by Ann Gimpel
If the shoe fits… I unclenched my fists and sucked it up. “I’m sorry,” I told Gwydion.
He shook his head. “Nay, lass. I had that coming. And probably more. Not sure what got into me.” His expression hardened, and he hissed, “Ceridwen. Somehow that poor excuse for a Celt inveigled her way into my head.”
“Told you sleeping with her was a bad idea,” Bran said sourly.
“Christ! Did she miss anyone?” I asked, and then remembered Geir. “You didn’t hear that,” I told him.
“Didn’t hear what? That Bad Grandma was a serial slut?” My son grinned at me.
“Where did you hear that expression?” Bjorn sounded indignant.
“From your mind.” Geir’s reply was all innocence. Bjorn winced, so I guessed he’d been caught dead to rights. Had the world been a simpler place, I’d have rebuked my son for using his magic to invade another’s privacy. Balanced against what we faced, Geir tapping Bjorn’s thoughts was less than trivial.
Odin turned away. “We leave in thirty minutes in the following order. Frey’s and Krivar’s groups will leave first. Dewi’s group next.”
“Then my group,” Nidhogg rumbled. “With Hel and Arawn.”
“Correct,” Odin said. “Last groups to leave will be Thor’s and mine.”
I was raw, and rage far too near the surface. I barely, but only barely, managed to not query him about why our group wasn’t labeled Rowan’s or Bjorn’s.
I don’t remember leaving the dragons’ cavernous meeting room, but Bjorn herded Geir and me down the maze of corridors to the room we’d been staying in. Once we were inside, he shut the door and sealed it with magic. I had a feeling what was coming, and I wasn’t far off.
“I love both of you,” Bjorn said, “and there’s not time to sugarcoat what I have to say. Geir.”
Our son focused his gaze on Bjorn. “Aye, Da.”
Bjorn switched to Old Norse, which told me how frantic he was to get his meaning across. “Ye will follow directions from your mum and me. No questions asked. There willna be time for questions, nor answers. Do ye understand?”
“Aye, but—”
Bjorn grabbed Geir’s foreleg. “No buts. If anything happens to Rowan or me, do what Gwydion and Bran and Thor tell you.”
“What if they say different things?”
My throat developed a knot halfway down. Geir had asked a very good question, one worthy of a much more experienced dragon.
A corner of Bjorn’s mouth twisted downward. “Pick the one that seems wisest to you.”
Geir bobbed his head solemnly. The seriousness of what we were running into headlong might finally be sinking in.
Bjorn turned to me. I held my hands up, palms facing outward. “I promise.”
“What exactly are ye promising?”
“To bury my antipathy for the Celts and for Odin. To view us as a team, one that’s only as strong as its weakest link.” I blew out a breath. “That weak link will not be me.”
“Good woman.” Bjorn transferred his hand from Geir’s foreleg to my shoulder.
Somehow, we ended up in each other’s arms with our son sandwiched in between. “Do ye sense Ceridwen?” Bjorn asked me.
I shook my head. “When Gwydion said she was messing with his thoughts, it came out of left field and caught me off guard.”
“I can feel her,” Geir said. “Not often, but sometimes just at the very edges of things.”
“Has she spoken with you?” Bjorn’s tone could have etched glass.
“Nay. I promised to tell you if she did. And I would instruct her to go away. I’m no longer a baby for her to take advantage of.”
I blinked hard and fast to keep tears from spilling over. No more surreptitious crying for me. Not when my tears turned to rubies and sapphires and diamonds. “We should leave,” I managed around the lump in my throat.
Instead of letting go, I hugged them harder, murmuring, “I love you guys so much.”
And then, the old Rowan showed up, the kickass bitch one. Finally. Thank all the bloody fucking saints. I’d missed her fire and her attitude. I untangled myself from my men, and said, “We’ve got this.”
Breath hissed from between Bjorn’s teeth. “We must win. What choice do we have?” He dismantled his privacy spell, and the three of us marched up the hall. For all my petty grievances, we had a damned strong team. I liked the sound of it, so I set “damned strong team” to play over and over as a backdrop to whatever thoughts might crop up. Less optimistic ones that could sabotage my best efforts.
This would be over one day, and Bjorn and I and Geir could attempt to build a halfway normal life for ourselves. I bit back a grimace. Who the fuck was I kidding? We’d never be the white-picket-fence, two-cars-in-the-garage type family. But maybe, just maybe if all the stars lined up right, we wouldn’t spend the next few centuries engaged in active warfare.
We emerged outside the caves to Odin clucking, “Time to move.” Gwydion, Bran, and Thor were already in place. The anger Odin wore like a shield had cracked, and, for once, compassion rose to the fore. Good. He should be worried. If the Nine Worlds failed, the carnage would take a huge chunk of him along with it.
Bjorn constructed a dragon journey spell, and it swept us into its maw. Bran’s nostrils twitched as he scented the baked-clay scent of Bjorn’s spell. “Intriguing,” he murmured. “The dragon power adds far more than fire to the mix.”
I sucked air into my lungs, blew it out, and did it several more times. “This is the calm before things get interesting,” I muttered. “Let’s do our best to savor it.”
“I want the storm,” Geir said.
I wondered if he was making a joke, but after I glanced at my son, I understood full well he’d meant every word.
“Good lad.” Gwydion nodded approvingly. I could have strangled him. Instead, I gritted my teeth and looked away. My son was part of this—no matter how much I wished things were otherwise. And I refused to burden him with my doubts.
I should kiss Gwydion’s toes. He was treating Geir as an equal, something he’d never done for me. The insight was sobering, and I focused on the shitstorm we were walking into.
Chapter Sixteen, Bjorn
I would have given anything if I’d been able to leave Rowan and Geir with the witches, or even the Celts at Inverlochy. I finally, finally had a family. My job was to protect them, not to toss them square into the center of a maelstrom. I rolled my mental eyes and shielded my thoughts. I hadn’t been paying the slightest attention when Geir plucked my assessment of Ceridwen from the forefront of my consciousness.
He needed to know the truth about Rowan’s mother, but some of the details could have been glossed over. I’d been grateful he hadn’t asked for an explanation about what “serial slut” actually meant. Hopefully, he’d lumped everything together under his bad grandmother rubric.
Love for him and Rowan seared me to my soul and beyond. I’d never expected to find love in my life. None of the women who’d crossed my path ever touched more than my body—and very few got that far. Rowan had been different from the moment I laid eyes on her. Might have been as simple as her dragon nature singing to my own, but I believe it ran deeper than that.
For all my years dealing with various and sundry problems—magical and otherwise—I’d come across many requests from clients wanting potions to make someone fall in love with them. I’d never asked how they knew with absolute certainty the object of their affections was the one for them. Even if I had, I doubt they’d have had any better answer than I do about Rowan.
She touched me in ways I’ll never fully absorb. Shining brighter than any star, she drew me like a lodestone. If that was love, I had it bad, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
Geir fascinated me. While I hoped that someday I’d father a different type of child—one who actually needed parents—Geir’s burgeoning ability and intuitive grasp of magic blew me away. I checked the trajectory of my travel spell and made a course correction.
&nb
sp; “We’re doing fine,” Thor said in his deep voice. He and the Celts had been so quiet, I’d almost forgotten they were there.
“Odin said the northernmost channel, right?” I sought confirmation.
“Yeah.” Rowan nodded tightly. “Good of him to act as a scout.”
“He performs many noble deeds.” Thor bobbed his shaggy head. “But he likes it best if no one notices. Tarnishes his image as a total bastard.”
Gwydion and Bran chuckled.
My eyes widened. If Rowan was saying anything positive about Odin—and she just had—a new woman had ridden into town. “It was decent of him,” I murmured.
She must have heard the caution in my voice because she shot me a pointed look and asked, “What?”
“Eh. Thor’s comment about being a badass aside, Odin lives for shit like that. I bet he brought a few shades from the Hunt with him to speed things along.”
Rowan made a face. “I’m surprised they didn’t jump ship.”
“Ha! I’m not. The dead who comprise the Hunt have it better than their departed comrades. Why do you think there’s such staunch competition for who gets to be a Rider?”
“I wasn’t aware there was,” she replied.
“Remember the Draugar we ran into?” I asked.
“Of course, I do. He blamed Hel because his petition to join the Hunt had been denied, but I didn’t think the positions were coveted. I simply figured Bjarke was looking for a route out of Hel.”
“If the dead weren’t already, well, dead, they’d murder one another to ride with Odin,” Thor said and laughed at his own joke.
“Hel is two places, isn’t it?” Geir spoke up.
“Aye,” I told him. “In the Nine Worlds, it’s part of Niflheim. Hel rules over the dead who didn’t die victorious deaths. She is strict, but fair. I’m certain she took the Draugars’ escape hard.”
“On the other hand,” Gwydion cut in, “Hell also floats around Midgard. That version has nine levels and is ruled by Arawn, Celtic god of the dead. He’s always hidden his worst charges behind the Ninth Gate.”
“What’s that?” Geir asked. “And why is everything nines?”
One easy question, the other far more difficult. I offered my son kudos for asking.
“The Midgard Hell has nine levels,” Bran went on. “You pass through gates to get to each one. The important thing here is Arawn’s gatekeeper left a long while back. He didn’t pay it much heed, and someone broke the locks to the Ninth Gate.”
“They all escaped and went where we’re going,” Geir said.
“Aye, lad,” Gwydion agreed. “But the more important part is we believe Arawn’s slipshod attitude toward needed repairs allowed the Morrigan and Loki to join forces.”
“Loki is Bad Great-Grandpa. Who is Morrigan?” Geir asked. I was proud of his curiosity, but chagrined we were related to so many unsavory characters.
“The Morrigan is a Celtic goddess,” Bran began. “She is one of the original—if not the original—Celtic deity. Her primary form is a huge crow. Because of that, she is known as the Battle Crow.”
“She can shapeshift to whatever she wishes to be,” Gwydion added. “Her magic is so powerful it occasionally surprises even me.”
“Is she worse than Bad Grandma?” Geir furled his brows.
“Aye. If ye’re meaning Ceridwen, much worse,” Gwydion confirmed.
“Why didn’t Arawn fix the latches?” Geir looked from Gwydion to Bran.
Bran shrugged. “Time is…different when ye live forever. ’Tis simple to fault Arawn, point blame his way, but he was conducting his affairs as he always has. If a decade passed between his trips to Hell, ’tis how he has always done things. How was he to know he needed to change his methods?”
Rowan bristled. “There’s the Celtic hubris I remember. No matter how crappy or beyond the pale one of you stepped—” She broke off abruptly. “Sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t go there. Momentary lapse.”
“Arawn canna change what has passed,” Gwydion said.
“Aye, flogging him with it serves no useful purpose,” Bran added.
A quick pass through Rowan’s mind yielded exasperation. The Celts had done plenty of flogging for no useful purpose where she was concerned. Instead of giving into frustration, she nodded and muttered, “I’m not sure about the whole nine-thing.”
“Nor am I,” I told my son. “Odd numbers hold the power of transformation, though. Even numbers have balanced energy. Odd are constantly in search of change.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” Rowan murmured, “but it makes sense.”
I checked my spell again. “We’re nearly there,” I said and gripped Rowan’s hand. She slid her fingers in with mine. “I propose a slight alteration.”
“What?” she growled.
“I will go first,” I told her, adding, “It’s not negotiable.”
“We are amenable to that,” Gwydion said.
“I must be last,” Thor tossed out. “The channel should be large enough by then to allow my passage. “I would offer to go first, but speed is our friend. If I have to hollow out the opening to accommodate my girth, it might take twice as long.”
His comment reinforced my belief that Odin had sent his undead minions to scout the various channels. “We will emerge in the place between worlds,” I reminded everyone. “No air.”
“The tunnels hold air. ’Tis stale at the entry point, but gets progressively thicker,” Thor told us.
My casting crumpled around us, the transition not as elegant as I would have liked. Where my journey spell held muted light as well as air, we’d been plunged into a murky gloom. While I could still think—before hypoxia got the better of me—I sent magic in a northerly arc hunting for a break in the airless void.
There’s something unnerving about the place between worlds. Maybe the absence of landmarks. I located a spot where my power didn’t have the same feel bouncing back at me and called, “This way.” Telepathy trumped talking when breathing was a struggle.
Rowan and Geir pulled ahead of me, easy to keep track of because both glowed with a soft inner illumination. Rowan’s blue-white and Geir’s golden. He was holding his own. I’d wondered how the rapid shift to no air would impact him.
Gwydion and Bran passed me on my other side in a cloud of mint and vanilla that felt out of place here. A couple more meters and I reached the spot I hoped would yield entry to the channel. Were Quade and Zelli in place yet? How long was this conduit, anyway?
I should have asked Odin, but perhaps he’d imparted that information to Thor. “Do you know how many meters the passageway is?” I asked Thor, who swam through the void next to me.
“Nay. Ye were correct shades did the spade work, and they’ve mostly lost their sense of things such as distance. This is one of the longer channels, but in better repair than the others.”
“Over here,” Rowan called a bit breathlessly.
Impressed, I hurried to where she hovered in the dim recesses of infinite blackness. “How’d you find it so fast?” I asked her.
“Cadir. How else? This is the spot he chewed his way to freedom, and the feel of my own blood is all over it.”
“Bad Grandpa?” Geir piped up.
I grimaced. It was dark, so he probably didn’t notice, but my son had identified a passel of less-than-illustrious relatives. I started to tell him not to let it bother him, but words were cheap. In the end, Cadir had demonstrated a saving grace or two. Best to focus on them—but afterward.
“No reason to wait,” I told everyone.
“I’m behind Da,” Geir told Rowan.
She didn’t argue, obviously recognizing the safest spot for our son was right between us. I kindled a mage light and examined the hole in the ether. Shreds of matter hung from it. How long had it taken Cadir to tunnel his way past the outer borderworlds?
I was pretty certain he’d done all this on his own since I had a hard time envisioning Loki getting his hands quite this dirty. As in, I cou
ldn’t imagine the trickster setting foot on an outer borderworld or dealing with the discomfort of not being able to breathe. Loki was a dick, but he liked his creature comforts.
On that cheery note, I pushed forward. One thing bothered me. If a full-sized dragon like Cadir had made his way through this space, why was Odin so insistent Quade and Zelli wouldn’t fit?
Damn it, anyway. Why do I always come up with the good questions too late in the game to ask them? I redirected my mage light so it illuminated the way ahead. So far, Thor’s prediction about stale air hadn’t materialized, but I kept moving. It was harder than I’d anticipated mostly because I was fighting against a dense groundswell.
I led us deeper into a rounded enclosure studded with what might have been calcium projections sticking out of the walls at odd angles. Whatever they were, they were sharp. More like coral than calcium. After fifty meters, the way narrowed until it became claustrophobic.
Turning around wasn’t an option, even if the rest of us hadn’t been strung out behind me. One thing was certain, there would have been no way for Cadir to fit through here unless he’d sliced through the passage with magic. I examined the walls for cut spots that had healed over, but didn’t find any.
My magical senses vibrated. Whatever we were passing through was living, sentient. The walls changed from black to more gray, and I recognized the squiggly things I’d seen around Yggdrasil’s root system. At the time, I hadn’t believed there was any connection between the outer borderworlds and whatever was floating in the void near the One Tree, but maybe I’d been wrong about that.
It was impossible to tell from inside.
“Getting tight,” Rowan called from behind me.
I got the message and swung magic in an arc to push the walls farther apart. “How’s everyone managing?” I continued using telepathy, not at all sure the walls wouldn’t swallow my words.
A collection of grunts was followed by Thor who asked, “Can ye move a wee bit faster?”
Something about the tone of his question caught my attention. Had he sensed something amiss? Presumably he and I carried at least half the same magical ability, so I switched things up and extended my antennae farther, hunting threats.