I teleported outside, grabbed him by his cloak, and transported him to the rooftop where Freyja had sacrificed her ambrosia heart to save Raphael. He fought me away, but he couldn’t rival the strength imbued by the Gatekeeper. I held him over the crenellations. ‘It’s a long drop,’ I said, ‘let’s see if Aten’s rays reach the ground.’
Then I threw him off the turret, the voices of my ancestors cheering in my head. I didn’t see him hit the ground, but I sensed the impact. ‘That’s for Father,’ I whispered. ‘And Laus’s nainai.’
16
Halls of the Slain
The strangest part about being dead, Espen thought, while admiring the endless rolling hills, is that it’s hardly any different. Sure, he could float, but he had been a warlock and a Gatekeeper in Midgard, so…
And Isobel. Finally, he could hold her again. That alone was worth the price of throwing himself into the waiting arms of Ægir.
As far as he could tell, the ‘afterlife’ was a kind of half-realm, the vein that threaded along Yggdrasil’s branches, between the mental plane of dreams and reality, allowing some access to both.
Espen squinted – an old but unnecessary habit – as Thor came running up from the flowering meadow, dislodging spores as he went. The gods, apparently, didn’t have a problem travelling through any part of Yggdrasil.
‘Have you heard the news?’ Thor shouted, joining Espen.
Espen nodded.
‘And I suppose you’re trying to figure out how to overcome the limitations of being dead so you can find a way to help your son?’ Thor laughed, but it lacked mirth. ‘I’ve had children too, remember? How many great-greats is it again, Sønnesønn?’
‘I can’t seem to interact with the other realms very well.’
‘It’s harder the lower down Yggdrasil you go. Energy is denser. As are the people.’
Espen smiled. Even in a time of crisis Thor couldn’t help but crack a joke. ‘Unless you’re being escorted by a god in order to fulfil an important purpose.’ Thor winked. ‘What do you say?’
‘To what?’
‘Ah yes, your telepathy hasn’t developed yet. Freyja is no longer able to train her warriors for the final battle. My wife and I – it was her idea actually – think that there’s no one more motivated in the Nine Realms to get the fallen heroes ready to swoop in and defend the Gatekeeper.’
‘You’re wrong about that.’
Thor raised his eyebrows.
Espen turned and waved at Isobel, who had been bathing in the stream. Although by ‘bathing’ she had meant ‘trying some divination to see how Theo is’.
‘You’re forgetting his mother.’
Thor escorted Espen and Isobel to Freyja’s Hall, filled with mourners. Slain warriors, from ancient Vikings to modern soldiers, mingled with the divine grievers centred around Njord – Freyja’s father – as he bowed in front of a statue of his daughter, weeping. The sound of crying was so at odds with the sweet-scented flowers decorating the Hall and the jugs of mead strewn across every surface.
‘We’re meant to lead these men?’ Espen asked, requiring no explanation as to why Njord was far too gone to be any use to anyone, let alone oversee an army. ‘Where do we start?’
Isobel rolled her eyes. How he lost himself in those irises, green as a blade of fertile grass. ‘We start with trust,’ she said, leading him by the hand into the midst of the mourners. She tapped people on the shoulder, generous with her hugs and free with her tears. This realm wasn’t so unfamiliar to her.
Espen gravitated to a group of men in the corner, making their best attempt at getting sloshed. Their faces reflected their mental state, chins stubbly and under-eyes stained purple.
‘What’s the use anyway? I thought we had millennia to train for Ragnarök.’
‘Freyja told us that it was near.’
‘Yeah, but she’s been saying that for millennia.’
‘Did you hear that her brother’s back? Where in Odin’s name has he been? Is he in charge now?’
Espen stepped into the circle with an empty tankard, gesturing to the jug on the table. The man in a camouflage jacket filled it up for him.
‘Freyr is a lover, not a fighter,’ Espen said – the shock had yet to leave him after Thor had explained that the fertility god was none other than Raphael.
‘Great, we’ll just woo the Midgard Serpent to death.’
‘You know we’re destined to lose, right?’ the teenage lad with spiky hair said. Espen hated to think how he’d ended up in the Hall of the Slain.
The others groaned. ‘Can we stop focusing on that?’
‘Can I sit?’ Espen asked. They made room for him on the bench. ‘We’re all here because we died with courage. We all spat in the face of death.’
‘Well, I mostly sputtered,’ said the young lad. ‘But I did save a whole group of kids from a burning building.’
That answers that question.
‘What I’m saying,’ Espen began, ‘is that true courage comes from a place of defiance against impossible odds. Besides, we have a secret weapon.’
The men stared at him, a flash of excitement in their eyes. ‘What’s that?’
‘Not what, who.’ He paused, smiling, the pride swelling in his chest. ‘The Gatekeeper of the Lífkelda – my son.’
17
I Don’t Believe In…
‘I’ve had enough of death and yet I must prepare my people for war.’
Lorenzo watched Freyr playing with the water tumbling down the tiered fountain. I should sit next to him. ‘Freyr…’
‘Did you mean to murder that man?’
‘The Consul?’ Lorenzo hesitated. ‘Yes. He’s a threat.’
He threatened you.
Freyr shook the water from his fingers. ‘Midgardians are quick to assume death the only viable solution. We had an opportunity to interrogate our enemy’s closest confidant, but then you loosed your arrow.’
Lorenzo folded his arms. ‘I seem to recall the Consul recovered quite nicely. I didn’t kill him, so why are you blaming me? Besides, any intel would’ve been fake, you know it.’
‘Ava could have—’
‘No, Freyr. No way Theo—’
‘She does what she likes,’ Freyr said.
‘And the Consul is no idiot. Why would he attend the War Council without psychic protection? Some eggs have just got to be cracked.’
‘Akhen might say the same about his treatment of my sister.’
Lorenzo recoiled. ‘Don’t you dare compare me to him. I was trying to protect the Nine Realms!’
‘You were trying to protect your ego,’ Freyr said, ‘because he insulted me, and therefore you.’
Lorenzo stomped towards him. ‘Sure, I’ll admit to being a little selfish not wanting to let the Consul live to implement his threats, to hurt…’ But Freyr wasn’t listening. To hurt the one I love. Even if he no longer loves me. ‘Forget it, believe what you want. But if you have a problem, take it up with the actual killer.’
Freyr gazed into the fountain. ‘I haven’t the heart to argue anymore, Lorenzo. Leave me. I need to grieve with those who loved Freyja as much as I did. My father, Njord, must have heard of my return. Tonight, we’ll mourn together.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘In the Halls of the Slain.’
‘Let me come with you, Freyr. You can lean on me.’
‘Dark Elf, I do not want your company while I shed tears for Freyja. I do not want to look upon you and see night and death, when she was the opposite.’
‘I should stay here, with my own kind, right? Are you ashamed of presenting me to your father?’ Lorenzo paced around the fountain, its flowing song growing more violent in his ears by the second. Once he completed his circuit, Freyr had half melted into the air. ‘I’m sorry, am I being too loud for you, Your Majesty?’
‘Some things aren’t about you, vampire.’ His voice travelled as if from a distance. ’You should understand, Lorenzo, that sometimes only the blood y
ou share with another can bring you peace.’
Lorenzo let his sprite fade away. Freyr was stubborn. Too stubborn and absorbed in his own pain to realise he was denying Lorenzo the peace he spoke of, the peace he needed.
Lorenzo whispered his desires to the atoms that Freyr slipped through. Things he daren’t say since Raphael had changed his mask for a god’s. ‘Come back to me, sprite. Please don’t stop believing in me.’
He shoved his hands in his pockets, imagining Freyr denouncing his belief in vampires – in Lorenzo – picturing him turning to stone or dust, a forgotten Tinker Bell with fangs.
18
Your Mission, if you Choose…
But Loki was clever and devised a plan,
Seeking help from his serpent-child,
He unlinked his chains and set his track,
Heading for Egypt upon its back,
To drown Aten’s Pharaoh in the Nile.
—Hel’s Lament, Stanza Three
As the earthquake rippled through Helheim, Loki and Hel danced and drank, their dead in-betweeners filling the ballroom, monstrous, rhythmless marionettes set to Eggther’s harp. Rosalia and Menelaus were paired between Hades – a puppet of Loki in his own right – and Persephone, forced to lead and follow, catching and leaping against their will. Menelaus had never felt so far from life, and the idea he’d once been a Guardian and a professor seemed nothing but fantasy.
As Persephone winked at him, as she tossed her head this way and that, as she whispered nothing but riddles in his ear, he caught flashes – a swish of red, a glimpse of pink, a strand of purple.
Ava. If only he could escape the grimy dance floor, if only he could break free of Persephone and shove past the frozen-faced dancers, perhaps he could pin that rainbow-haired girl in one place at last. Was she here? How? Was his mind deteriorating already?
Thirst. Blood – always near, rarely fresh. Where was Loki getting his supply and why did the god drink it? Perhaps if he could find his source, if he could supplement his own ration, his weary muscles would mend and this glue between his thoughts would slacken.
At last, Hades took his wife and led her away. Rosalia was standing alone on the dance floor. Menelaus dodged the spinning bodies and guided his sister to the edge of the hall, although he almost lost balance as the floor shook again. ‘I need blood,’ he said. ‘Where does Loki keep it?’
‘In his chambers.’
’Take me there.’
‘If he catches us—’
‘He needs me, remember? To play his little game with Theo. There’s so many…people…in this room, no one will notice we’re missing.’
Rosalia stepped back to the wall, brushing her hands against the stone. Something clicked – a hidden door. ‘Five minutes,’ she whispered. They slipped into the passageway and followed the tunnels into the bowels of Hel.
Loki’s chambers spread across an entire floor, a long window exposing the waters of the fire-lake. ‘Someone likes open-plan living,’ Menelaus said.
Rosalia wasted no time. Her long dress rustled against the stone as she approached a gilded cabinet opposite Loki’s enormous bed.
Menelaus. Menelaus!
The hairs on his neck prickled. ‘Ava?’
Turn around!
Menelaus slowly looked over his shoulder. He hooked his finger around the tapestry on the wall and pulled it aside. Ava appeared in the floor-to-ceiling mirror it had been concealing, alone in the inky blackness. ‘Ava!’
‘Menelaus! Are you alright?’
‘How are you here?’ he asked, avoiding her question. How could he tell that girl he was rotting from the inside, that whatever had preserved Rosalia for these centuries was not working for his vampire half?
‘Long story. Menelaus, I’m not sure how long this connection will hold so I’m going to tell you quickly. You’re not in Hel by accident. It’s fate. You’re the only one who can help us.’
‘Huh?’
‘Any earthquakes recently?’
Rosalia tapped him on the shoulder with a pitcher of blood. He snatched it from her and downed it all, wiping the residue from his mouth. ‘Sorry, yes. Ava, my sister, Rosalia. Rosalia, Ava.’
‘Oh, hi,’ Ava said.
‘Hello. My brother speaks of you often.’
Ava blushed. ‘He’s on my mind a lot too,’ she said. ‘Menelaus, Akhen killed Freyja.’
‘Wh—’
‘That’s not the half of it. He also destroyed the amulet, and well, that sort of killed Raphael, but it didn’t because it turns out he’s actually Freyr. The god.’
‘I—’
‘And Aurelia – the Fae Queen – figured out what we need to do. It’s complicated, but we think Akhen intends to use his bond with Aten to steal Surt’s flaming sword, Brann, from Muspelheim. Plus, Surt is destined to kill Freyr at Ragnarök. But his realm is so hot that anyone living who enters will die. We need that sword, Menelaus. The portals to the lower realms are blocked by Loki, and Theo has to find Istapp, Freyr’s lost sword.’ Her chest expanded as she drew breath. ‘Only you can retrieve it for us.’
Her image faded from the mirror. He touched the surface, unable to convince himself she had really been there. It was only when Rosalia gripped his arm, her expression both horrified and excited, that he accepted what had happened. He glanced at the empty pitcher she had clutched to her breast. ‘I’m going to need more of that blood.’
By the time Menelaus and Rosalia made it back to the dance, Loki, Hel, Persephone, and Hades had extended the party to the roof. One of the dead dancers directed them, pointing a bony finger at the staircase at the other end of the hall.
They tagged onto the tail end of the pairs Noah’s Ark-ing it up to the roof. Torches the size of bonfires blazed in the corners, hurting Menelaus’s vision as he stepped outside.
He almost missed the beast – a bird actually, one that dwarfed Loki – stretching its wings in the middle of the terrace. It snapped at Loki as he tried to touch it.
‘What the hell is that?’ Menelaus asked, nudging his sister.
‘It’s not good,’ Rosalia said, rubbing her arms, ‘it’s a Craven.’ She pulled him to one side as more bodies piled onto the rooftop. ‘I’ve seen a picture of it in Loki’s library. The Crying Ravens.’
‘The Crying Ravens? There’s more than one of them?’
‘Odin’s ravens. There are two. They circle the Nine Realms every day, meet together in Midgard, and fly over Heimdall’s head to report back to Odin in Asgard. The female flies the realms of light. This is her mate – the Raven of Darkness. I have seen him before, wheeling in the sky. But not like this.’
‘What do you mean?’
She didn’t have to answer. Loki was whooping with laughter, dodging the Craven’s beak. He managed to touch the edge of the Craven’s steely wing tips – it drew blood from Loki’s hand. The Craven shrieked, releasing a bomb of searing fury from its chest. Menelaus clamped his hands over his ears. So that was how they’d earned their nickname.
Loki licked away the blood. ‘Odin’s wise ravens herald the End of All Things! His ravens cry for war!’
Hades and Persephone – arm-in-arm – met his proclamation with nervous twitches. Perhaps they weren’t so hellbent on entropy and annihilation as the God of Chaos and his daughter were.
Perhaps he could convince them to help him escape.
It was Loki who was trying to escape right now. He made three attempts at mounting the Craven. ‘Come, beast, fly me to Midgard!’ It tossed the god from its back, screaming again.
‘Why is it here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rosalia said, shuddering. ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the words the mirror-girl spoke.’
Of course, Menelaus thought, Freyja’s murder. What better way to ignite war?
‘Rosalia,’ he whispered, ‘come with me to the catacombs. My men want a chance to enter the Chambers of Justice – we’re going to give it to them.’
‘Why?’
‘Just tru
st me. We’re getting out of here tonight.’
‘Do you really think this is necessary, sir?’ The man missing half his face swirled his sword in his hand. ‘I thought I was done fighting now that I’m dead.’
‘Here, here!’ An older voice, from the back of the catacombs. ‘What do we have to fight for, now the chalice of life is empty?’
Rosalia stepped forward. ‘A chance at paradise,’ she said, unperturbed by the gruesome crew Menelaus had assembled, after convincing her a distraction was the only chance they had to escape; his invisibility wouldn’t work in Helheim. He’d learned that the hard way, after Malachi had lured him to Priddy Circles – where Midgard met Hel – and besides, he’d checked several times since arriving in this godforsaken nightmare.
‘And what if we go to…you know…the bad place?’
‘Tartarus is unpleasant but the fact you weren’t sent straight there is a good sign. The judges will look kindly on the penance you have paid by serving in Loki’s army. Your bodies will be restored, and you shall find a place and community in the outer rings. Hades isn’t the terrible tyrant he pretends to be.’
God, she almost made it sound nice.
A woman – who went by the name of Charlie – sighed in the shadows. ‘I for one ’aint fighting for that ’oki bastard again. I fight for myself.’
‘Well, Charlie has spoken.’ The old man limped out of the shadows, using a bone from the catacombs as a walking stick. He patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’m not ready to give up the ghost until we give ’em Hel.’
19
Hvergelmir
‘Loki, would you just stop with that?’ Persephone finished the dregs of her wine. It tasted like soil. And she knew what soil tasted like. It changed every time she was allowed another trip to Midgard, alerting her to the passage of the years, but she didn’t want to drink it.
Wrath of Aten Page 8
