Chaos Magic

by Jennifer Willis

  Sally sighed. She’d been so focused on magick and the Lodge and trying to keep all the mayhem under wraps that she’d effectively been living under a rock. More like a boulder. She had no idea what was the “in” color or the trendiest band, or even what TV shows were current.

  Most of the PSU football players, cheerleaders, and marching band members who had been called as Einherjar warriors to stand against Managarm in that bulldozer battle were no longer on campus. They had graduated and moved on with their lives. The ones who were still in school had at least pretended to forget about their service. If any other PSU students recognized Sally from that grisly morning in the forest, they didn’t let on. Apart from Kyle and maybe his friend Trevor, they were back to being kids.

  But that wasn’t in the cards for Sally. Even when she’d tried to take a break from the Lodge by going to Ireland, the chaos found her anyway. She’d never have a normal boyfriend. And she’d never escape her magick.

  Instead of feeling sorry for herself or embarking on some thrift store adventure or makeover montage, Sally drank her juice and thought about what Kyle had said. Gray clouds gathered above her head.

  So Heimdall thought Sally needed a babysitter. Or was Kyle supposed to be her bodyguard, or her parole officer? A snarling ball of betrayal swirled around her but didn’t touch her. The rush of discomfort ebbed away. Her breathing and heartbeat were steady.

  Loki’s training was coming in handy. This is what it felt like to be in control.

  She flexed her fingers, testing her sore knuckles. It stung as the fresh skin and crusty scabs cracked, but she had no regrets about punching Loki. She’d earned that small victory.

  With little warning, the overcast sky let loose a sudden rain shower. Sally dashed around the corner and down the street to an off-campus coffee shop. Before she pushed through the glass doors of Coffee Horde, she paused beneath the dripping awning and pressed her hands into a large planter to ground any built-up static. She wanted a refuge from the storm and a hot beverage, not to start a fire or fuse the cappuccino machines into inoperability.

  Sally ducked inside and got in line to order a pumpkin spice mocha—Coffee Horde’s Halloween special—to stave off the chill from the rain.

  She saw at least a dozen PSU students in full costumes, probably headed to early parties or expressing their holiday spirit. There were only two blatantly exploitive costumes—one “sexy zombie,” which didn’t look sexy at all, and one “naughty nurse.” The rest of the revelers had put more thought into their get-ups. There were two Grumpy Cat mashups—Grumpy Cat Hello Kitty and Grumpy Cat Spiderman sat on opposite sides of the coffee shop and glared at each other. She spotted an elegantly coiffed Audrey Hepburn, a trio of non-gender-specific Where’s Waldos, and what looked to be an honest-to-goodness Grammar Nazi with semi-colons emblazoned on his lapels and a red circle and slash over “Word Crimes” on his arm.

  Sally found an empty booth at the back near the fireplace. The rain was coming down harder outside the glass storefront, and she sipped her coffee more for warmth than for the taste of another pumpkin-themed novelty.

  She was about to pull out her laptop to check email and maybe catch up on Distractify when she heard a familiar laugh. Her mouth dropped open when she spotted Saga on the other side of the fireplace relaxing in a lounge chair and flirting with a pair of nearly identical frat boys perched on the armrests.

  Sally pushed her drink aside and stood up. This had to stop.

  “You can tell Heimdall to mind his own freaking business,” Sally said loudly as she strode toward Saga. She took some pleasure in the boys’ shocked expressions. With their matching khaki trousers and striped green-and-white polo shirts, Sally wasn’t sure if they were in costume or not.

  “I’ve had about as much of this as I can take, and that’s quite a lot.” Sally planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry about last night. Everybody’s unhappy. The whole thing is one gigantic poop parade.”

  Sally wanted to say something much worse, but she didn’t dare use actual curse words when she might accidentally unleash chaos on unsuspecting coffee patrons.

  Saga cracked an amused smirk.

  “But you can’t keep tailing me,” Sally continued. The two boys rose from their perches and faced her like protective sentinels before Saga’s throne, but Sally looked past them and let her words strike. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anybody checking up on me or spying or whatever, either. Just leave me alone.” She took a breath. “Okay?”

  Saga dipped her head in acknowledgment.

  Sally marched back to her booth. Both her coffee and her backpack were still there. She would have been particularly mortified to take such a stand only to have someone gank her stuff while her back was turned.

  The frat guys buzzed over Saga. “What the hell was that?” one asked. “Do you want us to take care of this?” the other mumbled.

  Sally slid into her booth. Her coffee was still warm and she wrapped her hands around the cup and took a long drink of spicy sweetness. She pulled out her laptop and set up temporary camp. Let Heimdall send as many minions or family members as he wanted. Sally was determined to get on with her life, even if she wasn’t sure what she wanted that life to look like.

  She opened a new browser window and searched, ”choose my best life.” Most of the results were links to life coaches with a couple of insurance companies and self-help books sprinkled in. The second and third pages offered life path quizzes and tips for choosing lucrative, entry-level jobs. Sally started clicking, quickly filling her browser’s nav bar with tabs. She put in her earbuds and opened her favorite ambient playlist. She was two questions into a “Follow Your True Colors” career quiz when Saga slid in on the other side of the booth.

  Sally kept the music volume at nearly maximum while Saga talked and tried to get her attention. Finally, Sally registered the forlorn look on Saga’s face and relented. She pulled out her earbuds and peered over the top of her laptop.

  “You have a right to be angry.” Saga rested her hands on the chipped formica table. The booth’s tall walls sheltered them and blocked out most of the noise of shrieking cappuccino machines and boisterous patrons.

  Sally looked at her screen and clicked a few radio buttons—choosing her favorite ice cream flavor and zoo animals—and advanced to the next page of the quiz.

  “You were a guest at the Lodge,” Saga continued. “Even though you’re practically kin, you didn’t deserve such chilly treatment under my father’s roof.”

  Sally heard the catch in Saga’s voice. Halfway through ranking ten different textures of the same shade of orange in decreasing order of appeal, Sally looked up and saw tears rimming Saga’s eyes.

  “I don’t know what you meant about telling Heimdall to mind his own business.” Saga tucked a strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear and glanced at the boys waiting by the fire. “But I can probably guess.”

  Sally answered three online questions about her favorite types of weather. Saga apparently wasn’t eager to fill the silence. While Sally ranked a dozen photos of endangered insects, Saga’s admirers approached the table.

  “Saga?” Frat Boy 1 asked. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s fine,” Saga answered.

  “You still coming with us to Kevin’s?” Frat Boy 2 asked.

  Sally clicked through the test questions that grew more ridiculous by the page. She genuinely had no opinion on VHS versus Betamax.

  “He’s showing BASE jumping videos all night. You should check it out,” FB1 said.

  “I’m staying here with my friend,” Saga replied.

  “I’ll text you the address if you give me your number,” said FB2.

  “I’ll find it,” Saga said. “If I decide to come.”

  The guys lingered for a long, awkward moment before they shrugged in unison and shuffled away. Saga giggled.

  “Centuries of technological and social advances, and young men are still very much the s
ame.” Saga tapped the side of Sally’s coffee cup with her blush-pink fingernails. “Did you get the Pumpkin Smash coffee? Is it any good?”

  Sally closed her laptop. “What are you doing?”

  Saga held Sally’s gaze. “I’m trying to be your friend, Sally. I think we could both use a real friend right about now. What do you think?”

  Loki walked along the path in almost total darkness, slipping occasionally on loose gravel or scuffing the toe of his boot on a larger rock. The wet stone walls were close around and above him. Sometimes the path dipped or rose slightly as he made his way steadily toward the mouth of the tunnel.

  Entire religions had been created around this simple passage from mortal life through death and into the afterlife. The path Loki trod wasn’t the only one—the Oweynagat cave tunnels in Ireland served the same purpose. But this passage wasn’t connected directly to Midgard until Sally opened the way.

  Loki passed between the realms and now moved beneath Niflheim on his way to Helheim.

  Time passed differently outside of Midgard, and Loki couldn’t say how long he’d been walking. He emerged into a thick, grayish light not unlike the winter skies of the Pacific Northwest and Scandinavia. Loki stopped outside the cave mouth to get his bearings; it had been a while since he was last in this realm.

  The ground was a dusty mix of dry, brittle dirt and gray pebbles as far as the eye could see. In the distance to his left lay a copse of deciduous trees with gray-green leaves around a lake that glinted in invitation, while a murky and unpleasant-looking swamp of shadows, muck, and barren husks of trees sprawled closer on his right. Directly ahead a narrow, foot-worn path led through an ancient stone archway into a thick forest.

  Loki had no desire to contend with Nidhogg who was likely lounging about the tranquil-looking lake. If Loki were among the mortal dead, the dragon would descend on him in a flash, sucking out any remaining life and readying him for his audience with Hel. But Loki was an Old One, and his kind got a pass on that exciting experience.

  Nor did he have time to indulge a visit to his Skallytog friends in the swamp. Perhaps on the way back he would stop off to share a stein of bog mead and swap stories, but only if his audience in Helheim was successful.

  There wasn’t a hound in sight.

  He approached the stone archway.

  So little had changed. The stones stacked atop one another to curve into the archway looked more worn, though the structure was as solid as ever. The path was wider than he remembered, but countless souls had trod this path in the centuries since he’d last passed this way.

  What remained exactly the same was the complete silence of the forest. In the cave he’d had the sound of his own breathing for company, echoing back to him from the close walls. But here the utter lack of birdsong or even the rustling of a breeze through tree branches was unnerving. There was no place so devoid of life than the realm of the dead. If not for his singular focus on his destination, Loki’s steps might have faltered.

  He followed the path deeper into the forest. Less defined trails led off the main path and into the woods, but Loki had a rough idea of what distractions and dangers lurked in the shadows.

  He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and was tempted to start whistling a tune in the unearthly silence. But he couldn’t decide what tune was most appropriate, and he didn’t want to attract unwanted attention. A living god would be more than a simple curiosity to the forest’s inhabitants.

  The path was unerringly straight, with no deviations or bends, as though the trees had grown up around the trail. It would have been poetic to find the trail littered with cast-off clothing, weapons, and other personal effects as the souls of the dead left behind the comforts and security of the living world. But the truth was none of the traditional burial items ever made it this far. So many wasted horns of mead and herbs, bags of sharpened arrowheads and silver pieces, even battle axes and longboats—all remained in Midgard, useless apart from the dutiful reassurance to living compatriots and friends left behind.

  The only thing that made it to Helheim was the astral flesh on the dead’s illusionary bones, and usually some form of familiar clothing to make the transition less traumatic.

  Loki’s pace slowed when he approached the Hall of Helheim. The throne room was built from the forest itself, with tall evergreens bent and twisted into a vaulted ceiling of dark needles and pine. Branches of strong oaks and maples were lashed together into walls of barked wood and dusty leaves. Everything was colored in shades of ash and shadow.

  But Loki did not stop, not even when he reached the threshold of thick cypress trees bowed together to outline another archway. Any hesitation or hint of uncertainty might be his undoing.

  The space was empty. Loki walked across swept dirt to the center of the hall and paused. He turned slowly in a circle, feeling the many pairs of ghostly eyes that studied him. But still there was no sound. At the far end of the hall was a dense curtain of weeping willow branches and long ropes of moss. She was waiting there behind the dull greenery for him to announce himself.

  “I call on the Lady Hel, ruler of this place,” Loki said in a strong voice. The trees absorbed every syllable like sponges in water, so that his greeting sounded muted and flat, his words dying in a dull thud in the dirt. “Loki, Keeper of the Realms, requests an audience.”

  The words almost caught in his throat. He hadn’t used or even heard that particular title for thousands of years. So few left in any world knew such an office existed, much less that Loki had filled it since before human history had begun. But she knew. Announcing himself by this title was no show of force or authority but was instead an act of humility. He had come to her. The Keeper of the Realms had journeyed through the veils to seek an interview with the Queen of Helheim.

  The curtain of willow and moss shivered and lifted into the air, disappearing into the dark tangle of branches above and revealing a throne of thick, gnarled vines woven into a living chair occupied by Hel herself. At least she had dispensed with the traditional half-living, half-corpse appearance she adopted to inspire awe and terror in the souls who entered her hall to be directed to their final destinations. But she wasn’t beautiful. Her hair lay in knotty cables of brassy mud, spilling down her back and over her cloak of slate-colored feathers and fur. Her skin was sallow and puffy, especially about her face, setting off the only truly dazzling thing about her—the mesmerizing glow of her yellow eyes.

  Skeletal fingers clutched the twisted armrests of her throne, and she smiled down at Loki from her perch as tangles of nearly naked, human-shaped figures crept along the floor from behind her pedestal and arranged themselves in ungainly piles of loose, unwashed flesh.

  Hel lifted her rounded chin and bared a full set of sharp, stained teeth. “Hello, father. I had wondered when you might pay me a visit.”

  6

  Sally followed Saga through the swinging double doors that led to a large and very tidy loading dock. She’d not been inside the Nordic Cultural Center before, nor had most people. Portland’s Norse Society had only the year before completed their fundraising campaign to establish the museum and activities center, and naturally Saga had been instrumental in their efforts.

  Even if she was now banned from the galleries.

  “But only until it opens,” Saga said with a flourish of her hands as she wove her way through stacks of crates waiting to be opened and unloaded. “Apparently I’m too exacting when it comes to historical accuracy. That pissed off the director and now I can’t see the exhibits until everything’s open to the public. But I can show you the loading dock.”

  Sally stopped and leaned against one of the crates. They’d spent the past four hours together. They’d started off cautiously over mochas and lattes and then became more familiar and more raucous as the evening wore on. They’d slurped noodles and beers at Oodles of Brews, where Saga had somehow kept Sally from getting carded.

  Now Sally was feeling tipsy, plus she was bone-weary and nearly unc
onscious on her feet after everything that had happened in the previous twenty-four hours. But Saga wasn’t ready to call it a night.

  “Wait,” Sally protested. “You’re the freaking Norse goddess of history. You were an eye-witness to all this. How can you not be, like, at least a junior curator or something?”

  “I know, right?” Saga flashed an appreciative smile. Sally reminded herself that the twenty-something-looking woman in front of her was actually centuries old.

  “It’s all coming together ahead of schedule, if you can believe it.” Saga led Sally past more unpacked crates. Several workers in coveralls were working overtime, stacking empty containers against a long wall and ticking off items on digital checklists. One of them waved at Saga.

  “Hey, Erik!” Saga waved back. “I want my friend to see what we’ve been up to. You wouldn’t believe how steeped she is in old Norse stuff.”

  Sally tried not to laugh.

  Saga took her to the far side of the loading dock, away from the workers. “This is about as much as I can show you right now.”

  Sally noted the sliding door that took up nearly the entire back wall. It was bolted firmly in place.

  “Yeah, we have to keep things secure,” Saga said. “Signe’s email said they received four granite sarcophagi this morning. With bog bodies inside, too! I don’t think they were expecting that. Those’ll all get worked into the gallery next week when the ship arrives and gets set up.”

  “The ship?” Sally looked around at the stacks of wooden crates and pallets. There were four quite large boxes directly in front of her—probably the stone sarcophagi—but nothing large enough to hold an entire ship.

  “I think it’s arriving tomorrow. They’re bringing it by truck.”

  Sally hadn’t wondered before about how museum exhibits were disassembled and then packed up and shipped to the next location to get put back together again. On the MAX train from PSU to Goose Hollow, Saga had talked about coordinating with other volunteers to make sure the shipping manifests matched the shipped contents. It sounded like painstaking work.