فصل 20

Come to the Dark Side. We Have Pop-Tarts

A FAMILIAR VOICE SAID, “Dead again, eh?”

I opened my eyes. I was standing in a pavilion ringed with gray stone columns. Outside was nothing but empty sky. The air was thin. Cold wind whipped across the marble floor, stirring the fire in the central hearth, making the flames gutter in the braziers on either side of the tall dais. Three steps led up to a double throne—a loveseat of white wood carved with intricate shapes of animals, birds, and tree branches. The seat itself was lined with ermine. Sprawling across it, eating Pop-Tarts from a silver wrapper, was the man in the Red Sox jersey.

“Welcome to Hlidskjalf.” He grinned, his scarred lips like the sides of a zipper. “The High Seat of Odin.”

“You’re not Odin,” I said, using process of elimination. “You’re Loki.”

Sox Man chuckled. “Nothing escapes your keen intellect.”

“First, what are we doing here? Second, why is Odin’s throne named Lid Scalp?”

“Hlidskjalf. Put an h at the beginning and an f at the end. On that first letter you have to sound like you’re hawking spit.”

“On further reflection, I don’t care.”

“You should. This is where it all started. That’s the answer to your second question—why we’re here.” He patted the seat next to him. “Join me. Have a Pop-Tart.”

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Your loss.” He broke off the edge of a pastry and tossed it into his mouth. “This purple icing…I don’t know what flavor it’s supposed to be, but it is insanely good.”

My pulse throbbed in my neck, which was strange since I was dreaming, and probably also dead.

Loki’s eyes unnerved me. They had that same intense glow as Sam’s, but Sam kept the flames under control. Loki’s gaze flitted restlessly like the fire in the hearth, pushed by the wind, looking for anything it could set ablaze.

“Frey once sat here.” He stroked the ermine fur. “Do you know the story?”

“No, but…isn’t it illegal for anyone to sit there except Odin?”

“Oh, yes. Well, Odin and Frigg, the king and queen. They can sit here and see anywhere in the Nine Worlds. They merely have to concentrate and they will find whatever they are looking for. But if anyone else sits here…” He made tsk-tsk sounds. “The throne’s magic can be a terrible curse. I certainly would never risk it if this weren’t an illusion. But your father did. It was his one moment of rebellion.” Loki took another bite of purple Pop-Tart. “I always admired him for that.”

“And?”

“And instead of seeing what he was looking for, he saw what he most desired. It ruined his life. It’s the reason he lost his sword. He—” Loki winced. “Excuse me.”

He turned his head, his features contorting like he was about to sneeze. Then he let loose a scream of agony. When he faced me again, wisps of steam rose from the scar tissue across the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry,” he said. “Every so often the poison splashes in my eyes.”

“The poison.” I remembered a fragment of a myth. “You killed somebody. The gods captured you and tied you up. There was something about poison. Where are you now, really?”

He gave me that twisted grin. “Right where I always am. The gods had me, ah, properly restrained. But that’s not important. I can still send out splinters of my essence from time to time—like I’m doing now, to speak with my favorite friends!”

“Just because you’re wearing a Sox jersey does not mean we’re friends.”

“I’m hurt!” His eyes sparkled. “My daughter Samirah saw something in you. We could help each other.”

“You ordered her to take me to Valhalla?”

“Oh, no. That wasn’t my idea. You, Magnus Chase, are of interest to many different parties. Some of them are not as charming or helpful as I.”

“How about being charming and helpful to your daughter? She got kicked out of the Valkyries for choosing me.”

His smile faded. “That’s the gods for you. They banished me, too, and how many times did I save their hides? Don’t worry about Samirah. She is strong. She’ll be fine. I’m more worried about you.”

Cold wind blew through the pavilion, so strong it pushed me a few inches across the polished stone floor.

Loki crumpled his Pop-Tart wrapper. “You’ll be waking up soon. Before you go, some advice.”

“I don’t suppose I can refuse.”

“The Sword of Summer,” Loki said. “When your father sat on this throne, what he saw doomed him. He gave his sword away. It passed to his servant and messenger, Skirnir.”

For a moment I was back on the Longfellow Bridge, the sword humming in my hand as if trying to speak.

“Uncle Randolph mentioned Skirnir,” I said. “His descendant was in that shipwreck.”

Loki pantomimed wild applause. “And there the sword lay for a thousand years, waiting for someone to reclaim it—someone who had the right to wield the blade.”

“Me.”

“Ah, but you aren’t the only one who can use the sword. We know what will happen at Ragnarok. The Norns have told us our fates. Frey…poor Frey, because of the choices he made, will die at the hands of Surt. The lord of the fire giants will cut him down with his own lost sword.”

A spike of pain hit me between the eyes, right about where the einherji’s ax had killed me. “That’s why Surt wants the sword. So he’ll be ready for Ragnarok.”

“Not only that. He’ll use the sword to set in motion a chain of events to hasten Doomsday. In eight days, unless you stop him, he will cut loose my son, the Wolf.”

“Your son…?” My arms were evaporating. My eyesight grew hazy. Too many questions crowded into my head. “Wait…aren’t you destined to fight against the gods at Ragnarok too?”

“Yes, but that was the gods’ choice, not mine. The thing about fate, Magnus: even if we can’t change the big picture, our choices can alter the details. That’s how we rebel against destiny, how we make our mark. What will you choose to do?”

His image flickered. For a moment I saw him spread-eagle on a slab of stone, his wrists and ankles tied with slimy ropes, his body writhing in pain. Then I saw him in a hospital bed, a female doctor leaning over him, her hand resting gently on his forehead. She looked like an older version of Sam—curls of dark hair escaping from a scarlet headscarf, her mouth set tight with concern.

Loki appeared on the throne again, brushing Pop-Tart crumbs from his Red Sox jersey. “I won’t tell you what to do, Magnus. That’s the difference between me and the other gods. I’ll only ask you this question: when you get a chance to sit on Odin’s throne—and that day is coming—will you search for your heart’s desire, knowing it may doom you as it doomed your father? Think on that, son of Frey. Perhaps we’ll speak again, if you survive the next eight days.”

My dream changed. Loki vanished. The braziers burst, showering hot coals across the dais, and the High Seat of Odin erupted in flames. The clouds turned into rolling banks of volcanic ash. Above the burning throne, two glowing red eyes appeared in the smoke.

YOU. The voice of Surt washed over me like a flamethrower. YOU HAVE ONLY DELAYED ME. YOU HAVE EARNED A MORE PAINFUL, MORE PERMANENT DEATH.

I tried to speak. The heat sucked the oxygen from my lungs. My lips cracked and blistered.

Surt laughed. THE WOLF THINKS YOU MAY STILL BE USEFUL. I DO NOT. WHEN WE MEET AGAIN, YOU WILL BURN, SON OF FREY. YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS WILL BE MY TINDER. YOU WILL START THE FIRE THAT BURNS THE NINE WORLDS.

The smoke thickened. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see.

My eyes flew open. I bolted upright, gasping for air. I was in bed in my hotel room. Surt was gone. I touched my face, but it wasn’t burned. No ax was embedded there. All my battlefield wounds had vanished.

Still, my whole body was buzzing with alarm. I felt like I’d fallen asleep on active train tracks and the Acela Express had just roared past.

The dream was already erasing itself. I struggled to hold on to the specifics: the throne of Odin; Loki and Pop-Tarts; my son, the Wolf; Surt promising to burn the Nine Worlds. Trying to make sense of it was even more painful than getting an ax in my face.

Someone knocked on my door.

Thinking it might be one of my hallmates, I leaped out of bed and ran to answer. I threw open the door, found myself face-to-face with the Valkyrie Gunilla, and only then realized I was wearing nothing but underwear.

Her face turned magenta. Her jaw muscles knotted. “Oh.”

“Captain Gorilla,” I said. “What an honor.”

She recovered quickly, glaring at me like she was trying to activate her freeze-ray vision. “Magnus Chase. I, um—you resurrected with incredible speed.”

From her tone, I guessed that she hadn’t expected to find me here. But then why had she knocked?

“I wasn’t timing my resurrection,” I said. “Was it fast?”

“Very.” She glanced past me, maybe looking for something. “We have a few hours before dinner. Perhaps I could give you a tour of the hotel, since your own Valkyrie has been dismissed.”

“You mean since you got her dismissed.”

Gunilla turned up her palms. “I don’t control the Norns. They decide all our fates.”

“That’s convenient.” I remembered what Loki had said: Our choices can alter the details. That’s how we rebel against destiny. “What about me? Have you—I mean the Norns—decided my fate?”

Gunilla scowled. Her posture was stiff and uneasy. Something was bothering her—maybe even scaring her.

“The thanes are discussing your situation now.” She unhooked the key ring from her belt. “Take a tour with me. We can talk. If I understand you better, I may be able to speak to the thanes on your behalf. Unless, of course, you want to take your chances without my help. You might get lucky. The thanes might sentence you to bellhop duty for a few centuries. Or washing dishes in the kitchen.”

The last thing I wanted was quality time with Gunilla. On the other hand, a tour of the hotel might show me some important features—like the exits. Also, after the dream I’d just had, I didn’t want to be alone.

Besides, I could imagine how many dirty dishes would need washing after three rounds of dinner in the feast hall.

“I’ll take the tour,” I said. “But I should probably put some clothes on first.”