I wondered what T.J. was talking about. I’d heard that Mallory had died trying to disarm a car bomb in Ireland, but beyond that, I knew very little of her past. Had Loki been responsible for her death?
She gripped my wrist, her calloused fingers reminding me uncomfortably of the keratin vines of Naglfar. “Magnus, Loki’s calling you out. If you have that dream again, don’t talk to him. Don’t be baited.”
“Baited into what?” I asked.
Behind us, Halfborn yelled, “Valkyrie at ten o’clock!” He pointed to the Charlestown waterfront. About a quarter mile ahead, I could just make out two figures standing on the dock—one with a green hijab, the other with green hair.
Mallory scowled back at Gunderson. “Do you have to be so loud, you oaf?”
“This is my regular voice, woman!”
“Yes, I know: loud and annoying.”
“If you don’t like it—”
“Magnus,” she said, “we’ll talk later.” She stomped over to the deck hatch, where Halfborn had dropped his battle-ax during all the confusion. She scooped up the weapon and brandished it at Halfborn. “You can have this back when you start to behave.”
She slid down the ladder and disappeared belowdecks.
“Oh, no, she didn’t!” Halfborn abandoned his post and marched after her.
The ship began to list to starboard. T.J. scrambled back and took the rudder.
He sighed. “Those two picked a terrible time to break up.”
“Wait, what?” I asked.
T.J. raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t hear?”
Halfborn and Mallory argued so much, it was hard to tell when they were angry and when they were just showing affection. Now that I thought about it, though, they had been a little more aggressive with each other the last few days.
“Why the breakup?”
T.J. shrugged. “The afterlife is a marathon, not a sprint. Long-term relationships are tricky when you live forever. It’s not uncommon for einherji couples to break up sixty, seventy times over the course of a few centuries.”
I tried to imagine that. Of course, I’d never been in a relationship, long-term or otherwise, so…I couldn’t.
“And we’re stuck on a ship with them,” I noted, “while they’re working out their differences, surrounded by a wide assortment of weapons.”
“They’re both professionals,” said T.J. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
THUNK. Below my feet, the deck shuddered with the sound of an ax impaling wood.
“Right,” I said. “And the stuff Mallory was saying about Loki?”
T.J.’s smile melted. “We all have our problems with that trickster.”
I wondered what T.J.’s were. I’d lived with my friends on floor nineteen for months now, but I was starting to realize how little I knew about their pasts. Thomas Jefferson Jr.—former infantryman in the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts, son of the war god Tyr and a freed slave. T.J. never seemed to get flustered, even when he got killed on the battlefield, or when he had to intercept Halfborn Gunderson sleepwalking naked through the halls and get him back to his room. T.J. had the sunniest disposition of any dead person I knew, but he must have seen his share of horrors.
I wondered what sort of ammunition Loki used to taunt him in his dreams.
“Mallory said Loki was calling me out,” I remembered. “And that I shouldn’t take the bait?”
T.J. flexed his fingers, as if he were having sympathetic pains from his father, Tyr, who’d gotten his hand bitten off by Fenris Wolf. “Mallory’s right. Some challenges you should never take, especially from Loki.”
I frowned. Loki had used the term challenge, too. Not fight. Not stop. He’d said if you do insist on challenging me….
“T.J., isn’t your dad the god of personal challenges and duels and whatnot?”
“Exactly.” T.J.’s voice was as stiff and flat as the hardtack bread he loved to eat. He pointed to the docks. “Look, Sam and Alex have company.”
I hadn’t noticed earlier, but lurking a few feet behind the children of Loki, leaning against the hood of his car in his jeans and teal work shirt, was my favorite supplier of fresh falafel sandwiches. Amir Fadlan, Samirah’s fiancé, had come to see us off.
“WOW,” SAID SAMIRAH as we approached the dock. “You’re right, Alex. That ship is really yellow.”
I sighed. “Not you, too.”
Alex grinned. “I vote we name it the Big Banana. All in favor?”
“Don’t you dare,” I said.
“I love it,” Mallory said, throwing Alex a mooring line.
Keen and Gunderson had emerged from belowdecks in an apparent truce, though both sported fresh black eyes.
“It’s decided, then!” bellowed Halfborn. “The good ship Mikillgulr!”
T.J. scratched his head. “There’s an Old Norse term for big banana?”
“Well, not exactly,” Halfborn admitted. “The Vikings never sailed far enough south to discover bananas. But Mikillgulr means big yellow. That’s close enough!”
I looked skyward with a silent prayer: Frey, god of summer, Dad, thanks for the boat. But could I suggest that forest green is also a great summery color, and please stop embarrassing me in front of my friends? Amen.
I climbed ashore and helped tie up the Big Yellow Humiliation, my legs still wobbly from the rough river ride and my vision of Loki. If I felt this grateful to be back on dry land after only a few minutes of travel, our journey across the sea promised to be tons of fun.
Amir shook my hand. “How are you, J—Magnus?”
Even after all these months, he sometimes slipped and called me Jimmy. That was my bad. During the two years I’d been homeless, Amir and his dad had been one of my few dependable sources of hot meals. They’d given me leftovers from their restaurant in the Transportation Building food court. In exchange for their kindness, I hadn’t trusted them with my real name. I still felt guilty about that.
“Yeah, I’m good….” I realized I was deceiving him yet again. “I mean, as good as can be expected given that we’re heading off on another dangerous quest.”
Samirah nudged my ribs with the butt of her ax. “Hey, don’t get him agitated. I’ve spent the past few days trying to convince Amir not to worry.”
Alex smirked. “And I’ve spent the past few days chaperoning them as she tried to convince him not to worry. It’s been very cute.”
Samirah blushed. She was dressed in her typical travel clothes: leather boots, sturdy cargo pants fitted with two axes, a long-sleeved turtleneck, and a dark green jacket that complemented her magical hijab. The fabric of the headscarf rippled in the breeze, catching the colors from her surroundings and ready to go into full camouflage mode at a moment’s notice.
Sam’s face, though, seemed a little off. Her lips were dry and peeling, her eyes sunken and dull like she was suffering from a vitamin deficiency.
“You okay?” I asked her.
“Of course. I’m fine!”
But I could smell the ketones on her breath—a stale sour scent like lemons left out in the sun. It was the smell of someone who hadn’t eaten in a while. I’d gotten used to that on the streets. “Nah,” I decided. “You’re not okay.”
She started to deny it, but Amir interceded.
“Ramadan started two weeks ago,” he said. “We’re both fasting.”
“Amir!” Sam protested.
“Well? Magnus is a friend. He deserves to know.”
Alex was working his jaw, trying to bite back his frustration. Of course Alex had known. That’s what he’d been talking about at Uncle Randolph’s—the reason Sam was having so much trouble focusing on her training. I didn’t know much about Ramadan, but I knew a lot about going hungry. It can seriously mess up your concentration.
“So, uh, what are the rules about that?” I asked.
“It will not affect me on this quest,” Sam promised. “I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want anyone worrying. It’s just no drinking or eatin
g during daylight hours.”
“Or bathing,” Amir said. “Or cursing. Or smoking. Or violence.”
“Which is fine,” Alex said, “because our quests never involve violence.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “I can still defend myself if attacked. It’s only one month—”
“One month?” I asked.
“I’ve done this every year since I was ten,” Sam said. “Believe me, it’s no big deal.”
It sounded like a pretty big deal to me, especially in the summer when the days were so long, and we’d be facing all sorts of life-and-death situations that would not wait until after regular business hours. “Couldn’t you, like, take a rain check until after our quest?”
“She could,” Amir said. “That’s allowable if you’re traveling, or if fasting would be too dangerous, both of which are true in this case.”
“But she won’t,” Alex chimed in. “Because she is as stubborn as a very devout mule.”
Sam poked Alex in the ribs. “Watch it, brother.”
“Ow,” Alex complained. “What happened to no violence?”
“I was defending myself,” Sam said.
“Hey, you all,” Halfborn called from the ship. “We’re loaded up and ready to sail. What are you gabbing about? Come on!”
I looked at Amir, as well-groomed as always, his clothes spotless and perfectly ironed, his dark hair cut to razor-straight perfection. You’d never guess he was a guy who was probably weak from hunger and thirst. But his facial muscles were more taut than usual. His gentle brown eyes kept blinking like he was expecting a drop of cold water to splash on his forehead. Amir was suffering, but it was from something that had nothing to do with Ramadan.
“Just be careful,” he pleaded. “All of you. Magnus, I’d ask you to watch out for Samirah, but if I did that, she would hit me with her ax.”
“I would never hit you with my ax,” Sam said. “Anyway, I’ll be watching out for Magnus, not the other way around.”
“I’ll watch out for Sam,” Alex volunteered. “That’s what family is for, right?”
Amir blinked even more. I got the sense that he still wasn’t sure what to make of Alex Fierro, Sam’s green-haired gender-fluid half-sibling chaperone of doom.
“Okay.” Amir nodded. “Thanks.”
I couldn’t help feeling guilty about Amir’s anguish. Months ago, when he’d started seeing into Samirah’s weird double life as a Valkyrie of Odin, I’d healed his mind to keep him from going insane. Now his mortal eyes were permanently opened. Rather than living in blissful ignorance, he could see the earth giants that occasionally strolled down Commonwealth Avenue, the sea serpents that frolicked in the Charles River, and the Valkyries that flew overhead, bringing souls of fallen heroes to check in at the Hotel Valhalla. He could even see our huge Viking warship that looked like a heavily armed banana.
“We’ll be careful,” I told him. “Besides, nobody would dare attack this ship. It’s way too yellow.”
He mustered a faint smile. “That much is true.” He reached behind him. From the hood of his car, he hefted a large green insulated pack—the kind Fadlan’s Falafel used for deliveries. “This is for you, Magnus. I hope you enjoy.”
The scent of fresh falafel wafted out. True, I’d eaten falafel just a few hours ago, but my stomach growled because…well, more falafel. “Man, you’re the best. I can’t believe—Wait. You’re in the middle of a fast, and you brought me food? That seems wrong.”
“Just because I’m fasting doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy.” He clapped me on my shoulder. “You’ll be in my prayers. All of you.”
I knew he was sincere. Me, I was an atheist. I only prayed sarcastically to my own father for a better color of boat. Learning about the existence of Norse deities and the Nine Worlds had just made me more convinced that there was no grand divine plan. What kind of God would allow Zeus and Odin to run around in the same cosmos, both claiming to be the king of creation, smiting mortals with lightning bolts and giving motivational seminars?
But Amir was a man of faith. He and Samirah believed in something bigger, a cosmic force that actually cared about humans. I suppose it was kind of comforting to know Amir had my back in the prayer department, even if I doubted there was anybody at the other end of that line.
“Thanks, man.” I shook his hand one last time.
Amir turned to Sam. They stood a few feet apart, not touching. In all the years they’d known each other, they had never touched. I wondered if that was killing Amir even worse than the fasting.
I wasn’t much of a toucher myself, but every once in a while, a hug from somebody I cared about could go a long way. Caring about each other as much as Sam and Amir did, and not even being able to hold hands…I couldn’t imagine that.
“I love you,” Amir told her.
Samirah stumbled backward like she’d been hit in the face with a giant eagle egg. Alex propped her up.
“I…yes,” Sam squeaked. “Also. Too.”
Amir nodded. He turned and got into his car. A moment later, his taillights disappeared down Flagship Way.
Samirah smacked her own forehead. “Also? Too? I am such an idiot.”
Alex patted her arm. “I thought you were quite eloquent. Come on, sister. Your neon-yellow warship awaits.”
We undid the mooring lines, extended the mast, hoisted the sail, and did a bunch of other nautical stuff. Soon we were leaving Boston behind, sailing through the mouth of the channel between Logan Airport and the Seaport District.
I liked the Big Banana a lot more when it wasn’t bouncing through subterranean rapids or drifting toward inter-dimensional waterfalls. A strong wind filled the sail. The sunset turned the downtown skyline to red gold. The sea stretched ahead of us in silky sheets of blue, and for now, all I had to do was stand at the prow and enjoy the view.
After a long hard day, I might even have been able to relax, except I kept thinking about my Uncle Randolph. He had once sailed out of this same harbor, searching for the Sword of Summer. His family had never come back.
This is different, I told myself. We’ve got a well-trained crew of einherjar and the stubbornest, most devout Valkyrie in Valhalla.
Loki’s voice echoed through my head. Poor Sam and Alex. This quest will destroy them. They have no idea what they’ll be facing!
“Shut up,” I murmured.
“Sorry?”
I hadn’t realized Samirah was standing right next to me.
“Uh. Nothing. Well…not really nothing. I had a little visit from your dad.” I told her the details.
Samirah grimaced. “So the usual, then. Alex has been having visions and nightmares, too, pretty much daily.”
I scanned the deck, but Alex must have been below. “Really? He didn’t say anything about that to me.”
Samirah shrugged like That’s Alex.
“What about you?” I asked. “Any visions?”
She tilted her head. “No, which is interesting. Ramadan tends to focus the mind and strengthen the will. That could be why Loki hasn’t been inside my head. I’m hoping…”
She let the thought trail off, but I caught her meaning. She hoped her fasting might make it harder for Loki to control her. It seemed like a long shot to me. Then again, if my dad could make me do anything he wanted simply by commanding me, I would’ve been willing to try anything, even forgoing falafel sandwiches, to thwart him. Every time Sam said her father’s name, I heard the rage simmering inside her. She hated being under his power.
A passenger jet took off from Logan and roared overhead. From T.J.’s lookout at the top of the mast, he raised his arms and yelled, “WOOHOO!” as the wind ruffled through his dark curly hair.
Being from the 1860s, T.J. loved airplanes. I think they seemed more magical to him than dwarves, elves, or dragons.
I felt clanging and bumping below us—Alex and Mallory, probably, getting all our supplies stowed away. Halfborn Gunderson stood aft, leaning on the rudder and whistling “Fly Me to the Moon.” (
Stupid Valhalla elevator-music earworms.)
“Sam, you’ll be ready,” I said at last. “You’ll beat Loki this time.”
She turned to gaze at the sunset. I wondered if she was waiting for dusk, when she could eat and drink and, most important, curse again.
“The thing about that,” she said, “is I won’t know until I actually face Loki. Alex’s training is all about loosening me up, getting me more comfortable with shape-shifting, but…” She swallowed. “I don’t know that I want to be more comfortable with it. I’m not like Alex.”
That was undeniable.
When Sam had first told me about her shape-changing abilities, she’d explained that she hated to use them. She saw it as giving in to Loki, becoming more like her father.
Alex believed in claiming Loki’s power as his own. Sam saw her jotun heritage as poison that had to be expelled. She relied on discipline and structure: Pray more. Give up food and drink. Whatever it took. But shape-shifting, being fluid the way Alex and Loki were…that was alien to her, even though it was part of her blood.
“You’ll find a way,” I said. “A way that works for you.”
She studied my face, perhaps trying to gauge whether I believed what I was saying. “I appreciate that. But in the meantime, we have other things to worry about. Alex told me what happened at your uncle’s place.”
Despite the warm evening, I shivered. Thinking about wolves does that to me. “You have any thoughts about what my uncle’s notes meant? Mead? Bolverk?”
Sam shook her head. “We can ask Hearthstone and Blitzen when we pick them up. They’ve been traveling, doing a lot of—what did they call it?—long-range reconnaissance.”
That sounded impressive. Maybe they’d been networking with their contacts in Mimir’s strange interdimensional mafia, trying to find us the safest course through the seas of the Nine Worlds. But the image that kept coming to my mind was Blitzen shopping for new outfits while Hearthstone stood idly nearby, arranging runes into various spells to make time go faster.
I’d missed those guys.
“Where exactly are we meeting them?” I asked.
Sam pointed ahead. “Deer Island Lighthouse. They promised they’d be there at sunset today. Which is now.”
Dozens of islands dotted the coastline off Boston. I could never keep them all straight, but the lighthouse Sam was talking about was easy enough to distinguish—a squat building with a mast thing on top, jutting out of the waves like the conning tower of a concrete submarine.
As we got closer, I waited to spot the glinting chain mail waistcoat of a fashionable dwarf, or an elf in black waving a candy-striped scarf.
“I don’t see them,” I muttered. I glanced up at T.J. “Hey, you see anything?”
Our lookout seemed paralyzed. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide in an expression I’d never associated with Thomas Jefferson Jr.—pure terror.
Next to me, Sam made a strangled sound. She backed away from the prow and pointed to the water between us and the lighthouse.
In front of us, the sea had started to churn, swirling into a downward funnel like someone had pulled the bathtub plug out of Massachusetts Bay. Rising from the maelstrom were the giant watery forms of women—nine in all, each as large as our ship, with dresses of foam and ice, and blue-green faces contorted with rage.
I just had time to think: Percy didn’t cover this in basic seamanship.
Then the giant women fell on us like a vengeful tsunami, plunging our glorious yellow warship into the abyss.
HURTLING TO the bottom of the sea was bad enough.
I didn’t need the singing, too.
As our ship tumbled, free-falling through the eye of a saltwater cyclone, the nine giant maidens spiraled around us, weaving in and out of the tempest so they appeared to drown over and over again. Their faces contorted in anger and glee. Their long hair lashed us with icy spray. Each time they emerged, they wailed and shrieked, but it wasn’t just random noise. Their screams had a tonal quality, like a chorus of whale songs played through heavy feedback. I even caught snippets of lyrics: boiling mead…wave daughters…death for you! It reminded me of the first time Halfborn Gunderson played Norwegian black metal for me. After a few bars, it dawned on me…Oh, wait. That’s supposed to be music!
Sam and I locked arms on the rigging. T.J. straddled the top of the mast, screaming like he was riding the world’s most terrifying carousel pony. Halfborn