Kevin Hearne: Two Ravens and One Crow

I stopped chewing. “I beg your pardon? Are you suggesting some sort of indenture?”

“No. A blood price. Ragnarok is coming soon, and since you have killed or assisted in the killing of many gods who were to fight on our side, we wish you to take their place.”

I very nearly choked and needed to drink a bit to clear my throat before I could speak. “You want me to take the place of gods?”

“Not entirely by yourself. It would be helpful if you could recruit some others. You clearly have the powers of a classical hero, and your assistance would be invaluable. All that matters is defeating the forces of Hel and Muspellheim: Next to that, our vengeance is a trifling matter. Fight with us, and the blood you shed on our behalf will expiate your debt. That, and one other thing.”

“What?”

“I would appreciate the return of Gungnir.”

“Promise not to throw it at me again?”

A flicker of irritation crossed Odin’s face. “Yes.”

“Okay, sure, I’ll return it. I have no use for it. Send Hugin and Munin to visit me in Arizona three days from now. I’ll tell them where to pick it up.”

“Thank you. And Ragnarok?”

I thought about Hel and her attempt to kill me near Kayenta. I thought about the world overrun with draugar. Even people who were preparing for the zombie apocalypse would have trouble with those things. “If the shit goes down, Odin, I’m on your side.”

“Excellent. Will you fight with him, Morrigan?”

The Morrigan, like Frigg, had remained silent for much of the meal. Now she gave a thin smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss that particular battle. The Valkyries will have to suffice.”

Odin’s expression darkened. We had killed twelve of the Valkyries when we raided Asgard. I don’t know how many remained, if any. To change the subject, I said, “Can I ask what happened to Thor’s hammer?”

“Why?” Frigg asked. “Did you promise someone you’d steal it?”

The nastiness of the question surprised me. We’d been getting along so well. But I tend to react when provoked. “No,” I said. “If I had, it would already be in my possession.” Frigg seethed and Odin chuckled softly.

“You were supposed to keep my anger in check,” he said.

The fourth course was cleared away-the waiter making sure we were all okay, since the gods hadn’t touched the veal-and the fifth was laid before us. Five different well-aged cheeses were attractively presented on a white rectangular platter with crackers and fruit compote. Some were sliced in triangles, some in thin, translucent pieces. It was a superlative achievement in both geometry and dairy. The sommelier served us something from Italy; I didn’t quite catch it.

“Mjollnir rests in Gladsheim,” Odin said once the servers had retreated.

“No one wields it now?”

The Norse gods frowned as if I’d asked something particularly inane. “Like who?” Odin said.

“I was thinking maybe some other, later aspect of Thor. The one from the comics is popular right now.”

Odin scoffed. “Popular, perhaps. But he is not worshipped, and you know what that means: He can’t muster magic enough to manifest himself! He has to be played by a human actor in his own movies. He’s nothing but cheap entertainment. Surely you know this.”

I did know it, but it never hurts to let possible antagonists think they are smarter than you.

“Well, if he can’t do it, then surely some other aspect of Thor can?”

“They are all comfortable in their current situations, and none is as strong as the original. I wouldn’t want a single one of them at my back. No, Thor’s responsibility is now yours.”

“Mine? You want me to face the world serpent?”

“Or find someone else to do it, yes.”

This twist in the conversation reminded me uncomfortably of Cleopatra on the ceiling. I looked up and examined it again past the glow of the chandelier, and, while I did, the gods directed their attention to the cheeses.

The artist had taken quite a bit of license; Cleopatra reclined, leaning on her right arm, while her left hand held a snake up to her breast, inviting it to bite her. I thought the snake would have simply bitten her hand when she reached to pick it up, but that was the least of the odd choices the artist had made. For some reason, he had decided to give Cleopatra European features and provide her with a Rubenesque figure; my archdruid would have described her as “festively plump.” She also appeared to be dressed in Greek style rather than anything Egyptian. Though still quite beautiful as a work of art, the inaccuracy bizarrely exposed what I think is the true tragedy of Cleopatra: No one really understood her or her decision. But maybe some could empathize with the feeling of being trapped by circumstances. I certainly could.

“I can’t agree specifically to a cage match with Jormungandr,” I said, “but I will fight on your side against Hel, see if I can recruit additional aid, and return Gungnir to help make amends for my wrongs against you.”

Odin opened his mouth to reply but closed it again as the sommelier arrived to bring us a dessert wine for the final course. It was to be a macaron filled with Bavarian vanilla and strawberries and served with champagne jelly, and he assured us it would arrive shortly. But I never got to try the macaron. Never got to hear Odin’s stifled reply.

As the sommelier drew close behind me to deposit a glass over my right shoulder, several things happened in quick succession in a fraction of a second. The Morrigan’s left hand blurred and pushed me so violently from my seat that my head hit the floor while my ass was still in the chair. Glass tinkled. The sommelier cried out and fell backward, to hell with the wine. The report of a rifle cracked in the air. Odin and Frigg lurched to their feet.

After the second passed, the Morrigan’s words floated down to me as I struggled to stay low but get in a defensive position. “There, Siodhachan,” she said, amusement in every word. “I saved your life. Now you can stop whining about our agreement.”

Someone had tried to shoot me in the head through the window and had shot the sommelier instead. Since he’d taken the bullet in the hip and had been standing behind my right shoulder, that meant the shot had come from the roof across the street and had been aimed more or less at the top left side of my face.

The sommelier clutched at his hip and loudly informed the room, in case they missed it, that he’d been shot. Upper-class squeals and calls for emergency personnel filled the restaurant, but I blocked that out and kept my eye on Frigg and Odin. It seemed insane to me that they would go through that whole charade of a dinner just to kill me anyway-especially since they didn’t have Gungnir back and didn’t know where it was-but I had to suspect they were responsible, because they had good reason to kill me and they were the only ones who knew I was here, apart from the Morrigan. I ruled the Morrigan out as a suspect, because she could have killed me anytime she wanted to in the last two millennia without any witnesses. The only possible reason to arrange it like this would be to blame it on the Norse-but why would she have cause to do that?

Still, she obviously had known the shot was coming, or she wouldn’t have known when to push me. She must have divined it and, in so doing, might have seen other things.

“Who pulled the trigger, Morrigan?” I asked, watching the two Norse gods and keeping my back to the wall.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I foresaw the attempt on your life, but the assassin is shielded from my sight. Tracking him or her down should provide us some after-dinner entertainment and will aid digestion.” She calmly rose from the table and tossed her napkin down. “Shall we begin?”