decided to give Cleopatra European features and provide her with a Rubenesque figure; my archdruid would have described her as “festively plump.” She also appeared to be dressed in Greek style rather than anything Egyptian. Though still quite beautiful as a work of art, the inaccuracy bizarrely exposed what I think is the true tragedy of Cleopatra: No one really understood her or her decision. But maybe some could empathize with the feeling of being trapped by circumstances. I certainly could.
“I can’t agree specifically to a cage match with Jormungandr,” I said, “but I will fight on your side against Hel, see if I can recruit additional aid, and return Gungnir to help make amends for my wrongs against you.”
Odin opened his mouth to reply but closed it again as the sommelier arrived to bring us a dessert wine for the final course. It was to be a macaron filled with Bavarian vanilla and strawberries and served with champagne jelly, and he assured us it would arrive shortly. But I never got to try the macaron. Never got to hear Odin’s stifled reply.
As the sommelier drew close behind me to deposit a glass over my right shoulder, several things happened in quick succession in a fraction of a second. The Morrigan’s left hand blurred and pushed me so violently from my seat that my head hit the floor while my ass was still in the chair. Glass tinkled. The sommelier cried out and fell backward, to hell with the wine. The report of a rifle cracked in the air. Odin and Frigg lurched to their feet.
After the second passed, the Morrigan’s words floated down to me as I struggled to stay low but get in a defensive position. “There, Siodhachan,” she said, amusement in every word. “I saved your life. Now you can stop whining about our agreement.”
Someone had tried to shoot me in the head through the window and had shot the sommelier instead. Since he’d taken the bullet in the hip and had been standing behind my right shoulder, that meant the shot had come from the roof across the street and had been aimed more or less at the top left side of my face.
The sommelier clutched at his hip and loudly informed the room, in case they missed it, that he’d been shot. Upper-class squeals and calls for emergency personnel filled the restaurant, but I blocked that out and kept my eye on Frigg and Odin. It seemed insane to me that they would go through that whole charade of a dinner just to kill me anyway-especially since they didn’t have Gungnir back and didn’t know where it was-but I had to suspect they were responsible, because they had good reason to kill me and they were the only ones who knew I was here, apart from the Morrigan. I ruled the Morrigan out as a suspect, because she could have killed me anytime she wanted to in the last two millennia without any witnesses. The only possible reason to arrange it like this would be to blame it on the Norse-but why would she have cause to do that?
Still, she obviously had known the shot was coming, or she wouldn’t have known when to push me. She must have divined it and, in so doing, might have seen other things.
“Who pulled the trigger, Morrigan?” I asked, watching the two Norse gods and keeping my back to the wall.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I foresaw the attempt on your life, but the assassin is shielded from my sight. Tracking him or her down should provide us some after-dinner entertainment and will aid digestion.” She calmly rose from the table and tossed her napkin down. “Shall we begin?”
“No, wait,” I said. “How do we know they didn’t order it?” I gestured at Odin and Frigg. Odin was looking up at the ceiling rather than at me or anything else. It was an odd moment for art appreciation. Frigg spoke instead.
“Of course we didn’t order it. Odin is sending the ravens now to follow the shooter.”
“Well, then, Odin’s using magic, isn’t he? I’d like to use some to heal this poor guy, if it’s all right with you.” Our waiter and the maitre d’ had crouched down next to the sommelier, who was telling his colleagues that, if he died, he wanted all his worldly goods to be given to his hamster. I didn’t think it would hold up; he wasn’t of sound body and might not be of sound mind anymore.
“No, let me do it,” Frigg said, coming around to help the sommelier. Her necklace flashed in the light of the chandelier. “He’s one of ours. You three go find the assassin.”
“Go find someone who wants to kill me accompanied by a god who wants to kill me?” I said.
Odin tore his gaze from the ceiling and spoke. “I don’t want to kill you; I want you to die horribly in Ragnarok. But not until you tip the scales in our favor.”
“He will,” the Morrigan said, but it was unclear whether she was speaking of tipping the scales or dying horribly. Or both.
Frigg knelt down next to the sommelier and laid a hand on his forehead. His eyes rolled up, locked on her face, and he quieted. The maitre d’ rose to attend to other matters; there were customers to calm and emergency services to greet. Our waiter remained next to the sommelier.
Even if Frigg and Odin weren’t directly behind taking a shot at me, it had to be someone they knew. I sincerely doubted Odin had been careless enough to reveal this meeting in someone’s hearing, but if it hadn’t been a careless word, then the security leak had to have come from some other source. Before the Morrigan could stop me, I triggered the charm on my necklace that would cast magical sight. Through that filter, I saw the white nimbus of magic around Odin’s gray head. Two strong ropes of it wound away and through the ceiling, which I assumed were his connections to Hugin and Munin. The rest of his body looked completely human; he was doing nothing but communicating with his ravens.
Frigg was another matter. Her entire body was suffused with a soft white glow, though at the moment it was concentrated in two places: her right hand, placed on the sommelier’s forehead, and around the necklace she wore. Her hand was clearly serving as a chill pill for the panicked shooting victim, but what was that necklace doing?
I moved away from my position on the wall, figuring it was safe now and the Morrigan would slap me out of the way of any further shots. As I crouched down next to Frigg and the sommelier, a hint of annoyance crept into her tone.
“I told you I would take care of him,” she said.
“You’re taking excellent care of him,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t dream of attempting to do any better. I’m curious about your necklace.”
Her left hand drifted up to touch it. “My necklace?”
“Yes. What purpose does it serve?”
Exasperated now, she ground out, “It is personal adornment. Is this some sort of trick or an attempt to make me feel stupid?”
“Forgive me, I meant to ask what magical purpose it serves.”
“None. My magic comes from within.”
“Then why is it awash in magical energy?”
“What?”
“Confirm it for yourself. Morrigan, Odin, please look at Frigg’s necklace. It is not merely jewelry, is it?”
The Morrigan’s head tilted slightly to one side and Odin focused his gaze on the necklace. The Morrigan spoke first.
“It is enchanted with something, but it is not a binding of the Tuatha De Danann or the Fae.”
“No, it is not,” Odin said. “It is Norse magic.” This horrified Frigg so much that she took her hand off the sommelier, who abruptly remembered that he hadn’t finished panicking properly.
“Wauuggh!” he cried, and Frigg returned her hand to his forehead to shut him up.
“Odin, get it off me,” she said, using her left hand to sweep her hair away from the back of her neck and reveal the clasp of the necklace. “I want to take a good look.”
Sirens began to wail in the distance; police and ambulances were on their way.
Odin came around the table and unclasped the necklace. As soon as he did, the magic glow extinguished.
“That’s interesting. The magic is gone,” I said. “Odin, would you mind clasping the necklace together again for a moment?”
He did so and the magic glow returned. The Morrigan said, “Interesting indeed.”
Odin unclasped it, the glow faded, and Odin placed it on the table.
“Does the magic return every time it’s clasped?” I wondered aloud. Odin connected the two ends together once more, but nothing happened.
“No. Only when it’s worn,” he said. “Clever work.”
“Do you know what the spell does?” I asked.
“It is a tracking spell. A locator.”
