The Hammer of Thor

Just my luck, Grimwolf was happy to turn his attention to me. When it comes to drawing aggro from ancient monsters, I’ve got the golden touch.

Mallory stumbled back out of my way, chucking one of her knives at the dragon’s head. T.J. also retreated, yelling, “All yours, buddy!”

As far as encouraging words you might hear before an excruciating death go, those sucked pretty bad.

I raised my shield and sword like the nice instructors had demonstrated in Viking 101. The dragon’s mouth opened wide, revealing several extra rows of teeth—just in case the outer row of teeth didn’t kill me dead enough.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alex swaying at the top of the tree—a tense bundle of pink and green, ready to spring. I realized what she was planning: she wanted to jump onto the dragon’s neck. That was such a stupid plan it made me feel better about my own stupid way of dying.

The dragon struck. I jabbed my sword upward, hoping to impale the monster’s upper palate.

Instead, a sudden pain blinded me. My face felt like it had been doused with industrial cleaning fluid. My knees buckled, which probably saved my life. The dragon bit empty air where my head had been a millisecond before.

Somewhere to my left, Mallory screamed, “Get up, you fool!”

I tried to blink away the pain. It only got worse. My nostrils filled with the stench of burning flesh.

Grimwolf recovered his balance, snarling with irritation.

Inside my head, a familiar voice said, Come, now, my friend. Don’t struggle!

My vision doubled. I could still see the forest, the dragon looming over me, a small pink-and-green figure leaping toward the monster from the top of a tree. But there was another layer to reality—a gauzy white scene trying to burn its way through my corneas. I knelt in Uncle Randolph’s study, in the Chase family mansion in Back Bay. Standing over me was someone much worse than a lindworm—Loki, the god of evil.

He grinned down at me. There we are. How nice!

At the same time, the dragon Grimwolf struck again, opening his maw to devour me whole.

I Am Saved from Certain Death by Being Killed

I’D NEVER EXISTED in two places at once before. I decided I didn’t like it.

Through the pain, I was dimly aware of the fight in the forest—Grimwolf was about to bite me in half, when suddenly his head bucked upward; now Alex was straddling his neck, pulling her cord so tight around the dragon’s throat that he thrashed and stuck out his forked black tongue.

T.J. and Mallory rushed in front of me, acting as a shield. They yelled at Grimwolf, waving their weapons and trying to herd him back.

I wanted to help them. I wanted to get to my feet or at least roll out of the way. But I was paralyzed, on my knees, trapped between Valhalla and my Uncle Randolph’s study.

I told you, Randolph! Loki’s voice dragged me further into the vision. See? Blood is thicker than water. We have a solid connection!

The hazy white scene resolved into full color. I knelt on the oriental carpet in front of Randolph’s desk, sweating in a square of sunlight that was tinted green from the stained glass transom. The room smelled of lemon wood polish and burning meat. I was pretty sure the second odor was coming from my face.

In front of me stood Loki—his tousled hair the color of fall foliage, his delicately sculpted face marred by acid burns across his nose and cheekbones and suture scars around his lips.

He grinned and spread his arms in delight. What do you think of my outfit?

He was wearing an emerald green tuxedo with a frilly maroon shirt, a paisley bow tie, and a matching cummerbund. (If anything about the ensemble could be said to be matching.) A price tag dangled from his left coat sleeve.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t throw up, as much as I wanted to. I couldn’t even offer him a free consultation at Blitzen’s Best.

No? Loki’s expression soured. I told you, Randolph. You should’ve bought me the canary yellow one, too!

A strangled sound came from my throat. “Magnus,” said Uncle Randolph’s voice, “don’t listen—”

Loki extended his hand, the ends of his fingers smoking. He didn’t touch me, but the pain across my face tripled, as though someone were branding me with an iron. I wanted to collapse, to beg Loki to stop, but I couldn’t move.

I realized I was seeing everything through my uncle’s eyes. I was inhabiting his body, feeling what he was experiencing. Loki was using Randolph as some sort of agony-operated telephone to contact me.

The pain eased, but Randolph’s extra weight enveloped me like a lead wet suit. My lungs rattled. My worn-out knees ached. I didn’t like being an old man.

Now, now, Randolph, Loki chided, behave yourself. Magnus, I apologize about your uncle. Where was I? Oh, yes! Your invitation!

Meanwhile, in Valhalla, I remained paralyzed on the battlefield while the dragon Grimwolf staggered around, knocking down entire swaths of forest. One of the lindworm’s feet caught Mallory Keen, stomping her flat. T.J. yelled and waved pieces of his now-broken rifle, trying to draw the monster’s attention. Somehow, Alex Fierro managed to stay on the dragon’s neck, tightening her cord as Grimwolf whipped back and forth.

A wedding! Loki announced cheerfully. He held up a green invitation, then folded it and tucked it into Randolph’s shirt pocket. Five days from today! I apologize for the short notice, but I hope you can come, especially since it’s up to you to bring the bride and the bride-price. Otherwise, well—war, invasion, Ragnarok, et cetera. A wedding will be much more fun! Now, let’s see. How much has Samirah told you?

My skull constricted until it felt like my brain would come out of my sinus cavity. A ragged scream escaped my lips, but I wasn’t sure if it was mine or Uncle Randolph’s.

From the dragon’s neck, Alex yelled, “What’s wrong with Magnus?”

T.J. ran to my side. “I don’t know! His head is smoking! That’s bad, right?”

“Grab his sword!” Alex pulled her cord tighter, causing black blood to trickle down the dragon’s neck. “Get ready!”

Oh, dear. Loki tapped me/Randolph on the nose. The pressure in my head subsided from blackout misery to moderate torture. Samirah hasn’t shared. The poor thing is embarrassed, I suppose. I understand! It’s difficult for me, too, giving away my favorite daughter. They grow up so quickly!

I tried to speak. I wanted to say, Go away! You suck! Get out of my head and leave Samirah alone!

It came out as “Gaaaaah.”

No need to thank me, Loki said. Neither of us wants Ragnarok to start just yet, eh? And I’m the only one who can help you! It wasn’t an easy negotiation, but I can be very persuasive. The hammer in exchange for the bride. A one-time offer. I’ll tell you more when you secure the bride-price.

“Now!” Alex yelled. She pulled her wire so hard the dragon arched his back, separating the segments of armored hide that protected his belly. T.J. charged forward and thrust my practice sword into a soft spot below Grimwolf’s heart. T.J. rolled aside as the monster came down with his full weight, impaling himself. Alex leaped from the lindworm’s neck, her garrote dangling from one hand, slick with blood.

Was that Alex I heard? Loki curled his scarred lip. She’s not invited to the wedding. She’ll ruin everything. In fact—Loki’s eyes gleamed with mischief—give her a little present for me, will you?

My lungs tightened, even worse than when I was an asthmatic kid. My body began to superheat; I was in so much pain my organs seemed to be dissolving into molecules, my skin glowing and steaming. Loki was turning my brain to fire, filling me with flashes of memories that weren’t mine—centuries of anger and the need for revenge.

I tried to push him out of my head. I tried to breathe.

Alex Fierro stood over me, frowning. Her face and Loki’s melded together.

“Your friend is going to explode,” Alex said, as if this were a perfectly normal thing that happened to people.

T.J. wiped his brow. “What exactly do you mean…exp

lode?”

“I mean Loki is channeling power through him,” Alex said. “It’s too much. Magnus will blow up, destroying most of this courtyard.”

I gritted my teeth. I managed one word: “Run.”

“It won’t help,” Alex told me. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a solution.”

She stepped forward and calmly wrapped her metal wire around my neck.

I managed another word: “Wait.”

“It’s the only way to get him out of your head.” Alex’s brown and amber eyes were impossible to read. She winked at me…or maybe that was Loki, his face glowing hazily just under Alex’s skin.

See you soon, Magnus, said the god.

Alex yanked both ends of her garrote and snuffed out my life.

Never Take a Bubble Bath with a Decapitated God

SOMEONE PLEASE explain to me why I have to dream when I’m dead.

There I was, floating in the darkness of nonexistence, minding my own business, trying to get over the fact that I’d just been decapitated. Then I got dropped into these weird vivid nightmares. Really annoying.

I found myself on a thirty-foot yacht in the middle of a storm. The deck heaved. Waves crashed over the bow. Sheets of gray rain slammed into the wheelhouse windows.

In the captain’s chair sat Uncle Randolph, one hand clenching the wheel, the other strangling his radio handset. His yellow raincoat dripped puddles around his feet. His close-shaved head glistened with salt water. In front of him, the control board’s monitors showed nothing but static.

“Mayday!” He yelled into the handset like it was a stubborn dog refusing to do a trick. “Mayday, curse you. Mayday!”

On the bench behind him, a woman and two young girls huddled together. I’d never known them in life, but I recognized them from photographs in Uncle Randolph’s office. Perhaps because I had just been inside Randolph’s head, I was able to pull their names from his memories: his wife, Caroline; and his daughters, Aubrey and Emma.

Caroline sat in the middle, her dark brown hair plastered against her face, her arms around her daughters’ shoulders. “It’ll be all right,” she told the girls. She glanced at Randolph with a silent accusation: Why have you done this to us?

Aubrey, the youngest, had the Chase family’s wavy blond hair. Her head was bowed, her face set in deep concentration. She held a model of the yacht in her lap, trying to keep the toy level despite the fifteen-foot swells that rocked the wheelhouse, as if by doing so she could help her father.

Emma was not as calm. She looked about ten, with dark hair like her mother’s and sad, weary eyes like her father’s. Somehow I knew that she’d been the most excited about this trip. She had insisted on coming along for Dad’s big adventure—his search for a missing Viking sword that would finally prove his theories. Dad would be a hero! Randolph had not been able to refuse her.