“Oh hey, a restaurant. Maybe we can have lunch after all,” Wade said, pointing at the slim stone overhangs covering the entrance and windows of a building to their right as they drove past.
“I wouldn’t trust whatever they offer,” Patrick said as he eyed the location signs giving directions to the nearest parking garages.
“Aw, come on. If I could eat fae food and be fine, I bet I can eat whatever they have on their menu.”
“Your funeral.”
Patrick circled back until he found the entrance for Grant Park North Garage. Wade stuck close as they left the garage, taking the stairs up to the street. Patrick expanded his personal shields to keep the rain off them both as they hurried down the block to the restaurant Muninn and Huginn were still perched over.
The immortals watched them approach with black, star-speckled eyes. Patrick couldn’t meet their gazes for long without feeling as if he were going to fall into a void and never find his way out.
Inside, the ravens said, their voices echoing in Patrick’s mind. The Allfather is not one to keep waiting.
Well. That answered his question on who they were there to meet.
The restaurant overlooked Millennium Park and beyond it, Lake Michigan. That told Patrick it was the kind of place where prices were never shown on the menu. A doorman pushed open the door to Au Hall, allowing them to enter and get out of the rain. Patrick drew back his shields before they entered but didn’t drop them. Wade looked around curiously at the mahogany wood paneling carved with intricate designs that weren’t as random as they looked after a second glance.
“Your table is ready,” the hostess said with a smile and a vacant look in her eyes. “If you would follow me?”
“Creepy,” Wade said under his breath.
The hours on the discreet sign out front had indicated the restaurant was open for lunch and dinner every day of the week in set blocks of time. Today it was almost entirely empty of a lunch crowd.
The restaurant was two stories tall, with a mezzanine that ran along the front of the restaurant for eye-catching views of Millennium Park and Lake Michigan. The stairs on either end leading up to it were made of wood with gold-leaf banisters. Multiple crystal and gold chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light reflecting from the mirrors that lined the rear wall.
All the tables were empty, save one. The circular table in the center of the room could comfortably seat five. Three of the seats were taken, and its occupants watched them come with unblinking eyes.
The hair on the back of Patrick’s neck stood on end as they approached. His skin felt electrified, and not in the good way when he was with Jono. The trio’s auras were blinding, glowing like the sun, making it impossible for Patrick to look any of them in the eye. Within seconds the brightness faded, even if the heaviness of power in the large room didn’t.
“So good to finally meet the mortal who wields my prayers,” Odin said dryly before taking a sip of scotch.
Patrick’s fingers twitched toward his dagger, but he didn’t draw it.
The Allfather and titular ruler of the Æsir appeared middle-aged, blond hair silvered at the temples and blending into the closely trimmed beard he sported. He wore a dark gray suit that screamed wealth and status, the kind bought with a credit card that had no limits. Odin’s left eye was a clear, deep blue, while his right was steely gray in color, though cloudy, the difference easily explained away by heterochromia.
He looked exactly like the picture of him the SOA had on file; the agency just had the wrong information. Despite Patrick’s new knowledge, he would never be able to update the file.
“You may sit,” the regal goddess positioned to Odin’s right said. She offered Patrick a gentle smile, but that would never be enough to ease his wariness when dealing with gods.
She was beautiful in the way most goddesses were, and revered by her people the way queens expected to be. The immortal passed these days as a middle-aged socialite whose designer winter clothing would’ve been coveted by Nadine Mulroney if his best friend were here. Her light brown hair was done up in a chignon, and the jeweled sort of headband she wore could’ve doubled as a crown of sorts.
“Oh, hey,” Wade said happily. “Hot dogs!”
The table was covered in so many platters of food there was almost no room for the plates. The small tray piled high with plain hot dogs in buns was surrounded by tiny ceramic condiment jars. Wade plopped down in one of the empty seats and stared longingly at the tray of hot dogs until the god to his left picked it up and passed it to him.
“One should never go hungry,” the dark-haired god said, his voice deep and amused.
Wade snatched the platter out of the god’s hands and started to smother the hot dogs with all available toppings. Patrick didn’t tell him to stop, choosing instead to sit quietly beside him, keeping all his attention on Odin.
“Should I call you Aksel Sigfodr?” Patrick asked slowly. “Or would you prefer Odin?”
“I am worshipped by many names. I answer to them all,” Odin said easily enough, which wasn’t an answer. There were so many ways to piss him off if he didn’t like what name Patrick chose to use.
He figured asshole wouldn’t be the best place to start.
Patrick’s gaze flickered over to the goddess again, weighing who she could be and only coming up with one answer. “Frigg?”
Odin’s wife, the titular queen of the Æsir, smiled at him in a way he was sure she thought was comforting, but which made Patrick want to run for the exit. Sitting there reminded him of the breakfast he’d interrupted on Hera’s rooftop last summer. The only difference was he didn’t have Jono with him to lean on for support.
“Well met,” Frigg said.
Patrick nodded slowly at that statement,
