by M. D. Massey
About that time, the two naked ladies we’d seen earlier came strolling into the game room. They’d gotten dressed—mostly—but had yet to clean up or put their faces on, and frankly they were looking a bit haggard.
“Loki, we’re hungry,” the Moroccan girl said.
“And we smelled snacks,” echoed the other.
“Human snacks,” her friend added.
Both of them were looking at me like fat old ladies eyeing the desert cart at Luby’s. That’s when the smell hit me—that combination of graveyard dirt, dried blood, and the mild yet pungent odor of desiccated human flesh.
“Oh, hell no,” I said, leaping to my feet.
“Oh, hell yes,” they said in unison as they leapt across the room at me.
In that moment, several things happened at once.
First, I raised my hand and released my sunlight spell, one of the few spells I kept on instacast. I was in my full human form, so there was no way I could fight off a coordinated attack from two higher vampires. That meant I had to unleash the big guns on them, before they ripped my throat out.
Second, Loki grabbed the Moroccan girl by the waist as she zoomed by his side of the table. I’d rarely seen anyone move that fast. These girls were probably a few hundred years old, which meant they were faster than me in my stealth-shifted form. So, for Loki to snatch that girl out of the air like that—it was damned impressive.
Third, Click snapped his fingers, freezing the black chick and my spell in midair. I remained unaffected, but the burst of light that emanated from my hand had been caught in his stasis spell. It hung in the air in front of me, a white blob of brilliant energy that looked a bit like the floof from the inside of a Twinkie.
Since light moves at around 300,000,000 meters per second, there was no way Click could snap his fingers in time to freeze my spell. Meaning, he had to have either foreseen what would happen, or he’d experienced it and then went back in time several seconds to stop it from happening.
“Don’t try to wrap your head around it, kid,” Loki said as the female vampire fell limp within his grasp. “I’ve known this dude for ages, and trust me, you’ll get nowhere trying to figure time magic out.”
“Click, you told Loki you’re a chronomancer? I thought the gods would flip out if they knew what you could do.”
“They know what I can do,” Click replied. “It’s gettin’ caught in the act o’ doin’ the forbidden that’d put ma’ arse in a sling.”
“And you don’t care?” I asked, directing my question to Loki.
“Nope,” Loki interjected. “Tricksters have a code.”
He looked at me with expectation in his eyes, almost daring me to ask him to expand on that statement. I ignored the challenge, knowing better than to invite disaster by stepping into such an obvious trap. Someday I’d find out what that mysterious code was, but not by outright asking one of these jokers to tell me.
The Norse trickster chuckled. “Fine, be that way. Kid, why don’t you suck that magical energy back in before you kill a Vampyri Council member’s daughter, yeah? Last thing you need is to stir up trouble with those asshats.”
Click stood. “Time fer us ta’ go, methinks.”
“Shame, I was enjoying the company,” Loki replied. “Look, I’ll cast an augury and get back to you within a day or two. Then, we’ll see about getting you fellas to Jötunheimr, alright?”
“What about them?” I asked, pointing at the female vamps.
“Man, most chicks are usually out for days after a romp with the Lokester, but I guess these two had a little more fire in them than I thought. Don’t worry, I’ll spell them up real good so they don’t remember a thing. Go get some rest. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”
9
As soon as we exited Loki’s front door, Click turned and poked me in the chest, his eyes blazing. “Have ya’ some kind o’ death wish, lad? What the hell were ya’ thinkin’ threatening a god like that, an’ in his own lair, no less? Even in his diminished state, yer’ no match fer’ the likes o’ him at this juncture.”
I’d rarely seen the pseudo-god get angry. Even when he’d been ready to throw down with Hideie, he maintained a certain levity in his actions and demeanor. But in this moment, all evidence of the lighthearted, good-natured fool was gone, replaced by a deadly serious, barely contained fury that ran quite contrary to the laid-back Click I knew.
“You’re right, it’s just—”
“Jest nothin’! It’s too late in the game fer’ ya’ ta’ throw it all away by actin’ the fool around a god. An’ ye’d best thank yer’ lucky stars that Loki took a shine ta’ ya’, else ye’d be a wet red stain on his fancy marble floor ’bout now.”
“‘Late in the game,’ Click? I didn’t realize we were running a game—I thought we were just trying to survive long enough to save Finnegas. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
His eyes narrowed, then he thumped me with a lightning-fast finger flick, right between the eyes.
“Ow!” I said, rubbing my forehead. “What did you do that for?”
“Fer’ bein’ an idjit, that’s why. Of all people, ya’ should know that there’s always somethin’ immortals aren’t tellin’ ya’—always! There’s always a game afoot, always some dark plan at work, always an ulterior motive. An’ until ya’ start thinkin’ like one o’ us, yer’ forever doomed ta’ be a pawn in the plans o’ yer’ betters.”
“Okay, okay. I guess I’m just not the kind to sneak around or hide my intentions. I’ve always preferred the straightforward approach.”
Click laughed humorlessly as he scratched the tip of his nose with his thumb. “Ah, but yer’ capable o’ trickery, lad, and some might even say ye’ve a knack fer’ it. Let’s recount all the fookers ye’ve outsmarted thus far,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “The Fear Doirich, twice—nay, thrice. Sonny an’ his merry band o’ feldgeisters. Maeve, a faery queen and goddess in her own right. That right prick Gunnarson. La Onza. Cade Valison. Diarmuid. Tethra. Fer’ shite’s sakes, feckin’ Lugh. Shall I go on?”
“Aw, hell—I was just lucky, Click. I mean, seriously, I only survived most of those encounters by the skin of my teeth.”
“Is that so?” Click said, tapping a finger on his chin. “Ya’ know what they say, lad. Once is luck, twice is coincidence, an’ three times is skill… or in yer’ case, guile an’ talent. An’ I’d hate ta’ see it wasted jest because ya’ couldn’t control yer’ temper around a god.”
I pursed my lips, nodding in agreement. “It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t.” He snapped his fingers and a portal appeared behind him. “Now, I’m off. I’ve things ta’ do afore Loki gets back ta’ us. Stick close, find someplace ta’ stay in the city, an’ wait fer’ his response.”
“Can’t you just drop me off at the Oak?” I said, in a tone of voice just short of a whine.
Click gave me a put-upon look. “I get that yer’ tryin’ ta’ steal time, an’ believe me, I understand yer’ position more than most. But ya’ can’t cheat time forever, and ofttimes ya’ just have ta’ let it run its course. Find someplace ta’ stay fer’ the night an’ wait fer’ Loki’s message.”
“Um,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Loki’s couch. “Can’t I just stay here?”
“Have ya’ not been listenin’? Even if he invited ya’, it’d be a bad idea. Fer’ one, it’s a god’s home, an’ not what it seems ta’ be no matter how mundane it might appear. Second, he’s a trickster. An’ third, he’s a womanizing drunk. Ye’d never get any sleep, ’cause he’d have ya’ up chasing skirt an’ drinkin’ till the wee hours, an’ then he’d never get around ta’ castin’ his augury. An’ ya’ might wake up a goat, or married ta’ a frost giantess, or some other horrible an’ horribly funny fate that neither o’ us has yet considered. Much as that might amuse me, not on yer’ life.”
I scratched the back of my head, exhaling slowly. “Fine. But don’t expect me to stay out of tr
ouble.”
He chuckled as he stepped backward through his portal. “Wouldn’t dream o’ it.”
The portal winked out, and I realized I was left stranded in a part of Reykjavik that was completely unfamiliar, at night, with no idea where to go to find a place to stay. I was hungry, tired, and wound up from my conversation with Click. To top it all off, it was colder than a witch’s tit in a cast-iron bra, and the huldufólk had probably already sent more assassins after me.
“Well, fuck.”
With a frustrated sigh, I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets and headed toward a bright cluster of lights down the road.
Since I was mostly operating on instinct—I’d given up mobile phone use for fear of being tracked by the Celtic gods—it was a matter of walking until my feet bled, or until I found a place of respite. After an hour or so, I found Route 40, a major north-south thoroughfare for greater Reykjavik. With no better options, I figured I’d follow it until I found a bar or hotel.
By the time I came to a footbridge that crossed to the east side of the highway, my feet weren’t bleeding, but they were in danger of being frostbitten. Several blocks back, a local had told me of a bar just a few hundred meters north on the other side of the road, and that was my destination. I’d almost reached the apex of the bridge when an eight-foot-tall, hairy, somewhat simian-looking creature clambered over the safety rail. He landed heavily in the center of the path before adopting a wide-footed stance that blocked my way forward.
Great.
The beast looked as broad through the shoulders as it was tall, with a thick, muscular upper body and neck and spindly, almost comically thin legs. It wore a hodgepodge of tattered and rudely mended clothing, including a too-small pair of mustard-colored corduroys, a ratty Fræbbblarnir t-shirt, and a military-style wool overcoat that fit so tight, the sleeves made its arms look like malformed sausages.
Damn, he kind of reminds of Elmo.
For grins, I checked the creature out in the magical spectrum. Interestingly, the beast had a glamour on it that would’ve made it very hard to see with mortal eyes. Why I was able to see it, I hadn’t a clue. I also had no idea what it wanted, but I was damned curious to find out. Just to be safe, I slipped a hand inside my Bag, resting it on Dyrnwyn’s hilt.
“Borga vegatollinn,” it rumbled from behind the Dr. Who scarf that wrapped around its face and head. Unbelievably, it had the hat to match, although it looked to have lost its shape due to years of wear and abuse.
“Say what?” I asked.
“I said ‘pay the toll,’” the creature replied in perfect, almost accent-free, English. “You’re an American, then?”
“As apple pie. You’re a troll, then?”
“That’s what people call us now. I am of the mountain folk, and my kind are descendants of the jötnar. Or, rather, we are a mixture of human and giantkind.”
If he really was a troll, I should have smelled him a mile off. Trolls back home smelled so awful, to get near them you had to use magic to cover their scent. I took a furtive sniff, but all I smelled was stone and earth. Weird. I guess they had different trolls in Iceland.
“Hmm. No offense, but I thought trolls were supposed to be—”
“Dim-witted and unsophisticated?”
“Something like that, although I intended to be a bit more tactful.”
“That’s alright, we get it all the time. And, in truth, some of my relatives are insanely stupid. But many of us inherited our intelligence from our human ancestors.”
“Huh, you learn something new every day.” We both glanced around with forced nonchalance, avoiding the topic at hand. “So…”
The troll fiddled with a loose button on its coat. “Ah, yes, the toll. I’m terribly sorry, but it can’t be helped. For one, times are tough. And second, it’s not often that someone walks by who can actually see me. Difficult to ask for a toll when you’re functionally invisible.”
“I can see how that would make extortion a challenge,” I observed. “Have you considered scaring people into dropping their stuff? You know—purses, backpacks, and the like?”
“Oh, I gave up on those tactics ages ago. Consider this: The last time you got scared, did you drop what you were holding or hang onto it for dear life?”
I rubbed my chin with my free hand. “I hadn’t actually given it much thought. Now that I think of it, I guess people do tend to cling to whatever is in their hands when they’re startled.”
“No, I didn’t say ‘startled.’ I said ‘scared.’ If I could startle people, I might actually get them to drop their valuables. But again, I’m invisible to most humans. That means the process of frightening them is usually a slow burn. Most humans don’t believe in ghosts, so when they hear a disembodied voice, they start looking around and trying to determine the source. After a while, skepticism gives way to disbelief, and disbelief to panic. But by that time, they’re typically past my bridge.”
“This might be a dumb question—”
“There are no dumb questions,” the troll remarked drily.
“Hah, tell that to my current teacher. Anyway, why don’t you just grab their shit and run?”
“By ‘shit,’ I take it you mean their belongings?”
“Right,” I said. “Invisibility would seem to make that task a hell of a lot easier.”
“Rules,” the troll stated simply. “Huldufólk upper management won’t allow it. Outright muggings draw too much attention, they say—and don’t even ask about stealing children and livestock. Thus, we must resort to trickery or extortion.”
“Okay, but this is Iceland. It might not be on the peninsula, but it’s a Scandinavian country in all but geography.”
“Allow me to stop you there,” the troll said. “I can’t get social welfare benefits.”
“Right, you’re invisible.” I tsked in sympathy. “Wow, that’s rough.”
“Which leaves us at an impasse of sorts.”
“It does.” I thought about the situation for a second, chewing my thumbnail all the while. I might not like having a bit of fae magic running through me, but at times like this, magical intuition sure came in handy. “Okay, here’s what I propose.”
“I’m listening,” the troll said, crossing his arms over his massive chest.
“I’m headed for a bar that’s somewhere over there,” I said, pointing in a general northeasterly direction. “On principle, I can’t pay you protection money or whatever you want to call it. But I can buy you a couple of pints and a meal, if you’re interested.”
“And when the humans see food and drink floating around, how are you going to explain the poltergeist at your table?”
“Eh, don’t worry about that. We’ll find a place to sit where you won’t be noticed—bars always have back rooms and dark corner tables—and I’ll tell the waitress that I’m ordering for a friend who’s in the bathroom or something.”
The troll drummed his fingers on his arm. “Alright, so long as you don’t stab me in the back with that sword you’ve been fondling for the last several minutes.”
“You’re now my guest, so I wouldn’t dream of it. C’mon, let’s go get warm and fed.”
It turned out the troll’s name was Ásgeir. “Like the singer,” he said, “although you probably wouldn’t know him. He composes some very pleasant musical arrangements, but his voice is a bit too sharp for my tastes.”
“By the way, I don’t ‘fondle’ my sword,” I said after taking a good long draw off a dark ale. “Warriors don’t fondle their weapons.”
“So said the teenager when caught in the act,” he said with a straight face. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of—as natural an act as any.”
I nearly spat beer all over the table. “That’s what she said. Oh, wait—food’s coming.”
Our waitress was a pleasant-looking older woman with a warm smile and manners to match. Typically, Icelanders did not enjoy engaging in idle chatter. This might’ve made them seem aloof to most Americans, but I actually ap
preciated that I could avoid casual conversations via ocular aversion and feigned obliviousness.
“Your friend isn’t back from the toilet yet?” she said as she set two plates down on the table, both piled high with double cheeseburgers and triple orders of waffle fries. “I hope he isn’t ill.”
“He’s fine. As soon as he finished his pint, he had to take a phone call from work.”
She nodded sagely. “You Americans, so obsessed with your careers. Not that we aren’t ambitious, but we know how to relax.”
“And drink,” I said, taking a healthy slug off my beer. “Speaking of which, do you mind bringing us another round when you get a chance?”
“Of course,” she said, eager to take the opportunity to break off the conversation.
As soon as the waitress bustled away, leaving us alone in our deserted corner of the pub, Ásgeir dove into his food with abandon. Somehow, he managed to stuff his face and chug beer while keeping his scarf in place. I had no idea how he did it.
“We Norse may know how to drink, but your countrymen perfected the art of eating,” he said through a mouthful of waffle fries.
“Some might argue that the French hold that distinction,” I said before digging into my burger.
“Yes, French cuisine certainly ticks several gustatory boxes. But the portions are atrociously small.” He leaned in, whispering behind his hand unnecessarily. “Tell me, what’s it like drinking a Big Gulp?”
“Absolute heaven on a hot Texas day. Sixty-four ounces of sugary, syrupy goodness. Insulin injections not included.”
“Ah, I knew it,” he replied. The troll took a huge bite of his cheeseburger, downing almost half of it at once. He held his sandwich aloft, eyeing it with his beady brown eyes as if it were a prized gem. “Dairy, meat, and bread. Simply glorious.”
“Glad you approve. I’m also happy for the company.”
“I as well. It beats ripping your head off, that’s for sure.”
“Or taking a sword in the gut,” I said cheerfully.
