“What, now?”
“No better time,” he says, getting up and offering a hand.
He leads me away from the feast, toward the Celtic portion of the grounds, where the hills begin to twist into whimsical shapes and the openings of burial mounds and caves loom like watchful eyes. Lugh walks up to the mouth of one of the smaller tombs, an unassuming gateway of earth and stone, and gestures at it proudly. “A step beyond, a world beside,” he says, grinning.
I move forward slowly, sandals crunching on dirt. The moment I pass the threshold, my vision snaps and suddenly the tunnel doesn’t seem so close and dark. It’s wide and inviting, well lit by a warm light I can’t quite place, and the air smells sweeter, of morning rain and flowers. I thought this passage went deep into the ground, but just around the bend, I see it curves up toward a circle of sunlight.
I approach it, almost in a trance, and when I reach the entrance, I find myself surrounded by endless fields of soft green grasses, a fertile ocean uplifted by a riot of wildflowers, all of it rustling peacefully in gentle breezes beneath a summer sky. Otherworld, Mag Mell, Tír na nÓg—whatever you want to call it … it’s real.
A rush of delight fills me at the realization. I have distant memories of Valhalla, Yggdrasil, and, of course, my own realm of Fólkvangr, but a part of me had begun to wonder if they truly existed, or if I was simply made to believe they had. I know gods can summon creatures, can warp the world around them and, if they’re powerful enough, edit reality to suit their whims. Logically, that implies the places, people, treasures, and terrors of myth all exist somewhere, but I’ve lacked the might to reach my own for so long, I’d begun to doubt I ever had it.
This proves otherwise. With enough strength, the realms of the gods can be touched, our seats of power unlocked and explored. I must remember this, must try to return to my home when I have the mystic muscle to do so. If I could look on my meadows again, could once more lay claim to the fallen who gather there, well, I might have an army made to order.
As I stand at the entrance to paradise, soaking in the warmth of summer and dreaming of conquest, my brain finally sputters to life and reminds me I’ve missed something devastatingly important. What did Lugh just say about the Otherworld? It parallels our own, right? Put it together, Sara.
I lay a hand on the tunnel wall, feeling giddy as the implications of this little trip hit home. These lands are lovely, to be certain, but the laughter and cheers that explode from me as I look on them are for another reason entirely:
I’ve found a way out.
20
FORK IN THE ROAD
FREYA
“Splendid,” Lugh says, taking in a lungful of summer air as he stops beside me.
“Without question,” I say, then turn to him and begin digging for answers. “So is this the only entrance?”
“No, just the most convenient,” he says, bending down to pick a flower. “We forged the link after our arrival, but there are passages without number. Some open at the promise of adventure, others for worthy souls or those who hold the keys, but any will admit the divine.”
He places the flower in my hair, taking care to thread its stem around my locks. “You need only know the Otherworld is waiting.”
“And the same is true for exits?” I say, smiling at his gesture. “I mean, do I have to use this one?”
“Well, should you wander far and find yourself pining for the mortal realm, there are certainly others—though they would probably return you far afield. Distances mean less here than there.”
Perfect.
I touch the flower, feeling a mischievous grin make its way onto my face. While we’re at it … “Lugh, I—” I draw closer. “How do I begin to thank you for this?”
His eyes twinkle. A mix of jest and playful hunger stirs beyond, but all he says is, “A meager tour is hardly deserving of debt. Your delight is payment enough.”
“If you knew how long it had been since I stood before such wonders—”
“You owe me nothing,” he says. “Come, step away from the pangs of favor and politics. Tarry beneath the sun of my lands, flee to your own adventures … I care not, save that you are pleased.”
I arch an eyebrow at that, a knowing smile on my lips. The hell with it. He’s been nothing but helpful, without guile or expectations, and there are hours to go before I’m supposed to meet my friends. “What was it you said of ‘sharp pleasures’?” I walk my fingers up his shirt. “‘Fierce’? ‘Quick’?”
Those fingers curl around his collar. “How quick?”
His grin turns wanton and he moves to press our bodies together. “I care not…” he repeats, and the rest of the line hangs silently between us, an unspoken promise.
I shift my hand up, sliding it against his neck, feeling his muscles, the warmth of his skin. “Not very, then,” I say, pulling his lips to mine … and sneaking his ID badge off his belt.
* * *
I walk out of the atrium an hour later, a bounce in my step and a few extra flowers in my hair. That was everything I’d been missing. I know stopping in the middle of a life-or-death struggle to indulge one’s passions probably isn’t the best idea, but I’m fairly sure the little party favor I snagged more than makes up for it. That, and there are far worse places and partners. Sweet summer skies and enchantingly soft grasses in a realm of youth and happiness beat just about any mundane bedroom, after all.
I check my pocket as I get into the elevator and punch in my new destination, making sure Lugh’s number is still on the scrap of paper tucked in there. We exchanged digits before parting ways, because, well, sure he’s gorgeous and ruggedly pleasant, but more important, he’s nice. When it comes to gods, it pains me to admit how rare that quality can be.
I giggle, remembering a few choice moments. Add those delights to the devious glee of what our mini date has enabled me to do next, and you get one happy goddess. That’s not even touching on the fact that I’ve completed both of my high-stakes, nigh-impossible goals (Identity? Check. Exit? Check!) before noon. Honestly, this place isn’t nearly as bad as I feared.
The elevator slows as my destination approaches, and I straighten my shoulders and try to tamp down my enthusiasm. Riding high on unmitigated success and an unhealthy supply of confidence, I’ve decided there’s no harm in taking on just one more quest: the mystery of fake Freya.
The distant voice of reason tries to tell me how terrible this idea actually is, but the fires of curiosity, outrage, and pride drown her out. The Valkyrie’s being given free rein when what I should be doing is finding my friends and getting the hell out of this viper’s den. This can’t be the first time I’ve made the mistake of asking questions best left unanswered, but who’s counting? It’s hard to deny your nature.
The elevator doors open on a marble-tiled executive suite straight out of Obscenely Wealthy Businessman’s Quarterly. Unlike most of the other levels, getting here actually required me to swipe a keycard reader next to the floor buttons. I’d expected an obstacle like this would eventually get in my way, so stealing Lugh’s ID was for more than mischief’s sake, if you can believe it.
On that note, I’m not a total idiot. I know the goal is getting out of here without Finemdi realizing I was ever on-site, and if somebody gets wise and starts checking security tapes, they’ll figure out what I’ve done. That’s why I stole more than Lugh’s badge—with one of my preset illusions running, I’ve also taken his appearance.
Fiery golden hair frames my new face, replacing my usual wide-eyed glee with suavely confident features of lightheartedness and strength. On me, his vague sense of ready camaraderie comes through a lot more strongly, a clear undercurrent of delight replacing the faint contentment of the genuine article, but I doubt anyone will look that deeply.
Besides the expensive stonework, there’s a set of double doors on the far side of the room, the usual high-end chairs and coffee tables, and a bit of a security presence, as well. A glassed-in guard station sits to the left
of the elevator doors, while two intimidating sentry guns hang from the ceiling, barrels tracking me as I walk forward. Three guards wait behind the bulletproof shielding, all of them heavily armored and glowing with mystic devices. They watch my approach with aggressive disinterest.
“Gentlemen,” I say, nodding.
There’s a click and the ornate wooden doors ahead swing outward. I beeline for them, trying to keep my pace even. The whole setup is massively intimidating, and the awkward silence of my walk across the anteroom, guns and guards shifting to follow my every step, makes for a nerve-racking experience. I start imagining all kinds of terrible things happening in my short journey but manage to reach the exit without any of them turning real. I breathe a sigh of relief as I enter the next room, the doors swinging closed the moment I pass their threshold.
I’m left in a long, richly appointed hallway. It looks sort of like Versailles got stretched through a Scandinavian design studio. There’s a playful sense of rococo in the asymmetrical scrollwork and gold leafing that skips along the walls and ceiling, but it’s more hinted at than anything else, peeled apart in the pursuit of minimalism and modernist streamlining. Large and inviting doors await me at the end of the corridor, while a dozen smaller ones offer exits to either side. I glance at the hand-etched nameplates set beside each one, looking for—Ah, here we are: SUPPLIES, my old friend.
I try the handle and find it unlocked. Lights flick on as the door swings inward, revealing a large utilities closet. It’s a well-organized space full of cleaning kits, vacuums, trash bags, tools, spare reams of paper, and other office necessities. I walk into it with a grin, stopping just inside the doorway. These rooms are a gift to underhanded goddesses like myself, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen more of them in my travels than labs, prisons, torture suites, or any other supervillain headquarters cliché you can imagine.
There’s nobody wandering the hall now, but I’m not sure how long that will last. “Tamworth,” I whisper, naming one more fine breed of pig in order to unleash another preprepared spell.
An illusory bubble whirls into place around me, projecting a copy of the corridor in all directions. If anyone were watching, it would look like I just vanished. In truth, I’m hidden by a small sphere of doubled images, a curved panorama taken from the hall and closet entrance as they appeared when I triggered the spell. Just like the hair I wore for Switch, this is simply altered light, meaning it’ll show up perfectly fine on video.
That done, I settle against the doorframe and wait. I’ve resigned myself to skipping lunch, so that leaves me around two hours before I’m supposed to meet Nathan and Sekhmet downstairs. If my quarry doesn’t put in an appearance before then, I’ll have to try again later. Still, I like my odds: I know she works on this floor, I’m fairly sure this is the only elevator down from this level, and if she’s at all like me, she’s not missing lunch if she can help it. Add it all up, and I don’t look so stupid now, do I?
The minutes crawl. Without my Mim at hand, my go-to choice of killing time with games and websites is lost. I start bouncing my back against the hall, boredom growing. Trying to focus on the task to come, I take my doppelgänger’s file out of my tote and start flipping through it again.
A handful of well-heeled staffers and managers come and go as I read, spotless dress shoes and pumps clicking across the marble. I notice they always enter the corridor from one of the side doors—never the big pair at the end. They don’t smell of divinity, making them either high-ranking mortals or half-breeds. None are my prey, so I let them pass with little more than a glance. My bubble is off-center, pushed up against the wall to cover the door to the supply closet, which lowers the chance they’ll stumble into it by mistake.
Finally, at almost precisely noon, the doors at the far end of the hall smack open. Hard blue eyes stare dead ahead as she enters the passage with powerful strides, severe black pumps snapping against the tiles, every footfall a fancy gunshot. Her golden-blond hair is straightened and sleek, whispering across her shoulders like something out of a shampoo commercial. She’s clad in a stunning outfit of tightly fitted black pants and matching designer smoking jacket. It doesn’t look like she’s wearing anything underneath, and the jacket is cinched mid-torso, creating an eye-popping neckline. The effect is somehow malevolent, businesslike, and scandalous.
Even without the piercing barb of deviant confidence she radiates, there’s no mistaking this girl. I’m staring at my clone, Finemdi’s “pseudo-Freya,” and she’s every bit as beautiful and terrible as promised. I raise my hand as she approaches, fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of the tranquilizer gun. She frowns as she nears, clearly sensing something’s off, but her pace never wavers. I wait until she draws even with my bubble, then fire the dart directly into her neck.
She slaps a hand at the injury, stride faltering. She manages a little squeak of surprise before her eyes roll up in her head and she faints. I’m already leaping forward, reaching out to stop her fall and drag her into my illusion. She collapses into my arms, and I take a moment to steady us both before turning to the closet and shoving her in. She lands on the tiles in an unconscious heap.
Smiling in triumph, I kick her legs out of the way and shut the door behind us. If there are cameras in that hall, then someone reviewing the tapes will probably be able to figure out what happened, but considering how fast it all went down, I doubt I have anything to worry about until the alarm is raised. By then, I should be long gone.
The first thing I do is drop my Lugh disguise. Then I pick my twin’s pockets, taking her keycard, cell phone, and—Geez, really? Holstered at the small of her back is a tiny holdout pistol, loaded with a single rune-covered bullet that looks just like the ones I stole from Sebastian. I should figure out what those do at some point.
I spend a few seconds studying her after I finish, wondering what it would be like if she weren’t brainwashed and evil. Wouldn’t it be fun, having another me around?
I shake my head, filing the thought for another time, and strip her completely, even stealing her shoes before putting on every last piece of clothing and accessory she had. It’s not a switch—I’m not about to give her my clothes so she can toss them to bloodhounds—so I fold my dress and stuff it into my tote. I stand up straight, thankful for the recent months of practice wearing heels, and look myself over. Sleek black pants, cleavage for miles, and killer pumps. Hey, I’m scary-hot.
I complete the look with one last illusion; the same I use for Switch. This time, instead of making myself a short-haired brunette, I flatten my hair and give it the proper gloss to match. I use the camera on her phone to look myself over when I’m done. Perfect. You’d never know I wasn’t her.
Finally, I bind my twin to some storage racks with a mishmash of extension cords, zip ties, and a couple of rolls of duct tape. By the time I’m done, she’s so covered in restraints you can barely see skin. It may be overkill, but I’m not about to take any chances. More tape to seal her mouth and fix some printer paper over her eyes, and I’m ready to go. I give the room a final check to make sure I haven’t missed anything, then straighten my shoulders, kill the illusion at the door, and walk back into the hall.
Knowing how strong the halāhala in those darts can be, she’ll probably be out for at least a few hours, and even when she wakes, I’m pretty sure she’s going nowhere fast. This gives me plenty of time to tour Finemdi as Freya, mighty and dreadful administrative assistant.
Part of me really wants to go back in there and wait until she wakes up so I can interrogate her. I’m fascinated and disgusted by her existence, and I’m pretty sure “banter with evil version of yourself” belongs on everyone’s supernatural bucket list. All the same, I know it’ll be a dead end. What’s she going to tell me? At best, she’ll be tight-lipped and snarky, and at worst, she’ll recognize me. Either way, I’m not getting anything good out of her—certainly not more than I could find out as her.
I stride down the hall, retracing my clone’s steps
and trying to put anger and confidence into every clack of her heels. I reach the double doors at the far end and throw them open with what I hope is the proper degree of irritation. The room beyond is definitely her office. The general style is a continuation of the corridor’s minimalist grandeur, but the walls on my left and right are floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the Manhattan skyline.
More cheating, I think with a smirk, looking from one side to the other. There’s no way this building is that thin—they’ve warped space somehow, allowing her to have an impossibly choice view.
There’s another set of doors directly ahead of me. To their right, a long, sleek desk hangs from the ceiling on golden chains, its surface lowered to thigh height. An overstuffed office chair sits behind it, and a slim computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse are the only objects on its surface.
Three couches of surpassing comfort surround an etched glass coffee table to my left, its top branded with the Finemdi logo in threads of gold. There’s a silver platter waiting for me here, a glass dome covering what appears to be someone’s lunch. Always keen to explore foodstuffs, I bend down to examine it further.
The meal is extravagant, clearly the product of the same hands that prepared my brunch. A goblet of rich red wine sits beside a plate with a perfectly scaled roast pig in its center, psychedelic swirls of sauces and jams radiating from it. It even has a tiny apple in its mouth and looks like it just came out of the oven, its surface glistening with heat and oils. Then I look closer and realize the wisps of steam above it are frozen, halted in their ascent like gauzy banners in a dead wind.
Confused, I reach out to the platter with my divine senses and realize it’s actually a powerful artifact: The weaves here are designed to halt time the moment the lid is closed. It’s delightfully irresponsible; a massive amount of power and resources were probably needed to create this, and it’s being used to keep someone’s food fresh.
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