Part 5 (1/2)
”Eight. Hundred. Dollars.”
Hermod muttered and dug into his duffel bag. Out came a jingling, knotted tube sock, which he untied to retrieve a handful of something. He opened his palm under the merchant's nose. Gold coins glittered, even under the gloomy sky.
”Hold on a sec,” the merchant said. He produced a balance and set of weights, and with the attention of a neurosurgeon working on a patient's brain, he weighed the coins. ”You're a few short,” he announced.
Hermod grumbled some more but placed another coin on the balance tray and leveled the scale.
”Four grapefruit at two hundred each,” the merchant said. ”You want a bag for these?”
Hermod did, and the merchant placed them with considerable care in a brown grocery sack, the paper worn soft as leather. Meanwhile, Mist quietly took her cell phone out to call Grimnir, but the LCD displayed no bars.
Hermod placed the grocery bag in his duffel and took off with long strides. ”Are you really a Valkyrie?” he said over his shoulder as Mist struggled to keep pace.
”Honestly? Not in good standing, and I've been one for only three months, but I am a Valkyrie.”
”Hmm” was Hermod's only reaction.
He stopped at the edge of the cliff, where a pedestrian bridge crossed high over the Pacific Coast Highway to the beach on the other side.
”Who sent you to bother me?”
”n.o.body. It was my own idea.”
”Why?”
”You can find people in Helheim.”
His face didn't change, still set in a frank frown of displeasure.
”My sister died with me and took the road, and I want her back. And a man I was supposed to recruit for the Einherjar ... I want him back too.”
”Why just them? Something like one hundred billion people have lived and died in Midgard since the beginning of the human race, and nearly every single one of them has ended up in Helheim. So why are you concerned only about your sister and this man, your recruit? Why are some lives worth more than others?”
Mist decided not to tell him of her ultimate intention, to free as many dead as she could. Not yet.
”I seem to have touched a sensitive spot with you.”
Hermod's expression s.h.i.+fted enough to let her know she'd landed a blow. He turned and began crossing the bridge.
This stretch of Highway One was the main artery between Santa Monica and the rich enclaves of Malibu, but uncleared mud slides left the road impa.s.sable more often than not. Only rare islands of asphalt in the mud indicated that there was a road down there at all. Again, Mist wasn't sure if this was the result of the world ending or just business as usual in Los Angeles. Earthquakes, wildfires, and landslides were the trinity of natural disasters in this part of the country.
Mist decided to play on what she suspected might be Hermod's vein of fairness. ”I want my sister, Lilly, back because I love her and it's not right that I got to live and she didn't. She's more of a fighter than I ever was, and if anyone should get to be a Valkyrie-”
”Yeah, life's arbitrary and capricious.”
”And the man, Adrian Hoover: I helped kill him, and I need to set things straight-”
”Making up for past mistakes, I get that. But, no, sorry, I don't do retrievals. I tried that once, and it was a disaster.” They reached the other side of the suspended walkway. Hermod jogged down the steps.
”Would you stop long enough to look me in the eye when you turn me down?”
”No, sorry, really, but I'm in kind of a rush. There are these wolves I accidentally freed. Not wolves, really, so much as monsters. And at least one of them is fated to devour the moon and the sun, as sure a sign of Ragnarok as I can think of. So I've got to clean up my mess, and I don't have time to chat.”
”Are these wolves nearby?” Mist asked.
”That's what I've been led to understand.”
”What if I help you?”
Hermod came to a halt. ”How can you help?”
”Well, like I said, I'm a Valkyrie. I can swing a sword.”
Now she had him thinking. Mist suppressed a satisfied grin.
”Even if you help me, I'm not agreeing to get your sister and your recruit out of jail. But we can talk about it, I guess.”
Better than nothing. And, truly, if the wolves of Ragnarok were free, didn't she have an obligation to help Hermod do something about it? Trying to prevent the end of the world, after all, was why she'd agreed to serve Radgrid as a Valkyrie in the first place.
”Deal,” she said, surprised to see relief wash over Hermod's face.
WHAT LUCK! Hermod thought, stomping across the sand with Winston and the Valkyrie in tow. Whether the luck was good or bad, he wasn't sure, but allying himself with a Valkyrie-and a cute, modern one at that-had to be auspicious in one way or another.
The lifeguard stations were little blue huts on stilts that reminded Hermod of lunar landers. He still remembered where he was when astronauts first walked on the moon-rumbling through Western Siberia in a boxcar, between Kormilovka and Ekaterinburg, sharing a bottle of vodka with half a dozen fellow hobos. One of them had a transistor radio, and he declared the mission of Apollo 11 a great folly. ”All the suffering on earth, and here's man, trying to become a G.o.d of the skies. The old G.o.ds won't look kindly on that.”
”It's too late for the old G.o.ds,” Hermod had said, taking a long pull off the vodka bottle. ”You little guys outstripped us a long time ago. Tyr's something else with a sword, but let's see him take an AK-47 round in the face. Even Thor-I doubt there'd have been much left of him at Hiros.h.i.+ma. The only real difference between mankind and my lot is that you won't destroy the world unless you decide that's what you really want to do. But us G.o.ds? We think we have no choice but to blow everything up, like it's our job. So go ahead and walk on the moon. Get your footprints all over it. Get your hands grubby with moon dirt. Enjoy it while it's still there.”
After that, his fellow pa.s.sengers wouldn't let him have any more drink.
Nearing Lifeguard Station 9 with Mist, Hermod saw bundles lying among the wooden supports: people sleeping, wrapped in blankets and coats. He'd spent the morning asking around the beach until a cl.u.s.ter of homeless men singing doo-wop had interrupted their rendition of ”Duke of Earl” long enough to tell him where they'd seen a girl with dreadlocks who kept a big puppy with her.
”You hang back and out of the way,” he said to Mist. ”I'll have my hands full with the wolves, so if you see a girl with blond dreadlocks stealing away, you tackle her and don't let her go. Clear?”
”Well, it's a very intricately detailed plan, but I think I can keep it all straight in my head.”
”Good enough.” He continued toward the lifeguard station. The wind carried a strong, stinging odor, something like an amalgamation of p.i.s.s, wet fur, human body odor, and other smells more difficult to identify. The stink reminded Hermod that the wolves weren't exactly wolves. Their grandfather, Loki, was neither man nor G.o.d but a giant and a shape-changer, and other things.
Winston slowed to a hesitant walk and started to whine.
”That's fine, boy,” Hermod said, reaching down to scratch the dog's ear. ”You stay back.” But when Hermod resumed his pace, Winston followed, and Hermod felt an embarra.s.sing wave of affection for the dog.
They continued on across the cold sand, and when they came within a few yards of the station, Hermod unzipped his duffel bag.
”Wolf girl,” he called. ”It turns out I do want to buy a G.o.d. Let's talk.”
There was movement among the bundled forms. ”Fug off,” someone muttered. A figure crawled out from under a pile of blankets. Dreadlocks hanging in her face, she hugged the wolf to her with both arms. It was bigger now, nearly half Winston's size. Hermod slipped his hand inside his duffel bag and gripped his sword. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw Mist standing alert. She'd unb.u.t.toned her coat, revealing a nylon scabbard and the grip of a short Chinese saber.
The girl shuffled closer, peering up at him with bleary eyes. Her face seemed thinner than it had been just a few days before.