Odin's Murder

by Angel Lawson

  She stares at me, eyes ebony black. “How did you get here?” she asks.

  I glare at her, then turn away from them both, staring at the tangles of wire and their crumpled metal locks. Not wires. Bars. Images flick through my mind, open to Dr. Anders’ office, sunlight streaming in the window, glancing off the thin bar of a birdcage, illuminating a decorative latch.

  “He sacrifices the crows?” I whisper. My throat is closing, and a chill slides over my skin, like molesting fingers.

  “Mems, don’t you get it? We are the crows!”

  “No,” I whisper as all the images in my brain fade to icy white. This is what fear feels like. I’d forgotten. “No.”

  “Yes,” a voice says from the shadows. “And separate, you are useless, precocious children with no understanding of the powers you’ve inherited.”

  Anders steps from the tunnel, disheveled as always, carrying another cage like a lantern. A woman breaks free from his other hand and rushes to Sonja, kneeling on the floor. She’s got dark, shiny skin and close-cropped hair. I recognize her from last summer, at the closing ceremony, and from pictures on Sonja’s Facebook page; Miriam, her mother.

  “What do you want?” I ask him. “You’re insane! What powers? Are we supposed to give you our minds, our ability to dream?”

  “Ah, but this is not about cognitive ability, you oblivious child.” He speaks like he lectures in class, with that same half smirk. “This is about blood.”

  “No,” Julian says, flailing in the chains.

  “Your brother understands, or he is beginning to.” Dr. Anders smiles at him, turns back to me. “I was quite impressed, actually. No one has ever drawn the connection to Johann Vangarde before, though it was quite amusing to be accused of plagiarizing my own book.”

  “You’re trying to tell us you’re over a century old?” I say. If I weren’t so terrified, I’d laugh.

  “Oh, I’m much older than that, Muninn, my dear. A millennium of centuries.”

  “You’re bonkers,” I tell him. “You’re fucking nuts.” I turn to Julian. He’s white as a wraith, staring at the birdcage.

  “I am a god, actually. Born in Asgard.” Anders’ face doesn’t change. “A little respect from you would make things much easier for both of us. Now, before I fetch the fifth member of our little family, we have some business to take care of.” Anders sets the cage down, and opens the little latch.

  The bird inside dodges his hand in a flurry of feathers, a dark explosion of hissing and claws straight for his face. Dr. Anders grunts as the claws rake his cheek, but the bird’s tiny talons tangle in his beard, and he grabs its feet in his fist, holds it at arm’s length, upside down. The little crow twists, curling up to peck at his fingers, and his knuckles whiten as he grips harder. It stills.

  “Don’t hurt it,” I whisper.

  “Now why would I do that, Miss Erikssen? There’s no need for anyone to be hurt, as long as we all cooperate.” He wipes the blood from his face with the back of the empty hand, looks at Sonja’s mother. “Mimir trusts me.”

  Miriam is whispering into her daughter’s ear, ignoring him, but when the bird cries in pain, she looks up. The professor is gripping the struggling bird by its wings, pulling them away from its body.

  “Don’t look,” Sonja tells us, and hides her face in her hands. Her mother cradles her closer, shielding her with her body.

  Anders wrenches the crow’s wings, tearing outward, jerking its bones straight, and the bird screeches louder than I do, a vicious scream that rips through the cave, echoing back in with another voice, higher, a female shriek of pain, as the crow’s wings stretch impossibly long and thin, black feathers folding into sable wool, sweater sleeves covering the arms of a petite girl.

  Faye writhes in his grasp, kicking and twisting, trying to bite his forearm, until he yanks her wrist behind her back, and she quiets.

  I still scream.

  25

  Exclusion

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Tyrell. Or is it still morning?”

  “Professor Anders,” I say, as though everything is normal. Like it’s not weird that I can still feel the warmth from the sunshine on my back and Memory’s kiss on my lips from twenty minutes ago. Or that I’m inside a chapel that’s turned itself into an underground cavern.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, though I know he hasn’t. He’s out of breath, and a trickle of blood runs from a scratch on his cheek. The liquid is still sloshing in his kerosene lantern.

  “For me?”

  “Our final piece,” he says. But now I notice that his eyes don’t crinkle right at the corners when he smiles, and his teeth are too sharp. “I was worried for a moment that you weren’t going to join us, but when Miss Erikssen arrived, my fears were alleviated.”

  I try not to react to Memory’s name, but from his raised eyebrow, he knows my interest. “I’m here. So now what?” I say. “Burnett has called the authorities. I’m sure Jeremy blabbed about how I jumped him.”

  College Boy has probably claimed that I attacked him in jealousy, how he fended off Memory’s unwanted advances, the victim in everything. That’s the way it usually goes.

  “Ah, Jeremy, well, I don’t think he’s a problem for you right now. We have larger things at hand.”

  “Right. The crows,” I say. I have no idea what the hell is going on, but giving a vague answer usually keeps people talking.

  “Have you figured out your role in all this?”

  “War, right? You want me to be War. None of the others seem to fit that category as well as I do.”

  “And you would be very correct.” He smiles again. “See? You did get something from your time as my student, Tyr.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tyr. It means “war”. It’s your name, in the original Norse, before your bloodline diminished into humankind.” He sneers as he says the word human. “I’ve waited a long time for this, but especially for you.”

  My defenses rise as he gets cryptic. Every kid who’s been through the system knows the first sign of a creep is when a guy starts talking about mysteries and secrets, like he knows more about you than you do yourself. Predators do that—hold information over their victims to keep them enthralled—but I’ve dealt with scumbags before, and I’m not weak. I slide into a protective stance, hands ready at my sides, one foot in front of the other, forcing more personal space.

  “Why me? You’ve got a campus full of geniuses. The best I got is a GED from Dare County Detention Center.”

  He smiles, and I remember he’s seen my file, and the test scores that convinced the judge to give me a chance at this place. “Don’t pretend you don’t have a preternatural vision.” His eyes flick to my camera bag. “Your photographs? Only the smallest blink of how far you can see.”

  I am creeped out now, and my spine snaps straight and my fingers curl up into my palms, knuckles tight, flat. I haven’t even told Memory that I can see through her eyes when I look through my viewfinder.

  “I’ve spent the last nineteen years following your petty exploits—the others were easy, coming from their stable, affluent homes. We nearly lost you after your parents died, but Mimir has managed to keep you safe all these years.”

  He’s lying, I can feel it in the air between us, can see it in the way his eyes shift as he speaks.

  “Don’t talk about my parents. You know nothing about them.” I spit on the ground, trying to clear the bitter taste from my mouth. Got to remain calm, can’t let this guy get to me. Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five— “And who the hell is Mimir?”

  “You haven’t been paying attention, boy. Mimir is the guardian of this sacred ground, since the dawn of time. She has also protected your bloodline through every age of man. I command her.” Again there is a wrongness to his words, and I wait. “You know her as your diligent caseworker and advocate, Mary.” He meets my eyes. “The first witch, born of Ymir’s bones. Even she had difficulty keeping you safe and sheltered. Always so ready for battle, even tho
se you could never win. Can you doubt your role in all this, my young warrior?”

  He smiles at my clenched fists, rough scabs cracked and oozing a trickle of blood as they flex.

  Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four— I have never killed anyone, but the anger is there, boiling deep in my stomach. “I’m not your anything.” My words sound childish. —Three-two-one. “Mary was helping me for you?”

  “Of course. We couldn’t lose you to a system of corruption and your own self-destruction. She used every resource she had to keep you safe. Haven’t you ever wondered how you managed to survive? She manipulated every placement, corrections officer and judge, including this latest one, for me.”

  “I survived on my own,” I say. “By myself.”

  Now I’m the liar, and the faces of every over-protective older foster sister, every big hearted and dumb cellmate twice my size stare back at me. Mary, always jerking me out of each situation I’d managed to screw up, keeping me in functional homes and quality schools. Even when I landed myself in juvie incarceration, she had me shipped off to ones with good education programs. And how many hard cases manage to keep the same social worker through their entire career in the system? I know of only one. Me.

  I stare at Anders for a moment, stalling, trying to figure out how to take back some control of whatever is going on. “Alright. So now what?” I ask.

  He lifts the lantern, and the light bounces around the cavern. There’s only one exit from this place. “You passed the first test, son. Can you guess what comes next?”

  “Did the others? Pass?”

  “Yes, of course. They’re waiting for us.”

  My fingers itch for my camera, to look for Memory, but I don’t want to take my eyes off Anders. He looks strong under his sloppy clothes, though he’s smaller than me, at least two inches shorter. I could take him. I breathe for a second, processing the terrain. His lantern jostles, swishing the flammable liquid around like a threat. Psychos fight dirty—and this jerk may be the biggest nut-job I’ve ever met. I’m not willing to take the chance of lighting spilled kerosene.

  “So you, what, throw us down a well, to see if we’re shape-shifters?”

  He laughs, a noise that sets my teeth sideways. “Nothing so primitive, or wasteful. Mimir is simply righting the wrong she made so long ago. She’ll restore you to your original form, and then I can be restored to mine.” He believes what he is saying, eyes sparking with the flare from the lantern.

  “And Mary is going to do this?” I try to keep the incredulity from my tone, because the last thing I want to do is piss him off, but I’m having difficulty seeing my no-nonsense, clean-up-your-act-and-keep-your-fists-to-yourself-boy caseworker in a cave, with this madman. “Ms Wallman is going to turn us into, what? Crows?”

  “Not turn you, return you. Your true shape, power restored. You will be the raven children of the gods, once again.”

  “And you? What’s your true form?”

  “I am Yvengvr,” he says, voice echoing off the rocks. “Son of Odin, who refused to share his throne, and betrayed by a witch, who chose the wrong god.”

  Alrighty then.

  We cross the cave to an opening that tunnels off into the dark. I want to deck him a good one, take the lantern and go find the others, but I hold back. He’s like a demented preacher caught up in a sermon, volatile, out of control.

  “Then what?” I ask, as he pauses at the entrance. “You’re a god, and we’re birds, flying around forever?”

  “Ah. And this brings us to your next test, Tyr.” He turns, appraises me with the long look of a warden sizing up a new inmate. “This is where I have to make a decision. Or at least you do. Once I have acquired your gifts, you no longer exist—as crow or human.”

  “You’re planning to kill us.” I should be more surprised, and less amused.

  “Yes. Unless you would like to consider an alternative.”

  “An alternative to death.” My voice cracks with a dry laugh. “Sure. I’ll consider living.”

  “I need a raven at my side, in order to traverse the barriers between these worlds. The powers of Huginn and Muninn I must reap; their mind and vision, and Magic, of course. Wisdom is my final revenge. But you are the embodiment of War. Physically, Mentally. You’ve weathered a life of hardships, and come out strong.” He eyes my fists, my beaten face.

  I fight the warmth of pride in my chest. Flattering words should mean nothing from this asshole. “Are you saying you want me to join you?”

  “When I confront my father, I want a warrior beside me. A commander to wield the power of the gods. You’ve done it before, at the dawn of time, but for me you will be free, in whatever shape you choose, to wreak chaos over the world.”

  “Free?” The word cuts through all the others in his crazy speech. I am never free. Not me, trouble with a capital T, bound by society, rules, law, and bars. That is the one lie I cannot pretend, even with a madman. For me there is no—

  “Freedom,” he says. “I am offering you freedom. Nothing shall cage you. No prison shall lock you away from anything you want, any battle you choose to fight. It’s where you are headed, Tyr. You cannot escape your nature. Why not choose it, revel in it, and be true to who you are, rather than confine it in a cage?”

  I stare at him, at his maniacal eyes that are regarding me as an equal, offering me the only thing I have ever wanted, needed. No sane person has ever spoken to me like this. So openly, honestly, knowing me.

  “Freedom,” I whisper. The flame in the lantern flickers with the word that slides over my skin and settles onto my shoulders like invincibility; armor.

  “And the girl? You’ve seen how she uses and tosses away men.”

  I think of Marcus and the bitterness he held for a year and the desperation on Jeremy’s face when he confronted me. The boys that are nothing but pawns in her hand, discarded when she is done.

  Anders holds out the light.

  I take it, and ask the only logical question still left in my spinning brain. “What do you want me to do?”

  *

  “After you,” he says.

  As we enter the tunnel, Anders stays three paces behind on the uneven path cut through the rock wall. I want to ask endless questions, like a little kid, but I keep my mouth shut.

  The light swings, despite my trying to keep it level, and our shadows wobble around us. The walk is short, three bends in the path, and we end up in a smaller cave that opens into another at the other end. I’ve seen the haphazard brick and mortar walls in the flash of Memory’s dream. Now I see that the masonry is there to hold iron rings, and the shackles hold Anders’ victims.

  Julian is fighting a set of handcuffs, his stretching fingers inches from Faye, who is bound in a huddle on the ground, both ankles in one cuff, both wrists in the other. She has blood on her hands, and a smear of it on her face. Another girl shivers against the bricks, her eyes closed. Memory stands tall, hands behind her back, face pale and furious.

  “Your friends did not pass their final test,” Anders tells me. He leans down, rubs his thumb over the blood on Faye’s cheek. She snaps her teeth at him, and he backhands her, slamming her head on the stones. Julian screams swear words.

  Tennineeightsevensixfivefourthree—

  The tiny girl opens her eyes and hisses, but she’s still. The professor stands straight, examines his thumb, coated with blood. He sniffs it, and then licks it, like he’s tasting a recipe. My feet tangle in something on the floor. I pick up a brown wool sweater with black buttons, one of Faye’s.

  A woman steps forward, dark skin, wide brows, good-looking. She takes the sweater from me, hand flashing with a yellow gem that catches the light and glows, beckoning like no other treasure I’ve had to have. I tear my eyes from it, back to her face.

  “You’re helping him.” My voice is flat.

  Mary gives me the briefest nod, moves to the girl I’ve not met. She wraps the sweater around her shoulders and rubs warmth into her arms. They have the same nose,
the same high cheekbones, same as the picture on Constance’s bulletin board. Sonja and Miriam.

  “Ethan!” Memory’s cry is a whip through my stupor, and my fingers tighten around the handle of the lantern. I set it on the ground.

  “Now that everyone is here, I think we should begin.” Anders gestures to Mary—Miriam. “Mimir, if you please.”

  She moves away from her daughter, and out into the larger cavern. She murmurs a word, waves her hand, and a thin line of blue flame runs around the cave in two perfect semicircles, ringing an eight foot hole in the floor. An endless stream of water cascades through it from above, stray droplets popping into steam when they hit the blaze.

  My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I stare at the woman who drives a beat up Nissan, keeps animal crackers in a jar on her desk and has rescued me from my own screw-ups countless times. She just ignited a fire with her voice.

  Faye begins to chant, a high pitched whisper of odd syllables.

  “None of that,” Anders snaps. She says something more that has him raising his fist. “As disrespectful out of class as in it, Miss Jarvi?”

  “Faye, stop,” Julian begs, the look on his face pure anguish. Memory stares at me, tears sliding down her face. I look away.

  “She is no use to you damaged, Yvengvr,” Mary says, in the pleasant tone she uses in the courtroom. Has she been manipulating me this whole time? Am I her pawn in all this psychotic mess? “Sonja,” she says, pushing the girl’s hair back from her eyes, “I need the runes. The bracelet? Where is it?”

  “I don’t have it, Mama.”

  Behind Anders’ back, Memory goes still. She has the bracelet, I can see each rune flick through her mind, as if I were holding my camera and seeing through her eyes. She has them all but one. The one in my pocket.

  “Which runes?” Anders asks Mary.

  “Their naming stones. I sent them to her for safekeeping. I need them.”

  “You need their pet tags?” His bark of laughter echoes up into the dark. “If found, please return to Asgard?”

  “Their blood has been diluted for centuries, Yvengvr. Those runes were made by their creator himself. If you want the fullest restoration of their power, I suggest using every tool available.” She turns to Sonja. “Where is the bracelet, honey?”