فصل 17

I Did Not Ask for Biceps

I DIDN’T SLEEP MUCH. I definitely didn’t dream of glorious death. Been there, done that, got the afterlife.

While I was at dinner, my sofa had been put back and repaired. I sat on it and thumbed through my old children’s book of Norse mythology, but it didn’t have much about Frey. One tiny picture showed a blond guy in a tunic frolicking in the woods, a blond lady at his side, a couple of cats playing at their feet.

Frey was the god of spring and summer! read the caption. He was the god of wealth, abundance, and fertility. His twin sister, Freya, the goddess of love, was very pretty! She had cats!

I tossed the book aside. Great. My dad was a D-list god who frolicked in the woods. He was probably eliminated early last season on Dancing with the Asgardians.

Did it crush me to learn this? Not really. You might not believe it, but my dad’s identity had never been a big deal to me. It wasn’t like I ever felt incomplete—like if only I knew my dad, my life would make sense. I knew who I was. I was Natalie Chase’s son. As for life making sense…I’d seen too much weirdness to expect that.

Still, I had a lot of items on my I-don’t-get-it list. At the very top: How could a homeless kid have a dad who was the god of abundance and wealth? Talk about a cruel joke.

Also, why would I get targeted by a big bad dude like Surt? If he was the lord of Muspellheim, High King Roasty Toasty, shouldn’t he pick on more interesting heroes, like the children of Thor? At least their dad had a movie franchise. Frey didn’t even have his own cats. He had to borrow his sister’s.

And the Sword of Summer…assuming that was the blade I had pulled from the Charles River, how had it ended up there? Why was it so important? Uncle Randolph had been searching for it for years. Sam’s last words to me were about finding the sword again. If it had belonged to my dad, and my dad was an immortal god, why had he allowed his weapon to sit at the bottom of a river for a thousand years?

I stared at the empty fireplace. The Norns’ words kept playing in my head, though I wanted to forget them.

Harbinger of the Wolf. I remembered what a harbinger was now: something that signaled the arrival of a powerful force, like a doorman announcing the president, or a red sky before a hurricane. I did not want to be the harbinger of the wolf. I’d seen enough wolves to last me an eternal lifetime. I wanted to be the harbinger of ice cream, or falafel.

Wrongly chosen, wrongly slain.

A little late to announce that now. I was a freaking einherji. My name was on the door. I had a key to the minibar.

A hero Valhalla cannot contain.

I liked this line better. Maybe it meant I could bust out of here. Or I guessed it could mean that the thanes would vaporize me in a burst of light or feed me to their magical goat.

Nine days hence the sun must go east,

Ere Sword of Summer unbinds the beast.

Those lines bothered me the most. Last I checked, the sun moved east to west. And who was the beast? I was betting a wolf, because it’s always a stinking wolf. If the sword was supposed to let loose a wolf, the sword should’ve stayed lost.

Some memory nagged at me…a bound wolf. I stared at the children’s book of mythology, half tempted to pick it up again. But I was already unsettled enough.

Magnus, listen to me, Sam had said. You have to find the sword. You have to stop them.

I felt bad about Samirah al-Abbas. I was still miffed at her for bringing me here, especially if it had been a mistake, but I didn’t want to see her kicked out of the Valkyries because some doctored video made me look like a doofus. (Okay, more of a doofus than usual.)

I decided I should sleep. I didn’t feel tired, but if I stayed awake thinking any longer, my brain would overheat.

I tried the bed. Too soft. I ended up in the atrium, sprawled on the grass, gazing at the stars through the tree branches.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep.

A sharp sound startled me awake—a branch cracking. Someone cursed.

Above me, the sky was turning gray in the predawn light. A few leaves helicoptered through the air. Branches bobbed as if something heavy had just scrambled through them.

I lay still, listening, watching. Nothing. Had I imagined that voice?

Over in the foyer, a piece of paper slid under my doorway.

I sat up groggily.

Maybe the management was giving me the bill and letting me check out. I staggered toward the door.

My hand trembled as I picked up the paper, but it wasn’t a bill. It was a handwritten note in really nice cursive:

Hi, neighbor.

Join us in lounge 19 for breakfast. Down the hall to the left. Bring your weapons and armor.

T.J.

T.J….Thomas Jefferson, Jr., the guy across the hall.

After the fiasco last night, I didn’t know why he’d want to invite me to breakfast. I also didn’t understand why I needed weapons and armor. Maybe Viking bagels fought back.

I was tempted to barricade my door and hide in my room. Perhaps everyone would leave me alone. Maybe once all the warriors were busy with their Bikram yoga to the death, I could sneak out and find an exit to Boston.

On the other hand, I wanted answers. I couldn’t shake the idea that if this was a place for the brave dead, my mom might be here somewhere. Or someone might know which afterlife she had gone to. At least this guy T.J. seemed friendly. I could hang with him for a while and see what he could tell me.

I trudged to the bathroom.

I was afraid the toilet would be some Viking death machine with ax blades and a flush-operated crossbow, but it worked like a normal one. It definitely wasn’t any scarier than the public restrooms in the Common.

The medicine cabinet was stocked with all my usual toiletries…or at least the toiletries I used to like when I had a home.

And the shower…I tried to remember the last time I’d had a leisurely hot shower. Sure, I’d arrived in Valhalla feeling magically dry-cleaned, but after a bad night’s sleep in the atrium, I was ready for a good old-fashioned scrub down.

I peeled off my layers of shirts and almost screamed.

What was wrong with my chest? Why did my arms look that way? What were those weird bulgy areas?

Usually I avoided looking at my reflection. I wasn’t somebody I wanted to see on a regular basis. But now I faced the mirror.

My hair was the same, a bit less grimy and tangled, but still hanging to my jawline in a curtain of dirty blond, parted in the middle.

You look like Kurt Cobain, my mom used to tease me. I loved Kurt Cobain, except for the fact that he died.

Well, guess what, Mom? I thought. I have that in common with him too now!

My eyes were gray—more like my cousin Annabeth’s than my mom’s. They had a haunted, scary emptiness to them, but that was normal. The look had served me well on the streets.

My upper body, however, I hardly recognized. Ever since my bad asthma days when I was little, I’d always been on the scrawny side. Even with all the hiking and camping, I’d had a concave chest, sticking-out ribs, and skin so pale you could trace the road map of blue veins.

Now…those strange new bulgy areas looked suspiciously like muscles.

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t as dramatic as turning into Captain America. I was still lean and pale, but my arms had definition. My chest didn’t look like it would collapse in the next strong wind. My skin was smoother, less translucent. All the rashes and nicks and bites that came from living on the street had disappeared. Even the scar on my left palm, where I’d cut myself on a hunting knife at age ten, had vanished.

I remembered how strong I’d felt when I first arrived at Valhalla, how I’d tossed my sofa across the room last night. I hadn’t really stopped to think about it.

What had Hunding called Valhalla…an upgrade?

I made a fist.

I’m not sure what came over me. I guess when I realized that even my body wasn’t my own, the anger, fear, and uncertainty of the last twenty-four hours reached critical mass. I’d been plucked out of my life. I’d been threatened, humiliated, and forcibly upgraded. I hadn’t asked for a suite. I hadn’t asked for biceps.

I hit the wall. Literally.

My fist went straight through the tile, the drywall, and a two-by-four stud. I pulled out my hand. I wriggled my fingers. Nothing felt broken.

I regarded the fist-shaped hole I’d made above the towel bar. “Yep,” I grumbled. “Housekeeping loves me.”

The shower helped calm me down. Afterward, wrapped in a fluffy HV-embroidered bathrobe, I padded to the closet to search for clothes. Inside were three sets of blue jeans, three green T-shirts (all marked PROPERTY OF HOTEL VALHALLA), underwear, socks, a pair of good running shoes, and a sheathed sword. Leaning against the ironing board was a circular green shield with the golden rune of Frey painted in the middle.

Okay, then. I guess I knew what I was wearing today.

I spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to position the sword’s sheath on my belt. I was left-handed. Did that mean the sword went on the right? Were left-handed swords different from right-handed ones?

I attempted to draw the blade and just about ripped my pants off. Oh, yeah, I was going to be a hit on the battlefield.

I practiced swinging the sword. I wondered if it would start humming and guiding my hand, the way the sword on the bridge had done when I faced Surt. But no. This blade seemed to be a regular piece of non-humming metal with no cruise-control feature. I managed to sheathe it without losing any fingers. I slung the shield across my back, the way the warriors at dinner last night had been wearing theirs. The strap dug into my neck and made me want to gag.

I looked in the mirror again.

“You, sir,” I muttered, “look like a huge dork.”

My reflection did not argue.

I went out to find breakfast and kill it with my sword.