Part 1 (2/2)

”Winter always seems a long way off in the beginning of spring,” Hermod said.

They clacked cups.

A few hours later, when the host was even deeper in their cups, someone came up with the idea of hurling weapons at Baldr. The math was simple: Baldr can't be hurt.

It's entertaining to throw weapons.

Weapons should be thrown at Baldr.

Tables and benches were dragged away to make room near the hearth, and Baldr stood alone in a circle of orange light, an indulgent smile on his face. He never sought to be the center of attention, but if it would satisfy others, he'd submit to it.

It began with Thor. He made his way down the length of the floor, like a storm cloud gathering malice. Hermod took one look at the spear in his hands and knew this was a bad idea. Surely Frigg's spell of protection hadn't been cast for the Aesir's amus.e.m.e.nt.

Thor flung his missile with a clap of thunder. The spear struck Baldr's chest and exploded in a cloud of splinters. Baldr laughed and brushed debris from his tunic, and the hall erupted in cheers that made the flames in the hearth quaver.

Thor glowered. ”Let me try my hammer.”

After that, everyone wanted a turn. Arrows were shot. Swords were thrust. Cauldrons of boiling water and flaming torches and benches and tables collided with Baldr, much to the merriment of all.

Somebody tried to put a spear in Hermod's hands-that crone he'd seen conferring with his mother earlier-but he begged off, claiming he'd hurt his shoulder in a fall down a mountain. The woman released a high peal of laughter in response. In truth, dragged low by drink, Hermod was sure he'd miss and accidentally maim a serving girl.

That left only blind Hod among Hermod's brothers who were present and hadn't yet taken a turn.

Hod was the darkness to his twin Baldr's light. He stood tall and alone, his dark eyes like wells in a limestone face. Hermod didn't like to look too closely into Hod's eyes. They went a long way down.

Slumped over a table, Hermod watched the gray-cloaked old woman hobble toward Hod, leaning heavily on her walking stick. Seemingly aware of her approach, Hod s.h.i.+fted his posture uncomfortably.

”Why do you not join in the game?” she asked, her voice like a ragged talon.

”The last time I threw a spear,” said Hod, ”it went out a window.”

Amid laughs, the woman persisted, wheedling; Hod continued to demur, but along with the weariness in his voice was a longing. How many times had he remained on the margins of things while his brothers and cousins played at contests and had adventures? Hermod sought those margins for himself, but Hod had been thrust into them, and it had been that way ever since they were boys, when Hermod and Baldr would race through the woods, bouncing off trees, chasing down wolves. Hod was ever left behind, a silhouette diminis.h.i.+ng in the distance.

”I will lend you my stick to throw,” the crone said, ”and I will guide your aim. Come, what's the harm?” She placed her walking stick in Hod's hand. It was a twisted, leafy thing, clumped with dirt and gra.s.s and what looked to Hermod like mistletoe.

Hod could not have been more awkward holding the stick if it were a dead eel. He raised the rude spear, ready to throw it, but the woman put her hand on Hod's arm.

”Too low, dear. Let me help.”

”I think this is a bad idea,” Hod said, and Hermod tried to voice his agreement, but his drunken muttering was lost in the a.s.sembly's cheering. On her high seat, Frigg looked on, her peaceful smile matching Baldr's. Odin's face was blank stone.

Hod let the stick fly. It wobbled and corkscrewed, and when it punched through Baldr's flesh, he let out a squeak of pain and surprise. He laughed a little, as though he thought the dart protruding from his chest was a joke. Then he fell.

Later, people would say that color drained from the world at that moment. They would say that every living thing wilted just a little bit. But Hermod noticed none of that at the time. What he noticed instead was that Baldr looked like most other dead people he'd seen. His skin went gray. A froth of blood formed on his lips. There was a filmy red air bubble that Hermod couldn't take his eyes off until it finally popped.

His brother was just a corpse. No doubt the first of many to come.

ONLY TWO HOURS into Mist's first job, things were already going badly. For one, the duct tape had come loose over the recruit's mouth, and he was screaming so loudly that Mist was sure he'd be heard through the walls of the van, even above the roar of Route 21 traffic.

She turned to her companion in the pa.s.senger seat. ”I thought he was supposed to stay out for at least another hour.”

”Do I look like an anesthesiologist? Chloroform's not an exact science.”

Mist shook her head at Grimnir. He did not look like any kind of ologist. Decked out in black jeans, quadruple-XL leather coat, and black homburg crammed over his head, he looked like what he was: a thug. Her thug, she reminded herself, still amazed at the idea of having her own devoted thug after having been with NorseCODE for only three months.

In back, the recruit pleaded for mercy. Mist steeled herself against his cries. Too much depended on the work to let a soft heart get in the way.

Grimnir slurped hard on the straw of his Big Gulp and popped open the glove box to retrieve a roll of tape. ”I'll go back and redo him.”

”Never mind,” Mist said, aiming the van down the off-ramp. ”We're almost there.”

There was a vast, flat gray area of industrial parks and sc.r.a.p yards, where a dummy corporation several steps removed from NorseCODE had prepared a warehouse expressly for this particular job.

Mist rolled down her window, letting in a blast of cold air and April snowflakes, and punched a security code in a box mounted on a short metal pole. A moment later, the automatic warehouse doors opened and she drove onto the concrete floor. The doors screeched shut and she killed the engine.

Grimnir got out and walked around to the side of the van. With reasonable care, he lowered the recruit's hog-tied form to the ground and used shears to cut the plastic ties that bound his hands and legs. The recruit had gone quiet, but Mist expected he'd start screaming again now that he was unbound. The warehouse was well insulated and equipped with fans and blowers configured to be as noisy as possible on the outside, in order to conceal interior sounds.

Tall and trim in workout pants and a New Jersey Nets sweats.h.i.+rt, the man stood, shoulders hunched, like someone expecting a piano to fall on his head. ”I don't know what this is about, but you've got the wrong guy.” His voice quavered only a little.

”Your name is Adrian Hoover,” Mist said. ”You live at 3892 Sunset Court, Pa.s.saic, New Jersey. You're twenty-seven years old. You've been an actuary for Atlantic Insurance since graduating with a finance degree from Montclair State. I could also recite your Social Security number, driver's license number, cell phone, anything you'd like. You're definitely not the wrong guy.”

Mist's boss, Radgrid, stressed the importance of establis.h.i.+ng authority early in the recruitment process.

While Mist spoke, Grimnir removed two shotgun cases from a compartment beneath the van's floorboards.

Hoover's face looked green and clammy under the fluorescent lights. His eyes darted around the warehouse, at the ranks of port-a-johns and the gla.s.s-walled side office, its file cabinets full of authentic paperwork provided in the event that agents of some Midgard authority came knocking.

”You are about to undergo a trial,” Mist said. ”It's your right to understand-or at least be made aware of-the purpose behind it.”

Grimnir opened one of the gun cases and withdrew a long sword. He rolled his neck and shoulders to loosen them and took a few practice lunges.

”Trial? But ... I haven't done anything.” There was at least as much outrage as fear in Hoover's voice. Mist took that as a positive sign.

”It's not what you've done, it's who you are. You and your fathers.”

”My dad? He owns a dry cleaners'. Is that what this is about? Does he owe you money?”

”My name is Mist,” she said, forging ahead. ”I'm a Valkyrie, in the service of the All-Father Odin. My job is to help him prepare for Ragnarok, the final battle between the G.o.ds and their enemies. To that end, I'm in the business of recruiting fighters for the Einherjar, the elite regiment of warriors who, when the time comes, will fight at the side of the Aesir, who are essentially G.o.ds. In short, if we have any hope of winning, we need the best army of all time. For reasons we can go into later, we have identified you as a promising candidate.”

Grimnir's sword swooshed through the air as he continued to warm up.

”Are you guys in some kind of cult?” Hoover said, making an effort not to look at Grimnir. ”Religion, I mean? I'll listen to anything you have to say. I'm open-minded.”

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