The corroded sword was still in my hand. I felt my pulse against the metal as if the sword itself had developed a heartbeat. Resonating up the blade, all You can renew it, Randolph had told me. I could almost believe the old weapon was stirring, waking up. Not fast enough, though. Surt kicked me in the ribs and sent me sprawling. I lay flat on my back, staring at the smoke in the winter sky. Surt must have kicked me hard enough to trigger a near-death hallucination.
A hundred feet up, I saw a girl in armour on a horse made of mist, circling like a vulture over the battle. She held a spear made of pure light. Her chain mail shone like silvered glass. She wore a conical steel helmet over a green head wrap, sort of like a medieval knight. Her face was beautiful but stern. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. She dissolved into smoke. Then I remembered the other two giant explosions in Boston. Had Surt caused them, too?
Or brought along some fiery friends? At the edge of the bridge, Hearth staggered to his feet. A few unconscious pedestrians had started to stir. Hopefully they were out of danger by now. If I could keep Burning Man occupied, maybe the rest of the bystanders would have time to clear out, too.
Somehow I managed to stand. I looked at the sword and … yeah, I was definitely hallucinating. Instead of a corroded piece of junk, I held an actual weapon. The leatherwrapped grip felt warm and comfortable in my hand. The pommel, a simple polished-steel oval, helped counterweight the thirty-inch blade, which was double-edged and rounded at the tip, more for hacking than for stabbing. The sword was definitely humming now, almost like a human voice trying to find the right pitch.
Surt stepped back. His lava-red eyes flickered nervously. He swung his scimitar. Ever held a spinning top on the tip of your finger? You can feel it moving under its own power, tilting in all directions. The sword was like that. The Black One screamed. The wound in his thigh smouldered, setting his trousers on fire.
His blood sizzled and glowed like the flow from a volcano. His fiery blade dissipated. Before he could recover, my sword leaped upward and slashed his face. With a howl, Surt stumbled back, cupping his hands over his nose. To my left, someone screamed — the mother with the two kids. Hearth was trying to help her extract her toddlers from the stroller, which was now smoking and about to combust. With Surt still distracted, I limped over to Hearth and pointed down the bridge.
Get the kids out of here! He shook his head adamantly, hoisting one of the toddlers into his arms. The mom was cradling the other kid. Hearth gave me one last look: This is not a good idea. He took his hands from his face, and I saw why.
My self-guided sword had taken off his nose. Molten blood streamed down his cheeks, splattering on the ground in sizzling droplets.
His trousers had burned off, leaving him in a pair of flame-patterned red boxers. Between that and the newly sawed-off snout, he looked like a diabolical version of Porky Pig. Come and get it. Above me, I caught a glimpse of the weird grey apparition — a girl on a horse, circling like a vulture, watching. Instead of charging, Surt bent down and scooped asphalt from the road with his bare hands. He moulded it into a red-hot sphere of steaming gunk and pitched it towards me like a fastball.
I swung the sword, hoping to knock away the projectile. I missed. The asphalt cannonball ploughed into my gut and embedded itself — burning, searing, destroying.
The pain was so intense I felt every cell in my body explode in a chain reaction. Despite that, a strange sort of calm fell over me: I was dying. Part of me thought, All right. Make it count. My vision dimmed. The sword hummed and tugged at my hand, but I could barely feel my arms. Surt studied me, a smile on his ruined face. He wants the sword, I told myself. Weakly, I raised my free hand. He roared and charged. Just as he reached me, my sword leaped up and ran him through. I used the last of my strength to grapple him as his momentum carried us both over the railing.
The sky flashed in and out of view. I caught a glimpse of the smoky apparition — the girl on the horse diving towards me at a full gallop, her hand outstretched.
I hit the water. Then I died. The end. Back in school, I loved ending stories that way. Billy went to school. He had a good day. Then he died. It wraps everything up nice and neat. You just came close. Then you were miraculously rescued, blah, blah, blah. I actually died. One hundred per cent: guts impaled, vital organs burned, head smacked into a frozen river from forty feet up, every bone in my body broken, lungs filled with ice water.
The medical term for that is dead. Gee, Magnus, what did it feel like? It hurt. A lot. Thanks for asking. I started to dream, which was weird — not only because I was dead, but because I never dream. People have tried to argue with me about that. Until I was dead. Then I dreamed like a normal person. I was hiking with my mom in the Blue Hills. I was maybe ten years old. It was a warm summer day, with a cool breeze through the pines.
I managed three skips. My mom managed four. She always won. Neither of us cared. She would laugh and hug me and that was enough for me. To really understand Natalie Chase, you had to meet her. She used to joke that her spirit animal was Tinker Bell from Peter Pan.
If you can imagine Tinker Bell at age thirty-something, minus the wings,. She was a petite lady with delicate features, short blonde pixie hair and leaf-green eyes that sparkled with humour. Whenever she read me stories, I used to gaze at the spray of freckles across her nose and try to count them.
She radiated joy. She loved life. Her enthusiasm was infectious. She was the kindest, most easy-going person I ever knew … until the weeks leading up to her death. In the dream, that was still years in the future. We stood together at the pond. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of warm pine needles. She rarely talked about my dad. She had fond memories of their brief time together.
Ever since, it had been just the two of us. He destroyed me at stone skipping. That first day … it was perfect. Well, except for one thing. My mom called me pumpkin. Go ahead and laugh. As I got older, it embarrassed me, but that was while she was still alive. It felt strange to say my dad. My mom was about as literal and down-to-earth as you could get. She ruffled my hair.
He was walking his fingers across the collection of old maps. The man grinned. His clothes looked fresh from the store: blinding white sneakers, crisp new jeans and a Red Sox home jersey. His feathery hair was a mix of red, brown and yellow, tousled in a fashionable I-just-got-out-of-bedand-I-look-this-good sort of way.
His face was shockingly handsome. His lips were marred by a row of welts all the way around his mouth — maybe piercing holes that had closed over. But why would anyone have that many mouth piercings? He threw back his head and laughed. His grip was like steel. The dream changed. Suddenly I was flying through cold grey fog. She charged through the air on her nebulous horse, pulling me along at her side like I was a sack of laundry.
Her blazing spear was strapped across her back. Her chainmail armour glinted in the grey light. She tightened her grip. Looking below me, I saw nothing — just endless grey. I decided I did not want to fall into it. I tried to speak.
I shook my head weakly. Beneath her helmet, a few wisps of dark hair had escaped her green headscarf. Her eyes were the colour of redwood bark. My consciousness faded. I awoke gasping, every muscle in my body tingling with alarm. I sat up and grabbed my gut, expecting to find a burning hole where my intestines used to be. No smouldering asphalt was embedded there.
I felt no pain. The strange sword was gone. My clothes looked perfectly fine — not wet or burned or torn. In fact, my clothes looked too fine. They even had a warm lemony scent that reminded me of the good old days when my mom did my laundry. My shoes were like new, as shiny as when I dug them out of the dumpster behind Marathon Sports. Even weirder: I was clean. My skin felt freshly scrubbed. I ran my fingers through my hair and found no tangles, no twigs, no pieces of litter.
Slowly I got to my feet. I bounced on my heels. I felt like I could run a mile. I breathed in the smell of chimney fires and an approaching snowstorm. I almost laughed with relief. Where was I? Gradually my senses expanded. I was standing in the entry courtyard of an opulent town house, the kind you might see on Beacon Hill — eight storeys of imposing white limestone and grey marble jutting into the winter sky.
The double front doors were dark heavy wood bound with iron. Wolves … that alone was enough to make me hate the place. I turned to look for a street exit. How could you not have a front gate? I recognized some of the surrounding buildings. In the distance rose the towers of Downtown Crossing. I was probably on Beacon Street, just across from the Common. But how had I got here? In one corner of the courtyard stood a tall birch tree with pure white bark. I thought about climbing it to get over the wall, but the lowest branches were out of reach.
Not only that: its leaves glittered gold as if someone had painted them with twenty-four-carat gilt. Next to the tree, a bronze plaque was affixed to the wall. The inscriptions were in two languages. I had to get out of here. I had to get over that wall, find out what had happened to Blitz and Hearth — and maybe Uncle Randolph if I was feeling generous — then possibly hitchhike to Guatemala.
I was done with this town. Then the double doors swung inward with a groan. Blinding golden light spilled out. A burly man appeared on the stoop. His warty face was smeared with ashes. His eyes were bloodshot and murderous, and a doublebladed axe hung at his side. He shuffled closer and sniffed me. He smelled like turpentine and burning meat. Would it surprise you to learn that the place was bigger on the inside? Against the right wall, a fire crackled in a bedroom-size hearth.
In front of it, a few highschool-age guys in fluffy green bathrobes lounged on overstuffed leather couches, laughing and drinking from silver goblets. Over the mantel hung the stuffed head of a wolf. Oh, joy, I thought with a shudder. More wolves. Columns made from rough-hewn tree trunks held up the ceiling, which was lined with spears for rafters. Polished shields gleamed on the walls. Light seemed to radiate from everywhere — a warm golden glow that hurt my eyes like a summer afternoon after a dark theatre.
The doorman Hunding said something, but my head was ringing so badly I missed it. My backpack had apparently not been resurrected with me. Come on. His beard was so big it had its own zip code.
His hair looked like a buzzard that had exploded on a windshield. He was dressed in a forest-green pinstriped suit. All we have are suites. He still holds a grudge that Jesus never showed up for that duel he challenged him to. Is one sufficient? I feel fine. The V stands for Valhalla?
The Hotel Valhalla. I look forward to hearing about your brave exploits at dinner. I leaned on the desk for support. Hunding will now show you to your room. Enjoy your afterlife. Each hall we walked through seemed bigger than the one before. Most of the hotel guests looked like they were in high school, though some looked slightly older. Guys and girls sat together in small groups, lounging in front of fireplaces, chatting in many different languages, eating snacks or playing board games like chess and Scrabble and something that involved real daggers and a blowtorch.
Peeking into side lounges, I spotted pool tables, pinball machines, an old-fashioned video arcade and something that looked like an iron maiden from a torture chamber. Staff members in dark green shirts moved among the guests, bringing platters of food and pitchers of drink. As far as I could tell, all the servers were buff female warriors with shields on their backs and swords or axes on their belts, which is not something you see a lot in the service industry.
One heavily armed waitress passed me with a steaming plate of spring rolls. My stomach rumbled. Think of Valhalla more like … an upgrade. Singular: einherji. It impaled a guy sitting on the nearest sofa, killing him instantly. Drinks, dice and Monopoly money flew everywhere. The trail of blood evaporated instantly. The perforated sofa mended itself. I cowered behind the nearest potted plant. My fear simply took control. Hunding raised a bushy eyebrow.
The victim will be fine by dinner. Its cage door was made out of spears. Overlapping gold shields lined the walls. The control panel had so many buttons, it stretched from floor to ceiling. The highest number was Hunding pressed But it connects with all the Nine Worlds.
You just came through the Midgard entrance. Most mortals do. Randolph had used the term worlds, too. But it had But still … it could happen at any time. Finally, Helgi will have to stop punishing me. Good hallmates! Floor nineteen? Not so much. The vaulted ceiling was twenty feet tall, lined with — you guessed it — more spears for rafters.
Valhalla had apparently got a good deal at the Spear Wholesale Warehouse. They just cast warm orange light across the wall displays of swords, shields and tapestries. The blood-red carpet had tree-branch designs that moved as if swaying in the wind. Set about fifty feet apart, each guest-room door was rough-hewn oak bound in iron.
In the centre of each door, a plate-size iron circle was inscribed with a name surrounded by a ring of Viking runes. Behind that door I heard shouting and metal clanging like a sword fight was in progress. Behind that door, silence. The popping of gunfire came from inside, though it sounded more like a video game than the actual thing. The fourth door was simply marked X. In front, a room-service cart sat in the hallway with the severed head of a pig on a silver platter.
Being homeless, I could never afford to be. But I draw the line at pig heads. I watched the bird disappear down the hall — a raven, with a notepad and a pen in its talons.
Seeing my name written in iron, inscribed with runes, I started to tremble. My last hope that this might be a mistake, birthday prank or cosmic mix-up finally evaporated. The hotel was expecting me. For the record, Magnus means great. My mom named me that because our family was descended from Swedish kings or something a billion years ago.
Also, she said I was the greatest thing that had ever happened to her. I know. One, two, three: Awwwwww. It was an annoying name to have. People tended to spell it Mangus, rhymes with Angus. At which point they would stare at me blankly. Anyway, there was my name on the door. Once I went through, I would be checked in. The symbol looked sort of like an infinity sign or a sideways hourglass:. It symbolizes new beginnings, transformations.
It also opens your door. Only you have access. I held up the runestone. Instinctively, I touched the stone to the matching dagaz mark on the door. The ring of runes glowed green. The door swung open. I stepped inside, and my jaw hit the floor. In a trance, I moved to the middle of the suite, where a central atrium was open to the sky. My shoes sank into the thick green grass.
Four large oak trees ringed the garden like pillars. The lower branches spread into the room across the ceiling, interweaving with the rafters. The taller branches grew up through the opening of the atrium, making a lacy canopy. Sunlight warmed my face. A pleasant breeze wafted through the room, bringing the smell of jasmine.
How can it feel sunny and warm? But this is your afterlife, boy. I turned in a slow circle. The suite was shaped like a cross, with four sections radiating from the central atrium.
Each wing was as large as my old apartment. The next was a bedroom with a king-size bed. Despite its size, the room was spare and simple: beige covers and fluffy-looking pillows on the bed, beige walls with no artwork or mirrors or other decoration. Heavy brown curtains could be drawn to close off the space. I remembered when I was a kid, how my mom used to make my room as no-frills as possible. Looking at this bedroom, I felt like somebody had reached into my mind and pulled out exactly what I needed to be comfortable.
The perks included a sauna, a hot tub, a walk-in wardrobe, a walk-in shower and a walk-in toilet. Just kidding on that last one, but it was a fancy throne, suitable for the honoured dead. At one end of the living room, a big leather couch faced a plasma-screen TV with about six different game systems stacked in the media cabinet. On the other side, two recliners sat in front of a crackling fireplace and a wall of books.
Yes, I like to read. Even after dropping out of school, I spent a lot of time in the Boston Public Library, learning random stuff just to pass the time in a warm, safe place. For two years I had missed my old book collection; I never seriously thought I would have one again.
I walked over to check out the titles on the shelves. Then I noticed the picture framed in silver on the fireplace mantel. Something like a bubble of helium made its way up my oesophagus. It showed me, at age eight, and my mom at the summit of Mount Washington in New Hampshire. That had been one of the best trips of my life. My mom knelt behind me with her arms wrapped around my chest, her green eyes crinkling at the corners, her freckles dark from the sun, her blonde hair swept sideways by the wind.
The hotel likes to provide you with keepsakes, reminders of your old life. The idea shook me out of my daze. This bellhop from Saxony had been here since C. Twelve hundred years later, he was still getting teary-eyed about them, which seemed like a cruel way to spend an afterlife. Hunding straightened and wiped his nose. If you have any questions, call the front desk. I look forward to hearing about your brave exploits tonight at dinner.
It took me a second to realize he wanted a tip. I gave it to Hunding. Thank you, kid! Okay, Your Valkyrie will come get you right before dinner. Try not to kill yourself before dinner! I collapsed on the grass. Gazing up through the tree branches at the blue sky, I had trouble breathing. Lying in the middle of the atrium, I breathed in the fresh air and hoped my lungs would settle down.
This was a complete nervous breakdown. DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url. If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed. Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to romance, romance lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:.
Read Online Download. I loved this book. It grabbed me from the first page and I had trouble putting it down. Read it, you won't be disappointed. Enjoy It!! Everything Aaron has worked so hard to build in Quill has crumbled.
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