmund blinked. Pushed his glasses up his nose. Reran the last sentence over in his head. “Um. Okay.” Because, yes. Sigmund. Loser. World’s biggest.
Lain didn’t seem to mind, though, giving one of his rare, soft smiles. Not toilet-paper-ad soft, but not glass-cutter sharp, either. It was also, Sigmund realized when it started getting closer, slightly scarred.
Scars or not, Lain’s lips were gentle and his hand was warm where it came to rest against Sigmund’s hip. It occurred to Sigmund he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing here, exactly, so he closed his eyes—that seemed like a good start—and just kinda…tried to go with it. To feel. Warmth and longing and a smell like burnt forests and dark caves.
His toes tingled. So did his lips. And…other things.
When Lain pulled back, it wasn’t far. His face was very close and his eyes were very green, and Sigmund realized he could count the freckles across Lain’s nose. Neither of them could seem to stop smiling.
“That was okay?” Lain looked pleased with himself, but Sigmund couldn’t really mind. After all, they’d just had their first kiss at the bottom of the Torr Mall escalators. No tongue, no pressure. Just the flutter of Sigmund’s heart and the warmth settling somewhere beneath his belly.
Sigmund was grinning, because he couldn’t help it. He was grinning, and Lain was grinning, and Lain’s grin pulled at the scars that crossed his lips. Sigmund brought his fingers up to trace them before he’d really thought about it. There were eight little marks in total. Two marks on each side of the top lip, and two on each side of the bottom.
“What are these?” Sigmund asked. “I’ve never noticed them before…”
Lain gave a not-quite wince, running his tongue across the ridges. “A dumb bet,” he said. “When I was a kid.” It wasn’t a lie, but Sigmund got the impression it wasn’t even close to the truth.
They could’ve been piercings, Sigmund thought. The scars were kinda ragged, though, so maybe they’d gotten infected or…pulled out, or something. That seemed like the safest explanation. It certainly kept Sigmund’s mind off the other one, the one he didn’t want to think about. Because what the scars actually looked like were stitches, and that was just…not a thought he wanted to be having right now.
Lain seemed to read his hesitation. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “It’s fine.” The implication of now was quite loud, even to Sigmund.
“I had a really great time tonight,” Sigmund said, because it was true, and holding on to that feeling seemed more important than all the mysteries and old pain. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want Lain to go home. He wanted—
“We could go back to my place, if you want,” Lain said. Then, brighter, “I have Wii!”
Sigmund pretended to think it over. “Mario Kart?” he asked, mock scowling.
“Rainbow Road!” Lain said, gushing such overstated enthusiasm that Sigmund couldn’t help but giggle. He was glad for the excuse, even if it was silly. He was pretty sure, if he said yes, that the racetracks of the Mushroom Kingdom would be safe.
He was pretty sure his hands were shaking. He was pretty sure Lain was pretending not to notice.
“Yeah,” Sigmund said finally. “Let’s go…play Wii at your place.”
Lain squeezed his hand, before pulling away. Despite the evening heat, Sigmund still felt cold as they made their way through the parking garage. His heart was hammering. First date, first kiss, first…game of Mario Kart at Lain’s house and, wait a second. Lain’s house. The one Sigmund had, earlier in the week, been convinced Lain didn’t have.
Maybe he’d magicked one up in the days between then and now, just on the off chance that Sigmund might like to come back to it.
It had been a great night.
And then, when they got back to the car, a raven the size of a cat was sitting on the roof, waiting for them, and everything went to hell.
TEN
You have to understand that, up until about two seconds ago, I’d been having a really fantastic night.
It took five hours of pretending to fight dragons, but Sigmund’s finally started to relax. He’s sweet and shy and those two friends of his have almost stopped looking at me like ravens circling a carcass. Which fits, given they used to be valkyries, back before Ragnarøkkr. Sigyn’s friends. It’s nice they decided to stick around.
Right now I’m looking forward to that night of Mario Kart and nervous fumbling. Sigmund thinks we’re going back to my place—the one I bought on Wednesday and haven’t seen since the army of decorators got to it—to fuck, but honestly, where’s the fun? Travis could’ve done that. I didn’t invent an entire new identity for a one-night stand.
I’m thinking of my next move as we make our way back to the car. I know Sigmund isn’t totally buying Lain’s kayfabe, but then he never really did and I can work with that. Particularly the part where he’s going along with the ruse in spite of his suspicions. I’ve been struggling with the Big Reveal for a while, and letting Sigmund work it out on his own might be cheating, but cheating is what I do. Besides, Hey, so did I ever tell you about the time I used to be a god? is such an awkward conversation starter.
So I’m busy thinking. Distracted, you could say, which is why I don’t notice Munin until we’re practically standing on top
of it.
Well, strictly speaking, it’s standing on top of my car. If it shits on the paint I swear I’m starting a war. If we don’t already have one, that is.
Fuck.
“Uh, why is there a huge crow sitting on your car?”
“Raven.” Munin hates being called a crow; all ravens do.
It’s hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure the fucking thing is grinning. “Found you,” it says.
Sigmund twitches at the words. Mortals can’t hear Munin talk, but Sigmund isn’t quite mortal. He knows he’s missing something, even if he has no idea what.
“Long time no see, you carrion-stinking bag of feathers,” I say, because I’m pretty sure that by this point I’m fucked no matter what I do. “How’s Hugin these days?”
“Lain are you talking to the—”
“Dead,” says Munin. “Like you should be.”
“How ’bout that,” I say. “Guess that vǫlva wasn’t all she was cracked up to be.” Prophecy. Fuck me, but do I hate prophecy.
And then a voice behind me says, “Isn’t it strange how these things turn out.” And any hope I’d been harboring re not being totally fucked goes flying off with Munin in a flurry of black feathers and cawed laughter.
I don’t turn, not at first. It’s funny, in the way that isn’t. I’ve been waiting for this for nearly seventy years. Of course it would be this night, of all nights.
Sigmund is less hesitant, spinning to look at the source of the new voice. His hand is clammy where it’s still clasped in mine, the sweet cloud of self-conscious lust he’s been extruding all night replaced now by sharply spiking anxiety. He knows this is wrong, even if he doesn’t yet know why or how.
“Uh, Lain? Why is there an angry Viking guy with a spear talking in, um, Norwegian?”
That’s…unexpected. It’s not Norwegian, it’s Godstongue. Theoretically, everyone hears Godstongue as their native language. Everyone, it seems, except for Sigmund. That bears further investigation. Later. When we’re not about to die.
“Hello, Baldr.” I switch to Godstongue, too. It’s sort of rude, what with Sigmund standing right there, but I get the impression this conversation isn’t going to be something he really wants to hear. That I really want him to hear.
Now I turn. Sigmund’s description is accurate, and Baldr hasn’t bothered to make any concessions to modernity beneath the tunic and the furs. He’d look funny, standing in the middle of a mall parking garage, except for the fact that I’m about ten seconds from shitting myself. He was a kid the last time I saw him, staring down an arrow as I guided his brother’s hand to murder. Baldr then had been pale and scrawny and a bit of a mummy’s boy. Sometime in the last thousand years he grew up. And out. And angry. I guess an age trapped in Hel will do that to a guy.
I should know, after all.
Baldr is holding a spear. It’s not Gungnir—his father’s favorite phallic symbol—but it’d fool most people into thinking that it was. I gather from the fact that he’s holding it at all that this meeting is booked in to be short and violent.
“Liesmith.” My least-favorite kenning, wonderful. Except annoyance is replaced by terror when Baldr’s one golden eye flicks to Sigmund. “And your usurping whore, too. How convenient, when it was her who lead us to you.”
Shit. Sig’s near-death experience in the Járnviðr. I’d felt Sigyn then—bright as a pulsar and as frozen as space—and apparently I hadn’t been the only one. Fuck.
I push Sigmund behind me a bit. “Get in the car,” I say in English. “As soon as he’s distracted, get the fuck out of here. Don’t worry about me.”
“Lain?”
“Just trust me, man.”
There’s something about my voice. Something about the fact that the Weird Shit is officially going down that makes Sigmund nod and start backing off.
“She won’t get far,” Baldr promises, voice flat and certain.
Baldr had a wife once. I didn’t technically kill her, but, then again, I didn’t technically kill him, either.
Still, that’s no excuse for threatening my boyfriend on our first date. “Fuck off, you glass-backed jackass. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to kill you, slanderer,” Baldr says, picking another nickname I could do without. “Normally, this is a task I would not relish.” He’d almost look regretful, to someone with a strictly theoretical understanding of the term.
“Then there’s no need to start now,” I try. “Turn around, go home. I’m done. I got out, got a new life. That’s what I wanted.” This, perhaps, is true only in retrospect. I hope Baldr doesn’t realize that. Mostly I hope that the fact that he’s still talking might mean I can get out of this without a fight. Maybe.
“Even should I believe them, your lies are meaningless.” Baldr sounds tired, a little bit impatient. Actually, he sounds like his dad. That’s probably not a good sign. “Ásgarðr is suffering. Languishing in twilight while the prophecy of Ragnarøkkr goes unfulfilled. For decades I have searched for the reason this is so. Now that I have my answer, I cannot allow such treachery to go unpunished.”
So. I’m pretty much screwed, then. Fuck.
I give it a shot, anyway. “Kid, prophecy doesn’t work that way. If the golden age hasn’t come, then…” It occurs to me, as I say this, that it’s probably about the worst fucking tack I could’ve taken.
“Enough.” Baldr hefts his spear, and I know talking time is done. “If you will not submit quietly then so be it.”
He lunges, but I’m ready for it and feint left. I come up from a roll to see Baldr pulling not-Gungnir out of the concrete a hair shy of the rear bumper of my car. If the sun-kissed little bastard scratches it, I swear I’m going to kill him.
I might have to kill him, anyway. Somehow.
Baldr is big and strong, and his spear is very pointy. He was never much of a warrior, back in the day, but he stands now with confidence and swings his weapon like he means it. I guess he’s learned.
It’s been a good thousand years since I’ve been in melee combat. I hope it’s one of those things you don’t forget, like riding your first great bike, in either the literal or metaphorical sense of the phrase. I guess I’m about to find out.
There’s a place, a sort of nothingspace between the edges of what’s real and what isn’t, and I reach into it. I left two langseax here once, just in case, and I feel for the shape of them in my mind. The bone-carved hilts, the cold kiss of iron. Preserved for a thousand years, ready for my call. I call now, and the blades materialize in my hands. Mostly like I remember, except that they now appear to be on fire. The nothingspace does that. Nothing ever comes back the way it went in.
Flaming daggers I can work with and, when Baldr thrusts forward again, I catch the haft between the backs of the blades and pull downward.
He stumbles, and I leap back in a crouch. It doesn’t buy me much. Baldr’s on the offensive again almost immediately, and I end up doing a weaving dance backward through the parking garage, trying to keep out of range of the spearhead.
Spears have reach, and in the hands of a skilled fighter, they’re fast weapons. But they’re designed for keeping people back, not fighting them up close. If I can get behind the point, I can win.
Plan forming, I feint backward again and wait for Baldr to follow. He does, and halfway through his thrust I pull a wall of fire up between us. It’s been a while since I’ve done something like that and, honestly, I’m glad it works at all. While I’m busy congratulating myself, I leap up onto the roof of one of the cars on Baldr’s right, then use the momentum to bring myself down against his flank.
It works. Just. Baldr’s distracted by the fire, but notices at the last minute and turns, catching me in the side with the haft of not-Gungnir. I hear an awful crack at chest level as the wood connects. The force sends me flying back into the opposite row of cars, but not before my langseax bites flesh.
Baldr gives a roar, and when I look up, he’s clutching his right shoulder.
&n
bsp; He’s left-handed, and the cut isn’t deep, so it’s not as good as it could be. Honestly, it’s amazing that I could wound him at all, and even now I feel the Wyrd of my bloodied knife scream from its broken oath. Still. “First blood,” I say, grinning.
Baldr doesn’t take the gloating well, roaring and lunging again. I almost don’t roll out of the way fast enough, not-Gungnir slamming through the hood of the car I’ve already wrecked with the weight of my own impact.
First blood might be mine, but Baldr is starting to fight like he intends to finish. Losing some finesse and making up for it in strength and brutality, and it’s all I can do to keep out of the way of his thrusts. Not to mention that I can see the paint bubble and peel off cars as the guy passes, and I’m pretty sure he’s started to radiate sunlight.
My ribs are definitely cracked. I haven’t breathed since the cave, which is useful, but pain lances into my chest every time I move. Baldr’s had me on the defensive ever since we started, and it occurs to me to wonder why I ever thought I could beat him in a straight-up fight. I’m used to press conferences and board meetings. Not this.
Emboldened by previous successes with calling up walls of fire, I run one along a row of cars. I’m rewarded a moment later with three rather nice explosions. Not movie-huge, but enough to catch Baldr in the backdraft.
It’s about now that two things start to happen. One is that my skin starts itching, all along my back and biceps. I have a tattoo there—hidden under suits and hipster jackets—and it will become important in just a second. First, however, I’m distracted by a flash of bright-sharp terror coming from my left. It’s not Baldr; it’s Sigmund, still hiding amid the cars. He’s wild eyed, breathing heavily, and slightly singed. Shit.
“I told you to get the fuck outta here!”
“Lain!” He panics, looking at something behind me. Shit. I roll, but not fast enough, feeling the tip of not-Gungnir as it slices a thick gash right down my back. Right through the pattern of the ink.
“Guh!”
There’s a trail of purple-black blood leading from where I’m crouched to where Baldr is pulling his spear out of the concrete. The blood sizzles, oxidizing green as it eats holes in the ground. I’m not worried about that, though, or even about the burning pain lancing down my spine. Because now it’s time to pay attention to the itching. The itching that feels like a thousand beetles crawling just beneath my skin. That feels like a promise, like something forgotten. But most of all, that feels like home.
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