The Hammer of Thor

“Just a few dreams.” Sam rotated her coffee cup this way and that like the dial of a safe. “Whispers, warnings. He’s been mostly interested in…Never mind. Nothing.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Sam’s gaze was intense and full of heat, like logs in a fireplace just before they ignite. “My dad is trying to wreck my personal life,” she said. “That’s nothing new. He wants to keep me distracted. My grandparents, Amir…” Her voice caught. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. It doesn’t have anything to do with our hammer problem.”

“You sure?”

Her expression told me to back off. In times past, if I pressed her too far, she would slam me against a wall and put her arm across my throat. The fact that she hadn’t yet choked me unconscious was a sign of our deepening friendship.

“Anyway,” Sam said, “Loki couldn’t be your goat-killer. He couldn’t wield an ax like that.”

“Why not? I mean, I know he’s technically chained up in Asgardian supermax for murder or whatever, but he doesn’t seem to have any problem showing up in my face whenever he feels like it.”

“My father can project his image or appear in a dream,” Sam said. “With extreme concentration, for a limited time, he can even send out enough of his power to take on a physical form.”

“Like when he dated your mom.”

Sam again demonstrated her affection for me by not clubbing my brains out. We were having a friendship fest here at the Thinking Cup.

“Yes,” she said. “He can get around his imprisonment in those ways, but he can’t manifest solidly enough to wield magic weapons. The gods made sure of that when they put a spell on his bindings. If he could pick up an enchanted blade, he could eventually free himself.”

I supposed that made sense in a nonsensical Norse-myth kind of way. I pictured Loki lying spread-eagled in some cave, his hands and feet tied with bonds made from—ugh, I could hardly think about it—the intestines of his own murdered sons. The gods had arranged that. They’d also supposedly set a snake over Loki’s head to drip venom in his face for all eternity. Asgardian justice wasn’t big on mercy.

“The goat-killer could still be working for Loki,” I said. “He could be a giant. He could be—”

“He could be anyone,” Sam said. “The way you describe him—how he fought and moved—he sounds like an einherji. Perhaps even a Valkyrie.”

My stomach dropped. I imagined it rolling across the pavement and coming to rest next to Otis’s porkpie hat. “Somebody from Valhalla. Why would anyone—?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Whoever it is, he or she doesn’t want us following this lead on Thor’s hammer. But I don’t see that we have any choice. We need to act quickly.”

“Why the rush?” I asked. “The hammer’s been missing for months. The giants haven’t attacked yet.”

Something in Sam’s eyes reminded me of Ran the sea goddess’s nets, the way they swirled in the waves, stirring up drowned spirits. It wasn’t a happy memory.

“Magnus,” she said, “events are accelerating. My last few missions into Jotunheim…the giants are restless. They’ve summoned huge glamours to hide whatever it is they’re up to, but I’m pretty sure whole armies are on the move. They’re preparing to invade.”

“Invade…where?”

The breeze made her hijab flutter around her face. “Here, Magnus. And if they come to destroy Midgard…”

Despite the warm sunlight, a chill settled over me. Sam had explained how Boston sat at the nexus of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. It was the easiest place to pass between the Nine Worlds. I imagined the shadows of giants falling over Newbury Street, the ground shaking under iron-shod boots the size of panzer tanks.

“The only thing holding them back,” Sam said, “is their fear of Thor. That’s been true for centuries. They won’t launch a full-scale invasion unless they’re absolutely sure he is vulnerable. But they’re getting bolder. They’re starting to suspect the time might be right—”

“Thor’s only one god,” I said. “What about Odin? Or Tyr? Or my dad, Frey? Can’t they fight giants?”

As soon as I said it, the idea sounded ridiculous. Odin was unpredictable. When he showed up, he was more interested in giving motivational PowerPoint presentations than fighting. I’d never even met Tyr, the god of bravery and personal combat. As for Frey…my dad was the god of summer and fertility. If you wanted flowers to bloom, crops to grow, or a paper cut to heal, he was your guy. Scaring away the hordes of Jotunheim? Maybe not.

“We have to stop the invasion before it happens,” Sam said. “Which means finding the hammer Mjolnir. You’re sure Otis said Provincetown?”

“Yeah. A wight’s barrow. That’s bad?”

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s up there in the high twenties. We’ll need Hearthstone and Blitzen.”

Despite the circumstances, the possibility of seeing my old buddies lifted my spirits.

“You know where they are?”

Sam hesitated. “I know how to get in contact. They’ve been hiding in one of Mimir’s safe houses.”

I tried to process that. Mimir, the disembodied god’s head who traded drinks from the well of knowledge for years of servitude, who had ordered Blitz and Hearth to keep an eye on me while I was homeless because I was “important to the fate of the worlds,” who ran an inter-world pachinko racket and other shady enterprises—Mimir had a collection of safe houses. I wondered what he was charging my friends for rent.

“Why are Blitz and Hearth in hiding?”

“I should let them explain,” Sam said. “They didn’t want to worry you.”

That was so not funny, I laughed. “They disappeared without a word because they didn’t want to worry me?”

“Look, Magnus, you needed time to train—to settle into Valhalla and get used to your einherji powers. Hearthstone and Blitzen just got a bad omen in the runes. They’ve been taking precautions, staying out of sight. For this quest, though—”

“A bad omen. Sam, the assassin said I should be prepared to lose my fri

ends.”

“I know.” She picked up her coffee. Her fingers trembled. “We’ll be careful, Magnus. But for a wight’s tomb…rune magic and underground skills could make all the difference. We’ll need Hearth and Blitz. I’ll contact them this afternoon. Then, I promise, I’ll fill you in on everything.”

“There’s more?” Suddenly I felt like I’d been sitting at the Thanksgiving kiddie table for the past six weeks. I’d missed out on all the important conversations among the adults. I didn’t like the kiddie table.

“Sam, you don’t need to protect me,” I said. “I’m already dead. I’m a freaking warrior of Odin who lives in Valhalla. Let me help.”

“You will,” she promised. “But you needed training time, Magnus. When we went after the Sword of Summer, we got lucky. For what comes next…you’ll need all your skill.”

The current of fear in her voice made me shiver.

I hadn’t considered us lucky when we retrieved the Sword of Summer. We’d come close to dying multiple times. Three of our comrades had sacrificed their lives. We’d barely managed to stop Fenris Wolf and a host of fire giants from ravaging the Nine Worlds. If that was lucky, I did not want to see unlucky.

Sam reached across the table. She took my cranberry orange scone and nibbled off the edge. The icing was the same color as her bruised eye. “I should get back to school. I can’t miss another AP physics class. This afternoon I have some fires to put out at home.”

I remembered what she’d said about Loki trying to mess up her personal life, and that little hitch of doubt when she’d said Amir’s name. “Anything I can help with? Maybe I can stop by Fadlan’s Falafel and talk to Amir?”

“No!” Her cheeks flushed. “No, thank you. But definitely not. No.”

“So that’s a no then.”

“Magnus, I know you mean well. There’s a lot on my plate, but I can handle it. I’ll see you tonight at the feast for the…” Her expression soured. “You know, the newcomer.”

She meant the soul she had gone to reap. As the responsible Valkyrie, Sam would have to be there at the nightly feast to introduce the newest einherji.

I studied the bruise under her eye, and something dawned on me.

“This soul you picked up,” I said, “this new einherji punched you?”

Sam scowled. “It’s complicated.”

I’d met some violent einherjar, but never one who would dare punch a Valkyrie. That was suicidal behavior, even for someone who was already dead. “What kind of idiot…Wait. Did this have anything to do with that wolf howl I heard from across the Common?”

Sam’s dark brown eyes smoldered, right on the edge of combustion.

“You’ll hear about it tonight.” She rose and picked up the assassin’s ax. “Now go back to Valhalla. Tonight you’ll have the pleasure of meeting…” She paused, considering her words. “My brother.”

A Cheetah Runs Me Over

WHEN CHOOSING an afterlife, it’s important to consider location.

Suburban afterlives, as in Folkvanger and Niflheim, may offer lower costs-of-not-living, but Valhalla’s Midgard entrance is right in the heart of the city, on Beacon Street across from the Boston Common. You’ll be within easy walking distance of the best shops and restaurants, and less than a minute from the Park Street T station!

Yes, Valhalla. For all your Viking paradise needs.

(Okay, sorry. I told the hotel management I’d put in a plug. But it was pretty easy getting back home.)

After buying a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans at the coffee shop, I made my way through the Public Garden, passing my old camping spot under the footbridge. A couple of grizzled dudes sat in a nest of sleeping bags, sharing garbage-bin leftovers with a little rat terrier.

“Hey, guys.” I handed them Otis’s trench coat and hat, along with all the mortal money I had on me—about twenty-four bucks. “Have a good day.”

The guys were too startled to respond. I kept walking, feeling like I had an ax sticking out of my sternum.