Chapter 5
After my return from Asgard, Oberon told me that the widow had died. Poor Mrs. MacDonagh had been fighting a long list of ailments before I left, and she succumbed to them during my absence, passing on in her sleep. But then Oberon told me that she rose from the dead, behaved strangely, never spoke and never ate. And she never had a single sip of whiskey. I knew at that instant she’d been possessed — though by whom or what, I wasn’t exactly sure. All I knew was that whoever had taken possession was waiting for me to come back and get my dog. It could have been the Hindu witch, Laksha Kulasekaran; she had the ability to do something like that. But I doubted Laksha would break her word to me so offensively and invite my displeasure, and the timing suggested to me that it was someone (or something) else more dangerous. And, on top of that, Jesus had told me during our conversation in Rúla Búla that my activities in Asgard would attract unwanted attention.
I retrieved Moralltach from Granuaile’s car, unsheathed it, and strode forward to meet the erstwhile Mrs. MacDonagh. Oberon, Granuaile, Coyote, and Frank Chischilly followed at what I hoped was a safe distance. Turning on my faerie specs, I saw that the widow no longer carried a human aura about her. There was a fairly humanoid shape to what I saw, but it bloated and pulsed and changed constantly, like one of those fractal screen savers, and it was rife with the white noise of magical power. Whatever possessed her was powerful; I strongly suspected it was a god.
What was left of the widow looked much the worse for wear. Her floral cotton dress was stained and unraveling at the hem. The light in her eyes was gone, and her face hung slack until I stopped ten yards away and lifted my sword.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
The stricken face stretched itself in a grisly imitation of a smile. The lips didn’t precisely fit properly around the skull anymore, and I saw more tissue than I should have. It didn’t reply in English; instead it spoke in Old Norse, and my worst fears were realized.
“I do not speak that tongue,” it said. The voice was not the kind lilt of Katie MacDonagh but rather a wheezing rasp of malevolence, as if someone had taken a fistful of sandpaper to her vocal cords. “If you are the hound’s owner, then I’m sure you understand me. Do you speak Old Norse?”
I nodded and replied in that language, which meant everyone else was out of the conversation. “Who are you?” I asked again. It couldn’t be an omniscient sort, or it wouldn’t have had to track me here using Oberon. That ruled out Odin, but it left almost everyone else as a possibility.
The creature in the widow’s body chuckled, or rather made a sound like ice cracking in the spring, while the body shook with merriment.
“Come, now. I rule the old and infirm, the diseased and palsied, all the slain unchosen by the Valkyries, all whom Freyja abandons outside her hall at Fólkvangr. This form I take is no disguise. Surely you can guess.”
With no little effort, I stifled a shudder. “Hel,” I breathed. The daughter of Loki, ruler of the dead in Niflheim.
The horrible smile yawned again. “Yessss.”
“Why are you in Midgard?”
“I am here because of you … What shall I call you?”
“You can call me … Roy.”
“That is not your true name.”
“Let it suffice for now. What happened to the widow?”
“The woman who wore this skin? She passed on to the Christian lands as she wished. Her soul was not mine to take, only the body.”
“The body isn’t yours to take either. It’s offensive that you should wear it. Release it and then we will talk.”
“Nonsense,” Hel replied. “I cannot walk around in my true form. People never wish to talk to me that way. They scream or gibber or vomit but never talk. However offensive you find me in this old woman’s skin, we can at least converse without you losing your sanity.”
I didn’t insist she drop the widow’s body now, because she might not be exaggerating. But neither did I like to think she would hold on to it. The widow’s family deserved some closure.
“We will talk, then. But you will return this body to the place you found it out of respect for the dead.”
The ice-crackle laugh returned. “What use could the dead possibly have for your respect? Perhaps I will grant you the favor, though. I suppose I could do it by way of thanking you for this sojourn through Midgard.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“Are you not he who slew the Norns and crippled Odin?”
“Yes.”
“It was they who kept me trapped in Niflheim. Now I may visit any plane connected to the World Tree, and I have you to thank for it.”
I lowered Moralltach slowly. She didn’t seem intent on attacking me quite yet. “You’ve come all this way just to thank me?”
“No. I’ve come because I’m curious. You wiped out the Norns and many of the Æsir, but I don’t know why. Did you hate them?”
“No. I was led into Asgard through a chain of obligations, and once it became a kill-or-be-killed situation, I survived. That is all.”
“That is all?” Hel looked bemused. “No vendettas? No quest for power or riches?”
“Not for me, no.” The vendetta had been Leif’s. And Gunnar Magnusson’s, but he’d paid for it with his life. As for riches, we couldn’t have cared less. We left Thor’s hammer and belt behind — they were Leif’s to claim, if anyone’s. No telling who had them now. I had taken Odin’s spear, Gungnir, by right of conquest, but it wasn’t as if I was going to sell it on eBay.
“You seek no seat in Asgard, no reward from Niflheim?”
“No. As I said, I was drawn into the conflict but did not seek it out.”
“Yet you have made it easier for me to achieve my goal,” Hel said.
“What would that be?”
“Ragnarok, of course! Now that the Norns are dead, along with Thor and Heimdall and others, true victory is possible for the sons and daughters of Loki. I can start my preparations in earnest. Who is left to oppose us? Midgard and the other planes will be remade as my father sees fit. I tend to think he will burn it all and start over. It is time to marshal my forces, and so I wonder: Would you like to join us? Do you want to be there, at that new beginning?”
I took a step backward as if she’d pushed me, because the question was that repulsive to me. I struggled to keep my face bland and seem thoughtful when I wanted to grimace in disgust, because offending a goddess of the dead is neither wise nor polite. Best to let her down easy. I cleared my throat. “A new beginning,” I said, nodding a bit as if the idea had appeal. “I’ve thought of it sometimes. I’ve wondered what it would be like if the people who abused the earth for personal gain were gone.” That was as far as I could go, and I waved such thoughts away. “But these are idle speculations, the basest form of wishful thinking. I cannot judge who deserves death. And there can be no new beginning without destroying much that is beautiful and innocent and worthy of praise. I cannot be a part of such destruction.”
The poor widow’s face fell slack, and Hel’s next words were frosty. “You will oppose us, then?”
“If you give me cause.”
Hel brought her hand — or, rather, the widow’s hand — up to the left side of her rib cage. It sank a bit into the fabric of her dress and clutched at something there, and then she gracefully drew out a large knife etched with runes. There was no scabbard that I could see; she had pulled it straight from her substance somehow. I raised Moralltach to guard myself and heard a collective intake of breath from the spectators behind me.
Hel laughed at our reaction. “Your Fae sword has a name, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Moralltach.”
“This is Famine,” Hel said, pointing it at me. “Perhaps no match for a sword. You are the better warrior, I am sure, in any case. I’m not famous for my dueling skills. But this knife will be the death of you, regardless.” It began to twitch in her hand. “You see? It is drinking in your scent. The next creature it wounds will hunger for your flesh, and no other food will satisfy it.”