Hammer Time Read online

  “I will not have a child of mine—”

  I parrot back his oft-said rant, “I will not have a father of mine—”

  He freezes. “You mock me?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one mocks me.”

  “To your face? No. They don’t.” Loki and I mock him behind his back all the time.

  Dad’s hammer is in his hand and he smacks it down against his open palm like a judge with a gavel. “One night! I ask for one night a week. If you loved me—”

  “I do love you, you pompous ass! In spite of your powers!”

  Dad’s hammer freezes midswing. His bushy brows furrow. “What?”

  “I said I love you,” I sigh, the fight draining out of me as I pick at my wrinkled t-shirt.

  “Not that part, the other part.”

  “In spite of your powers?” I ask, uncertainly.

  Dad swoops forward and gives me a one armed hug, nearly crushing me. He kisses the top of my head. “That is the truest kind of love. I love you too, Val. Now, get dressed for dinner. I’ve got to go hide my hammer so your sisters don’t try to take it again.”

  “Perhaps you should bring it with you. The time they tried to grab it was hilarious.” None of my sisters can lift his hammer an inch. I can pick it up no problem.

  My ancient father wags a finger at me. “No. I want no drama tonight. Now get dressed or prepare to clean out the barn!” He stomps off, slamming the door shut behind him. He’s under the illusion that hiding his hammer actually works. I know every hiding spot he has. Under the pillow. Behind the huge painting of himself (at dick level and no, I don’t want to consider the implications of that), or in the crowded umbrella stand. He’s not all that creative.

  After he leaves, I sink right back into making faces at the closed door, like the child that I’m not. I play eenie meenie miney moe to determine what I should do. Ultimately, I decide that sixty minutes of misery outranks thirty days of manure work for a couple of old, gassy goats.

  “Fine,” I yell as I hear Dad’s footsteps retreat. Huffing, I drag myself out of bed and get dressed for this blessed “family” event.

  Please note that I use the word family in the most scathing of terms possible.

  What my dad has is not what I would call a ‘family unit.’

  It’s more like a dysfunctional gathering of gods that my father either slept with or spawned. I’m one of the spawn, obviously. The lowliest of his children because I’m, gasp, half-human. As if this is my fault, but my obnoxious siblings and their disdainful mothers can’t scorn Thor—at least not openly, so they turn their rancor on me.

  A bunch of charmers, that group.

  And lucky me, I get to go eat with them. That’s exactly what I want to do on my vacation from Earth and my job at Home Depot. I want to spend my work-free time listening to people who hate me.

  I quickly pull on a pair of faded, torn jeans and an Animaniacs T-shirt sporting the Brain and his bid for world domination. I freaking love that mouse. How Mickey remains more popular, I’ll never know.

  I hum the cartoon’s theme song as I toss my long brown hair up into a ponytail and debate adding makeup, but what good is it when I’m competing with gods? The jerkwads can make their skin glitter, for crying out loud—I forego the mascara. Then, I gracelessly stomp down the long corridor to the main floor and into the opulent dining room.

  The room itself is massive. It’s full of carved wooden beams detailing ships and dolphins, islands and massive waves that stretch across the ceiling. The walls are covered in obnoxious paintings of my relatives, which my eyes studiously avoid. I make my way to an eighty-foot-long table. Everything on it from the silverware to the bowls is made of gold.

  I’m greeted by the sight of two elegant women dressed to the nines in sparkling dresses and a gaggle of my siblings, most decked out in their battle gear.

  I spot my least favorite sister already seated, blonde head tipped back as she chugs some mead. Leaned against her chair is her weapon. If Skeggjöld3 can bring her ax to dinner, then I can bring my cell to text Dev, my human BFF.

  How the man got my phone to work in Asgard is mind-blowing, but Devin is a tech wizard. He’s also smarter than any god that I’ve ever met—not that I’m ever going to admit that out loud to anyone, especially Dev. That’s a good way to place a target on his head if the gods knew. Or make his head swell, if he knew, not that Devin is conceited, by any means. Even though he’s hot, he’s one of the most down-to-earth people that I know. Humble, but knows his strengths.

  I bite down on a smile as I picture his reddish-brown hair, beard, and goofy grin. I couldn’t ask for a better best friend, but everyone else here tonight would most assuredly disagree.

  Bunch of superior beings.

  I personally feel that they can choke on a dick and mind their own business. I don’t tell them how to do their god stuff; they can butt out of my human affairs. Of course, this is just wishful thinking on my part. What god can resist torturing humans?

  No sooner do I sit down, than do my glorious step moms begin their weekly rant. (Yes. Step moms. Double the nitpicking. Double the fun.)

  “Ugh. Sigrdrifa, what are you wearing?! It’s positively putrid,” Sif, the goddess of family, sneers at me, looking down her long, hooked nose. Apparently, she hasn’t kept up with the times and realized that tiny button noses are in, but I’m not about to tell her this.

  Járnsaxa, my father’s other consort, giggles next to her like a schoolgirl. Her blonde curls and giant breasts bounce in tandem as she giggles.

  Really mature, ladies.

  Of course, with my father out of the room, they feel safe, emboldened even, to verbally attack me. But, because I’m classy, I don’t say anything.

  At first.

  “Yes,” one of my many sisters adds, “you’re a disgrace to the Valkyrie name! Frankly, I’m surprised that your fashion sense hasn’t landed you in the half-breed jail. The Black Hole seems like the perfect place for a weirdo who loves human eccentricities. I mean, look at those pants you’re wearing. They’re torn to shreds! Were you in a bar fight with a cat? Did you lose? Don’t even get me started on your shirt.”

  Everyone laughs.

  My step moms laugh.

  My sisters laugh.

  My brothers laugh.

  I laugh.

  Ha, ha, ha. . .

  I clear my throat dramatically before responding.

  “Me, going to jail, because I lack your fashion sense. Brilliant. And a bar fight with a cat. That’s funny, Skeggjöld. Good ones. Alas, my pants really got torn when your boyfriend tried to rip them off of me in a fit of passion. Not the brightest bulb, that guy. I told him to use the button and the zipper, but I guess he’s just used to the ease of skirts and even easier women. Did I mention that I like yours? Skirt, that is. Are those leather strips? Super fucking tasteful. I’m so glad that you can escape the Black Hole because of your full-goddess status, because you sure wouldn’t be smart enough to escape otherwise.” I end with a smile.

  On the outside, I’m a smug little brat, but on the inside, I’m seething. Could I make it five minutes without one of my dick siblings or their dick moms ragging on my heritage? I’m half-human—an abomination, apparently—I get it, as if being magicless wasn’t reminder enough.

  I just smile sweetly and wait for the explosion.

  It doesn’t take long. Half a second passes before Skeggjöld, whom I’ve secretly nicknamed Skanky, is launching herself across the table, her battle ax raised above her head.

  The step moms squawk indignantly and my other siblings join the argument. It’s a blond mob against me, but I’m smarter than all of them. I timed my barb perfectly and my father enters the fray just as my darling sister is about to split my skull. Immediately, he throws up a hand and freezes time for everyone but me.

  He marches over and plucks the ax out of my blonde sister’s hand where it’s just about to shave my ear from my head. He tosses the ax on the floor.


  I take a moment to appreciate the unattractive scrunch of my stepmothers’ noses. I kind of hope Dad notices it. I mean, it’s rare to catch a god looking so shitty. Part of me wants to lift my phone and see if I can take a picture and text it to Devin. But that won’t go over well. My friend, Asteio, told me about a demigod whose mother tried to have him jailed for sending out photos of her without a glowing aura. I can only imagine the consequences for truly embarrassing photographs.

  I glance over at Dad, who’s rubbing his red beard and shaking his head as he looks at me.

  “Sigrdrifa, what have you done now?” Dad asks wearily.

  “Father,” I huff in pretend outrage and toss a hand on my chest, “you wound me! Why is it always my fault? You know I didn’t start it.”

  The mighty Thor sits down at the head of the table and rests his head on his palm. He stares at me with the worn-out affection of bedraggled parents everywhere. That shit doesn’t go any different for humans or gods, at least not in my experience.

  “I know, my daughter, but I am sick of ending it. Is it too much to ask for everyone to get along?”

  I snort.

  “It is for your other wives and their kids. You know me well enough. If they treated me decently, I’d be happy to reciprocate. Instead, they treat me like trash and I refuse, absolutely refuse, to let them continue,” I hiss in a fierce whisper. I was raised in Asgard after my mom died, but since I’ve been living more on Earth, I’ve learned about a lot of things. Like human rights. And dignity.

  My dad smiles sadly.

  “You’re so much like your mother,” he comments, surprising me by talking about her.

  My mother was the love of his life, even though she was human. She passed away twenty years ago. We never speak of it, but I’m fairly certain that she didn’t die by normal, human means. Personally, I think one of my step moms had her killed, but that’s just conjecture on my part. Dev and I have searched for clues, but there’s nothing amiss in her human obit and no autopsy was done. That, coupled with the fact that my father refuses to talk about her passing, gives me zero cause to think that she was murdered, but I can feel it in my gut.

  A Valkyrie knows when death is natural or not. And even though I’m only part Valkyrie, with no actual powers, I still feel a twinge. Like the time this customer tried to steal a saw at Home Depot by stuffing it under his shirt and I told him one day he’d end up cutting his own dick off for being that stupid … who did I see in the paper the next week? Dead? With his dick cut off? Front page stuff.

  So, while I don’t have powers, I have inklings.

  “Val,” Dad begins, surprising me by using my chosen name, “you know that I think you’re wonderful, right?”

  “Ugh—getting mushy on me already?” I tease, but I soften at his tone. Unlike a lot of gods, he doesn’t shun me or any other demigods. Under it all, my father is truly a great guy. “I know. I just get ... tired of all of this. It hurts, Dad,” I confess in embarrassment.

  Valkyries don’t talk about their emotions—or admit to having weaknesses.

  “I’m sorry, daughter. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m always in your corner, fighting for you; however, I can’t outwardly show favoritism.”

  “So, you’re admitting I’m your favorite?” I perk up a little.

  Dad lets out one more sigh and shakes his head fondly. “I don’t have favorites.” He winks and then releases his hold on time.

  Everyone unfreezes and movement begins again. Instantly, Skanky is rushing toward me, but my father raises a hand and lightning arcs across the table and into my sister, who immediately goes down. She lays there, twitching for a few seconds, until she recovers.

  It’s a brilliant couple of seconds.

  Immediately upon recovery, Skeggjöld scrambles back to her seat, bowing her blonde head meekly.

  “One dinner!” Dad shouts, “One dinner, once a week—is that too much to ask for?! No one in this room is a child. For Mjölnir’s4 sake, my goats are better behaved.”

  I make a face at the mention of his beloved Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, the two goats who pull my dad’s chariot. Dad loves them, but I spent enough time in my childhood herding the little shits to never wanna see them again. Tanngrisnir is okay, your typical smelly eternal goat and all. But Tanngnjóstr? He’s a kinky jerkwad who likes to try to chew on my panties while I’m still wearing them! No wonder his name means ‘teeth grinder.’

  Dad’s voice amps up, like he’s raring for battle. “I am done. From this moment on, if no one can behave civilly, they are not welcome in my house or on my land. They are undeserving. Am I understood?”

  Everyone stares at him in horror.

  Thor basically just said that, in addition to disowning their selfish asses, he would strip them of their powers. I cover my mouth to hide my smug grin. This threat isn’t for me—I don’t have any powers.

  No favorites, my ass.

  While his declaration weighs the rest of them down, I’m not bothered at all. I certainly don’t care about his home or land. Dad knows that I would much prefer to live in the human realm than in Asgard, but he guilts me into staying one night a week because I’m his only link to mom. Nope, this threat is for everyone else because they are practically useless, even with their powers. Gods are used to having someone cater to their every whim, whereas I prefer to do shit myself. My siblings and step moms wouldn’t last a day without Thor’s generosity.

  Or their powers.

  Because among the gods, power is what defines you.

  Another reason that I’m persona non grata.

  I’m powerless and half-human.

  After several seconds of tense silence, my father raises his hand for the servers to bring the food and we eat, golden utensils clinking softly in the uncomfortable silence. The rest of dinner is fairly uneventful, but I take the opportunity to chew with my mouth open when looking at my step moms.

  Childish?

  Absolutely.

  Watching them nearly barf at the sight of my half-masticated Gellur5?

  Fucking priceless.

  When dessert is whisked off the table, I rush over to Dad and kiss his cheek. Then, I run from the room before he can command me to stay. I need to escape. I need normalcy. Friendship. Kindness. Laughter and fun.

  I need to connect with my humanity once more.

  I need Dev.

  2

  Dev

  I click done on a project that has nothing to do with work—a project that could get me in a shitload of trouble if anyone ever found out, but it’s worth it.

  Then I send off a text: Project complete. Awaiting payment.

  The responding text is a single emoji: a heart.

  I narrow my eyes. If that jerkwad is gonna try and cheat me ... well, there’s nothing I can do about it. You don’t fuck with a demigod—any god, really. That’s how you end up deader than the Wicked Witch of the East. Getting crushed by houses isn’t really on my kick-the-bucket list.

  Luckily, a second text comes through a minute later: Payment on its way.

  ‘On its way.’

  What does that mean? I wonder.

  I lean back in my company-issued desk chair and swivel side to side, trying to figure out how payment could be on its way so soon.

  Doesn’t magic take awhile?

  But seconds later, I hear a tap at the window outside my office. I turn to see a little cherub floating there in midair. He’s got the stereotypical blond curls, but he is sporting a leather jacket with a spike-studded collar and sunglasses.

  “Hurry the fuck up,” the floating baby curses profanely at me.

  My eyes widen as I stand and walk across my narrow office to undo the latch and slide the window open. The cheap thing is worse than my chair and sticks—I have a little trouble getting the damn window to open. For a second, I have flashbacks of working at a fast food drive thru as a teen.

  And those are never cheerful memories.

  The baby cupid rests a chubby elbo
w on the windowsill, letting his jacket gape open over his bare chest, then he shoves his glasses up. I can’t help but notice he still has on the traditional loincloth underneath the leather jacket. It totally looks like a diaper, just like the pictures.

  “So … the website’s ruined?” he asks.

  I force myself to focus on his face and stop wondering about how comfortable—or uncomfortable—that loincloth is. Did he use it like a diaper?!

  “It’s still running. But I did exactly as Aeneus1 requested. All the matchmaking software has been corrupted. Aphrodite and Eros will have a huge mess trying to sort out unhappy, mismatched couples.”

  The cupid2 gets an evil grin.

  “Boss man’s gonna like that shit. His mom pissed him off big time.”

  I nod, not quite sure what to do with my hands. I scratch my beard for a second but, then, decide that it makes me look nervous, so I slide them into my pockets.

  “As I said—job’s done. I’d like my payment.”

  “Bet you would.” The little cupid reaches a dimpled hand behind his back into what looks like midair. But it must be his invisible quiver because he comes back with an arrow.

  He hands it over to me.

  “Remember, these babies are a one-time use thing. Only a god can reverse the effects. I know you moderns don’t use bows and arrows. So, just prick the lucky girl or guy with it, and then you can prick them, you feel me?”

  I nod, ignoring his uncouth words. All my attention is on the love arrow in my hands. It’s made of many different materials—wood with some ivory-looking inlay, and is delicately and intricately carved—like the lace on a Valentine. I can’t believe I’m holding one. I balance it gently on my palms like it’s a museum artifact. Which, I suppose, it would be, if other humans knew the gods existed.

  But they don’t.

  Cupid clicks his tongue and gives me some finger guns. “Nice doing business with you.” Then he flies off, leaving me frozen, still standing in front of my window.