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  “Enough. You’re all fired up because you’ve got the hots for a mortal.” He sniffed. “I can smell the mortal pheromones leaping from you.”

  “That will diminish when I get my next reap.” I pushed him. “Attraction is only part of this and besides, he’s more irritating than he is cute. Even you can’t deny the similarities in this. Let me tell you this: the girl I’m impersonating is named Oria. Oria! How does that happen? What a coincidence. It was like the mortals expected me. I literally walked into the mortal realm and was welcomed, by name. This is a set up and I’m going to find out what’s going on with or without you. No soul deserves to be cast into the veil on the whim of Odin. Enough is enough.”

  Orium placed his hand on my brow. “Hmm.”

  I knocked his hand away. “I’m being serious here. Don’t you want to be sure a repeat of Jasper doesn’t happen? If Maxwell is halfling, I’ll find out whose kid he is. I won’t sentence him to the veil. I could protect him if I had to, to be sure he is harvested for Valhalla. This isn’t about a reap any longer. It’s about being sick of having life dictated.”

  “But, if he isn’t a halfling? Or if he is the halfling of a mortal and giant or elf instead?”

  “Then, he’s fair game and it will be about the reap. Valhalla and Folkvangr like a good battle. Odin will be pissed, but when isn’t he? The stronger the pull to Valhalla, the more the reap will feed. Think of what this would mean for Magna.”

  “Sure. Go after it. Maybe it’s bigger than a god halfling. Maybe it’s a test and you’re gonna bring Ragnarok early and put an end to us all.” He shrugged. “What do you care? Other than a girly allure.”

  “Listen. Long story short—you just need to be sure I don’t get caught. Think of it as an investigation. Do your little mind-bending thing to make everyone I meet believe I’m the niece of an heiress. I’ll do the rest.”

  Orum sighed.

  “Oh, stop it. You know you won’t get caught. It’ll be me that ends up in the tank if things go to Hel. I promise I’ll stop if I find out he’s a god halfling. What do you care if I make the reap of the millennium?”

  “That’s the problem. I do care.”

  I sighed, but it wasn’t exasperated. “I need this, Orum. I need this for myself. I need to make sure no one is using us to lay down another law at the cost of a soul. And you’re right. It could even be worse. Aren’t you tired of the gods using us to do their dirty work?”

  He growled.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “I’m going to cover for you against my better judgement, because I know how hard-headed you can be. And I know if you do this, the boy will be safe if that is what needs to happen. No one ends up in veil, got it?”

  I nodded.

  Orum’s wings opened. “I hope he’s worth it.” He lifted and flashed out of Folkvangr.

  A smile crept to my lips as I bounced on my toes. I wasn’t sure if Wells was worth it, but I did know that any trouble was worth the adventure. The gods were hiding something and I was going to find out what it was. There was no way I was going to allow Ragnarok to happen before its time.

  Chapter 5

  Maxwell

  I have Norse roots. My grandmother once told me that I had been kissed by Odin with the gift of sight into the spiritual world. She once told me a story about the son of a mortal and Urd, one of the three norns who determined the fate of Norse descendants. As she told the story, I remembered feeling that she believed herself to be Urd. I couldn’t put my finger on why I felt that way, but deep down in my heart, I knew she believed the story with every fiber of her being. Her conviction worked like a catalyst on my mind. If this was the truth to her, then how could it be a fable? At the time, she was ninety-nine with very little marbles left. She died two days later.

  I began dreaming of her, then, but the dreams felt real. She was there—her quirks, her old lady smell, her crackly voice. She claimed that she was here to help me find my way. Now that she was in Valhalla, Odin had granted access to my subconscious mind so I could learn of my gift. Of course, I didn’t believe it, but I’d wake up in night terrors, drenched with sweat and out of breath. I had the constant suspicion that someone was watching me. She told me they were Divine Reapers sent to guide me on my journey into Valhalla. I only knew Norse legends as my grandmother had taught, so my perception of reapers was imaginative and childish at best. While I didn’t believe it, the dreams had scrambled my mind, and paranoia rode me like a beast.

  Most of my dreams were tied to the ancient belief of Ragnarok, the battle that would pull apart the Norse pantheon and cause Midgard to be overrun by immortals, giants, elves, and dwarfs. It would bring mayhem and then, the universe would explode. No one knew how it would end really, but one thing was for sure. There would be an end.

  And then, things began to clear and I believed there really was something more to the myths and legends. The day I crashed my car, I picked up a hitchhiker. It wasn’t something I practiced. I was safe, ever the rule-following, good boy. But something in the way he spoke and moved had been familiar, like, I knew him or had seen him before. By the time I dropped him at his destination, my soul wanted to burst with righteous indignation. I wanted to save the world—never to lie, steal, or violate. I didn’t understand the valor I felt, since our conversation had been benign. The music scene, the latest video game release, and a bit of theater talk, but something inside of me changed. When we shook hands, something transferred into me with hot, white light.

  Then there was the girl and the beer cans. Another being with odd eyes. Same, exact day. I can’t say how I knew they’d been different, but my core knew something my mind didn’t. Like my grandmother, I was convinced these had been supernatural visits from the Norse pantheon. If the first visitor had been a Divine Reaper, the second was an Imperium Reaper. I’d been set up to wreck my car and flee the scene. If my grandmother had taught me one thing, it was that I couldn’t hide from fate. Fear rode me for days while I hid from the authorities, until I received a call from an attorney who’d known my dad. He knew about the hit-and-run accident. He knew I’d ditched the car. He knew everything, but had no explanation as to how, just that he’d take care of it.

  The accident was erased from all public record. Eradicated from existence. No one had been tragically harmed. The lawyer told me he owed my father a favor he’d never been able to repay while he lived. As miraculous as it seemed, I didn’t feel this individual was divine in nature; he was just a balding old man with a good heart who owed my dad a courtesy. But it was all tied together, I was sure of it.

  The notion that my mind contrived this absurd tale of reapers and my accident caused me unrest. I was off-kilter, something was wrong. I went to the doctor, but no one could find anything abnormal. I went to a therapist and rehashed the events and was told I was the luckiest boy in the world to have been given a second chance. How many people could simply walk away from a hit-and-run accident with no repercussions?

  I had no money. No home. My grandmother had been my last living relative and she’d been dead for three months now. I belatedly discovered that she’d spent every last cent of my parents’ life insurance on saving a home the bank ended up taking anyway. Without a car, I was destitute, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I enrolled into a local community college and got a job on the campus. Thankfully, I was smart and able to pass all entrance exams, and I was given another phenomenal chance to earn my degree by working at a crumbling theater. Again, another miracle. The privately owned theater had once heavily relied on students to keep it running. Emma Holloway, the theater’s owner, provided a scholarship to the college; I applied for it and was chosen. I knew this was my last chance. This was the final stand of the place. For ten years, the theater had decomposed from lack of care and use. The elderly Miss Holloway had a falling out with the university and pulled private funding for the theater division. In turn, the university built a multi-million dollar complex like no other theater in the area. No competitio
n really, until the head of the theater department brought on the notion of ”old theater” and the need for it. Small theaters were dying and Professor Teddy Hawthorne wanted to save this one.

  I was in. I had a plan. I was a believer.

  “That’s all wrong,” Oria said.

  I frowned, but didn’t look at her. “It’s an exact replica. Professor Hawthorne was able to track down numerous archives related to the original blueprint.”

  “It’s orange,” she groused.

  “He also found a wealth of information with some of the oldest patrons of this theater. It’s accurate and perfect. Just perfect.”

  Oria snorted. “I can’t believe my ancestors built an Egyptian theatre. It’s sacrilegious.”

  I looked at her. “How can you say such a thing? It’s beautiful.”

  A darkness passed over her features and I had the feeling she knew more of ancient pantheons than she wanted to discuss. An echo over lay her voice, causing it to boom across the stage. My eyes tapered. There was something about her that reminded me of someone.

  “Whatever.” She shrugged. “Have it your way. Recreate the past. Make this place what it was instead of what it could be.”

  “Everyone thought you’d love the idea that we are keeping the integrity of the place.”

  Oria shrugged again as she turned to view the stage. The place had cleaned up well. The old wood hadn’t needed extensive restoration. It amazed me how well it had held up for being a three-hundred-year-old structure.

  Part of me was intrigued by Oria. She led a life most only dreamed of. Old money, opportunity, privilege. She was a beautiful girl with an even more beautiful mind. She’d been hanging out at the theater, helping with the renovations, and even better, writing checks for items we needed but hadn’t budgeted for. She was an asset to this project, when in fact, she didn’t have to be. We were going to save this theater with or without her, but it was certainly easier with her.

  I knew she believed me a pain. She seemed irritated when we spoke and she was quick to disagree with any of my suggestions. It was difficult for me to look at her for prolonged periods. It felt like a red hot poker grinding into my temple when we made direct eye contact. After all the things my grandmother had tarnished my mind with, I didn’t need another analogy. I’d seen reapers and now I was paranoid. Figured. Oria was just a hot girl with money, and the headaches I got were just a symptom of my insecurities.

  My phone chimed. I held up my hand. “Give me a sec.” I paced away from her, answering the call. “This is Maxwell.”

  “Mr. Adamsen, I received your number from Professor Hawthorne. My name is Jordan Prada. I’m Emma Holloway’s financial advisor. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

  “No,” I blurted, my heart kicking up. Any call dealing with the Holloways was welcomed. “No, of course not. I was just about to call the professor with an update. I have time.”

  “Brilliant,” Jordan said and it sounded as if she were smiling. “I do know your project is vigorous and I only mean to keep you but a moment. My call is personal in nature. Is Oria with you now?”

  “Oria?” I parroted. I glanced at Oria. Her eyes widened, but quickly her expression turned to a smirk. “Uh, yeah. She came by to see the progress.”

  “Great. Good,” Jordan replied. “May I speak to her, please? She’s very hard to get a hold of. She refuses to carry any kind of cellular devices and her aunt has been frantic with worry.”

  Dumbfounded, I held out the phone. “It’s for you.”

  “Me?”

  I shrugged. “It’s your aunt’s financial advisor, Jordan Prada.”

  “My aunt,” she repeated. She snatched the phone from me, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t partake in social media and progressive portable communications. She must be worried.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned to the stage. Rich people were weird. Who didn’t carry a cell phone? My heart plummeted. For a brief second, I imagined my chance had come. The chance to make a connection with Emma Holloway was critical. I was destitute financially and had to make a big break. I knew this was it.

  ***(Oria)

  Judging by Maxwell’s countenance, I’d ascertained correctly. Emma Holloway was a worry wart. But, who knew Oria was in California and not back in New York City living the life of a pampered theater brat. Immediately, I knew this was no mortal phone call.

  My voice dropped. “Who is this?”

  “Darling,” a female voice sang. “It’s been an age. Four? Six thousand years?”

  Jord, Thor’s mother, the goddess of earth. A giantess who loved meddling and gossip. I should have guessed. Only Jord would choose the mortal surname of Prada. She loved to shop and her tastes were expensive. How many immortals had their hand in this pot called Maxwell Adamsen?

  “What do you want, Jord?”

  “Is that anyway to speak to a friend?”

  “You’re no friend of mine.” I glanced over my shoulder. Wells inspected the paint work of the guardrails of the orchestra pit. “How dare you use a mortal’s way to find me?”

  “I’m with Emma, darling. You know—Emma Holloway. Your aunt. She’s worried sick about you.”

  My teeth grinded as my eyes darted about. No orbs, no halos. No unearthly auras. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jord laughed. “You’re playing a difficult game, little reaper. I think you may need some help. Who else can keep the vultures away while you’re digging in someone else’s playground?”

  She spoke to someone while covering the mouthpiece.

  I checked again to be sure Maxwell was out of ear shot.

  “Your dear aunt is right here. Would you like to speak with her? How ghastly it is to grow old and be so alone. I can’t thank Odin enough for immortality and youth. To be bent over and rolled about can be quite demeaning.”

  “Leave her alone,” I hissed. “She isn’t a part of this.”

  “She’s your pass. You need her. We need her,” Jord replied, her voice changed in pitch. “If you listen to me, this will go well for Folkvangr. I can seal this reap for you if you can extinguish those mortal pheromones you’re throwing off. Get your head in the game, girl. This is where I remind you how things can get ugly. You’re impersonating a human, for crying out loud. Do you want a permanent vacation in the veil?”

  “I’m well aware of how things can go,” I said. “I’m sorry if I sound rude, although I do feel a touch of fire and brimstone in my bosom about now.” I took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to figure out is how you fit into things.”

  “May I put you at ease by saying I’m not on anyone’s team?” Jord said. The faint sounds of a television came through the line, and I imagined her and a bunch of old women from the retirement home staring blankly at some afternoon soap opera. “I’m doing this strictly for personal reasons.”

  “Things are crystal clear,” I snorted.

  “That’s the intention, darling. You know how we gods work—on a need to know basis. All things will be revealed in good time.” Jord gave a throaty laugh. “And please, please, please call your brother off before he gets hurt. It's better if we do this alone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My breath restricted. If Orum was caught, we’d both be implicated and the sentence would be severe. “Orum doesn’t know.”

  “Your alias is safe,” Jord interrupted. “You don’t need the talents of your brother. There is no Oria Holloway.”

  “What?”

  “Thank you, Jord. I don’t know how to repay you,” Jord said in a high-pitched tone that was clearly supposed to be a mockery of my own voice.

  My teeth clenched. “Thank you, Jord.”

  “You’re welcome. It was something that just came to me. Brilliant, if I do say so myself. It was all too delicious not to pass up. A mortal wanted by Odin, but rejected by Freya. A love triangle that involves you and Geirolf.”

  “You sound like Freya, going on about love triangles. But, you
’re wrong. There is no love left between Geriolf and me. I’m doing this for myself, as you also claim.”

  “And yet, you don’t deny the attraction you feel toward this mortal?”

  I glanced at Maxwell who was trying desperately not to look at me. I cleared my throat and spoke lowly. “It must have been difficult to unearth future events. Did you use a charm or ancient relic to turn time? You had to know what I was going to do before I did it, and that means it’s more than just personal. What do you want, Jord?”

  “I want what you want. I want Maxwell Adamsen hard at work in Folkvangr for all eternity. I want to witness the defeat of Freya when she welcomes an unwanted into her kingdom. I want to bathe in the tears of Odin when he loses this precious treasure of his.”

  “Treasure?” I asked, my shoulders squared. “Maxwell’s a treasure to Odin?”

  “Pfffttt. Figure of speech. We know how Odin loves his souls. The god wanes folly when one goes astray from his selfish will. You’re a treasure. I’m a treasure. Maxwell’s a treasure.” Jord took a deep breath. “Would you care to know the spectacular plans I have put into place for you and your little snack?”

  Maxwell’s eyes met mine and for a split second, I saw recognition. A terrible recognition of who I was, but that couldn’t be, could it? I turned away and my jaw became rigid. “Speak.”

  “Maxwell wants that silly theater, and we are going to give it to him. His deepest desire is to own a theater and run it. I’ve had him well searched and this is it. This is the big thing that can remove him from under the spell of the Divine Reapers. Do you know the lengths that Odin has gone to absolve the work of the Imperiums? He’s cheating. Having a reaper’s plight overturned by clearing that boy of charges on Midgard is unacceptable. If Maxwell was in jail right now, we’d be discussing how to get him addicted to drugs rather than hand-delivering him a theater. This is serious for all of the immortal realms.”