Freyr looked at Thor, then at the towering rock face. “Are you insane?”

  Thor gestured farther along the path. “This carries on to the other side of the mountain before it switches back again. But our attacker came from there.” He pointed nearly straight over their heads. “You know what they say about the shortest distance between any two points.”

  “Even with the right equipment, there’s no way.” Freyr ran a hand over the rock’s smooth surface. “It’s too slick, nothing to grab hold of, nothing to plant an anchor in.”

  Thor pressed his palms against the mountain and started looking for footholds.

  “There is no way you’re going straight up. Particularly without a rope.” Freyr shoved his hands deep into his pockets in protest.

  With a loud sigh, Thor gave up trying to climb and backed away from the smooth rock face. “So we’re agreed that this is likely part of the Frost Giants’ stronghold.”

  A fist-sized rock landed with a thud a few inches from Thor’s left boot. Shielding his eyes as he looked up, Thor caught the dark silhouette of a lanky figure before his adversary ducked out of sight. A thin cackle of laughter drifted down from above.

  “Nibelung’s bloody hoard!” Thor pounded on the rock face with his fist. A new shower of pebbles and dirt rained down.

  Freyr brushed the detritus out of his hair and coughed. “I think he’s playing with us.”

  Thor glared at him. “You think?”

  “Whoever that is, he knows we’re here. And we know he knows it. I’m not sure getting caught up in a cat-and-mouse game is such a good idea right now.”

  Thor waited for his adversary to peer over the edge again to taunt him. Nothing happened.

  “It is possible he’s trying to lure us into a trap.” Thor rested his hands flat on the rock wall. Another softball-sized stone sailed downward, bounced off the ground, and hit him in the shin. Instead of exclaiming in pain and anger, Thor cleared his throat and scanned upward. Again, there was no sign of the mischief-maker, though there was another burst of high-pitched laughter.

  “Does that sound like a Frost Giant to you?”

  Freyr shook his head. “This isn’t their behavior, either.” He gestured toward the grassy ledge, now far below. “The boulder, that made sense. Giants love throwing big rocks around, as I recall.”

  Thor squinted against the sun and kept looking up. Large chunks of stone in general had been the giants’ weapons of choice even after they learned how to carve spearheads and forge iron. And their accuracy couldn’t be beaten. No one ever bet against a Frost Giant packing a boulder.

  Freyr kicked at the rocks that had been thrown at Thor’s feet. “If he wanted to hurt us, he’d have done it already.”

  Another rock came hurtling down, this time glancing off Thor’s shoulder before it ricocheted off the side of the mountain. Thor looked up with a dark scowl. Normally, he’d hurl insults and threats at this slippery enemy and escalate the situation into a more direct threat that he could easily dispatch. Instead, he turned and continued climbing the path.

  “Whoever this hooligan is,” Thor announced as his foot hit gravel and slid awkwardly to the left, “we ignore him.”

  Freyr struggled to keep up. “Ignore him?”

  Thor glanced over his shoulder. “Pretend to ignore him. Either he’s trying to distract us away from continuing along this path and discovering what lies ahead, or he’s out to try my patience and cause unnecessary mischief.” Thor slipped again and caught himself on the rock wall. “Either way, it’s not worth my time.”

  A few yards ahead, another rock shot down from above and landed squarely in Thor’s path. Thor stepped over it and continued forward.

  “Have you noticed he’s only aiming at you?” Freyr pushed himself to keep Thor’s pace. “Maybe it’s personal.”

  Thor had noticed. Whoever was up there obviously had a beef with him, or was sympathetic to his Vanir cousin. Continuing forward, Thor made a mental inventory of old scores someone might want to settle, and of any and all deities, creatures, and various other beings he and his father had ever imprisoned or banished. Frost Giants, volcanic elementals, Vralnick dwarves, bog faeries, at least a dozen Doorish elvenkin, Magecats, an offshoot tribe of sorceraptors, that clan of halfling Entweilders . . .

  The list was too long to keep track of without a detailed spreadsheet. And spreadsheets made Thor think of photocopiers, and toner, and repair manuals in thick three-ring binders.

  Thor growled deep in his throat.

  “Of course, you’re also a bigger—and louder—target,” Freyr added.

  Thor ignored his cousin. Some of those vendettas were brewing long before the peace between the Æsir and Vanir and before Freya and Freyr were adopted into Odin’s Lodge as members of his own clan. Thor glanced casually upward. For all he knew, Freyr could unwittingly have an ally in the rocks above.

  Thor kept hiking upward along the rocky path.

  10

  Maggie sat on a wooden chair at the head of Loki’s bed. He was still unconscious. He hadn’t moved so much as a toe since Maggie first found him.

  “Go ahead, Lady Maggie,” Iduna taunted from a corner of the room. Sitting directly beneath one of the skylights, the goddess lounged in a cushioned chair—provided with great fanfare by the giant Thiassen—and combed through her golden hair with her fingers. The sunlight danced on her tresses.

  “Use your bag of enchanted tools to heal the slumbering god,” Iduna added with an unpleasant curl of her lip.

  Maggie looked at her purse on the floor. She hadn’t come up with any way to revive Loki using her passport or lip balm.

  “Is this normal?” Maggie gestured toward Loki’s motionless body. “You know more about this than I do, right?”

  Iduna sniffed, which Maggie took for annoyed assent.

  “And yet you’ve been spectacularly unhelpful,” Maggie said flatly. “Loki is supposed to be your kinsman.”

  With a labored sigh, Iduna turned to face Maggie. “What do you want from me, young one? The answers to all the questions of the Cosmos? The keys to immortality? The approval and smiling affection you didn’t get from your parents growing up?”

  “Umm, yeah,” Maggie frowned back at her. “Way to overreact.”

  Iduna returned to grooming her long, shining hair.

  “What I meant was,” Maggie continued, trying to keep the mounting irritation out of her voice, “you’re one of the Old Ones, just like Loki. Isn’t there anything you can do for him?”

  Iduna sighed darkly, again. “I won’t do your work for you, young one. You’ll have to prove or disprove your worth all on your own.” Iduna closed her eyes and lifted her face toward the sunlight. “I am in mourning. I am not expected to perform healing work.”

  Maggie rose to her feet. “Even in an emergency?”

  Iduna huffed.

  Feeling angry tears rising, Maggie closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. She needed to keep calm, but all she could think about was her current situation. She’d been no help on the phone to Saga, and Heimdall had been too upset to even talk to her. And she still didn’t know where she was.

  Maybe no one was coming for her.

  Maggie sat back down. She poked at the sliced apples laid out on the small table beside her. Again with the apples! Was there honestly no other food besides apples and stale bread? She lifted one of the slices to her lips, nibbled at the end of it, and dropped it back on the plate. No, she definitely was not loving these apples.

  “They’ve demonstrated great respect by offering you those,” Iduna chided. “You might show a little gratitude.”

  Maggie glanced across the floor and noticed the untouched plate of apples on the small table next to Iduna’s chair. “You’re not eating, either.”

  “That’s different,” Iduna snapped. She gathered her hair into a honey-colored sheaf behind her head, twisted it, and then pulled the long rope of curls forward over one shoulder.

  Maggie moved her chair to within a few feet of Iduna and sat down. Iduna visibly stiffened at her proximity.

  “I know there’s a lot I still don’t know about your history, and about Odin and the others,” Maggie started gently. “If I’ve been disrespectful, it was completely unintentional. I am trying to learn.” Maggie leaned forward, trying to catch Iduna’s eye. “You said you’re a widow.”

  Iduna’s face hardened, and for a moment Maggie expected she was in for a solid tongue-lashing. But then Iduna looked down at the polished stone floor, her eyes glistening. “Yes.”

  Maggie scooted her chair closer. “Can you tell me more about that? I don’t mean to pry, but . . . ?”

  “What is there to tell?” Iduna lifted her porcelain hands into the air in a gesture of futility. “Ragnarok is simply a little more drawn out than we’d expected.”

  “What are you talking about?” Maggie rested her elbows on her knees. “Heimdall and Odin defeated Managarm at the base of the new Yggdrasil. Even Fenrir had his chance, but then he took off running.”

  “There were other casualties that day.” Iduna wiped at her eyes with slender fingers and offered a sad chuckle. “And look around you, Maggie. Does this really look like Gimlé to you?”

  “Gimlé?” Maggie shook her head. “You’ve lost me.”

  Iduna smiled with a hint of condescension. “An exquisitely beautiful place, rather like what your kind might think of as the Biblical Garden of Eden, where the survivors of Ragnarok are destined to dwell.”

  Maggie surveyed the stone room with its dark walls and sparse furniture. She wondered if even an army of interior decorators could make such a place feel warm and homey.

  “Okay, but the jury’s still out on whether all of that really was Ragnarok, or if the old rules and prophecies even apply any more.” Maggie tried to remember the points Saga and Freya had made during the half-dozen fireside “Doomsday Debates” that raged at the Lodge, and which had Maggie zoning out after eating too many turkey legs and heaping servings of roasted vegetables.

  “Even the Norns can’t say definitively whether or not that was the Twilight of the Gods everyone’s been so worried about,” she said.

  “The Norns?” Iduna scoffed. “They couldn’t prophesy their way out of a goat-skin pouch. They only play at eloquence, with their shrieking and deliberately cryptic divinations. They don’t have the true gift of poetry and verse that Bragi had . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked away, the sunlight catching the tears in her eyes.

  “Holy cow.” Maggie sat suddenly upright. “Bragi was your husband. You’re Bragi’s widow.”

  “I couldn’t leave my grove when the others journeyed to the New World in search of the young Yggdrasil.” Iduna smiled sadly at her hands in her lap. “And Bragi couldn’t stay. He longed to explore, to weave the new adventures of the Old Ones into epic sagas.”

  She lifted her face. “We may have been what you would have called estranged, but I loved him still.” Her smile looked more like a grimace. “When you’ve been partnered for thousands of years, what’s a couple of centuries apart?”

  Maggie didn’t know if she should place a comforting hand on Iduna’s shoulder, or just sit tight. She clasped her hands together in her lap instead.

  She couldn’t imagine living for thousands of years, much less being married to the same person that whole time. She was still getting used to the idea that Heimdall and his family had been around for centuries and centuries, living the history she could only read about in books. And now here was another immortal sitting before her, looking just as young and healthy as any fitness trainer. Heimdall would stay vigorous forever, too, while Maggie aged and eventually died.

  Maggie winced. “I am so sorry.”

  Iduna dismissed her condolences with a shake of the head. “But Managarm killed him. And then the Frost Giants came, and they took everything from the grove. The entire harvest.”

  She nodded toward the untouched apple slices on her own plate. “We’ve always needed these to keep up our strength. A decade’s vitality in every bite,” she said with an empty laugh. “I don’t think I’ll be eating any more of them. With any mercy, I’ll soon be like him.” She gestured toward Loki. “The others may think differently, but this is Ragnarok, and I’ve had enough of it.”

  Maggie sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. She wanted to argue with Iduna. She wanted to beg her to intercede on Loki’s behalf and try to help Maggie escape even if she had no interest getting out herself. But Maggie knew better than to goad someone who was determined to grieve.

  Maggie got up from her chair and approached the pedestal bed. Loki was white as snow. His skin was nearly translucent now, and it had tightened around the features of his face. She laid her hands on his chest, then shivered at the feel of his ribs through both his clothing and the heavy blanket draped over him.

  “Loki.” Maggie rested a hand on his cool brow. She was too tired for tears, and there was still a chill in her bones from the short time she’d spent on the roof. She hadn’t been sleeping, either; every time she closed her eyes, she saw Heimdall’s face or found herself consumed with thoughts of how to rig an IV for Loki out of a digital camera, a pack of tissues, and a tampon.

  “So he’d be okay if he could just eat?” Maggie asked over her shoulder, but Iduna was silent.

  Maggie had already tried putting bits of bread into Loki’s mouth and pouring in small amounts of water, hoping his body’s instincts to eat and drink would take over, but nothing happened. She was afraid she’d soon be sharing her captivity with a corpse—two, if Iduna had her way.

  She pulled her chair over to sit next to Loki’s bed. Iduna had gone back to ignoring her, which was fine with Maggie. She glanced again at the sliced apples, wondering why they hadn’t begun to turn brown after sitting out for several hours. She picked up the slice she’d nibbled earlier and tried snacking on it again. She’d lost her own appetite, but she hadn’t completely given up hope of getting out of this stone fortress and back to some semblance of real life. Somehow.

  Maggie stopped chewing. She stared at the piece of apple in her fingers. A decade’s vitality in every bite. Geirrod said they’d tried feeding the apples to the unconscious Loki, but they couldn’t get him to swallow.

  “There’s more than one way to get your daily servings of fruits and veggies,” Maggie whispered.

  She reached for the stone goblet of water that sat on the small table by Loki’s bed, and she drank down the contents until only a few tablespoons remained. She dumped a few apple slices into the goblet and picked up a heavy spoon from the table. Turning the spoon stem-side down in her hand, she started grinding the apples against the goblet’s smooth interior.

  “Just hang on, Loki. I’ve got an idea.” She glanced toward Iduna sitting in the sunlight in the far corner, lost in her own thoughts.

  Maggie pulled the goblet into her lap and secured the base between her thighs. She pressed down harder with the spoon, crushing the apple bits into a softening mash.

  “Lady Maggie?” Geirrod appeared in the doorway. “Is there something unsatisfactory with your food today?”

  She didn’t look up. “It’s fine.” She grunted with the effort of working the apple pieces into a soggy pulp. “But I’ll tell you what you could do . . .”

  She paused to gauge the contents of the goblet. The apples had been reduced to a coarse mash, with a thin layer of amber-colored liquid sitting on top. A glimmer of a smile played across her lips.

  Geirrod took a few steps into the room. “Lady Maggie?”

  Maggie started grinding the apples again. “Bring me more water, and more sliced apples.” She glanced up at him. “And a mortar and pestle, if you’ve got it.”

  Geirrod watched her a moment longer, trying to understand her sudden flurry of activity.

  Maggie sighed heavily. “You got that?”

  Geirrod dropped into a half-bow. “Of course. I will see to it immediately.”

  She waited until the giant disappeared down the dark corridor, then paused again to examine the apple mash. She packed down the solid material as much as possible, then held the goblet to Loki’s mouth.

  “Okay, Loki.” She parted his pale lips with the edge of the goblet and used the spoon to keep the mashed apple from spilling out. Slowly, she poured the small bit of liquid into Loki’s mouth. “You won’t drink water, but let’s see if you’ll drink this.”

  Maggie sat back and watched. Geirrod would reappear any minute, probably with a whole bushel of apples and several vats of water. Now that she had an idea of what he’d likely expect from her later, his chivalry creeped her out.

  She clutched the goblet to her chest. “Come on, Loki. It’s good for you, I promise.”

  “Why waste your time?” Iduna called from across the room. “Accept your fate: We’ll both be brides to these giants, whether we like it or not. No one’s coming, not for either of us.”

  Maggie heard Geirrod’s approaching footsteps. If this didn’t work, she didn’t know how she’d explain her sudden need for more of the precious apples. She watched Loki’s chest. Was it her imagination, or did she now detect the rise and fall of his breath? She turned her attention to his throat and watched for any sign of life.

  Loki swallowed.

  Maggie nearly leapt out of her seat. “Loki!” she exclaimed as loud as she dared.

  Iduna rose from her chair. “What is it?”

  Geirrod appeared in the doorway carrying a large woven basket, and Maggie motioned for Iduna to be silent. The giant lifted the basket for Maggie’s approval, then crossed the stone floor and set it down a few feet from her chair.

  “I apologize for the informal presentation.” Geirrod knelt and lifted a pail of sliced apples and a large pitcher of water out of the basket. “The urgency of your request led me to believe that any delay, even to arrange the fruit on a platter befitting a deity of your status, would be an unacceptable hindrance.”

  Maggie nodded curtly, and she heard Iduna’s attempt at stifling a snort. She hoped Geirrod didn’t notice the excited tears brimming in her eyes.