“Would you? Make that same choice?”
“No. I did as you would.” She shook her head, and her silver-bright hair shimmered. “I went to the ends of the earth and beyond to save
“I’m willing to take that risk. Will you send me through?”
She gestured, and the rainbow spray plumed up out of the river again, shimmering like a curtain between them. “There is the way. Go in good fortune. May I not soon see you again.”
“Likewise, Lady,” Fenn murmured, and waded forward, through the middle of the diamond-bright veil, Rafe following close behind.
When the blinding brightness of the rainbow passage faded from Fennrys’s eyes, his ears filled with the horrid, glorious sounds of men making war, coming from directly behind him. But in that moment it didn’t matter, because right in front of him, less than thirty feet away, were the steps leading up to the soaring oak doors of the one place he’d always thought he belonged.
He took a deep breath and—
“That’s Odin’s Hall. You can’t go in there.”
Fennrys raised both hands slowly, because he didn’t want to startle whoever had just slammed a hand down on his shoulder, and maybe provoke them into killing him. Not when he was so close to finding Mason.
“We can’t go in until the fighting’s done.”
“I’m not here to fight,” Fennrys said, turning around.
Fenn had expected to see an Einherjar. But the young man who’d accosted him was dressed—quite unlike all the other men on that field of death—in jeans and sneakers. And a letterman jacket from Columbia U with the designation of quarterback on the sleeve. Fennrys eyed him warily.
The guy had obviously had something of a rough go of it recently. And by “rough,” Fennrys supposed he meant “lethal.” The whites of his eyes were bloodred, and his skin was mottled. But his hair was still gelled and a hint of cheap after-sport body spray clung to him—mingled with the stench of a raging battlefield, it was more than a little disconcerting—making him seem just like any other college kid. From a horror movie.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here,” the guy said, frowning at Fennrys.
“Yeah?” Fenn raised an eyebrow and gently plucked the hand from his shoulder. “And you are?”
A shadow of confusion flowed over the young man’s face, but it passed quickly, replaced with an expression of stubborn mindlessness. “You can’t go in there. Only the Einherjar feast in the halls of Odin. And not until the Valkyries call us to the feast.” The way he made the proclamation made it obvious to Fennrys that the quarterback had pretty much no idea what he was talking about. The words were unfamiliar on his tongue and sounded as if he’d learned them by rote.
He didn’t seem to know that there were no Valkyries left to call the men in from fighting. And there hadn’t been for a very long time. Fennrys meant to keep it that way, but he had to get inside Valhalla to do that. He glanced at Rafe, who stood beside him, keeping a wary eye on the rest of the warriors and occasionally ducking out of the way when one got too close. The ancient god shrugged one shoulder.
“Like I said,” Fennrys kept his hands up, palms out, “I don’t want a fight. But I need to go in there, and you aren’t going to stop me. You can try, but I’m going to go get Mason.”
“Mason . . .” The young man’s blocky features twitched with recognition. “Mason . . . Starling?”
“Yes!” Fennrys reached out a hand and grabbed a handful of the other boy’s football jacket. “You know her? Have you seen her? Is she in the hall? Is she all right—”
“Let the man answer you,” Rafe murmured, pulling on Fennrys’s arm. “One question at a time. This dude is clearly a linebacker short of a huddle.”
Fennrys backed off a step, and the kid nodded.
“Yeah. She was here. She was nice. . . .” He frowned again, swamped with uncertainty. “Rory shouldn’t have done that to her. Putting her on the train like that. She’s nice. Hot, too, y’know? I wonder if she’d go out with me. . . .”
So this guy had been with Rory when he’d taken Mason. He was probably the muscle that Rory had needed to accomplish the task. Fennrys wondered fleetingly just how the quarterback had then met his demise, and what had happened to Mason’s shithead brother. But those were questions that could wait. Rafe was right. Death—or the shock of dying—had not been kind to whatever cognitive faculties Mr. Muscle had possessed in life. And Fennrys got the distinct impression that those had been somewhat limited to begin with. He clamped down on his impatience and took a deep breath.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly.
“Uh . . . Tag. Taggert Overlea. I shouldn’t be here, either. I was on this train . . . and then . . . oh, man —”
“Tag.” Fennrys shook him a little. It wouldn’t do to let the kid spiral back into the memory of whatever death he’d experienced. It obviously hadn’t been a pretty one, and the shock of those memories might just jar him out of his presently helpful state. “No. it’s okay. You’re here to help me. All right? You’re here to help Mason. You said she was nice to you.”
Tag nodded.
“Well, she needs us to help her out of a jam, okay? You have to let me pass. I have to go in
Tag nodded again. “Okay. But I told you—we’re not allowed in until the battle’s done. There’s a . . . like an alarm system, y’know? You’ll have to fight.”
Fenn felt himself grinning. “I’m okay with that.”
“You said you weren’t here for a fight.”
“I lied.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
A rune tattoo on the side of Tag’s neck, just showing above the collar of his jacket, began to pulse with a faint, reddish-gold glow. His meaty fist tightened on the hilt of the old, rusted blade he held, and he turned on his heel and lumbered forward in the direction of the feast hall.
Fennrys and Rafe followed close behind.
When Tag had said they’d have to fight, Fenn had thought he meant they’d have to fight the Einherjar. He’d actually sort of been looking forward to that—a good, clean, straight-up fight. No giant reptiles, no sea monsters, no storm zombies . . .
The second the football jock’s foot hit the bare patch of ground in front of the mighty structure, the earth erupted as scores of gray, withered limbs suddenly punched up through the soil. Clumps of dirt flew, and Fennrys threw an arm up in front of his face to shield his eyes. When he lowered it, it was to see a small sea of draugr standing between him and the doors of Valhalla. The alarm system Tag had mentioned. It figured.
He wondered for an instant how Mason had managed to run the gauntlet of zombie creatures to get into the hall herself. But then there wasn’t much time to contemplate such things. The draugr, with their horrible white eyes and grasping talons and mindless, murderous rages, swarmed toward them.
Tag bellowed like a bull and surged forward, head down.
Rafe transformed with his usual elegance into the fearsome black wolf.
And Fennrys drew his sword, sank into a crouch, and readied himself for the fight, the kill . . . for the wave of battle madness that would carry him forward to where a very special girl waited for him to bloody show up in time and help her out of a serious jam.
Because Fenn would be damned if he let Mason down again.
