Hammered

Chapter 8

Since this was to be the last night I spent in Arizona, I was hoping that I’d be able to get a full night’s rest. It’s funny how vampires don’t respect that, since they always expect you to let them sleep all day.

After spending the afternoon reviewing tea recipes with Rebecca Dane one last time and hooking her up with herb vendors for resupply, I spent an hour at my kitchen table drawing a map of Asgard based on my observations and Ratatosk’s intelligence. Then I went for a run with Oberon in the early twilight of late autumn and returned after sundown to a well-dressed vampire waiting on my front porch. He had an impeccably tailored werewolf sitting next to him.

Normally the two don’t mix, but Leif Helgarson and Gunnar Magnusson had several common bonds: They were both lawyers, they were both originally from Iceland, and they both hated Thor. They got along just fine, but I didn’t think they were bosom buddies. They’d driven to my house separately—probably because each was too dominant to let anyone else drive. Leif’s black Jaguar XK convertible sat in front of Gunnar’s silver BMW Z4 convertible. Most of the Tempe Pack drove those, but I’d never asked them why they chose such tiny cars.

Oberon said as we stopped jogging in front of my lawn. In the dim glow of the streetlights, Leif and Gunnar rose to meet us, shoving their hands in their pockets to reveal their competing vests—or waistcoats, as they probably thought of them. Leif’s was a Victorian burgundy number with matte black satin lining and eight black buttons in two columns of four. He’d gone all the way and had a gold chain wrapped around them leading to a pocket watch; he was even wearing one of those old-fashioned black string ties. Except for the straight pale corn-silk hair and the lack of mustache, he looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a steampunk novel—and what’s more, he didn’t look the least bit scorched from his encounter with hellfire.

Gunnar’s suit was likewise old-fashioned, but it was gray and silver. His waistcoat was a decadently patterned silver paisley on a cool gray material, lined in gunmetal satin. His tie was the more modern sort, black with a silver paisley design, and he, too, had a gold pocket watch. His hair was a darker blond, much more of a tawny lion’s mane, and he’d slicked it back around the sides and let it curl on top. He had thick muttonchops that stopped short of his chin and arced over his upper lip. The choice of colors for his wardrobe seemed odd for a werewolf, until I realized that it was a status thing, like everything else with members of the Pack. As alpha he couldn’t show fear of silver, so of course he drove a silver car and wore silver clothes whenever he could. Now that I thought about it, I’d never seen Hal wear silver. He drove a metallic blue car, but that was it. If he wound up being alpha he’d have to get a whole new wardrobe.

Oberon observed.

“Good evening, Atticus,” Leif said in his stilted speech.

“Atticus,” Gunnar acknowledged me with a gruff nod. There was some tension between us and always had been, though none of it came from me. I liked Gunnar just fine. His problem was that he didn’t know if he could take me in a fight, and neither did his wolves. Since I was also a shape-shifter and centuries older than he was, they might follow me as an alpha if circumstances were right. Gunnar wanted to make sure those circumstances never occurred. He had declared me a Friend of the Pack years ago and then done everything he could to avoid me so that his wolves would have few occasions to compare us side by side. We’d always been cordial to each other, but some of that cordiality had chilled after he lost two pack members in the Superstition Mountains while trying to rescue Hal, who’d been drawn into the fight only because of me.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, nodding to each of them in return. “I’m honored by your visit. May I invite you inside for a beer—and some blood?” I gave Leif a goblet full of my blood every so often, and now I wondered if that had something to do with him surviving an attack he shouldn’t have survived.

They made noises of graciousness and gave Oberon a friendly scratch or two behind his ears, and then we all went inside.

I got a couple of bottles of Ommegang’s Three Philosophers ale out of the fridge for Gunnar and me, then I grabbed a goblet out of the cupboard and a steak knife out of the cutlery drawer and stabbed myself in the arm, allowing the blood to drip freely into the goblet. A small exertion of power shut down the pain.

“I’m told by others that you’ve recovered fully, Leif,” I remarked. “What’s your own assessment?”

“Snorri has practically glutted me on bags of donated blood,” he replied, referring to the werewolf doctor who worked in a Scottsdale hospital. “And while it has been nourishing, it has also been less than satisfying. There is never the heady aroma of fear or the succulent scent of desire when you feast on a blood bag. Plus, they were refrigerated,” he added with a shudder.

“This should be pleasant, then,” I said, watching the level of blood rise in the glass. “Though I’m afraid I can’t help you with the smells of fear or desire. Would you say that you’re as strong as ever, then?”

“Not precisely,” Leif said. “Your blood helps tremendously, however. There is something about it, as we have discussed in the past.”

“Yes, I’d be curious to know precisely what it is,” I said. The goblet was nearly full, so I bound my torn tissue and skin back together to cut off the flow. “You’re welcome to as much as I can afford, of course, in the coming days. I owe you at least that much, since you came to such harm on my account.”

I wiped a couple of stray drops off my arm with a washcloth and then handed him the goblet. He thanked me and said, “Helping me kill Thor will settle that account quite nicely.”

“The same goes for me,” Gunnar chimed in. Presumably he was referring to his dead pack members, but they had come to the Superstitions on their own. I’d never asked them to come. If their deaths were on anyone’s head, it was Gunnar’s, but I let the comment slide. If he’d consider his imaginary account settled by something I was already going to do anyway, there was no need to dispute him.

“A toast, then,” I said, raising my bottle. “Perhaps one of you should offer it, since you have stronger feelings on the matter than I do.” My feelings were that I’d already done more than enough damage on the Norse plane.

Leif and Gunnar spoke at once as though they’d rehearsed it in stereo: “To killing Thor!” I think one or both of them spit on me in the process, their vehemence was so strong.

“Hear, hear,” I said, attempting to sound hearty about it, and we all clinked our drinks and drank deeply. Leif looked visibly healthier almost immediately.

Oberon said.

Would you like a treat as a consolation prize?

I gave Oberon a treat from the pantry and said to my guests, “So. Have you come to play video games? Maybe kick it old school with a few rounds of Yahtzee?”

“In happier times, perhaps,” Leif said drily. “I rather hoped we could discuss details of our trip to Asgard.”

“By all means. Please, be seated.” I waved at my kitchen table and we all took seats. The map I’d drawn earlier was still there, lying faceup. I turned it over so that it wouldn’t distract them. I’d show it to them a bit later. “May I ask who else is coming besides Gunnar?”

Leif steepled his fingers together, elbows on the table, and peered at me from one side of them. “Of course. There are three additional parties joining us. They await only the location of our rendezvous and a meeting time.”

“I can give you GPS coordinates. Will that suffice?”

“Admirably.”

“Who are these three other parties?” Gunnar demanded. I think Leif had been about to say their names anyway, but he hadn’t spoken up quickly enough for the werewolf. If Leif was irritated, he disguised it well.

“Perun, a Slavic thunder god; Väinämöinen, a shamanic culture hero of the ancient Finns; and Zhang Guo Lao, one of China’s Eight Immortals.”

Oberon said. He situated himself on the floor by my feet and I caressed his neck.

Zhang Guo Lao, of course. He’s alive and Pai Mei is dead.

Kill Bill: Two. He’s probably on Facebook right now. Look him up.>

“That’s it?” the alpha asked. “Six of us against all of Asgard?” Gunnar was used to having more than six with him on even the most routine hunts.

“I don’t care about all of Asgard,” Leif explained. “I only care about Thor.” Leif had the opposite problem. He’d been fighting alone for so long and shredding everything that he probably thought the six of us would be overkill.

“All of Asgard is going to object,” I pointed out. “And they have resources we need to address.”

“Such as?” Leif asked. I explained to them what I’d seen while stealing the golden apple—Thor’s chariot, Gullinbursti, the ravens Hugin and Munin, and twelve pissed-off Valkyries, plus Odin and all the rest of the gods, not to mention the possibility of calling up the Einherjar, the fallen Vikings who dwell in Valhalla.

“The Einherjar fight every day, preparing for Ragnarok,” Gunnar mused. “They are slain and raised again each day on the Field of Vigrid. They have no fear of death, and their numbers must be huge. They’re the perfect army. My friends, we are good—but not that good.”

“We will not have to face the Einherjar right away,” I assured them. “It’s just a late-game possibility. The faster we are in attracting attention, the smaller the possibility that the Einherjar will be a problem.”

“How do you know this?” Leif said.

I turned over the map I had made earlier and showed it to them. “This is a map of the plane, which I know to be at least partially accurate,” I said. “We are going to emerge from the root of Yggdrasil. But see here? The Field of Vigrid—and Valhalla—are on the opposite side of the plane, according to my source.” Ratatosk had told me that and more during our trip up the root from Jötunheim.

“Who’s your source?” Gunnar asked.

“Well, he’s a … he was … a squirrel.”

“A squirrel!” the alpha spluttered. “You can’t trust a squirrel!”

Oberon said.

“Look, his information saved me a lot of trouble. He was very accurate about what I could independently verify. There’s no reason to believe the rest of it is wildly off-kilter. If we can get Thor to come out and engage us somewhere on the Plain of Idavoll—the closer to Yggdrasil, the better—the Einherjar will not be able to mobilize in time to make any difference. They don’t have flying horsies like the Valkyries. They’ll have to march the whole way, and it will take them days.”

“Yes, I see,” Leif said, “but how do we get Thor to come out? Won’t he simply sit behind the walls of Gladsheim, or Bilskirnir, and wait for us to come to him?”

“Nah. All we gotta do is ridicule his strength or say something about his mom. He’s a bully, right? Bullies don’t fight wisely.”

“Come now, Atticus,” Leif said. “How will he know we are even there, much less respond to a shouted taunt about his dubious parentage?”

“Oh, he’ll know all right,” I said. “I have a plan, though in its current form it doesn’t take into account the abilities of the other members of our party.”

“Let’s hear it,” Gunnar said, and Leif seconded the motion. I told them what I’d been cooking up, and they approved everything but the rubber suits and the climbing gear.

“We will not be needing those, trust me,” Leif said. “So when is this going to happen?”

“We leave tomorrow night.” Leif looked pleased at this news, but Gunnar seemed less than sanguine.

“Must it be so soon?” the werewolf asked.

“The Hammers of God plus an actual god are coming to slay me, so, yes, it must be. I’d rather be a slayer than the slain.”

Gunnar looked at Leif. “That moves up your timetable significantly.”

“Yes, but not impossibly,” the vampire replied. “Especially if the Druid helps.”

“What are you talking about?” This was the part where we were supposed to wish each other good night and meet back here tomorrow at the same bat time. They sounded like they needed me for something else.

Leif turned his ice-blue eyes on me and allowed a small smile to tug at the edges of his mouth. “Territory, naturally.”

“Ah, yes, Hal mentioned to me earlier that you control the entire state. Congratulations.”

Leif didn’t answer, and Gunnar took the opportunity to jump in. “Yes, well, word of his injuries has spread, and some vampires have come to investigate.”

“I’ve heard,” I said. “Why don’t you serve ’em up a cease-and-desist letter? You guys are good at that.”

“That is not how I respond to vampires in my territory,” Leif said without humor.

“How do you respond, then?”

“I destroy them.”

Oberon spoke up.

It’s difficult not to laugh when Oberon provides commentary like that, but I enjoy the challenge. It keeps me sharp. If I laughed or seemed the least bit amused, Leif would probably not take it well. And if he realized my dog was making fun of him, he’d be sure to take offense. So I carefully kept my expression neutral and said to Leif, “I see. And you’d like my help? As in, tonight?”

“Yes.”

That was precisely what I’d been afraid of. I sighed and said, “Leif, I need my sleep tonight, because I have a full day tomorrow and a long night after that getting us to Russia. I can’t afford to tax myself tonight if you want to make it to Asgard. Your territorial concerns will have to remain your concerns. I’m sorry.”

“There are sixty-three vampires from Memphis at the Arizona Cardinals game right now,” Leif said, tapping the table with his index finger. “I could use someone to watch my back.”

“How do you know they are there?”

Leif ignored this and answered with another question. “Can I count on you, Atticus?”

“Only to get some sleep. How do you know about the vampires?”

My persistence didn’t pay off. He ignored me again and turned to Gunnar to ask him to come. Whenever I asked Leif a question about vampire hoodoo that he wanted to keep secret, he always pretended not to hear. Several months ago I had used this to my advantage. I’d taken him to his first baseball game ever, on a mild June night with the roof open at Chase Field as the Diamondbacks hosted the Padres. I’d known Leif would be curious about the game and the behavior of people in such a crowd, but his questions never ended: If the team mascot was supposed to be a rattlesnake, why was there a bobcat named Baxter running around acting like an idiot? Did this mascot bait-and-switch indicate humanity’s primeval fear of fanged creatures? Why do ballplayers seem to have oral fixations on gum, tobacco, or sunflower seeds? And why do some ballplayers feel the need to fondle their groin between every pitch? Is that why they’re called ballplayers instead of athletes or competitors or contestants? It finally came to be too much, and I asked him a question I’d always wondered about.

“Hey, Leif, I’ve been meaning to ask. There’s this famous kids’ book called Everyone Poops. Does that include vampires, since you guys are on a strict liquid diet? I’d imagine the accumulation of hemoglobin could really get you backed up after a while. Is there a special laxative you use or what?” Leif regarded me glacially for a couple of heartbeats, then rose silently from his seat and shuffled past people to the aisle leading to the main concourse. “Hey, get me a beer while you’re up,” I called. “And a hot dog with mustard and onions.” I didn’t see him again for three innings, but he came back with a dog and a beer for me.

Gunnar begged off back-watching duty. He had plenty to accomplish himself if he was to have all in order by tomorrow night. “I must arrange things satisfactorily with the Pack,” he said. “Can’t be helped.”

Leif gave up on the werewolf but turned once more to me. “Atticus, you must help. Sleep is an insufficient excuse to stay home when there are so many vampires out there.”

best excuse to stay home when there are vampires out there!>

“Don’t get me wrong, Leif,” I said, “I loves me some vampire huntin’. Nothing like watching a hissing head go flying in one direction while the body falls in another, you know? But trust me when I say that taking the three of us to Tír na nÓg is going to be taxing. You don’t want me to be exhausted when I do that.”

“You never get tired,” Leif pointed out. “You draw strength from the earth.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘Gotcha!’ when you catch people in verbal inconsistencies.”

“I am aware, but it sounds vulgar.”

“Perhaps it does. This isn’t a ‘gotcha’ moment, anyway. I’m speaking of mental exhaustion, not physical. Planewalking isn’t a physical strain. It’s a mental one. If I’m not fresh, then—”

“Say no more,” Leif interrupted. “I understand. I will simply have to kill them all myself.”

Not John Williams?

Gunnar excused himself from the conversation and rose to leave, citing his pack business. We stood and shook hands and bid him good evening. He exited in a flash of silver and I sat back down with Leif.

“So what’s going to happen when you show up there, Leif? Do all the southern vampires know what you look like and have little posters of you taped to the inside of their coffins? Are they going to squee and ask for your autograph?”

“I beg your pardon? What was that? Will they screech and ask me …?”

“No, I said squee.”

“I am not familiar with this verb.”

“It’s a relatively new exclamation. It’s a high-pitched noise of excitement one makes when confronted with a celebrity one worships.”

Leif took a moment to digest this and then he arched a blond eyebrow at me. “Tell me, Atticus, have you ever, ah, squeed? Did I conjugate that correctly?”

“Yes, you did. And, yes, as a matter of fact I have squeed.”

“Do tell.”

“I went to the San Diego Comic-Con a few years back and met one of my favorite authors, and he made me squee involuntarily. I also did a tiny dance and I might have peed a little bit when he shook my hand.”

“You did not,” Leif stated flatly.

Oberon added.

“Okay, maybe I didn’t pee, but I spake truth about the tiny dance or I’m the son of a goat. Authors aren’t huge celebrities to most people, but I’m a guy who appreciates a good story well told. Beyond that, though, I think this man might actually possess supernatural powers. He makes people lose their minds, and I’m sure some of them do lose bladder control as well.”

“I see. And who is this author?”

“Neil Fucking Gaiman.”

“His second name is Fucking?”

“No, Leif, that’s the honorary second name all celebrities are given by their fans. It’s not an insult, it’s a huge compliment, and he’s earned it. You’d like him. He dresses all in black like you. Read a couple of his books, and then when you meet him, you’ll squee too.”

Leif found the suggestion distasteful. “I would never behave with so little dignity. Nor would I wish to be confronted in such a manner by anyone else. Vampires inspire screams, not squees. Involuntary urination is common, I grant, but it properly flows from a sense of terror, not an ecstatic sense of hero worship.”

“It properly flows? Are we having a pee pun party?”

A slight tightening around the eyes was my only visual clue that Leif was amused. Otherwise his face remained impassive and his voice deadpanned, “If I do not aim carefully at my targets tonight, I might cause a big splash at the stadium.”

“Oh, very punny. You will show them what yellow cowards they are,” I said.

“Right after I flush them out of the crowd.”

“You will rain down upon their porcelain skin a deluge of justice.”

“Ugh! And I will have to wash my hands afterward.”

I chuckled, and Leif’s face finally cracked into a grin. It felt good to laugh, but then I wanted to ask Leif if vampires ever peed. Since he’d never answer that, I asked him something else.

“Leif, why is the Memphis nest at the stadium?”

“It’s a direct challenge to me. They are symbolically laying claim to all those people.”

“If you take them on during the game, there’s likely to be collateral damage.”

Leif nodded. “They’re counting on it.”

“That you won’t want to hurt innocents?”

“No, that I will not want to cause a scene and leave a bunch of dead vampires lying around with a bunch of dead humans, thus exposing the secret of our existence. But they have miscalculated; I do not care about that anymore. I do want to cause a scene. Leaving the stadium littered with undead corpses will doubtlessly make the news. It will let everyone know I am still around and very capable of holding this territory.”

“And it will also let everyone know that vampires are real. Isn’t that kind of a fatal flaw in your plan?”

Leif dismissed the point with a wave of his hand. “They will never admit the possibility. Science is so very sacred to them now, and scientifically vampires cannot exist, therefore we do not. Vampires are safe by this tautology alone. Any lab results they find outside the norm will be assumed to be contaminated.”

“Do you know if these Memphis vampires are very old?”

Leif snorted contemptuously. “I am the oldest vampire on this side of the Atlantic.”

“And on the other side?”

The blue ice of his eyes slid coolly from contemplating his empty goblet and regarded me. “The one who created me is still there. And there are … others.”

“Any of them older than me?” I asked brightly.

“There is one I know of. There may be others. I have never met him, mind; I have heard of him only, but I am told he still hunts.” I half-expected him to throw back his head and let rip with a shrill, hoarse cackle worthy of the Crypt Keeper, but he chose instead to remain silent and let the tension build.

I think you’re right, I told Oberon. He needs a soundtrack.

“Do you dare speak his name?” I whispered softly.

Leif rolled his eyes, acknowledging my mockery. “He is called Theophilus.”

“Ha!” I barked, amused by the Greek roots of his name. “There’s an ancient vampire in Europe whose name means ‘loved by God’?”

“I did not say he was in Europe. But, yes, that is the name he professes to the world. I do not know if that is his original name or if he is merely being ironic.”

“What’s the name of the vampire who created you?”

The vampire narrowed his eyes. “Why do you wish to know?”

I shrugged. “Curiosity.”

Keeping his eyes on me to gauge my reaction, he carefully pronounced, “Zdenik.”

“That doesn’t sound like an Icelandic name,” I observed.

“Your sharp ears serve you well. It is a Czech name.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You were turned by a Czech vampire in Iceland one thousand years ago?”

“I never said I was turned in Iceland,” Leif replied, smirking.

I frowned and reviewed our relationship, realizing that I’d been operating on an assumption all this time. “Touché,” I said. “Will I ever get to hear the story of how and where you were turned?”

His smirk disappeared. “Perhaps someday. For now I have some havoc to wreak and territory to defend.” He stood up and offered me his hand. I stood as well to shake it, and he shrugged diffidently as he said, “There are only eighty of the young ones scattered about the valley, and most of them are at the football game. See you tomorrow night, Atticus.”

I don’t think vampires poop, I replied.

We saw Leif to the door and wished him farewell. Time to hit the hay for the last time in this old house, I told my hound as I closed the door on the vampire.

All right, buddy. What’ll it be?

The Boondock Saints, because the Irish guys win. Plus the cat ends badly. It affirms my worldview and I feel validated.>