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  Alex tugs us along, Gunnar Magnusson staying close behind. Alex navigates through an opening in the crowd to a less-traveled path. My body lurches and jolts with Gunnar Magnusson’s steps, but his warmth and closeness fill me with peace I haven’t felt in a while. I absorb every bit I can, savoring his scent as it blossoms around me.

  Soon, we reach the van on the bottom level of a parking garage. Alex breaks off from Gunnar Magnusson and me, shimmering into view. Darryl Donovan sits in the driver’s seat. He unrolls the window on our side and says, “I don’t even want to know what you did with my rental car.”

  “Good,” I say. “I won’t tell you.”

  “Where have you been?” Freddie slides the back door open, and we climb in.

  “Getting my arse kicked,” I grumble with a wince.

  Gunnar Magnusson settles into a seat with me on his lap. If I weren’t in so much agony, I might kiss him again, but I can hardly breathe, let alone swab his face with my tongue.

  I exhale a long, excruciating stream of air and concentrate on keeping my lungs inflated. Mindful breathing is a minor distraction from the twin pains pulsing from my shoulder and side.

  “Let me take a look at your rib,” Alex says.

  Huginn clucks worriedly.

  Freddie frowns. “What happened?”

  “Odin tossed her like a horseshoe across the parking lot,” Gunnar Magnusson answers for me.

  “You saw Odin? The real Odin?” Darryl Donovan’s eyes bulge as he turns around. “No shit?”

  I silently command the rune stave to make me visible again. Gunnar Magnusson, Freddie, Darryl Donovan, Alex, and Huginn gasp at once. Even the low-key cats look surprised.

  “Damn, boo.” Wiggles shrinks away, shaking his head.

  “Battle scars,” Sparky says. “Mad respect.”

  I glance down at my dirty, torn shirt. Sticky red and green slime soak the material in gruesome streaks. I lift the hem, ungluing the fabric from my skin, and study my right side. Yep, the rib is definitely snapped. Looks like someone lodged a finger under my skin and tried to tickle me from the inside out. All of a sudden, I feel queasy and light-headed. Next thing I know, Freddie’s yelling, “Go!” to Darryl Donovan.

  Reality blurs and fades from my grasp.

  I fall into a dream.

  Sitting on a cliff overlooking a great battlefield dusted with endless drifts of snow, I watch as Viking warriors swing axes and swords. They fling spears and launch arrows from long bows. Armor clangs, metal screeches, blood flies. Ah, a typical day in Asgard.

  Except when I lean closer, I realize those aren’t Asgardians play-fighting, or even real-fighting. They’re Midgardian men who have no color—similar to the ones I saw on my recent trip to Hel (read book two for details). Only difference is these men are hearty, stalwart berserkers, whereas the ones in Hel were old and disease-ridden.

  I scan the plain, pale below the night sky. Hordes of men scamper like black ants against white ice. Even the pulsing, flickering aurora overhead is muted, its normally vibrant hues downgraded to flavorless shades of gray.

  “Have you forgotten I’m not just a Norn, but also a Valkyrie—a chooser of the slain?” Skuld whispers beside my ear.

  Surprised, I turn to the fate weaver. Leaning on a sword that probably weighs as much as I do, Skuld wears a gleaming silver corselet that puts our surroundings to shame. Wild black curls ring the bottom edge of her resplendent helmet. Her disturbing ice-green eyes flash as she strokes the massive gray wolf at her side between its sharply pointed ears. Saliva drips from the corners of its mouth and sizzles like acid when it hits the snow.

  “You are gifted at many things, honorable goddess,” I say, respectfully lowering my eyes. My voice is deep. I’m wearing the leather armor from my days as a male god, and the old red beard brushes my sternum. I scratch my chin as I used to when contemplating, but it feels strange. Awkward. This hair shouldn’t be here.

  I shake the feeling away. Skuld sits next to me, and the wolf darts off to chase a white rabbit.

  “The Midgardians from our time thought auroras were your doing. And your sisters’. They believed your Wild Hunts painted the skies like rainbows.” I nod to the pulsing, dull ribbons winding across the heavens.

  “But now you know better,” she says.

  I bend down, ball a clump of snow, and lob it onto the battlefield below. It falls for several seconds and splatters without hitting anything of import. “Something about tiny projectiles from the sun interfering with oxygen and nitrogen in the atmosphere, if Freddie is to be believed.”

  Skuld smiles and surveys the slain warriors she’s chosen for passage to Valhalla. “Those ‘projectiles’ are electrons from Earth’s magnetosphere, but close enough.”

  “Thank you for the science lesson,” I say.

  “How are the rune staves treating you?” She leans back, scraping her gaze down my spine with a subtle smirk. “Are they everything you’d hoped for?”

  I laugh. “In some ways, yes. In matters of truth, no.”

  “You don’t like my gifts.” She mock pouts.

  “No, I like two thirds of them very much. That’s a majority. Thank you,” I say, scrambling to cover my faux pas. Last thing I need is getting on a Norn’s bad side by way of ungratefulness, even if it’s only in a dream.

  Battle cries resound below us as two Valkyries riding winged horses corral a fresh phalanx of gray fighters onto the field. I can’t tell from this distance if they’re her sisters, Urd and Verdandi, or some other choosers of the fallen.

  Skuld watches the scene with detached interest. Men swing weapons; their opponents duck. Some fall with bloodied or missing limbs. They get up and fight again. The honorable dead can do that. They keep coming back for more, reliving their glory days on the battlefield for eternity. The dishonorable ones, not so much.

  Skuld plucks a glowing, golden apple from the air. It looks like one of Idunn’s—the really good kind. Skuld bites into it with a soft snick and chews thoughtfully. “You’re going to die, you know.”

  I press my lips flat. “My daughter Hel alluded to my possible demise last time I saw her.”

  “Not possible.” Eyes sparking ice, she snaps her neck and whips me with her stinging gaze. “Decided.” The word carries all the finality I feared it would. The Norns don’t veer from their paths. Ever. If Skuld says I’m going to die, then it’s settled law that shall never be overturned.

  Properly cowed, I study the fighting barbarians, my fingers trembling. “When?”

  “Tuesday,” she says as if I’d just asked her when my dry cleaning will be ready for pickup or when the next episode of Asgard Awakening airs.

  I swallow the lump stoppering my throat. “This Tuesday?” Considering I’m unconscious, I’m not even sure what day it is. For all I know, today is Tuesday.

  “Tuesday,” she says again, this time quieter.

  She chomps another bite of golden apple.

  My mouth waters as hunger gnaws on my gut. Before we gods learned how to tweak our immortality runes to their maximum potency, we relied on Idunn’s apples to keep us young and vibrant—to make us immortal.

  What would happen if I stole Skuld’s treat and ate it?

  In silence, I watch her eat another bite and another. Wheels spin in my mind, but I remain quiet, observing. Soon, there’s one bite left. She pulls the fruit back and considers it for a long moment. Its golden skin has lost most of its glamour.

  Kenaz flares at the top of my skull, a maddening pulse goading me to strike like a snake.

  Take it, I can almost hear the rune taunting. Before it’s too late.

  I lick my lips. I want that apple so badly. It could save me from the trouble heading my way. It could redeem me. Maybe even serve as a temporary immortality rune until I find Othala.

  Now or never.

  Gliding my tongue over my top lip, I make a decision.

  Using Kenaz as a guide, my hand lashes out.

  I wake up in a bed with somethin
g dangling from the corner of my mouth.

  The apple?

  I pull whatever it is out and focus my dazed eyes on it.

  A white sucker stick missing its head.

  WeedPop.

  “How’s it hangin’, partner?” Framed by tousled dark hair, Freddie’s tanned face fills my view. His catlike lips curve into a genuine smile. One of his bottom teeth is a tad crooked. I never noticed it before. Cute. The skin around his warm, chestnut-brown eyes crinkles, digging accidental lines into its otherwise smooth surface. His sparse beard and lithe frame boast youth. Too bad I only have room in my heart for one.

  Gods, did I just think that? I must be really freaking stoned.

  “You’re handsome, Freddie,” I slur, enjoying the cool waves of oblivion lapping happily onto the shore of my consciousness.

  His head tips to the side. The grin widens. “Thank you, Loki. You ain’t so bad yourself.” He turns and calls over his shoulder, “She’s awake.”

  I drop the stick and run some quick diagnostics, starting at the top of my skull and working down. My brain feels mushy but content. My mouth is dry. Neck is grumpy from sleeping at an awkward angle.

  The left shoulder is as tender as I expect it to be after I either loosened or completely ripped out the stitches the heart doctor sewed there a few days ago. When I try to shrug, intense pain reprimands me. Okay, won’t do that again.

  Onward.

  The bottom right quadrant of my torso feels as if a frost giant wearing a gauntlet spiked with ten-inch icicles reached inside me, ripped out my rib, picked his teeth with it, and then shoved it back in via a new hole created by the pointy end of said rib with rotting, fishy bits hanging off it. I test my lung capacity and would scream if the scream didn’t hurt more than a thousand frost giants ripping out all of my ribs and using them for toothpicks.

  It takes me ten seconds of sweating through my catastrophic mistake of trying to breathe before I settle. But hey, I’m alive. Huzzah!

  Then I remember the dream. Suddenly, breathing with a punctured lung doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.

  “What’s today?” My voice sounds like I ate broken glass for breakfast and chased it with a cup of extra-spicy curry-sauce coffee.

  “It’s Thursday morning,” Freddie says.

  Damn it. Last I remember, it was Wednesday afternoon. I’ve lost half a day under the haze of my convalescence. Curses!

  “You got somewhere to be?” he asks.

  “Tuesday. Don’t let me go to Tuesday.” I close my eyes and take tiny sips of air until the pain becomes manageable.

  “You need another WeedPop,” Freddie murmurs. The crackling of a wrapper falling away fills the muddy void of my mind. “Open up.”

  I do. The sucker does wonders for my dry mouth.

  Gunnar Magnusson appears at my side. He thumbs a few strands of hair out of my face. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Alex cleaned up your wound and re-stitched it. There’s not much he can do for the rib other than keep it iced and alternate acetaminophen and ibuprofen for pain. He conjured up some antibiotics from a friend. The incision site is infected.”

  As my shallow breaths increase, the stabs in my lung grow more incessant. I hate this weak body with the fire of a million dwarven forges.

  I stare up at him. “It hurts so bad, Gunnar Magnusson.”

  “I know. I broke a rib once too,” he replies gently. “But you have to take deep breaths as often as you can. You don’t want to get pneumonia.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” I say miserably.

  “An infection in your lungs. You can die from it,” he says.

  I grab his hand and squeeze it hard. “I don’t want to die.”

  “I won’t let you.” His concerned expression softens. “Try not to worry.”

  I settle my head into the pillow and close my eyes again. I am worried. Very worried.

  Tuesday will be the end of my story.

  Panic stokes the smoking embers in my brain, prodding me toward madness. First my heart. Now an infection. And a broken rib. And a Norn “gifting” me the day of my death.

  Hel wasn’t kidding when she told me she’d see me soon. Five days isn’t much time.

  Alex’s voice interrupts my mental spiral. “Loki, may I speak with you alone for a minute?”

  I look at Freddie’s boyfriend. His skin is ashen, almost as if he’s wearing makeup that isn’t quite strong enough to cover the darkness beneath it. I’ve rarely seen him without a hat or head covering of some kind.

  I squint. Those ears. They remind me of something.

  “Yes, we should talk. Alone.” I glance to Gunnar Magnusson, who nods stiffly. Some of the room’s air leaves with him. It’s hard to breathe without him near.

  “Who are you?” I ask the instant the door shuts. With a hard deadline on death looming, I don’t have time to mince words.

  Alex drops a hand to his chest, and he tips forward in a half bow. “Alex Alfheim. Magician.”

  I eye him dubiously.

  “I can help with our visibility problem,” he continues. I can’t tell where his irises end and his pupils begin, but blackness glitters from both as he centers his gaze on mine.

  “You’re from Asgard, aren’t you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No.” The question doesn’t seem to faze him. He may not be Asgardian, but he’s of the Old Guard.

  “Where, then?”

  Another headshake. “It’s not important. What is important is relocating us outside of Heimdall’s purview.”

  The hairs at my nape twitch. Alex has always been something of a mystery to me. I haven’t known him long. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt before passing judgment, but this conversation makes me uncomfortable. Something is off with him. “What are you going to do?”

  His strange, glittery eyes whisper over me with a cold caress. “I’m a magician. I’ll make us disappear.”

  I weigh my options. If Skuld is to be believed (I have no reason not to believe her), I’m going to die next week. Whatever I do must happen fast on the infinitesimal chance that I can wriggle my way out of this eternal predicament. And if I die, I must leave Gunnar Magnusson and my friends in a position of power where Odin is concerned. I don’t think he would come after them in my absence, but who knows the mind of Allfather? Or Frigg? My mates deserve a fighting chance to carry on without me should I be reunited with Hel in Hel.

  If Alex can conceal them, he should.

  I swallow against the dueling throbs in my side and chest and nod. “How will you do it?”

  “I know a spell.”

  That’s the first time he’s mentioned real sorcery. Sleights of hand and tricks of light are easy to execute with a little practice, but casting actual spells pushes Alex’s talents into the realm of seidr, a specialized, sacred form of ancient magic employed by Freya, Frigg, and Odin. Which means he’s definitely not a Midgardian.

  “It won’t shield us completely,” he says, “but it’ll make it difficult for Heimdall to see us.”

  “Camouflage?”

  “Yes. As long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves, we should be able to pass right under his nose.”

  “And Muninn?” I fight off a shudder at the thought of the hummingbird I locked in a car’s trunk. I do hope he’s all right.

  “It should obscure us from both,” Alex says. “But—I can’t stress this enough—we cannot get involved in any spectacles that might pique their notice. If we accidentally reveal ourselves and Heimdall or Muninn penetrates the spell, it’ll be easier for them to see through my concealment magic in the future.”

  In other words, Don’t screw this up with your shenanigans, Loki.

  “I understand,” I say solemnly. Now if I only knew where to go from here. We can’t stay in Vegas.

  “We shouldn’t linger,” Alex says. “You’ve dropped your invisibility. Heimdall may have already sighted you. It’s imperative we
leave this part of town as soon as possible. Can you walk?”

  “I don’t know.” The way my side is stabbing with every breath I take, I doubt it. I hope the WeedPop will kick in soon and curb some of the sting. “I’ll try.”

  “Gunnar,” Alex calls as I struggle to sit.

  Stab, stab, stab.

  Holy mother of Hel.

  I grit my teeth to divert attention from the pricks slicing my lung every time I inhale and pull myself up. We’re in a motel room—not the same one we had before. The cracked door opens, and my friends enter wearing identical expressions of concern.

  “Time to fly,” Alex says.

  Everyone gathers their gear, slinging backpacks over shoulders and rolling luggage. Huginn and the cats dart between legs. We must look like quite a motley crew. Gunnar Magnusson offers a hand to help me out of bed. “I’ll carry you.”

  “No, let me try to walk.”

  “Then lean on me,” he says.

  So, I do. Every step is torture, but at least I’m alive. For now.

  Our friends exit before us, and Gunnar Magnusson whispers close to my ear, “Do you trust Alex?”

  “No,” I answer, an anchor of worry sinking into my gut, “but we don’t have a choice. He’s the only one with a plan.”

  “What is the plan?”

  I force a smile. “I’m not exactly sure. I guess we’ll see soon enough.”

  Outside, Darryl Donovan starts to open the van door when Alex says, “We’re walking.”

  “We can’t carry all our stuff, herd these damn cats and the chicken, and help Loki without a vehicle,” Darryl Donovan protests. “She can barely stand up.”

  Alex takes command. “It’s just for a short time. I’ll explain when we get away from the motel. Loki, if you’ll make yourself invisible, we’ll hold onto you and duck under your protection. I’ll provide directions.”

  One by one, my friends shuffle items to free up their heavily laden arms. Freddie’s wearing the baby sling I stole from Wal-Mart. He picks up Huginn and straps him to his front. The chicken’s legs dangle from the bottom. Sparky and Wiggles peek out from the tote bag slung over his shoulder.