فصل 40

My Friend Evolved from a—Nope. I Can’t Say It

I DON’T REMEMBER LANDING.

I found myself on a dark street on a cold, cloudy night. Three-story clapboard row houses edged the sidewalk. At the end of the block, a tavern’s grimy windows glowed with neon drink signs.

“This is Southie,” I said. “Around D Street.”

Blitzen shook his head. “This is Nidavellir, kid. It looks like South Boston…or rather, South Boston looks like it. I told you, Boston is the nexus. The Nine Worlds blend together there and affect one another. Southie has a definite dwarvish feeling to it.”

“I thought Nidavellir would be underground. With claustrophobic tunnels and—”

“Kid, that’s a cavern ceiling above your head. It’s just a long way up and hidden by air pollution. We don’t have daytime here. It’s this dark all the time.”

I stared into the murky clouds. After being in Freya’s realm, the world of the dwarves seemed oppressive, but it also seemed more familiar, more…genuine. I guess no true Bostonian would trust a place that was sunny and pleasant all the time. But a gritty, perpetually cold and gloomy neighborhood? Throw in a couple of Dunkin’ Donuts locations, and I’m right at home.

Blitz wrapped his pith helmet in its dark netting. The whole thing collapsed into a small black handkerchief, which he tucked into his coat pocket. “We should get going.”

“We’re not going to talk about what happened up there in Volkswagen?”

“What’s there to say?”

“For one thing, we’re cousins.”

Blitz shrugged. “I’m happy to be your cousin, kid, but children of the gods don’t put much stock in that sort of connection. Godly family lines are so tangled—thinking about it will drive you crazy. Everybody’s related to everybody.”

“But you’re a demigod,” I said. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“I hate the word demigod. I prefer born with a target on my back.”

“Come on, Blitz. Freya is your mom. That’s important information you kinda forgot to mention.”

“Freya is my mother,” he agreed. “A lot of svartalfs are descended from Freya. Down here, it’s not such a big deal. She mentioned how she got Brisingamen? A few millennia ago she was strolling through Nidavellir—who knows why—and she came across these four dwarves who were crafting the necklace. She was obsessed. She had to have it. The dwarves said sure, for the right price. Freya had to marry each of them, one after the other, for one day each.”

“She…” I wanted to say, Gross, she married four dwarves? Then I remembered who was telling the story. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Blitz sounded miserable. “She had four dwarvish children, one for each marriage.”

I frowned. “Wait. If she was married for one day to each dwarf and a pregnancy lasts…the math doesn’t work out on that.”

“Don’t ask me. Goddesses live by their own rules. Anyway, she got the necklace. She was ashamed of herself for marrying dwarves. Tried to keep it a secret. But the thing is, she loved dwarven jewelry. She kept coming back to Nidavellir to pick out new pieces, and every time…”

“Wow.”

Blitzen’s shoulders slumped. “That’s the main difference between dark elves and regular dwarves. The svartalfs are taller and generally more handsome because we have Vanir blood. We’re descended from Freya. You say I’m a demigod. I say I’m a receipt. My dad crafted a pair of earrings for Freya. She married him for a day. She couldn’t resist his craftsmanship. He couldn’t resist her beauty. Now she sends me to purchase a new pair of earrings because she’s tired of the old ones and Asgard forbid she find herself saddled with another little Blitzen.”

The bitterness in his voice could’ve melted iron plating. I wanted to tell him I understood how he felt, but I wasn’t sure I did. Even if I never knew my dad, I’d had my mom. That had always been enough for me. For Blitzen…not so much. I wasn’t sure what had happened to his father, but I remembered what he’d told me at the Esplanade lagoon: You’re not the only one who’s lost family to the wolves, kid.

“Come on,” he told me. “If we stand in the street any longer, we’ll get mugged for this bag of tears. Dwarves can smell red gold a mile away.” He pointed to the bar on the corner. “I’ll buy you a drink at Nabbi’s Tavern.”

Nabbi’s restored my faith in dwarves, because it was in fact a claustrophobic tunnel. The ceiling was a low-clearance hazard. The walls were papered with old fight posters like DONNER THE DESTROYER VS. MINI-MURDER, ONE NIGHT ONLY! featuring pictures of muscular snarling dwarves in wrestling masks.

Mismatched tables and chairs were occupied by a dozen mismatched dwarves—some svartalfs like Blitzen who could easily have passed for human, some much shorter guys who could have easily passed for garden gnomes. A few of the patrons glanced at us, but nobody seemed shocked that I was a human…if they even realized. The idea that I could pass for a dwarf was pretty disturbing.

The most unreal thing about the bar was Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” blasting from the speakers.

“Dwarves like human music?” I asked Blitzen.

“You mean humans like our music.”

“But…” I had a sudden image of Taylor Swift’s mom and Freya having a girls’ night out in Nidavellir. “Never mind.”

As we made our way toward the bar, I realized that the furniture wasn’t just mismatched. Every single table and chair was unique—apparently handcrafted from various metals, with different designs and upholstery. One table was shaped like a bronze wagon wheel with a glass top. Another had a tin and brass chessboard hammered into the surface. Some chairs had wheels. Others had adjustable booster seats. Some had massage controls or propellers on the back.

Over by the left wall, three dwarves were playing darts. The board’s rings rotated and blew steam. One dwarf tossed his dart, which buzzed toward the target like a tiny drone. While it was still in flight, another dwarf took a shot. His dart rocketed toward the drone dart and exploded, knocking it out of the air.

The first dwarf just grunted. “Nice shot.”

Finally we reached the polished oak bar, where Nabbi himself was waiting. I could tell who he was because of my highly trained deductive mind, and also because his stained yellow apron read HI! I’M NABBI.

I thought he was the tallest dwarf I’d met so far until I realized he was standing on a catwalk behind the counter. Nabbi was actually only two feet tall, including the shock of black hair that stuck up from his scalp like a sea urchin. His cleanshaven face made me appreciate why dwarves wear beards. Without one, Nabbi was gods-awful ugly. He had no chin to speak of. His mouth puckered sourly.

He scowled at us like we’d tracked in mud.

“Greetings, Blitzen, son of Freya,” he said. “No explosions in my bar this time, I hope?”

Blitzen bowed. “Greetings, Nabbi, son of Loretta. To be fair, I wasn’t the one who brought the grenades. Also, this is my friend Magnus, son of—”

“Um. Son of Natalie.”

Nabbi nodded to me. His busy eyebrows were fascinating. They seemed to move like live caterpillars.

I reached for a bar stool, but Blitzen stopped me.

“Nabbi,” he said formally, “may my friend use this stool? What is its name and history?”

“That stool is Rear-Rester,” said Nabbi. “Crafted by Gonda. Once it held the tush of the master smith Alviss. Use it in comfort, Magnus, son of Natalie. And Blitzen, you may sit on Keister-Home, famed among stools, made by yours truly. It survived the Great Bar Fight of 4109 A.M.!”

“My thanks.” Blitzen climbed on his stool, which was polished oak with a velvet-padded seat. “A fine Keister-Home it is!”

Nabbi looked at me expectantly. I tried my stool, which was hard steel with no cushion. It wasn’t much of a Rear-Rester. It was more of a Magnus Mangler, but I tried for a smile. “Yep, that’s a nice stool all right!”

Blitzen rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Mead for me, Nabbi. And for my friend—”

“Uh, soda or something?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be walking around Dwarven Southie with a mead buzz.

Nabbi filled two mugs and set them in front of us. Blitzen’s goblet was gold on the inside, silver on the outside, decorated with images of dancing dwarf women.

“That cup is Golden Bowl,” said Nabbi. “Made by my father, Darbi. And this one”—he nudged my pewter tankard—“is Boom Daddy, made by yours truly. Always ask for a refill before you reach the bottom of the cup. Otherwise”—he splayed his fingers—“boom, Daddy!”

I really hoped he was kidding, but I decided to take small sips.

Blitz drank his mead. “Mmm. A fine cup for quaffing! And now that we are past the formalities, Nabbi…we need to speak with Junior.”

A vein throbbed in Nabbi’s left temple. “Do you have a death wish?”

Blitz reached into his pouch. He slid a single gold tear across the counter. “This one is for you,” he said in a low voice. “Just for making the call. Tell Junior we have more. All we want is a chance to barter.”

After my experience with Ran, the word barter made me even more uncomfortable than Rear-Rester. Nabbi looked back and forth between Blitzen and the tear, his expression vacillating between apprehension and greed. Finally the greed won. The barkeep snatched the drop of gold.

“I’ll make the call. Enjoy your drinks.” He climbed off his catwalk and disappeared into the kitchen.

I turned to Blitz. “A few questions.”

He chuckled. “Only a few?”

“What does 4109 A.M. mean? Is it the time, or—”

“Dwarves count years from the creation of our species,” Blitz said. “A.M. is After Maggots.”

I decided my ears must still be defective from Ratatosk’s barking. “Say what?”

“The creation of the world…Come on, you know the story. The gods killed the largest of the giants, Ymir, and used his flesh to create Midgard. Nidavellir developed under Midgard, where maggots ate into the giant’s dead flesh and created tunnels. Some of those maggots evolved, with a little help from the gods, into dwarves.”

Blitzen looked proud of this historical tidbit. I decided to do my best to erase it from my long-term memory.

“Different question,” I said. “Why does my goblet have a name?”

“Dwarves are craftsmen,” said Blitzen. “We’re serious about the things we make. You humans—you make a thousand crappy chairs that all look alike and all break within a year. When we make a chair, we make one chair to last a lifetime, a chair unlike any other in the world. Cups, furniture, weapons…every crafted item has a soul and a name. You can’t appreciate something unless it’s good enough for a name.”

I studied my tankard, which was painstakingly engraved with runes and wave designs. I wished it had a different name—like No Way Will I Explode—but I had to admit it was a nice cup.

“And calling Nabbi son of Loretta?” I asked. “Or me the son of Natalie?”

“Dwarves are matriarchal. We trace our lineage through our mothers. Again, it makes much more sense than your patrilineal way. After all, one can only be born from a single biological mother. Unless you are the god Heimdall. He had nine biological mothers. But that’s another story.”

Synapses melted in my brain. “Let’s move along. Freya’s tears…red gold? Sam told me that’s the currency of Asgard.”

“Yes. But Freya’s tears are one hundred percent pure. The finest red gold in creation. For the pouch of tears we’re carrying, most dwarves would give their right eyeballs.”

“So this guy Junior—he’ll bargain with us?”

“Either that,” Blitz said, “or he’ll chop us into small pieces. You want some nachos while we wait?”