Chapter 2
One by one, others popped up beside Vidar.
First Bjorn, grinning under his matted blond hair; then Abigail, face twisted with disgust; and finally, Lou and Mason, who stared at the vittra kebab and yelled, “Gross!” in gleeful unison.
They glanced at each other in surprise, then looked quickly away, cheeks flushing.
“What was that?” Vidar demanded, long black braids swaying as he stormed out of the brush and over to the dead vittra. “What happened to stealth and speed?”
Charlie groaned, letting her head fall back to the forest floor. “I know, I know,” she said, reciting the mantra that the Vikings had drilled into them since they began training three weeks before: “In the forest, stealth and speed are your greatest allies.”
“Damn right.” Vidar yanked his axe from the vittra’s chest, causing the goblin to fall to the ground in a jumble of gray limbs and bright green blood. “Though, based on your performance, you’d think stealth really meant elephant footsteps.”
“I mean,” said Mason, stepping out from the bush and raising the wooden sword at his side. He moved forward a few paces, showing off a few jabs and slices. “Not everyone can be as naturally gifted at fighting as I am.”
“Not bad,” said Bjorn, nodding his blond head once.
“Oh, please.” Lou rolled her eyes. “Don’t compliment him. Any more inflation and that boy’s ego will pop.”
“Yeah,” said Abigail, raising her wooden sword and waving it over her head. “He’s not the only one of us making progress.”
During the wooden sword’s second rotation, Abigail swung it a little too far to the right. Bjorn ducked before it whacked him upside the chin. The Viking barked out a laugh and said, “The only progress you’re making right now is toward giving me a clean shave.”
Abigail lowered the sword and scowled. There was nothing she hated more than not being the best in the class.
A half smile pulled at Charlie’s lips as she watched the familiar banter between the Vikings and her favorite people.
Her eyes lingered on Mason, who was spinning the sword with a smug smirk on his face; at least one of them might be able to defend themselves against the creatures lurking in the woods.
But when Mason glanced her way, his confident smile slipped. In fact, his entire face seemed to shutter, to fold in on itself—eyes narrowing, brows lowering, lips pursing into a tight, angry bud. For one frigid second, he stared at his sister.
Then he turned away.
You’re so goddamn selfish.
Those were the last words her brother had said on homecoming night. The last words before he stopped speaking to her entirely.
A squeak sounded to Charlie’s left, and she looked over to see Henry seated on the forest floor, drenched in a rogue splash of green blood. He lifted his arms to inspect the liquid curiously. He leaned forward, beard rustling, ready to have a taste.
Charlie swatted his arm away from his mouth. “Goblin blood is not part of a balanced diet, Henry.”
His beard turned down in a pout.
Sighing, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Her body felt bruised and tender, like a ripe peach that had rolled down a rocky hill. She wasn’t sure how many more sleepless nights and early training sessions she could take before she broke down entirely.
It didn’t matter. She had to push through. If not for herself, then to set an example for the people she loved—because that was who she was really doing this for.
“Right,” said Vidar, using a rust-stained rag to wipe the vittra blood from his axe. “Demonstration over. We can discuss what the girl did wrong on the walk back to the house.”
Staggering to her feet and trying not to wince at the pain, Charlie said, “Isn’t the right way to deliver feedback by including the good and the bad?
” Henry grabbed her ankle and nimbly scaled her body to come sit on her shoulder, leaving smudges of green blood on her pants and sleeves.
“As in, compliment me on what I did right before you berate me for what I did wrong?”
Sliding his axe back into his belt, Vidar grunted. “We’re Vikings, not therapists.”
“You humans are so soft these days,” Bjorn agreed as he stomped out of the bushes. “When we were alive, there was no ‘right way’ to give feedback. You let your instructor whip you for messing up, or you got locked in the cellar.”
Lou wrinkled her nose. “I’m pretty sure that’s child abuse.”
Bjorn waved one huge, meaty hand. “No such thing back in the Viking Age.” He whacked Mason’s shoulder and pointed forward. “Now, walk.”
They did as they were told, Charlie limping while the others chattered merrily. They were completely at ease in the forest, knowing the Vikings were there for protection. Henry nuzzled into her neck. He knew she was in pain. He could always tell.
“So. Abs,” said Lou. “Made any progress on the riddle?”
After homecoming, Abigail had volunteered to take the lead on deciphering the Fenrir’s riddle.
“I started doing the crossword in the Times when I was six,” Abigail had announced to the three of them the Monday after homecoming. “I’m more qualified for this job than the rest of you combined.”
Unfortunately—and perhaps unsurprisingly—none of the skills honed by Abigail over a decade of crosswording seemed to have translated into the skills necessary to decipher a centuries-old prophecy.
“I think so,” said Abigail now, like she always did when Lou asked about her progress. “I discovered a connection between the phrase dance in the moonlight and the setting of one of Shakespeare’s older plays. I’m thinking that if I can link the two, then—”
“So, no,” Lou interrupted. “No progress whatsoever.”
Abigail huffed. “Look. Just because you don’t understand the finer points of codebreaking doesn’t mean that no one else does.”
Charlie tuned out the conversation, letting her eyes drift up to the treetops.
Red, yellow, and orange leaves swayed in the light morning breeze.
She watched them twitch and crackle, yearning to break loose from their branches.
Above, a falcon with too many wings soared past, its feathers too bright, its cry unnaturally loud.
One might think that Charlie would be used to Asgard by now.
To the vines that wrapped around streetlamps, the strange noises that came from neatly trimmed hedges, the glowing eyeballs that seemed to follow her wherever she went outside, the ash trees that came to life without warning.
And, to some degree, she was used to it. Or, at least, she’d grown to expect it.
Expect everything, and nothing will surprise you.
Her friends had each taken in their new reality in their own ways. Abigail had accepted Asgard the way she accepted everything she didn’t like: by ignoring it unless it directly benefited her goals.
Lou was a different story entirely. After she awoke from being possessed, they’d given her the final eyaerberry.
Ever since, she’d been like a kid visiting a theme park for the first time.
More than once, Charlie had to forcibly drag her away from getting too close to the vicious-looking mermaid that lived in the town fountain.
So, no. Charlie still wasn’t used to it, this new version of the world she grew up in.
The woods where she played as a child and partied as a teenager.
Its bones were the same—pine trees, birches, oaks, tangling roots, clusters of moss, rocks made to trip the boots of those who didn’t pay enough attention—but its skin was completely different.
Brighter. More colorful. Crawling with magic and creatures that lurked just out of sight.
Far more beautiful, and far more dangerous, too.
“Matt and the other guys are driving up with me tomorrow to deliver the goods,” Mason was saying when she tuned back into the conversation. “We’re taking three separate cars.”
The upcoming weekend was a special one for Silver Shores High School.
On Friday, all 150 of its upperclassmen would load onto two rusty old school buses and chug up north to a state park for the annual overnight Outdoor Education Trip (commonly referred to as the “OET”—pronounced like the breakfast food).
As juniors, it was Charlie and the other girls’ first time attending.
To say that Lou was excited would be the understatement of the century.
“Excellent,” Lou said, clapping. “More room for booze.”
“Isn’t it, like, a three-hour drive to the park?” Abigail asked.
“Sure is,” said Mason.
“Good God,” said Abigail. “You guys are going to be exhausted.”
“Good gods,” Lou corrected her. “Don’t forget. Now that we know there are so many, we can’t risk excluding any of them. You know how petty gods can be.”
“I don’t, actually,” said Abigail. “Seeing as I’ve never met one.”
“Yes, you have,” said Lou. “You were in the same room as Loki for, like, five whole minutes. Right before he announced Charlie and Mason were his kids, then vanished back to the underworld. A perfect exit, if you ask me.”
Mason groaned. “Not this again. That guy was off his rocker, and you know it.”
Charlie bristled. It grated on her when Mason said things like that. She knew how far-fetched the idea sounded, and it’s not like she wanted to be his daughter—not when he was a famous liar destined to bring about Ragnarok (aka the end of Asgard, aka the apocalypse).
No, her irritation with Mason had nothing to do with any sense of familial loyalty to Loki.
She was annoyed that her brother refused to even entertain the idea that the god might be their father.
He had no interest in digging into the mystery with her, in seeking out the truth.
He was the only other person in the world who could understand what she was going through (other than Sophie, and the gods only knew where she was), and he wouldn’t even speak to her.
He’d left her all alone.