Chapter Eighteen
Rey
Aric slammed the door in my face before I could even finish the question.
Cool. That went well.
I stand there a second longer than I should, my hand half raised, as if I might knock on the bathroom door and try again.
“You know,” a voice says from behind me, “some people would take that as a sign.”
I spin around to find Ziva leaning against her doorframe, a toothbrush hanging out the side of her mouth like a lollipop. Her hair is a wild halo of electric-blue-tipped curls, her cat-print pajama shorts still riding low on her hips beneath her Endir hoodie. She looks equal parts chaotic and smug.
“He’s not a morning person,” I mutter.
“Neither am I,” she says, yanking the toothbrush from her mouth and pointing it at Aric’s door. “But at least I don’t weaponize it.”
I can’t help it—I snort.
Ziva grins, then drops the brush into a mug in her left hand. “Let me guess. You tried to say something human, and he responded with a death glare and a shut door?”
“Basically.”
She folds her arms. “Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone. Especially people he thinks might actually matter.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
Ziva’s expression shifts—just a fraction—but it’s enough to pull me up short.
“Let’s just say Aric and I go way back. Used to be best friends when we were kids. Grade school stuff—he’d share his pudding cups, I’d let him cheat off my math homework. Totally platonic, tragically adorable.”
I blink. “So…what happened?”
Her mouth quirks, but there’s no humor in it. “His grandfather happened. One day, I just wasn’t welcome anymore. No explanation. No warning. Just a very polite reminder from a very old man that some names don’t mix.”
My chest tightens. “Because you’re—?”
Ziva gasps, hand to chest. “Mexican American?”
I wince. “I didn’t mean—”
She waves me off, laughing. “Relax, Snow White. No, apparently, I’m dangerous because I have opinions. Loud ones. Also, I once threatened to set a kid’s pants on fire for calling me spicy.”
“Did you actually?”
Ziva lifts a finger. “Allegedly.”
I chuckle. I can’t help it. There’s something disarming about her, like she’s already decided I’m not a threat, not competition, just…someone to root for. She doesn’t know how rare that is.
“I’m not into Aric,” I say before I can overthink it. “Whatever you saw in the hall—he slammed the door in my face five seconds later.”
Ziva raises an eyebrow like she’s heard that one before. “Not saying I care, but if I did? I’d tell you to be careful. That kind of power doesn’t come free.”
I nod slowly. “Good thing I’m not looking for handouts. Just answers.”
She studies me another beat, then gives a sharp nod. “Cool. Then I’m going back to bed for fifteen minutes and pretending the world doesn’t exist.” She points her toothbrush at me again. “You need me, scream. Or just send psychic vibes. I respond to those, too.”
I wait until her door closes behind her before I retreat into my own room.
Plopping on the edge of my bed, I sigh long and low. I know he’s the enemy, but for one minute Aric almost felt like my friend as we flung mud at each other in the spring. Of course, he also threatened my life and dragged his teeth along my neck—but I tell myself he didn’t really mean any of that.
Is that how starved I am for attention?
Probably. I swear, at this rate I’ll never grow out of the need to be seen or heard.
Just as quickly as our little playtime started, it was over. But he can’t get away from me that easily. I say this even though he just slammed the door in my face. I’m playing the long game. It’s fine.
Jumping up, I walk over and sit at my desk, pulling out the notebook.
My fingers trace the scrap of paper from Laufey.
This—all of this—is for Laufey.
I can’t get distracted. Can’t fail. She is the one bit of leverage my father has over me, and he’ll use it. Use her. Mercilessly.
Is she safe? I wonder. Sad? She’s always been sad, even in my earliest memories. Though she’d smile as she braided my hair, and she’d look so peaceful when she’d sing me to sleep and tell me stories when I was scared.
Stories of a kingdom far far away, except this one was real.
I was the princess. But the king was evil and there was no savior but myself.
The people only had me to rely on, and in order to defeat the evil I had to learn how to be patient.
Her stories all had a reason for them, a hidden meaning.
Just like her actions, Laufey chose her words wisely and with purpose.
Nothing was by accident, everything by design, and now she’s dying—or will die if I don’t find Mjolnir in time.
We don’t speak of Frigga. We don’t speak of how life was back in Asgard. Just like we don’t speak of why she would marry him here, other than he saved the life of someone she loved for her healing power. She’s been more employee than wife ever since.
“I’ll find a way to free you,” I whisper.
I study the rune-laden note. I’ve seen one of these already at Endir. I know what the others mean, so if I come across any of them on campus… Maybe they won’t lead me to Mjolnir, but maybe they create a sort of ward or shield for me?
I pore over the notes, looking for any reference, and stop on the picture of Mjolnir again.
I read the bullet points: “Holds the history of Asgard and all the wars. Holds the power to both build and destroy worlds. Can only be wielded by those it deems worthy. Created for Thor by the dwarves Brokk and Eitri—Mjolnir helps control Thor’s power.
Has a personality like any other artifact; it can feel, speak, engage. Original owner: Thor.”
I shut the notebook.
Mjolnir can communicate.
I wonder if it’s communicated with Aric at any point? Maybe through dreams or visions? Was Mjolnir speaking to him through the nightmares he mentioned last night? How did I miss this earlier?
Curiosity has me sending a text to my father, even though he’s the last person I want to talk to.
Me: Did Mjolnir ever talk to Thor
I wait.
Finally, the dots pop up on the screen.
Odinfather: Thor is dead. We don’t speak of the dead.
Me: We’re talking about a hammer. Did it though
Odinfather: They were inseparable before the war. Like family.
Me: And during the war?
Odinfather: You know the history. Thor died, Mjolnir was taken.
Me: So it mourns for him then?
Odinfather: As do I. Daily.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Me: May Thor’s storm rage on in the sky, eternal and unbroken, in the Hall of Bilskírnir, the largest hall of the Gods.
Odinfather: May he find his peace amongst the storms he created.
I set the phone down and stare at the words. I never met my half brother. But something about the silence beneath Odin’s answers tells me he loved Thor—in his own twisted way. And if Mjolnir was forged to reflect its wielder, then what is it now without him?
Grief and power wrapped in a relic that doesn’t forget?
If the hammer is mourning, then I understand it better than I thought.
And I know one thing for sure:
Mjolnir belongs with the Gods. It belongs with my family.
And I’m going to be the one to bring it home.
I glance at my phone. Fifteen minutes before I need to head downstairs for orientation—just enough time to tug on some fresh clothes and pull my hair back. I fix my face in the mirror. Lip gloss. Powder. High ponytail. I look like a girl who slept well and has zero blood on her hands.
I grab my orientation packet, sling the rucksack over one shoulder. The notebook and blade stay tucked under my mattress—until I need them.
Aric might think he has the upper hand, but he overplayed today. He wants me. And I can use that.
Like I told Ziva…I need some answers.