فصل 29

We Are Falafel-Jacked by an Eagle

WE DIDN’T TALK MUCH as we headed back through the park. The air smelled of incoming snow. The wind picked up and howled like wolves, or maybe I just had wolves on the brain.

Blitz limped along, zigzagging from shadow to shadow as best he could. Hearth’s brightly striped scarf didn’t match his grim expression. I wanted to ask him more about rune magic now that I knew he was the best (and only) mortal practitioner. Maybe there was a rune that could make wolves explode, preferably from a safe distance. But Hearth kept his hands shoved in his pockets—the sign language equivalent of I don’t want to talk.

We were passing my old sleeping spot under the footbridge when Sam grumbled, “Mimir. I should’ve known he was involved.”

I glanced over. “A few minutes ago, you were all, Lord Mimir, you honor us; we’re not worthy.”

“Of course I showed respect when he was right in front of me! He’s one of the oldest gods. But he’s unpredictable. It’s never been clear whose side he’s on.”

Blitzen jumped to the shade of a willow tree, alarming several ducks. “The Capo is on the side of everybody in the world who doesn’t want to die. Isn’t that enough?”

Sam laughed. “I suppose you two work for him of your own free will? You didn’t drink from his well and pay the price?”

Neither Blitz nor Hearth responded.

“That’s what I thought,” Sam said. “I’m not part of Mimir’s plan because I would never blindly go along with it and drink his magical knowledge Kool-Aid.”

“It doesn’t taste like Kool-Aid,” Blitz objected. “It’s more like root beer with a hint of clove.”

Sam turned to me. “I’m telling you, this doesn’t add up. Finding the Sword of Summer—I get that. But taking it to the very place where Surt wants to use it? Unwise.”

“Yeah, but if I have the sword—”

“Magnus, the sword is destined to fall into Surt’s hands sooner or later. At Ragnarok, your father will die because he gave his sword away. Surt will kill him with it. That’s what most of the stories say, anyway.”

I got claustrophobic just thinking about it. How could anybody, even a god, avoid going crazy if he knew centuries in advance exactly how he was going to die?

“Why does Surt hate Frey so much?” I asked. “Couldn’t he pick on a big strong war god?”

Blitzen frowned. “Kid, Surt wants death and destruction. He wants fire to run rampant across the Nine Worlds. A war god can’t stop that. Frey can. He’s the god of the growing season—the god of health and new life. He keeps the extremes in check, both fire and ice. There’s nothing Surt hates worse than being restrained. Frey is his natural enemy.”

And by extension, I thought, Surt hates me.

“If Frey knew what his fate would be,” I said, “why did he give up his blade in the first place?”

Blitz grunted. “Love. Why else?”

“Love?”

“Ugh,” Sam said. “I hate that story. Where are you taking us for lunch, Magnus?”

Part of me wanted to hear the story. Part of me remembered my conversation with Loki: Will you search for your heart’s desire, knowing it may doom you as it doomed your father?

A lot of Norse stories seemed to have the same message: Knowing things wasn’t always worth the price. Unfortunately for me, I’d always been the curious type.

“It’s…uh, just up ahead,” I said. “Come on.”

The food court at the Transportation Building wasn’t Valhalla, but if you were homeless in Boston, it was pretty close. The indoor atrium was warm, open to the public, and never crowded. It was only halfheartedly patrolled by private security. As long as you had a drink cup or a plate of half-eaten food, you could sit at the tables for a long time before anybody made you move.

On the way in, Blitzen and Hearthstone started toward the garbage cans to check for lunch leavings, but I stopped them.

“Guys, no,” I said. “We’re eating actual meals today. My treat.”

Hearth raised an eyebrow. He signed, You have money?

“He’s got that friend here,” Blitzen recalled. “The falafel guy.”

Sam froze in her tracks. “What?”

She looked around as if just realizing where we were.

“It’s cool,” I promised. “I know a guy at Fadlan’s Falafel. You’ll thank me for it. Stuff is amazing—”

“No—I—oh, gods—” She hastily put her scarf over her hair. “Maybe I’ll wait outside—I can’t—”

“Nonsense.” Blitz hooked his arm through hers. “They might serve more food if we’ve got a pretty woman with us!”

Sam clearly wanted to bolt, but she allowed Hearth and Blitz to steer her into the food court. I guess I should’ve paid more attention to how uncomfortable she was acting, but once you put me within a hundred feet of Fadlan’s Falafel, I get tunnel vision.

Over the past two years, I’d struck up a friendship with the manager, Abdel. I think he saw me as his community service project. The shop always had surplus food—slightly out-of-date pita bread, day-old shawarma, kibbeh that had been sitting under the heat lamps a little too long. Abdel couldn’t legally sell the stuff, but it still tasted perfectly fine. Instead of throwing it out, Abdel gave it to me. Whenever I came around, I could count on a falafel flatbread sandwich or something just as tasty. In return, I made sure the other homeless folks in the atrium stayed polite and cleaned up after themselves so Abdel’s paying customers weren’t scared away.

In Boston, you couldn’t walk a block without stumbling into some icon of liberty—the Freedom Trail, the Old North Church, the Bunker Hill Monument, whatever—but to me, liberty tasted like Fadlan’s Falafel. That stuff had kept me alive and independent ever since my mom died.

I didn’t want to overwhelm Abdel with too many people, so I sent Blitz and Hearth to grab a table while I escorted Sam to get the food. The whole way, she dragged her feet, turning aside, fiddling with her headscarf as if she wanted to disappear inside it.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

“Maybe he’s not there,” she muttered. “Maybe you can say I’m your tutor.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about. I bellied up to the counter while Sam hung back, doing her best to hide behind a potted ficus tree.

“Is Abdel here?” I asked the guy at the register.

He started to say something, but then Abdel’s son Amir came out from the back, grinning and wiping his hands on his apron. “Jimmy, how’s it going?”

I relaxed. If Abdel wasn’t around, Amir was the next best thing. He was eighteen or nineteen, trim and good-looking, with slick dark hair, an Arabic tattoo on his biceps, and a smile so brilliant, it could’ve sold truckloads of teeth whitener. Like everybody at Fadlan’s Falafel, he knew me as “Jimmy.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” I said. “How’s your pop?”

“He’s at the Somerville location today. Can I get you some food?”

“Man, you’re the best.”

Amir laughed. “No biggie.” He glanced over my shoulder and did a double take. “And there’s Samirah! What are you doing here?”

She shuffled forward. “Hi, Amir. I am…tutoring Ma—Jimmy. I am tutoring Jimmy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Amir leaned on the counter, which made his arm muscles flex. The dude worked full-time at his dad’s various shops, yet he somehow managed to avoid getting even a speck of grease on his white T-shirt. “Don’t you have school?”

“Um, yes, but I get credit for tutoring off campus. Jimmy and…his classmates.” She pointed toward Blitz and Hearth, who were having a rapid-fire argument in sign language, tracing circles in the air. “Geometry,” Samirah said. “They’re hopeless with geometry.”

“Hopeless,” I agreed. “But food helps us study.”

Amir’s eyes crinkled. “I’ve got you covered. Glad to see you’re okay, Jimmy. That bridge accident the other day—the paper had this picture of a kid who died? Looked a lot like you. Different name, but we were worried.”

I’d been so focused on falafel that I’d forgotten to think about them making that connection. “Ah, yeah, I saw that. I’m good. Just studying geometry. With my tutor.”

“Okay!” Amir smiled at Sam. The awkwardness was so thick you could’ve cut it with a broadsword. “Well, Samirah, say hi to Jid and Bibi for me. You guys go ahead and sit. I’ll bring out some food in a sec.”

Sam muttered something that might have been Thanks a lot or Kill me now. Then we joined Blitz and Hearth at the table.

“What was that about?” I asked her. “How do you know Amir?”

She pulled her scarf a little lower over her forehead. “Don’t sit too close to me. Try to look like we’re talking about geometry.”

“Triangles,” I said. “Quadrilaterals. Also, why are you embarrassed? Amir is awesome. If you know the Fadlan family, you’re like a rock star to me.”

“He’s my cousin,” she blurted. “Second cousin, twice removed. Or something.”

I looked at Hearth. He was scowling at the floor. Blitz had taken off his ski mask and glasses, I guess because the interior light didn’t bother him as much, and was now sullenly spinning a plastic fork on the table. Apparently I’d missed a good argument between him and Hearth.

“Okay,” I said. “But why so nervous?”

“Can you drop it?” she said.

I raised my hands. “Fine. Let’s all start over. Hi, everybody. I’m Magnus, and I’m an einherji. If we’re not going to study geometry, could we talk about how we’re going to find the Sword of Summer?”

Nobody answered.

A pigeon waddled past, pecking at crumbs.

I glanced back at the falafel shop. For some reason, Amir had rolled down the steel curtain. I’d never seen him close the shop during lunch hour. I wondered if Sam had somehow offended him and he’d cut off my falafel allowance.

If so, I was going to go berserker.

“What happened to our food?” I wondered.

At my feet, a small voice croaked, “I can help with both those questions.”

I looked down. My week had been so wack I didn’t even flinch when I realized who had spoken.

“Guys,” I said, “this pigeon wants to help.”

The pigeon fluttered onto our table. Hearth nearly fell out of his chair. Blitz snatched up a fork.

“Service here can be a little slow,” said the pigeon. “But I can speed up your order. I can also tell you where to find the sword.”

Sam reached for her ax. “That’s not a pigeon.”

The bird regarded her with a beady orange eye. “Maybe not. But if you kill me, you’ll never get your lunch. You’ll also never find the sword or see your intended again.”

Samirah’s eyes looked like they were going to shoot across the atrium.

“What is he talking about?” I said. “Intended what?”

The bird cooed. “If you ever want Fadlan’s Falafel to open again—”

“Okay, that’s a declaration of war.” I considered grabbing for the bird, but even with my einherji reflexes, I doubted I could catch it. “What did you do? What’s happened to Amir?”

“Nothing yet!” said the pigeon. “I’ll bring you your lunch. All I want is first pick of the food.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “And assuming I believe you, what would you want in exchange for information about the sword?”

“A favor. It’s negotiable. Now, does that falafel shop stay closed forever, or do we have a deal?”

Blitzen shook his head. “Don’t do it, Magnus.”

Hearth signed, Pigeons cannot be trusted.

Sam met my eyes. Her expression was pleading—almost frantic. Either she liked falafel even more than I did, or she was worried about something else.

“Fine,” I said. “Bring us our lunch.”

Immediately the shop’s steel curtain rolled up. The cashier stood like a statue, the phone to his ear. Then he unfroze, glanced over his shoulder, and shouted an order to the cook as if nothing had happened. The pigeon took off and sped toward the shop, disappearing behind the counter. The cashier didn’t seem to notice.

A moment later, a much larger bird shot out of the kitchen—a bald eagle with a tray in his claws. He landed in the middle of our table.

“You’re an eagle now?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said in the same croaky voice. “I like to mix it up. Here’s your food.”

It was everything I could’ve asked for: steaming squares of spiced ground beef kibbeh; a stack of lamb kebabs with mint yogurt dip; four fresh slabs of pita bread filled with deep-fried nuggets of chickpea goodness, drizzled in tahini sauce and garnished with pickle wedges.

“Oh, Helheim yes.” I reached for the tray, but the eagle pecked at my hand.

“Now, now,” he chided. “I get first pick.”

Ever seen an eagle eat falafel?

That horrifying image now haunts my nightmares.

Faster than I could blink, the eagle struck, vacuuming up everything but a single wedge of pickle.

“Hey!” I yelled.

Sam rose, hefting her ax. “He’s a giant. He’s got to be!”

“We had a deal.” The eagle belched. “Now about the sword—”

I let loose a guttural roar—the cry of a man who has been deprived of his rightful kibbeh. I drew my sword and smacked the eagle with the flat of the blade.

It wasn’t the most rational move, but I was hungry. I was angry. I hated being taken advantage of, and I didn’t particularly like bald eagles.

The blade hit the bird’s back and stuck there like superglue. I tried to pull it away, but it wouldn’t move. My hands were grafted to the sword grip.

“Okay, then,” the eagle squawked, “we can play it that way.”

He took off through the food court at sixty miles an hour, dragging me along behind him.