Norse Code Part 3

He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, only to find it missing, and laughed a little. Despite his disappointment in Mist, he was proud of her for having thought to nick his phone. Any delay in his ability to notify Radgrid about what she'd done would buy Mist a bit of time.

Slowly, he got up and stood over the corpse of Adrian Hoover. Judging by his color and smell, he'd been dead for a few days. Mist had given herself a good head start.

"Buddy," Grimnir said to the dead man, "Mist really put her a.s.s into trying to save your life. I hope you appreciate it."

Leaving the warehouse, Grimnir started looking for a car to steal. He had a renegade Valkyrie to track down.

HERMOD WALKED DOWN Centinela Avenue into drilling rain. He disliked the lightness of his duffel bag and missed his sword, not that it would do him much good at the moment, when his most formidable opponents were the buses that huffed by, kicking up rooster tails of dirty water.

Ahead, Winston darted from puddle to puddle, his tail wagging off globs of water. A late lunch of two grackles had put the dog in a particularly chipper mood, but Hermod's head was pounding too much from the beating the Ironwood giantess had given him to feel chipper. And there were wolves on the loose, very dangerous ones, and he'd helped set them free. Ragnarok was inevitable, Hermod understood and accepted that, but that didn't mean he wanted to be the one who finally set it off.

He needed to find those wolves.

And once he did, then what? What could he do? Nothing, probably. But should he find himself facing down a sky-eating wolf, doing so unarmed was definitely worst-case. So, there. One relatively simple errand to focus on: find himself a blade. And for that, he needed a dwarf.

Several hours of walking brought him to a neighborhood of payday loan services, nail salons, liquor stores, and a great many boarded-up storefronts. Nothing about the area distinguished itself from the rest of LA, but Hermod came to a pensive stop. There was something weird here.

Winston barked and c.o.c.ked his head inquisitively.

"I don't know," Hermod said. "But I've got a feeling. I think there's a seam close by."

Winston barked again.

"Why do I even bother talking to you? It's not like you understand what I'm saying. I could have just said, 'I think there's a dancing banana close by.'"

The dog squatted and shat.

After another several blocks, Hermod halted before a boxy stucco building beside a fenced yard. HOLLYWOOD Sc.r.a.p AND SALVAGE, read the sign in front. Hermod's legs s.h.i.+vered, registering danger, and he checked the zipper of his duffel before remembering that he was unarmed. These late days were not a time to squeeze between seams without protection, but a powerful impulse drew him along. It was in his nature to explore.

Inside, he stood on a cracked tile floor, water dripping from his sleeves and pants legs. A roly-poly Hispanic man with a Dodgers ball cap leaned against a cluttered counter, sipping Pepsi from a bottle. He gave Hermod a skeptical glare.

"I need one of those things," Hermod said, gesturing vaguely with a hooked index finger. "One of those plumbing fixtures, you know? I don't know what it's called."

"Looks like what you need is one of those, whatchamacallits, umbrellas." The man chuckled at his own joke.

"Yeah. Well, first the plumbing thing. Mind if I take a look out back?"

With a slight jerk of his head, the man indicated the door leading out to the yard. Then, "Hey, is that your dog out there? In the rain?"

"Yeah, he's fine. He likes it."

"That's cruel, man. Let him inside. I got some chicken."

Hermod's stomach clenched with jealousy.

"That's very kind of you, but he just ate. He'll be fine."

"A person who can't take care of himself shouldn't have a dog. If you want your plumbing 'thing,' then you let me feed him."

Hermod relented, lingering inside while Dodgers Cap ruffled Winston's coat. When the man stripped the breading off a fried chicken breast and started feeding Winston strips of white meat, Hermod could stand no more of this display of human decency and went back into the rain, into the metal and rust world of the sc.r.a.p yard.

Gutted was.h.i.+ng machines, water heaters, and refrigerators bounded muddy lanes. Rain plinked against hills of copper tubes snaking like exposed roots. Hermod wandered a random path, trusting instinct to guide him to his unknown destination, and wished again for the comforting weight of his sword.

He came to one heaping mound of sc.r.a.p composed of radiators, oven doors, cracked car m.u.f.flers, dented and gouged stainless-steel sinks. It looked no different from the other mounds in the yard, but Hermod knew his seam was here.

Cautiously, he removed a stained white monolith-the lid to a big freezer-and set it down in standing water. He remained motionless for a moment, fearful that the towering hill would collapse on him, but when no avalanche followed, he continued disa.s.sembling the mound, pulling free a wire birdcage, a patio-table top, a battered coffee percolator. Eventually he revealed a fissure in the jumbled ma.s.s. He leaned forward, poking his head into the black s.p.a.ce, and felt a wave of dry warmth drift over his face. His vision couldn't penetrate the darkness.

If there was another giant down there, or a litter of wolf pups, he would end up with much worse than a b.u.mp on the head. He sighed and squeezed through the fissure.

Feeling his way along the wall of metal junk, he shuffled forward carefully. After several paces he thought his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, but, no, there was light ahead, a faint orange glow that grew stronger the farther he went. His feet found a stairway, and he followed it down. The tangle of junk on either side of him gave way to plates of metal, joined together by rivets and bolts and welds like scar tissue. The steps under his feet were at first diamond-plate, then unfinished slabs of black iron, and then uneven lumps of thick, pitted metal. The light here was much stronger, like the inside of a wood-fired pizza oven. A metallic tang that reminded Hermod of blood hung in the air. His footfalls sounded echoing clanks.

He landed on the final step, and before him was a door, heavy and mighty as a bank vault but of a darker color. There was no k.n.o.b or handle, so he pushed on it, and it swung open with b.u.t.tery smoothness.

He walked through. Pots and pans and kettles and cauldrons hung by hooks from the ceiling. Hermod had to bend to avoid striking his head on them. A low workbench the size of a Ping-Pong table bore a messy array of tools-hammers, wrenches, tongs, clamps. Finer tools were arranged on a smaller table. Hermod didn't recognize most of them, but they had the look of a jeweler's precise instruments. He found a bicycle clamped upside down to a rig. He found a pile of golf clubs. And on a table of its own, beneath a silvery cloth, he saw a long, slender object that he knew would be a sword. He peeled back the cloth.

The blade was difficult to look at. Something about the way it reflected light was fundamentally wrong, as if the photons were taking strange detours on their way to Hermod's eyes.

"Burglar!"

"Thief!"

Hermod dropped the cloth back over the sword. A pair of dwarves glared at him, their eyes coal-dark and rimmed with red. Standing chest-high to him, they wore leather ap.r.o.ns over breeches of thick cloth, revealing bunched muscles in their powerful arms. Their faces were dark and furry, like big coconuts.

"I'm not a thief. I'm a customer. My name is Hermod."

The two dwarves-brothers, Hermod suspected-exchanged a look.

"That name means nothing to us," one of them said. His chin was fringed with a copper-colored beard. The other had a beard of silver.

"At the very least it means I've told you my name and you haven't told me yours," Hermod said in the dwarves' own language.

If the pair was impressed by Hermod's ability to speak in their tongue, they gave no indication of it.

"How did you get in here?" demanded the copper-bearded one.

"I walked. And then I went through your door. Which was unlocked."

"You idiot, Gustr!" spat the copper-bearded one, striking his brother with a hairy fist. "What's the point of having a door if you don't bother locking it?"

The other was uncowed. "I'm working on the lock, uri. I'm improving it."

uri raised his fist again, but then apparently thought the better of it. "Really? What did you have in mind?"

Gustr rubbed his palms together and revealed a smile of silver Chiclets. "What's the tightest, most closed-up thing you can think of?"

uri scratched his chin. "My jewel chest?"

"That flimsy thing?" Gustr said with a guffaw. "I could break into it with my fingernails."

"Oh, could you? Then I have to wonder why you've never bothered."

"How do you know I haven't? Maybe I did and just didn't find anything worth taking."

uri cracked his knuckles, a sound like smas.h.i.+ng walnuts. "If you did, you'd be cackling with ceaseless glee, because you're a braggart with no self-control."

Gustr seemed on the verge of a scathing comeback, but Hermod interrupted him with a cough. "Gentle men? Perhaps you could settle this later. I was hoping we could do business."

Both dwarves gave Hermod long, probing glances.

"Business usually implies an exchange of some sort," said Gustr. "You look like you'd be hard-pressed to exchange a pleasantry."

"You've really never heard of me?" Hermod asked.

The dwarves checked with each other silently, then shook their heads no.

"I'm Hermod," he said again, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. "Hermod, of Asgard. Of the Aesir. Hermod, son of Odin. I trust you've heard of Odin?"

"Of course," said uri, "but that hardly recommends you."

Hermod realized that if he'd spent more time building a reputation for recreational violence, people might be more impressed with him. It was hard to deny at least a grudging respect to someone who left mountains of b.l.o.o.d.y corpses wherever he walked.

"I would like to negotiate the purchase of a sword," he said, tight-jawed.

"We don't have any swords," said Gustr.

"We're not in the weapons trade," agreed uri.

"What about that one?" Hermod shot back, his voice ringing off the pots suspended from the ceiling. "The one under the cloth?"

"It's a commission," said Gustr.

"Already spoken for," said his brother. "Anyway, it's not finished."

In truth, Hermod didn't want that sword. That one was embedded with something he didn't understand, a deep enchantment of some kind. Enchanted blades were as likely to draw blood from those who carried them as from their enemies.

"And it's a very interesting blade," said Hermod. "The sort of thing crafted by wise, experienced hands. I can't believe it's the only sword you've got in the entire shop."

The brothers leaned their furry heads close together and exchanged low muttering. Then, "We may be able to dig something up," said uri. "What have you got to pay with?"

Hermod knew he didn't have much to interest them. They'd be unimpressed by his meager bag of coins, and, besides, he needed to save his money; a sword wasn't the only thing on his shopping list. But maybe this was an opportunity, a chance to test just how badly he was bound in a chain of events. Some body or something had wanted him to find the giant in Ironwood, had put him in a place and at a time in which he couldn't help but find the wolf den. It had also been awfully easy for him to find this seam to the dwarves' workshop. Yes, it was time to test his bonds.

And, of course, maybe that's how they-or it, or whatever-got you, by convincing you that you were acting of your own free will when you were really just dancing on the strings.

He rummaged through his duffel bag. It was pretty slim pickings in there: the hotel towels that had formerly swaddled his sword, a slim bar of soap, his canteen, a spare s.h.i.+rt, a hardened old piece of Hel cake. For this to be a proper test, he reasoned, he should select the most worthless possession he had. He withdrew a tattered postcard.

"There is a place in Midgard where many worlds collide," he said. "Egyptian pyramids, New York skysc.r.a.pers, the Eiffel Tower, the ca.n.a.ls of Venice-all within sight of one another. Anything you could want, they can provide." He held up the postcard. The words Viva Las Vegas ran across the photo in pink script. "This image was captured with a device that grabs light and holds it, frozen for all time. If you have a sword worthy of my hand, I will trade you this for it."

Gustr looked at his brother. "What about that one I saw you toss on the sc.r.a.p heap yesterday?"

"I was going to melt it down for nails."

"Let the Aesir have it instead."

uri considered this for a moment. "I don't think we're getting the better part of this deal."

"Of course we're not," said Gustr. "It's just a postcard. But at least then we'll be rid of him."

The brothers scowled at each other in silent consultation, and then uri stalked off, disappearing behind a row of sc.r.a.p bins. He emerged a moment later with a mutt of a broadsword. The hilt was wrapped in scarred hide. A number of nicks ran down the length of the blade, a few so deep one could tuck a poker chip inside. uri held it in one hand. He held his other hand out toward Hermod, twitching impatiently for Hermod to hand over the postcard. The exchange was made.

It was a poor blade, but it was simple metal, and Hermod liked that. "I don't suppose you'd throw in a scabbard?"

The brothers made only rude noises, so Hermod wrapped the blade in his towels and stashed it in his duffel bag. He turned to take his leave, again feeling vaguely ill as he pa.s.sed the strange sword.

"Who's this one for, anyway?"

Gustr opened his mouth to say something, but the other dwarf drove an elbow into his side.

"I wasn't going to tell him," Gustr protested.

"I know," uri said, "because I wasn't going to let you."

And Hermod left the brothers to bicker, their voices echoing in the metal pa.s.sage as he climbed the iron stairs.

The weight of the sword in his duffel bag felt good. He didn't suppose there was much chance he could leave it in there for long.

G.o.dS SHOULD BE easier to find. After two days in Los Angeles, Mist had seen no sign nor turned up any leads concerning Hermod's whereabouts in the places where the NorseCODE files said he'd been spotted. She'd thought a G.o.d walking around in Midgard would leave more of an impression.

As early darkness approached, she dashed down the sidewalk through hailstones that clattered against the pavement like molars. She dove out of the cold into a warm, dry place called Cafe Lascaux. As she peeled off her raincoat and hung it on a rack by the door, the smells of dark, loamy coffee and cinnamon enveloped her. She sighed with pleasure. It had been almost a day since her last coffee, and if she was going to continue her search, she needed a little time for nourishment and regrouping.

She'd covered her tracks as well as she could, drawing funds from her own savings to buy a used Toyota Corolla in Boston and then paying cash for gas and food in a sprint across the country. The expenses had almost broken her, but she couldn't risk using her NorseCODE credit cards.

n.o.body noticed as she walked to the counter; the other customers were absorbed in their laptop screens, their copies of Daily Variety and Advertising Age. Then Mist noticed a bearded man in a leather jacket across the cafe, looming over his little round table like a bear over a pancake.

She ordered a quadruple-shot Americano and waited for it to appear on the counter before joining Grimnir.

"So. You found me," she said, blowing ripples across the top of her drink.

"Found you? Come on now, give me credit, kid. I did better than just find you. I planted myself somewhere you've never been, before you even got here." He'd bought a new homburg, which he wore over a black bandanna covering the back of his head and neck.

"Neat trick," Mist said. "I didn't know you could predict the future."

"Anyone can predict the future. Some people don't even stink at it." He leaned forward, going into his tutor mode. "I snuck a GPS tracker into the lining of your jacket months ago. I've been following you since Ohio."

"And you figured I'd be coming in for a cup of coffee before too long." Mist sipped her Americano. It was thin and still too hot.

"Well, I know I sure as s.h.i.+t needed one. That was mean, by the way, betraying me and cutting my head near off. But nicely done. Looks like I managed to teach you something after all." He took a sip from his mug. Whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles clung to his mustache.

"What happens next, Grim? Do you kill me now, or do you take me to Radgrid first?"