They were all staring at him now—Loki, Bragi, and Frigga. Thor felt his face start to flush red, which only left him more flustered.
“Thor,” Frigga chided him. “Don’t you have something you’d like to say to your kinsman? Some words of encouragement, perhaps?”
Thor cleared his throat and tried to think fast. “Umm, I’m glad it wasn’t you that called the Berserkers. And, uh, Frigga has a human working for her. Rod Hammerstein. Don’t know if that’s his real name or maybe an alias for dressing up, but he’s not a bad guy.”
Thor expected the nasty look his mother gave him, but Loki surprised him by breaking into a huge smile and then firmly embracing him—right around the middle of Thor’s chest, since Loki barely came up to his chin. Releasing him, Loki stepped forward and led the way to the back of the Lodge.
Frigga slid in next to Thor. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“Anything else wouldn’t have been sincere.”
She patted his massive bicep and rested her hand in the crook of his elbow.
Thor rounded the corner and saw Loki silhouetted against the large bonfire as he stood on the grass and watched the glowing embers dance skyward. Thor stepped away from Frigga and went to stand beside Loki as he scanned the semicircle of assembled gods. And Rod. They all stared at Loki.
Thor felt the tiny shift in Loki’s stance. He planted a meaty hand on the smaller god’s shoulder before he gave into any temptation to flee.
“Easy there,” Thor muttered. “Like Frigga said, we’re your friends here.” Thor resisted adding, for the next twenty-four hours.
Loki attempted a smile. Odin broke away from the bonfire and approached them, reaching out with strong arms to take the god of chaos into a firm hug.
“It has been too long, my brother.” Odin clapped Loki on the shoulder, then stepped back and looked into Loki’s troubled eyes. “You are welcome here. There is no bad blood between us.”
Thor tried not to snort with derision. Managarm isn’t Loki’s ally. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Odin led Loki toward the gathering around the fire, but Loki looked back at Thor.
“I won’t overstay my welcome,” Loki said. “I promise.”
While Loki walked toward the fire with Odin, Thor stood rooted to the spot, not sure if the god of chaos had somehow read his thoughts. Before he had a chance to make up his mind, his phone chirped to let him know he had a text message. Thor was surprised his phone was working again after getting fried by Loki’s aura of inconvenient destruction.
Frigga peered over his elbow at the display. “A message from Heimdall?”
“No,” Thor mumbled, deflated. “I just got fired.” He deliberately didn’t look at Frigga. “Seems I was supposed to be at three different sites yesterday, plus some toner crisis this morning that I wasn’t around for. And, umm, also my manager didn’t take it too well when I had to take time off to go to Joseph.”
“Look at me.”
Thor raised his eyes to meet hers, finding her expression softer than he’d expected.
“I didn’t exactly tell him it was a family emergency,” he stammered. “Never quite got to that part.”
Frigga lifted one eyebrow.
Thor rested his hands on his hips. “When he asked where I was going and why, I, uh, I told him it was none of his bloody business—that I go where I want, when I want.”
A smirk grew on Frigga’s face. “Did you, now?”
“And then I threw my tools through the front window.”
Frigga chuckled and patted her son on the arm. “That job was a bad fit. I’m honestly surprised you lasted as long as you did. I already had something new lined up for you anyway.”
“Yeah?”
She slipped her arm into his and walked him toward the bonfire. “I’ve made arrangements for you to join a construction company. If you get frustrated, you can hammer something.”
Thor beamed down at her. “Hammer?”
“Your new tools are in the truck.” She looked at the others standing in a sparse circle around the flames. “But we’ll discuss all of that, after.”
Thor took his place beside Frigga in the circle and saw her give a quick wave to Rod, sitting at the giant picnic table Thor had built for outdoor summer feasts.
Freya handed a cup of mead around the circle. Frigga drank and passed the cup to Thor. He peered into the dark liquid and sniffed at it suspiciously. “What is this?”
“Just drink it,” Frigga answered.
Thor wasn’t too sure about the mystery beverage. Freya knew her magickal brews, but this one didn’t smell particularly appealing. The last time he’d tasted one of her potions—three centuries earlier at a birthday party for Loki—Freya brewed a honey wine with a secret blend of spices to promote forgiveness and goodwill. It had been one hell of a party—what he could remember of it. Thor had awakened in the outhouse curled up with an armadillo while Bragi was sprawled on the lawn, covered in brambles, maple syrup, and a curious blue powder he’d never been able to identify. Saga had finally come to her senses some eighteen miles down a dirt road at a convent. But Frigga had the worst hangover of all of them, after waking up in her own massive stew pot, wearing nothing but Odin’s eye patch as a bra.
“Old Ones of the New World. Thank you for joining this circle,” Freya intoned as she tossed a bundle of dried herbs onto the fire. The leaves began to smoke heavily.
Thor took a hefty sip from the cup, surprised that it tasted more sweet than bitter, though it made his teeth feel sticky. He passed the cup to Loki. “To comely women and better days.”
Loki lifted the cup to Thor’s toast and drank.
“We call upon the memory of those not with us, who have chosen slumber or seclusion over the changing times,” Freya continued. “We hold space for our brethren who stand with us in spirit, no longer in body.” She took a deep breath to inhale the smoke from the burning herbs.
“Heimdall,” she called out dreamily. “We send you strength in the forest as you watch over the Yggdrasil. May your senses be sharp, your resolve unwavering.”
“Heimdall,” the others murmured, not quite in unison.
“Okay.” Freya sighed audibly over the crackling bonfire. “Here goes nothing. Let’s call the Einherjar.”
With a quick nod to Freya, Frigga ducked out of the circle to the picnic table. She picked up a tray of small paper cups full of a dark-purple liquid that Rod had ladled out from a large stock pot. Frigga started handing the cups to each of her kin.
When she got to Thor, he tried not to grimace. This potion smelled like rotten fruit on a dead skunk. Thor silently cursed Heimdall’s absence from the bonfire. With a look of extreme distaste, he lifted the cup toward his lips.
Frigga grabbed his wrist before he could drink. “Just put it on the ground until Freya gives the signal.”
With a grateful sigh, Thor rested the paper cup on the grass between his feet. Frigga passed out the last cup and returned to her spot in the circle.
“We call upon the fallen heroes who have feasted and rested and stood ready in the Halls of Valhalla. Einherjar!” Freya raised her arms high over her head. “Heed the call of the Old Ones!” She thrust her arms toward the fire, palms forward. “Feed the fire, my kindred. Send your strength into the flames. Let the fire become the cauldron of our collective will.”
Thor took a deep breath and stared into the flames. Exhaling in sync with the others, he watched the fire leap higher, reaching nearly thirty feet in the air.
“Again!” Freya called out.
Moving as one, Thor and his kin took a step closer to the fire. Thor gritted his teeth and willed every ounce of power he had left into the flames. His face was red both from the heat and intense concentration. He balled his hands into fists, then groaned as the energy flowed through him. The flames exploded upward until the bonfire was taller than the Lodge itself, singeing the branches of the surrounding trees.
“Hear us, Einherjar!” Freya crie
d out. “Ragnarok has come! Your gods call you into service. Hear us, Einherjar!”
“Hear us, Einherjar!” Frigga echoed.
“Answer this call to battle,” Freya commanded, her expression as wild as the fire, flames dancing in her eyes. “Take up arms once more against the enemies of your gods!”
“Hear us, Einherjar!” Thor bellowed, followed closely by his mother as the others began to pick up the chant.
“Fly from the Halls of Valhalla, to the . . . To Northwest Oregon!” Freya glanced at her brother and shrugged.
“Hear us, Einherjar!” They called in unison. Sweat rolled off Thor’s brow and stung his eyes, but he didn’t break his focus on the fire.
“Heed the call of your gods!” Freya’s voice was growing hoarse. “Your service will not go unrewarded.”
“Hear us, Einherjar!”
Freya bent down to pick up the small paper cup of potion and lifted it high into the air.
“Now!” Freya threw the cup—potion and all—into the flames, and the others followed. The bonfire howled and twisted upward in a cyclone of flame, reaching up to touch the clouds and spreading fire across the morning sky. Thor felt his blood come alive with waves of heat as he looked upward and saw lightning bolts jump from one cloud to the next as a mighty crash of thunder shook the ground.
With a humming whine rising in pitch, the flames retreated suddenly downward as the column of fire imploded onto the giant pile of logs and tinder. The bonfire extinguished itself with a loud hiss and a billow of dark smoke.
Thor stumbled back from the charred wreckage of the fire, coughing and trying to wave the smoke out of his eyes. He retreated to the picnic table, where Rod was handing out water. Thor frowned at the bits of green floating in the cup. “This is just water, right?”
“It’s got some mint and lavender in it.” Rod refilled Freyr’s cup and motioned for Thor to drink.
Thor knocked back the herbed water, coughing at the bits of plant matter that tickled his throat. He turned to survey the giant, blackened bird’s nest of charred wood that had been the bonfire. As the last ember faded, the entire pile collapsed into a heap of ashes.
“By the black elves of Svartálfaheim,” Thor whistled through his teeth, then fished a piece of lavender out of his mouth.
“Quiet!” Odin swayed on his feet and held a hand to his head, and Thor realized he was feeling dizzy, too. He staggered back to the picnic table and allowed Rod to help him sit down.
Odin stood at the head of the table, pressing his fists into the surface to keep his balance. “Everyone just take some time to—”
The I Dream of Jeannie theme song started playing.
“For the love of Niflheim!” Odin scowled at Saga. “Will your history-loving hiney ever turn that thing off?”
“Sorry.” She slipped the phone out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Hello?”
Thor downed another cup of water and looked across the table at Freya. Her eyes were a bit hazy. “So that’s it?”
She nodded slowly, clearly lightheaded from the ritual. “That’s all I could come up with on short notice.” She glanced at the wide black spot that had been the bonfire. “We’ll see what happens.”
Bragi laid his head down on the table and appeared to go to sleep.
Freya looked hard at Thor and reached across the table to tap his wrist. “What took you so long getting back here, anyway?”
“Loki,” Thor growled, watching his possibly nefarious kinsman chatting with Odin at the head of the table. “He insisted on spending half the night trying to track Fenrir himself.”
“He dragged us through the forest, across fields, onto private property . . .” Bragi muttered in dreamy exhaustion. “Even down into a few ravines that were, uh, less than savory.”
“Couldn’t find another working phone to call and check in.” Thor didn’t mention that he’d been glad they couldn’t find a phone—he hadn’t relished the idea of getting blasted by Odin again. But Freya flashed him a knowing smile.
“THEY’RE COMING!” Saga shouted just behind him. Thor nearly fell off the picnic bench. She waved her phone in the air. “They’re coming already.”
Thor picked himself up and frowned. “That was fast.”
Freya stood up and regarded Saga doubtfully. “Are you telling me you just got a phone call from the Einherjar?”
“Pretty much.” Saga tapped her phone. “That was my manager, Bonnie. From the bookstore.”
“And?” Thor looked at his sister and hoped she wasn’t succumbing to whatever made the Norns speak in impossible riddles. “Did some kind of portal to the afterlife open up in the Anthropology section, allowing the fallen heroes of Valhalla to come pouring through?”
Bragi lifted his head and laughed. Saga glared at her brothers and stuck her tongue out at them.
“Oh, yeah.” Bragi laid his head back down on the table. “Real classy. How a petulant teenager got to be the goddess of history . . .”
“Right,” she sneered. “This from the great god of art and poetry who can’t take a single step without tripping over his own feet. Twice.”
In a daze, Bragi spun around on the picnic bench and fixed Saga with a bleary gaze. “Once! That happened one time. It wasn’t my fault that old farmer let loose a bunch of squealing piglets in the middle of a barn dance—”
“Can we get back to the Einherjar?” Frigga rested a hand on Bragi’s shoulder and motioned for Saga to continue.
“Right! Well, so Bonnie called. She sounded pretty excited, almost out of breath. She said she’d had this sudden vision, like a lightning bolt to the temple—”
Thor perked up. “Lightning bolt?”
Saga smiled. “Exactly how she described it. I, umm, told her to meet us at the dojo. I hope that’s okay? She said she suddenly knew who I was, who we all were.” Saga couldn’t keep from laughing. “I think she’s one of the new Vikings. Or the new old Vikings. So is Bonnie now the reincarnation of an old warrior, or is her body being taken over by a spirit flying up from Valhalla? How does it work?”
Freya shrugged. “Let’s hope we have the leisure to figure that out later.”
21
In a densely forested area to the north of Portland, Managarm stood in a small clearing and looked up at the sun in the overcast sky. He guessed it was shortly past 9 a.m.
He rubbed his hands together against the autumn chill and knelt next to the sheep he’d stolen from a nearby farm. The benzodiazepine hadn’t yet taken full effect, and the animal bleated pitifully as she tugged against the rope that secured her to the stake Managarm had driven into the ground. The old god smiled, watching the sheep grow weaker with each protest.
“I really don’t want to watch this,” Opal grumbled from a nearby tree where she sat on the ground with Baron in her lap. “Plus, it’s cold. I don’t see why I couldn’t have just stayed with Sally back at the apartment.”
Shooting a quick scowl in Opal’s direction, Managarm sat on the moss and patted the sheep’s head, watching her large eyes become increasingly hazy. “Surely, you’re not that thick. I figured you were a bit sharper than your little witch friend. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
Managarm could smell the sheep’s fear at his nearness—he was still the Moon Dog, an ancient predator—but her body grew heavier by the second. Her cries were softer, and finally her knees buckled. She sank to the ground and panted quietly.
Opal held Baron close to her chest. “We’re your insurance policy. To make sure Sally does what you want.”
“Very good.” Managarm untied the sheep. She was too heavily drugged now to run. Managarm grabbed the wooden stake with both hands and pulled furiously, grunting and cursing as it took several attempts to yank it out of the ground.
“Couldn’t you just leave us in the car?" Opal asked. "You know I won’t run away, not while you still have Sally.”
Managarm reached for the hunting knife on his belt. He resisted the temptation to give the sheep one final pat on the head�
��there was no sense getting attached to a sacrificial animal. He sliced across his open palm, letting his blood flow freely. The ground sizzled with the spilling of a god’s blood, and a dark, burnt musk perfumed the air.
“Neither of you is any use to me in the car.” Managarm returned the knife to his belt.
Opal clutched Baron more tightly, and the cat mewled in protest. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You shouldn’t.” Managarm closed his eyes and lifted his bleeding palm to the sky. Come, Randulfr. You cannot resist a kinsman’s opened veins.
Stepping around the sheep, Managarm sat down next to Opal and delighted in how she flinched away from him, though he was still annoyed by the cat’s incessant growling. He reached for the radio in his pocket.
“All is ready,” he said into the radio. “I want no interference. No talking, no movement.”
“Understood,” Adam squawked back.
Managarm growled. “I just told you I wanted silence!”
He released the call button and stared at the radio, daring it anyone on the other end to make a sound. Satisfied that the Berserkers would hold their positions, he slipped the radio back into his pocket.
“I’m not sure I like this new generation of Berserkers.” Managarm picked up a stick from the ground and started whittling with his hunting knife, periodically pausing to run his still-bleeding palm along the wood to coat its surface. “Too distractible.” And sometimes just plain stupid.
The gods’ warriors had been intensely loyal, attentive, capable of independent thought—but only within the framework of their given mission. What he remembered most vividly was their fierce, unwavering commitment—something seriously lacking in the crew he had thus far attracted.
“Or maybe your little friend is simply deficient in her services to the Moon Dog.” He continued to slice bark off the tip of the stick. “Can’t call up a decent Berserker if her life, or her friend’s, depends on it.”
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