“If the fledgling won’t drink, I’ll gladly take what you would offer him,” Otenai said, sliding his empty glass across the counter.
Thor seemed amused by that request. “You have imbibed an entire barrel at this point.”
“You exaggerate. Half a barrel, if that.”
The other bartender poured another beer rather than mead for the immortal, setting it in front of him before leaving the bar area to go bus all the tables with the other workers. That left them in a small bubble of privacy Patrick wasn’t taking for granted.
Otenai slipped off his stool and carried his beer closer, bringing with him the same electric feel to the air that crackled around Thor. The immortal claimed the stool next to Patrick, studying him with eyes that saw too much.
“Otenai isn’t a name I’m familiar with,” Patrick said, breaking the silence.
“The DMV out of New York is plenty familiar with Otenai Burning Sky,” the immortal said. “Hinon is another matter entirely.”
Patrick frowned. It took a minute or so for him to pinpoint that name, dredging up his knowledge of myths studied over the course of years. “You’re of the Haudenosaunee.”
Known more familiarly as the Iroquois rather than the name they called themselves, the Native American tribe called the northeast part of the country home. But gods, no matter their origin, had a tendency to wander.
Hinon smirked. “I am.”
“Little far from your ancestral homeland, aren’t you?”
“I follow where Oniare goes. There have been sightings of the beast in Lake Michigan this winter, so in Chicago I stay.” Hinon raised his glass to toast Thor with a small smile on his face. “My cousin is good company. We thunder gods must stick together.”
Thor leaned against the work counter behind the bar, his hair falling over his shoulder as he stared at Patrick. “Hinon is always welcome. You, however, bring trouble.”
Patrick flexed the fingers of one hand against the edge of the bar counter. “I wouldn’t be in Chicago if the Norns hadn’t ordered me here.”
Thor arched one thick eyebrow. “Did they now?”
“Frigg told me to come here. Odin is in danger, but he doesn’t think he has anything to worry about.”
“That sounds like the one-eyed bastard,” Hinon mused.
“There’s a good chance the Dominion Sect is in Chicago looking for the Morrígan’s staff. If they know Odin is here, they won’t pass up an opportunity to take him.”
“The Morrígan’s staff,” Thor said with a slight nod. “If it was in Chicago, we’d know. We’d feel its presence.”
“Our intelligence seems to think it could be.”
“Then your intelligence is wrong.”
Patrick curled his hand into a fist. “If the Morrígan’s staff isn’t here, then information about it is. I’m not passing that chance up. You need to convince Odin he’s not safe. Maybe see about getting him to take a vacation in a warmer climate somewhere.”
“Chicago is not Asgard. It is not our true home, but it gives us what we need while on Midgard.” Thor straightened up and gestured at the nearly empty bar. “Worshippers to keep our memory alive.”
“They won’t matter if Odin winds up dead and his godhead stolen.”
Thor’s smile was slight and condescending. “You know little about our lives if you believe death would stop the Allfather. Ragnarök is a beginning and an end. It is a mourning and a celebration we all must dance to.”
“The end of the world in your myths will look a hell of a lot different if the Dominion Sect rewrites it.”
“They won’t get the chance.”
“If you say so.” Patrick licked his dry lips and grimaced. “Can I get some water?”
Thor poured him a glass, nudging it closer. “Anything else?”
“Odin says no one can do political business in this city without going through him. He’s got a fundraiser dinner happening this weekend for a candidate.”
“Westberg,” Thor said with a nod as he straightened up to his full height and started organizing the work area behind the bar. “I know of that candidate.”
“Do you know his campaign manager is an immortal?”
Thor narrowed his eyes. “I never said I’ve met Westberg, just that I know of him. I follow news of the election online like everyone else.”
“Not one to hang out with your old man?”
“Politics bore me. I prefer a more personal form of outreach.”
Patrick pointed at the skulls and antlers hanging from the wall. “Listening to people drink their joys and drown their sorrows in your altar?”
“It isn’t a crime to be worshipped.”
“It is if souls are the currency.” Patrick pulled out his phone and unlocked it, swiping through his pictures until he found the one of the pawnshop slip. He held it up for Thor to see. “The SOA is building a case against Westberg for collecting rent payments in souls through pawnshop deals. They sell their souls, bit by bit, and Westberg buys them up. Why?”
“You tell me.”
“He’s got to pay Odin’s tithes with something. Money isn’t going to cut it.” Thor stared at him without blinking, and Patrick sighed tiredly. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Thor shrugged expansively before starting to sort dirty glasses into a plastic bin. “Everything has a price.”
Patrick glared at Thor, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “How many people have to die until he’s satisfied with a candidate’s tithes?”
“It depends on the soul’s worth. You know that.” Thor shook his head as he leaned over to check the kegs hooked to the draft spigots. “Odin asks for payment. If a candidate wants to win, they’ll pay it.”
“I find it real hard to believe that a man who spouts his hatred and disgust about magic would do a one-eighty and suddenly be willing to get down and dirty with the preternatural world.”
“Mortals have always done crazy things for power. Why are you surprised?” Hinon said.
“Closeted about his beliefs is one thing. Having an immortal as his campaign manager means I can’t discount the possibility he’s a victim here.” Patrick drummed his fingers against the bar counter. “If it’s a god using him
