Iduna's Apples (Valhalla Book 2)

by Jennifer Willis

Squaring his shoulders, Heimdall pivoted to stand in front of his brother. “When’s the last time you took on a Frost Giant?”

  “Took him on? Is that what you did?” Thor shot back. “From what Maggie said, you went down like a sack of wet noodles.”

  Saga continued as though neither of her brothers had spoken up. “—stole all the apples, kidnapped Maggie . . . That whole thing with the mock wedding, though, I think he likes that part.”

  Thor puffed out his chest and smiled at Heimdall.

  “You saved the dress, then?” Freyr asked as he joined the group. Thor’s ribcage deflated and he turned away, growling.

  “And then the Køjer Devils,” Saga said. “He’s furious about them getting out. Not too crazy about this kind of peace treaty we have with the Frost Giants, either.”

  “But what you’re telling me,” Heimdall replied, “is that the shipment of apples reached the Lodge safely and that Odin is back to good health.”

  “Yeah,” Saga said with an exasperated sigh. “That, too. Mostly, I think he’s just mad that he missed all the fun.”

  “Fun,” Heimdall shook his head and looked at the ground.

  “You know what I mean,” Saga replied. She rested a hand on Heimdall’s elbow. “They’re glad to know you’re all right, and that Maggie’s safe. They want us to come home.”

  “Yeah.” Heimdall grew quiet and looked off toward the far side of the grove.

  Thor sighed. Keeping Heimdall from falling into melancholy was looking like it was going to be a full-time job. Thor stepped up beside his brother and rested a meaty hand on his shoulder.

  “Before we go, you want to pay Valthrudnir back for that blow to your head?” Thor asked. He gestured toward Freyr. “We can sneak up behind him and hold his arms while you deck him. If you want.”

  Heimdall laughed and clapped Thor on the back.

  Maggie stopped just inside the threshold of the stone cottage and let the cool, damp air fill her lungs. She glanced quickly around the single room that filled the entire floor plan. She surveyed the long, wooden table that had been Iduna’s main work surface, the stone hearth that was positioned dead center on the wall to her left, the window tables full of tiny glass bottles and small potted seedlings, and the tall shelves stacked with decaying grimoires, dusty notebooks, and every gardening tool imaginable.

  She looked around for a wardrobe or closet overflowing with silks and tiaras. Instead, Maggie sighed when she glanced to the far corner and spotted the narrow, neatly made cot covered by a handmade quilt.

  “For all of your bluster, Iduna, you were earnest and humble at your core.”

  Maggie stepped into the center of the room. She felt simultaneously like an interloper in someone else’s sacred space, and like the mistress of this living workshop.

  Memories that were not her own told her the history of each of the stones in these walls, and every step involved in cultivating the ancient herbs that sat in the decorative planters that crowded every windowsill.

  There were cures here for infection, analgesics for fevers and menstrual cramps, relief for allergic congestion, and support for the body’s immune system. There were also herbs for shamanic visions and trance states, poisons that were deadly to humans and immortals alike, antidotes to some of those toxins, and some herbs that simply would make a good tea.

  “It’s yours now.”

  Maggie turned to find Freya standing in the open doorway.

  “I can stay, to help you get the grove started again,” Freya offered. “You’ve probably figured out this isn’t what the grove normally looks like. The trees here are eternally green, save for one day—”

  “One day every four hundred years, just after the harvest,” Maggie said. She crossed the floor to one of the bookcases and ran her fingers lightly over a row of neatly shelved journals bound in leather. “On that single day of winter, the leaves fall in silence to the ground, where they dissolve as fertilizer into the soil to nourish and sustain the trees’ roots. The next sunrise finds new leaf buds on the branches. I know.”

  “Okay, then.” Freya hovered the doorway, watching Maggie. “It’s in everyone’s best interests to restore the grove, so whatever I can do . . .”

  “The gods and giants were mere mortals when they first came to this grove,” Maggie replied absently. “And so should you—we—be again, without the apples.”

  Maggie’s fingers settled on a thick volume of yellowed pages, and she pulled it from the shelf. She opened the book and smiled as she flipped through Iduna’s handwritten notes.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ve got it under control,” Maggie said.

  Freya stepped cautiously into the room. “Are you sure? There’s an awful lot to be done.”

  Maggie looked up and was startled when Freya stopped in her tracks. Maggie used to marvel at Freya’s self-possessed grace and quiet strength. And now Freya hesitated before her—Maggie, former paralegal, now Goddess of the Grove.

  “You know I didn’t know what Iduna was going to do.” Maggie closed the journal and held it against her chest. “I didn’t even know such a thing was possible. And before that, with the apples . . .” Maggie shrugged. “I just ate what they brought to me. I was hungry.”

  Freya’s face softened as her shoulders relaxed. “I know.”

  Maggie shifted her weight and rested the heavy volume on one hip. “It’s going to be an adjustment, trying to navigate through all of the, well, the immortality stuff.”

  Freya nodded. “Your role here is equally as important as guarding the Yggdrasil.”

  There is more work than you know. Maggie hoped it wouldn’t take too long for Freya and the others to learn to relax in her presence. In the meantime, Maggie had plenty to keep herself occupied. She walked over to a collection of small pots on a table below one window and gently stroked the pale green leaves of an apple tree seedling.

  Maggie gripped the wooden chest’s leather handle with both hands, with Freya lifting from the other side. They carried the heavy load through the trees back toward the clearing. They’d loaded the chest with a good portion of Iduna’s journals and most of the tender seedlings as well. There was still a good bit more to pack up.

  Raised voices reached them from the clearing ahead, and Maggie nearly laughed out loud when she caught sight of all of the posturing and finger-pointing.

  “I’m telling you, they’d dominate the NBA.” Thor stood between his kin and the trio of Frost Giants, who looked confused indeed.

  “They’re taller than Yao Ming,” Thor continued, gesturing toward Valthrudnir with one hand and planting the other fist on his hip. “There’d be no stopping them. Any team would be happy to take them.”

  “Except they’ve never heard of basketball,” Freyr complained. “And I don’t think the league would take too well to having opposing players pounded and stomped whenever they went for a rebound.”

  “Basket, ball?” Thiassen asked with raised eyebrows. “This is some kind of athletic contest you are discussing?”

  “Yes,” Thor replied with only mild exasperation. “You’d have a definite height advantage, and you could make some decent money. Come to Portland and try out for the Blazers. See how you like it.”

  Thrym stepped forward and rested a hand on Thor’s shoulder. “It pleases me that you would concern yourself with our prospects, but we have more immediate matters to resolve, such as the continued survival of our kind.”

  Thrym smiled at Saga, but she quickly ducked behind Freyr. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  “I’d think you’d want to stay,” Freyr offered. “You know, work some of the Frost Giants’ lore into Æsir history.”

  Saga shook her head. “And risk being taken as a wife? No thank you.”

  Thrym appeared beside Saga, with Valthrudnir and Thiassen behind him. “You would be in no such danger, I assure you,” he said with a gallant tip of the head. “That failed strategy does not warrant repetition.”

  “Good
to know,” Freya announced as she and Maggie lowered the heavy chest to the ground.

  Heimdall sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “With apologies to Sally—because I know you’re going to hate this idea . . .” He looked from Sally to Thrym. “You should stay here, in Norway. We need someone to keep an eye on this oil reserve, to make sure there aren’t any errant devils running about. You might even develop it. Tap the reserve and build some financial security for yourselves.”

  “Are you out of your mind?!” Sally launched herself forward to stand in front of Heimdall. “You, the forest ranger, the protector of the Yggdrasil, guardian of all of nature—"

  “Actually, that last part falls to me,” Freyr cut in.

  “Whatever,” Sally dismissed him with a curt wave of her hand and glared up at Heimdall. “You’re honestly suggesting that these guys start drilling for oil? What about Deepwater Horizon in the Gulf of Mexico? What about the impact on the local marine life, when they go out into the Norwegian Sea with their massive rigs and drilling equipment—”

  Heimdall pulled Sally aside and lowered his voice. “It would give them something to do, all right?”

  “I can think of better things you all could go do,” Sally muttered.

  “What was that?” Heimdall grasped Sally’s shoulders and made her look at him.

  “Nothing.” Sally shrugged out of his hold and moved back toward the group gathered in the clearing.

  “Spending some time in the modern world might also give you a better appreciation for human beings,” Freya was telling the Frost Giants. “They’re not so unlike us. You might eventually befriend a few of them. Maybe even find yourselves some willing brides.”

  Sally caught Thiassen looking at her with a skeptical frown. She threw her hands in the air. “Not even!” She stomped away from the group and leaned up against the nearest tree, its blackened bark standing in sharp contrast to the rich green moss underfoot.

  “I just want to go back to Portland and have things go back to normal,” Sally sighed. “Or whatever passes for normal anymore.”

  Maggie moved toward Heimdall and gestured for him to follow. Once they were a few trees deep into the grove, Maggie turned to him and smiled.

  “I know this isn’t the vacation you signed up for,” Heimdall began with a nervous laugh, then he took her hands into both of his. “I can come back here, to visit you. Whenever you’d like. Whenever my other duties will allow it,” he said.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Heimdall’s heart caught in his throat. He lifted his eyes to meet Maggie’s and was surprised to find her smiling.

  “This isn’t my grove.” Maggie looked around at the damaged trees. “I’m packing up Iduna’s things, and I’ll start again. Oregon is a wonderful place for an apple orchard.”

  Freya was handing Thrym her business card when Heimdall and Maggie emerged from the trees.

  Maggie held tight to Heimdall’s hand. She didn’t trust her emotions in this charged place and with the new magick dancing over her skin.

  She glanced at Heimdall and saw a glimmer of trepidation in his eyes.

  “This is how to reach me,” Freya explained to Thrym as he bent over her. “It’s my number at the Raven Dojo, and I’ve written my personal number on the back. If you have any trouble, you know, adjusting to things, just give me a call. I’ll help if I can.”

  Thrym bowed his head as he accepted the card, then frowned at it as he turned it over in his large hands.

  Heimdall and Freyr picked up the wooden chest and led the procession out of the grove. Freya followed immediately behind with Maggie and Sally on either side.

  “Hey,” Thor interjected. “Can I call that number, too, when Frigga goes after me with her broom after she gets the bill for the torn up rental house and the shredded Vanagons?”

  He started to laugh, then got a sharp elbow in the ribs from Saga.

  “That’s nothing compared to the hell you’ll get from me if you mess up with Bonnie,” Saga scowled. “I like my job. And having my clueless brother date my boss is not my idea of a comfortable work environment.”

  “It will be fine, I promise,” Thor replied. He broke into a quirky smile. “She likes me.”

  Saga looked up at him and shrugged. “I hope you’re right.”

  “It’ll be great,” Thor continued. “Bonnie and I can go out on double-dates with Heimdall and Maggie, like maybe wine tasting or fondue—”

  “Yeah, that’s enough now,” Saga cut him off.

  Thrym kept studying the card as he and his kin followed behind Thor. He looked ahead at Freya. “Five zero three!” he called out. “Five five! Five zero one! Nine! Six!” He waited, but Freya didn’t turn around. “How does this incantation work?!”

  “You’ll figure it out.” Loki brought up the rear. He paused to watch the retreating Frost Giants, then took a last look around at Iduna’s destroyed grove.

  “A world of new beginnings,” he whispered to the trees, then listened for a response. A light breeze stirred the hair on his neck. Loki smiled, and then walked on.

  Wait!

  Before you go . . .

  I hope you enjoyed reading this book, and that you will continue with the Valhalla series. If you have a few minutes, would you mind posting a review on your favorite retailer website (e.g., Amazon, Kobo) or reader channel (e.g., Goodreads)?

  Thanks for helping to spread the word to other readers who might enjoy this book, too, and for helping to support me as an author.

  In the meantime, turn the page for a preview of The Black Pool, volume 3 in the Valhalla series.

  PREVIEW

  The Black Pool (Valhalla, volume 3)

  Sally followed her flatmate, Clare, up the stone steps of the Henry Doyle Hotel and past the double glass doors into the lobby.

  Clare was in a hurry to get to Dublin’s weekly Magickal Marketplace.

  “. . . So then really it’s just a matter of holding that intention in your mind while you touch the flame to the candle wick and to the stick of incense, all in the same breath.”

  Sally had always thought of Southerners as speaking slowly, drawing out each syllable in a languid drawl, but Clare’s Texas twang came in a rapid-fire stream. “I just feel so stupid that I didn’t think of that on my own,” Clare sighed. “You know?”

  “Mmm,” Sally replied, without conviction. She glanced around the entryway of the Henry Doyle.

  The building had seen better days but was still functional. Stained marble floors had been covered with thin Oriental carpets, and a brightly lit crystal chandelier tinkled overhead as pedestrian traffic flowed through the lobby.

  “It’s this way.” Clare grabbed Sally by the elbow of her jacket and pulled her deeper into the hotel. They dodged the rolling suitcases and wandering toddlers of international tourists and weekend travelers who were just arriving and waiting to check in.

  They descended a half-flight of stairs at the back of the long lobby and then crossed the worn carpet of a narrow hallway into a low-ceilinged ballroom thronging with buyers and vendors. Brightly colored booths festooned with banners and broomsticks were organized into long rows along the walls and down the center of the room. Sally wrinkled her nose at the mind-numbing mingling of different incenses and essential oils by the dozens, and she grimaced at the discordant sound of so many New Age tracks playing at once. Stepping down into the close space, she looked around for vents and wondered if the air circulation had shut down.

  Clare pushed past several booths offering jewel-toned silks decorated with gold and silver stars, ankhs, and cats, and a table where a vendor displayed soapstone incense burners carved to resemble various Greek, Egyptian, and Hindu deities.

  Sally had no interest in rubbing elbows with more of Dublin’s Pagan population, many of whom—like Clare—seemed more interested in the outward appearance of witchy-wittedness than actual practice, but Freya had been on Sally’s case about picking up a piece of Connemara marble to appease th
e local Tuatha de Danann.

  “It will help ingratiate you to the Gentle Folk,” Freya had written in her last email. Before Sally had left Portland, Freya had whispered to her in hushed tones a blurry history of the Tuatha de Danann—the Irish faeries, pixies, and other classes of supernaturals driven underground long ago by invaders and their gods.

  Sally meant to ask Freya for more information, but she kept putting it off. She wondered if the bit about the marble was just an ancient superstition—after all she’d been in the country six weeks already, and nothing truly terrible had happened.

  Yet.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” Sally asked as Clare stopped to examine a ceramic burning bowl with a deep red glaze and then perused boxes of scented tea lights.

  “You’ll see,” Clare replied with a mischievous smile.

  Sally was unimpressed. She fervently hoped Clare wasn’t planning to bring any more fragrances—magickal or otherwise—into their shared apartment. Sally had already spent enough time in the library to escape the heady combinations of Clare’s herbal and incense experiments, though there hadn’t yet been a single complaint from the neighbors.

  Probably because they’ll all getting high off the stuff, Sally thought as she watched Clare sniff at a box of Nag Champa.

  “Do you have anything more authentic?” Clare asked the woman in the overdone gypsy costume behind the table. The vendor adjusted her beaded headscarf and frowned in response.

  “You know. Something more Celtic? More Irish?” Clare added.

  “Would you be after something that smells like Guinness, perhaps?” The woman flashed a gold-toothed smile.

  Clare shook her head. “No, not really that so much. I want something that smells more like, well, more like it comes from the land, you know?”

  The woman thought for a moment, then nodded. “Ah, you’d be wanting a bit of turf, then.” The ersatz gypsy bent down behind her table of candles and incense sticks and rummaged through several plastic bins.