“What?”
Heimdall shrugged and slipped his hands into his coat pockets. “Go ahead. I’ll hang back here.”
Thor couldn’t resist a smug smile. He strode toward the men at the card table and loomed over them. And he waited.
“Raise you two.” The man with a scraggly beard tossed a couple of plastic chips into a pile at the center of the table.
“Ayuh.” The man to his left, a slender fellow with white hair and leathery skin, did the same. The third man tossed in his own chips with a simple tug on his Portland Trail Blazers baseball cap.
Thor waited.
“No? How about another three, then?” The bearded man tossed more chips onto the pile.
“Not how it works, Vince,” said the white-haired man.
“Like he cares,” said the guy with the cap.
They played on and continued to ignore Thor. After two or three minutes passed without the slightest acknowledgement from the card players, Thor crossed his arms and cleared his throat, loudly.
“Help you?” The man with the beard didn’t bother to look up from his cards.
“Aren’t you cold?” Thor asked. It was a weak opening, but Thor rationalized he was building up to something big.
Mr. Beard glanced briefly at the sky, then shrugged and drew a card from the deck at the center of the table.
“Put that card back!” Ball Cap slapped the table in frustration. “What game are you playing?”
“So what kind of business do you fellows do here, exactly?” Thor asked with an edge of uncertainty that bordered on cluelessness.
White Hair let out an irritated sigh. “The kind of business I do is minding my own business.”
The two other men laughed until Mr. Beard laid out his cards. They groaned in unison as he smiled and raked the modest pile of plastic chips toward him.
“You’re just going to let him do that? He’s got too many dang cards!” Ball Cap protested.
“Let it go,” White Hair said. “It’s not like we’re playing for real money.”
“It’s just that we were looking through the windows out front,” Thor said, trying again to engage the men in conversation. “There are a few pieces we’d like to examine more closely, but the door was locked.”
Thor hoped the bit about the door being locked was true, because he and Heimdall hadn’t actually tried to enter.
Mr. Beard stacked his blue, white, and red chips in neat columns. He smirked. “Mmm, yes. Store doesn’t open before eleven. Closed Sundays.”
Thor tried to remember what day of the week it was. When the city closed up for inclement weather or a national holiday, he had a bad habit of losing track of the calendar.
“So maybe come back later,” White Hair said as he gathered up the cards and started shuffling.
Thor felt a hand on his shoulder as Heimdall stepped up to stand beside him. Thor tried to hide his relief.
“The thing is, gentlemen,” Heimdall began, “we represent a family of collectors who specialize in eighteenth-century Scandinavian furniture. While peering into your showroom just now, we spotted a few exquisite looking pieces in a derivative style that we’d like to have a look at.”
Thor shot his brother a look of disbelief. He had no idea what a Scandinavian derivative-style anything might look like, regardless of its century of origin, and he was pretty sure Heimdall didn’t either. His brother must have picked up the lingo from Saga. But Heimdall exuded enough confidence and sophistication to impress the men at the card table.
White Hair put down his cards, stood up, and faced Heimdall.
“And I suppose you’ll be moving on to the shops in Sellwood unless there’s someone who can show you into the showroom this very minute?”
Heimdall answered the man’s question with a smile that was equal parts amusement and condescension. “Something like that.”
White Hair started toward a door that led from the loading dock into the warehouse. “You might as well come along, then. No salesman here, you know, so don’t be asking me to help. And don’t expect to be making any off-hours deals, either. Me and the boys are just here waiting on a delivery.”
“You’ve got something special coming in this morning?” Heimdall asked as the man unlocked the door and led them into the back office. There were a few desks, each strewn with stacks of paper and set up with computers and dirty-looking keyboards. Wastebaskets overflowed with candy wrappers, styrofoam cups, and wadded up paper.
“I wouldn’t know.” White Hair’s skin was reddening with annoyance. “Doesn’t impact me.”
Thor tapped one of the trashcans with the toe of his boot. “You’d think they’d go paperless.”
White Hair strode past a few walled-off offices and stopped at an opaque glass door. He fumbled with the dozens of keys on his keyring, then slid one into the door’s lock. Before turning the handle, he looked at Thor and Heimdall. His meaningful expression was punctuated by raised eyebrows. “Now, you know you typically have to make an appointment to come into the shop outside of normal hours.”
Thor started to say something about being grateful for the man inconveniencing himself on their behalf. He figured he’d heard enough ingratiation over the years to fake his way through it. But the man remained by the door, unlocked but not yet open. White Hair cleared his throat and lifted his empty palm upward.
Thor guessed it was some sort of secret antiques backroom handshake. He raised his own hand and made to slap White Hair’s palm and then say something like “Groovy” or “Right on,” but Heimdall stepped forward and slipped White Hair a few folded bills.
A smile flickered on the man’s face and then just as quickly vanished. He pushed the money into his trouser pocket and opened the door to the main show room.
Before they crossed the threshold, Thor glanced through an office door that was standing open. A young woman sat at the desk, her dark hair spilling over her face. She scowled at the book open in her lap and clenched a pen tightly in her fingers. She let out a gasp of frustration and glanced up.
Thor’s breath froze in his chest when he saw her face. She was at least ten yards away, but there was no mistaking her identity. It had been centuries since he’d last seen those eyes. Given his memories of her—of her simple, radiant splendor and her grace—it was almost impossible not to burst out laughing at her current ill-fitting costume. The tailored gray jacket bunched at her shoulders, and her pale yellow shirt was much too thin for winter.
“Vesha,” Thor said. “Zorya Vechernyaya.”
She blinked up at him. Her eyes held no recognition. She looked back at her book.
Heimdall stopped in his tracks. He’d been carrying on an inane conversation with the warehouse worker about filigreed something-or-other, but halted mid-sentence and stepped over to stand beside his brother.
Thor felt Heimdall’s breath rush out of his body.
“Vesha?” Heimdall’s voice was small, surprised, and maybe a little hopeful.
She looked up again and glanced between Thor and Heimdall. A frown crinkled the pale skin above her eyebrows.
Heimdall took a few steps toward the office. “Zorya Vechernyaya? Is it you?”
She tilted her head at his approach and turned away from him even though there was nowhere for her to flee.
White Hair ducked back in from the showroom. “No, no, no! Now you can’t be going in there! She doesn’t know anything about the business. You’ll just confuse her.”
“Easy there.” Thor grabbed White Hair by his shirt collar before he could go interfering with Heimdall.
“Leave her alone!” White Hair shouted. “We’re not allowed to even speak to her.”
Thor wanted to press the guy against the wall and force him to divulge whatever he knew about Maksim and the construction workers and this particular goddess of the evening star—who had absolutely no business being in Portland, much less the twenty-first century. Instead, he held his tongue and watched his brother.
Heimdall
lifted his hands and stepped slowly toward her. “Vesha, it’s me. It’s Heimdall. Are you all right? What are you doing here?”
Her mouth dropped open as she studied him. Thor inched toward Heimdall, dragging White Hair with him.
“Doesn’t she recognize us?” Thor asked.
Heimdall kept his eyes on the woman. “It’s okay, Vesha. Whatever’s happened, we’ll fix it.”
He stopped in front of the desk and reached across to rest his hand on top of hers. She stiffened at his touch, then shuddered as she took in a long breath.
And then she screamed.
Maksim sat bolt upright out of a dead sleep. A terrible howling swirled around him, tearing at his ears and his skin. Then he realized it was the sound of his own screaming.
“Maksim!” Saga rushed into the boys’ room and wrapped her arms around him.
He kept screaming. He didn’t know why. He felt a shadow move over him as the dark images of his dream flickered away, just out of reach. Saga’s embrace was tight and warm like a blanket, and she rocked him as she ran her fingers over his hair and said his name over and over in her soft voice. “Maksim. It’s okay, Maksim. You’re safe, Maksim.”
Her words finally reached him and his cry became a strangled cough, then a quick sob, and finally silence. Saga held him tight and kept rocking him.
“What’s wrong, little one?” She pressed his head against her shoulder and turned to kiss his forehead. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
His body filled with a cold, nauseating dread. He pushed himself away from Saga and fought her hands as she sought to pull him close again.
“No!” His voice was raspy from sleep and screaming. “Keck! Dosta!”
His mother’s voice rose in his mind. “Jass!” she shouted from the depths. “Run!”
Maksim tried to free himself from the fleece blanket that had been laid over him as he slept. His eyes were still heavy and his muscles were sluggish, but his mother’s voice rang in his ears. “Jass, Maksim!”
He pushed hard against Saga and struggled to get off the bed, already envisioning the escape route he would take through the open door into the hallway and then down the wide staircase and out the heavy front door, into the snow.
“Maksim!” Saga’s voice was calm and soothing in his ear. “Maksim, quiet now. It’s all right. Tell me what’s happened. I’m right here.”
She was stronger than he was, and Maksim was still tired. He hadn’t slept much the night before, between wrestling with Magnus, showing off a bit of magick, and the excitement and terror of having made it out of the tunnel. His body didn’t know how to handle so much good food. It made him feel at once energetic and sluggish. He remembered how Bonnie had carried him up the stairs after breakfast and after his talk with the witch, and how she’d laid him down on Magnus’s bed. But he didn’t remember anything after that. He must have fallen asleep as soon as she’d closed the door behind her.
“It was only a bad dream,” Saga whispered. Maksim felt his body relax in her embrace, and he pressed his face into the curve of her neck. Her voice sounded like sunshine. “There you go. You just had a bit of a nightmare, that’s all. You’re safe, Maksim. I promise.”
“Safe,” Maksim repeated the word, as though that could make it real. But he knew she was wrong. She wasn’t lying to him, but she didn’t know what was coming.
He closed his eyes as she rocked him, and the images from his dream came back to him, clearer now. But he wasn’t afraid anymore—at least, he wasn’t as afraid in Saga’s arms.
“Do you think you can sleep some more?” Saga brushed her fingers through his hair. “Or do you want to come downstairs?”
Maksim took a long breath in and sighed against Saga’s shoulder.
“I’m guessing you want to nap,” she said with a laughing lilt. “Even though we’ve been making buttermilk cookies and blackberry scones?”
Maksim lifted his head and looked into Saga’s face. He didn’t know what a scone was, but his stomach liked the sound of cookies and blackberries. And he remembered the warm drink Thor made for him yesterday.
“Hot chocolate?” Maksim rubbed the darker images from his dream out of his eyes.
Saga smiled, and Maksim felt his body relax. “Sure. Hot chocolate makes everything better.”
Sally’s head was swimming. She’d been sitting in Thor and Bonnie’s living room for hours, first trying to win Maksim’s trust before fatigue overtook him, and then just hanging out and pretty much doing nothing while Bonnie and Magnus ran to the nearest Target to pick up new clothes, shoes, and underwear to fit Maksim. She’d had a few minutes of gossiping with Saga—about Saga’s historical romance ebook sales, Sally’s boyfriend Zach, and whether or not Opal should propose to her girlfriend—while Maksim slept upstairs, exhausted from his ordeal. It was actually kind of nice to sip tea and look out on the snowy neighborhood and do some catching up in pleasant company.
Until the screaming started. Then Sally was on her own again while Saga rushed upstairs to tend to the boy.
Sally’s phone kept chiming with every new text message that came in. Opal wanted a situation report and asked if Sally was available later for coffee and Tarot. Zach asked how long she thought she’d be tied up with her current Rune Witch obligations and when she might next be free for an evening in. Fenrir sent a few friendly emojis and made a vague reference to his father which set Sally’s teeth on edge. Then the man himself texted.
“Just checking in,” Loki’s message read.
Sally was tempted to hurl the phone across the room. But Loki wouldn’t feel her defiance and she’d probably have to buy a new phone on a student’s budget.
Maksim trundled down the stairs, holding tight to Saga’s fingers. He kept a careful eye on Sally as they sipped mugs of hot chocolate in the living room and speculated on the next day’s weather. The conversation was banal and boring, but that was probably better for the boy’s nerves than openly discussing what Thor and Heimdall were up to. It was another shadowy situation, but at least Sally was pretty sure she wasn’t the cause of it this time.
Sally’s phone chimed another half-dozen times while they sat together, and Maksim watched as she checked and ignored most of her messages. She did send a quick return text to Opal telling her not to worry and agreed to a weekend away with Zach once the current crisis was over—assuming that some new catastrophe didn’t start swirling in the immediate aftermath.
Saga got up to carry their empty mugs back to the kitchen, and Sally and Maksim were alone together on the living room couch. They sat in uncomfortable silence until he blinked his wide eyes at her and asked, “So, are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”
Sally’s first instinct was to laugh, but she didn’t want to make the boy feel silly or small for his question. Then she fell quiet. Leave it to a child to go straight to the heart of the matter. What could she tell him? After a long pause, she concluded there was no point in lying to him, especially if he might be struggling with magick of his own.
She took a breath. “Honestly, kid, I wish I knew.”
He seemed satisfied with her answer. Sally could easily imagine Loki’s laughter in her head.
Saga returned with a tray of fresh mugs of chocolate and plates of cookies and fruit. Sally was about to question the wisdom of pumping Maksim full of so much sugar, but she was distracted by the sound of the front door opening and a friendly voice announcing Freya’s arrival.
Maksim bristled at the intrusion. Sally rested a hand on his shoulder and felt gratified when he didn’t shrink away from her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Just another friend coming to help. We’re in here!”
Maksim rested back into the couch cushions and cradled his mug against his chest. He looked so tiny inside Magnus’s clothes, his thin arms like brittle sticks poking out of the wide sleeves. Sally pulled the coffee table closer so the cookies and oranges were within easier reach.
“Hey, Sally.” Freyr stood in the l
iving room doorway beside his twin sister, Freya.
Sally gasped in surprise. Freyr was looking considerably more corporeal than he had in years. The last time Sally had seen the nature god, he was sacrificing himself to a lava pit to appease a trio of unruly volcanoes and keep the entire Pacific Northwest from blowing up. Before that, he’d died—or maybe only nearly died—shortly before having the throne of Vanaheim thrust upon him in Ireland. Now he was standing in Thor’s living room in SE Portland. No matter what got thrown at him, Freyr always seemed to bounce back. Sally wondered if maybe he was part cat.
She leapt to her feet and practically threw herself into Freyr’s arms for a hug. She laughed out loud when she slammed into his chest instead of passing through him. He was solid and felt unnaturally warm, and he smelled of smoke. Beside him, his sister grinned.
“You’re here!” Sally exclaimed. “How are you here?”
“Even mountain spirits need a vacation.” Freyr smiled and ruffled her hair. Sally’s giddiness dimmed when she noticed the reddish-purple tint of his skin. Her mind filled with unpleasant memories of crisping flesh and nearly fatal sonic torture at the hands of his lava god predecessor, and she took a cautious step back.
Freyr glanced past Sally to Maksim on the couch. “We heard there was a situation here.”
They moved into the hallway. In hushed tones, Saga told Freya and Freyr what she knew about Maksim, the weird energy at the antiques gallery, and how Thor had gotten spooked at a neighborhood construction site. That last part was news to Sally, but she kept quiet. She took note of her new behavior as she again held back the details of the dark van she’d seen at the warehouse and the failure of her impromptu snow magick. There was no particular reason for her not to share; withholding information that wasn’t immediately relevant simply felt like the natural thing to do.
Sally lingered in the threshold while Saga introduced Freya and Freyr to Maksim. She still didn’t know quite who or what the boy was, or if she felt reassured or uneasy that there were other mortal wielders of real magick in the world—that was assuming Maksim was a human boy and not something altogether different. She watched Maksim mask his anxiety when Freya sat down beside him and asked for a display of his abilities.
Twilight Magic (Rune Witch Book 6) Page 10
