“We must save the Allfather first.”
Honestly, Patrick would let the greedy bastard rot if it meant Chicago would survive. Since that wasn’t a guarantee, he was back at square one.
Saving the gods because they couldn’t save themselves.
Still don’t get paid enough for this bullshit.
The dark waters of Lake Michigan were broken by something darker and larger breaching the surface before diving back under. The dead at the shoreline didn’t seem to notice or care that some of them were turning out to be dinner for a lake monster.
Something clawed at the back of Patrick’s mind, but he lost the thought when another pegasus dropped out of the clouds to their left, a valkyrie astride it with spear in hand. More and more valkyries slipped free of the clouds to flank Eir on their dive toward Yggdrasil and the shadow Patrick could see hanging from its glowing branches.
All the stories Patrick knew of Odin’s making flashed through his mind—of the knowledge gained from sacrifice, an eye lost forever, and the right to rule engrained forever in his myth.
But the Æsir had lost their presence on Earth, and Midgard had turned into something different and more modern, shaking free of the world tree into its own tale.
Yet here Yggdrasil grew, with Niflheim clawing at its roots, the veil torn between two worlds in a way it never should have.
Odin might hang from its branches once more, but it was the person who had tied the noose they needed to stop.
As the valkyries dove toward earth, something buried deep in Patrick’s soul tugged hard, and he knew—he knew—what waited for them on the ground.
Hannah.
20
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” Patrick chanted as Töfrandi dodged ground-to-air blasts of magic that seared the swirling snow around them.
“Hold on!” Eir shouted.
“Like I’m going to let go?”
Patrick’s yell was whipped away by the wind, the snow-covered ground rising up to meet them—and with it, Hel.
The goddess of death welcomed their approach with open arms and the ranks of Dominion Sect magic users taking aim at the valkyries. Her braided white hair whipped away from her face in the wind, and the power surrounding her was a malevolent force pulling at the corpses on the shore. Patrick knew his shields wouldn’t be enough to counter the combined magic rising up to meet them.
Wade, however, had no problem with that.
He came up from the other side of Yggdrasil, mouth open wide and dragon fire pouring out of his throat. The high heat seared past a huge, gnarled root of the world tree before burning through the rear ranks of the magic users. Wade wiped them all out, but the root remained whole.
And Hel, well, she was an entirely different and difficult problem Wade had no hope of dealing with alone despite his resistance to magic. Luckily, he had air support coming in.
“I’m getting off,” Patrick shouted. “Keep Hel away from me.”
There were more gods than just Hel on the battlefield, but Patrick knew how to fight a multifront war. The ground rushed up to meet them, and Patrick pitched himself off Töfrandi, dagger in hand, mageglobes filled with magic, and the soulbond humming between him and Jono, wherever Jono might be on the battlefield.
Patrick let loose a shock wave spell that sent half a dozen Dominion Sect magic users flying off their feet. Patrick kept his soul open to the soulbond, channeling external magic as if his life depended on it—because it did.
And so did Odin’s.
Patrick hit the ground and rolled with the impact. He crashed against a root, which was fine because it provided enough cover for the second it took to get his bearings. Then Patrick came up swinging, throwing combat magic at the enemy, holding on to his dagger with fingers that still had Thor’s dried blood on them.
It was warm between Yggdrasil’s roots, and the branches seemed impossibly high overhead. As Patrick looked up at where Odin hung from the branches, all he could see was the vastness of space between each leaf, and all the stars of the universe cradled there in a rainbow of colors. He could’ve drowned in it, and would have if Heimdallr didn’t cover his eyes.
“That bridge is not yours to see,” the god growled into his ear.
Patrick jerked away, lowering his gaze to the ground so he didn’t lose himself. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Heimdallr swung his sword around in time to behead a hellhound trying to sneak up on them. “Searching for the Allfather, like you.”
“With your eyes, I figured you would’ve found him before they strung him up.”
“The Fates on every side all play a wicked game of blindness.” Heimdallr’s gold teeth were a flash in his mouth when he smiled. “Your wolf sleeps and Fenrir rides his skin. Keep that one away from the Allfather.”
The pull in the soulbond told Patrick that Jono was close—and the deeper, thinner connection tangled up in everything else was a warning he couldn’t ignore.
“My sister is closing in. We need to get Odin cut down now.”
Heimdallr’s gaze flickered over Patrick’s shoulder, mouth tightening into a grim line. “Hel is coming. Go. I will cover you.”
Patrick spared a glance behind him in time to see the goddess rounding the massive trunk of the world tree. She’d foregone the suit in favor of an evening gown, probably for the fundraiser dinner, but had kicked off her heels at some point. Hel had shed whatever glamour kept people from looking too closely at her human face. Her face was young-looking, but her body was old, skin wrinkled and bruised rotten in places.
The wind blowing over them brought the smell of death, and Patrick knew they were running out of time.
Heimdallr moved past him, the god’s aura blazing, and Patrick turned away to save his eyes. He looked up at the distance between himself and the body hanging
