Odin's Murder

The time between the other side of the portal and this one is short, almost nonexistent. One second the god is in the prism glass and the next it is filled with fog, and a huge presence looms behind us. He’s here, walking from the center of the stones, and we’re in the company of a god and no one seems to know what to do.

Memory threads her fingers into mine.

“Do we bow? Or genuflect, or something?” Julian whispers.

“If you like,” he says. His voice is quiet but deep, and resonates in my sternum, like thunder or a subwoofer sound system. “But it is not necessary. This is your home, too.”

His cloak flows over some kind of armor, layers of metal and leather, etched with rows upon rows of runes. Faye squeaks. My heart goes into overdrive. I’m in the presence of a god. Ethan Tyrell; orphan, delinquent, felon.

“Welcome, children,” he says. The air around him is crystalline, a mirage. He stops in front of us, looks us up and down, takes off the battered helmet that shields his face.

“You’re the guy from the library,” Julian says with a gasp. “Waiting on the steps. You had a blue raincoat, and an old Stetson.”

I look closer. One golden eye stares back. “You were at the luau.”

“And at Sonja’s house, walking by,” Memory whispers. Faye nods.

He points toward me. I’m rooted to the spot, gawking at the hand that looks like it’s been carved of marble. Memory tugs on my hand, but when I can’t move, she takes the crow from my shoulder, places her on Odin’s wrist.

He slides his fingers under Sonja’s wings, coaxing them to extend, and then he twists his hands, molding her into shape, easing a girl out of the crow.

Sonja looks around, wild and shaking. Blood trickles from her wrists, her ankles, and the gruesome empty eye socket in her terrified face. Faye whimpers. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, and press my fist into my stomach to keep it from heaving.

“Muninn,” Odin says. He extends a hand, palm up, grooved like ax marks on stone.

Memory doesn’t let go of me. She turns her other hand over, where the amber orb sits cupped by her fingers, anchored by the weird setting. He examines it a long time, tugs on the hat brim that hides his left eye. Then he plucks the stone from the silver, and rolls the yellow gem in his palms. “Daughter, come here.”

The god steps forward when Sonja doesn’t budge, and works his hands over her face. She cries out, but when he moves away, her features are whole, fresh scar tissue knitting together around a left eye with an amber iris, a perfect match to his right. She blinks, touches her face. Memory wraps her arms around her when she staggers, but Sonja takes a deep breath. “Where is my mother?” Sonja asks.

“She is not of my blood, and does not cross into this realm,” he says. “Mimir is born of earth, and the well of knowledge.”

“We are your blood? Your children?” Julian shakes his head. “But I look exactly like my dad—”

“I am your first father, a thousand generations ago.”

“The tree, the family tree in Miriam’s dining room! She kept track of all the descendants.” Faye says, and turns to Sonja. “We’re on it?”

She nods. “She hid you all. Your name is behind the china cabinet. Ethan’s is under the baseboard. She hid everyone, except me.” Her voice is bitter and cracks at the end.

“It would have been hard for her to hide you, daughter.” Odin smiles a little from his gray beard.

“But the first crow. Kaunan. It died without children,” Faye protests. “It was in the book. Tyrsdotter raised the stone, because Kaunan didn’t have anyone to do it for her. So how is Sonja one of your children? How did her blood pass through—”

“Shut up, Faye,” I say, as Sonja’s head raises, stares at the god who has stepped to his throne.

“But—” The tiny girl huffs. Julian nudges her.

“You’re my FATHER?” Sonja shrieks. Her voice shifts, becomes a crow’s squawk, and with a puff of feathers that drift and disappear, a crow flaps in her place, wings frantic and awkward.

This is not happening. My father is a businessman from Oslo. He sent child support every month and presents on my birthday and Christmas and when I was little I pretended he was Santa Claus, and the voice trails off into a wail.

Memory holds out her wrist and the crow lands, still muttering. “This is a lot to take in all at once,” she says to Odin.

“It’s been many years, since you were here with me. I’ve been waiting,” he replies.

“Why did you wait?” Julian asks. “Why now? Why us?”

“In order to right the wrong properly, all five of you needed to be there. We needed Sonja.”