Hel didn’t look different from when it was Helmet. Lighting in the wide, square dive ran to blue spots and a flashing dance floor, the better to distract people from seeing much. When the bar was Helmet, the faint odor of damp bodies in cramped spaces permeated an atmosphere of heady sex and drugs. It was amusing to watch who went home with whom at last call.
The change of clientele didn’t change the look. Hel even played the same loud dance music, but the new patrons had that sharper edge of menace the Weird was too well-known for. Nobody danced, probably because they had no idea what to make of modern music. Being Dead made it tough to keep up with the latest dance trends.
The most visible change was that everyone was Dead. It was inevitable they’d find a place to gather. That’s what bars were for, to bring together the like and like-minded, people who wanted to hang out with others with a shared sensibility, drink, or get laid. Being Dead didn’t change any of that. In fact, the Dead had a higher appetite for everything. They all seemed to know each other, definitely drank more than average, and I wouldn’t want to compare notes on dating with them. Take away the risk of dying, and everyone was willing to try anything and more of it. Of course, they still got killed, but what was a mortal wound if you woke up fine the next day?
Murdock and I grew up in a city that had embraced the fey to an extent. I didn’t think twice when the people around me had wings or pointed ears. The scary solitaries gave everyone pause, but that was the point. Individually, solitaries were odd-looking, misshapen, and unattractive by mainstream standards, but the rest of the fey didn’t raise an eyebrow. Until I saw these solitaries who were Dead clustered in a dark bar wearing outdated clothes bordering on costumes, sporting jewelry that went out of fashion centuries ago, and displaying a penchant for physicality not much admired in our more enlightened times.
“Is this job ever going to get easier?” Murdock asked.
“Now what would be the fun in that?” I said.
We eased our way through the crowd. I ordered beer for me and water for Murdock. In bottles. From the end of the bar, we had a clear view of the goings-on. The novelty of our presence wore off among those who had noticed us, and they returned their attention to whatever they were doing before we arrived. For all their strangeness, the Dead acted like anyone else in a bar—laughing, glowering, cruising, drinking, and arguing. Except dancing. Still no dancing.
A woman, a Teutonic norn, leaned over and ordered a drink at the bar. A Dead norn. When druids and dwarves read the future through scrying and dreams, they see patterns and events on a grand scale. A norn’s ability sensed what was and what was to be on a more individual level. Our eyes met, then she indifferently watched the front of the bar. The bartender set a plastic cup by her hand. She sipped through the stirrer, staring at us. Her wide brown eyes slid from me to Murdock. “You don’t belong here.”
Murdock cracked a smile. “Said the Dead girl.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, looked at me. “I remember you.”
Not the first time I’ve heard that in a bar. By her dated clothing, the odds that Murdock or I had known her in life were slim. I decided to be polite. “Then you have me at an advantage.”
“I saw you in Niflheim.”
Niflheim was the Teutonic perception of TirNaNog. I searched my memory, trying to place her, but came up empty. I had spent my time in TirNaNog running away from the Dead and trying not to get Dead myself. Not a lot of time to socialize. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you. I was kinda busy.”
Her eyes visibly dilated as she stared. “You’re like me. You touch the Wheel.”
Murdock and I exchanged glances. He knew what the Wheel of the World was. He got that it was about faith and destiny, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove his Catholicism from the concept. Where the fey see a world that Is, Murdock sees the hand of God, especially after the previous night.
“We all touch the Wheel,” I said.
She feathered essence over me, and my body shields activated. They were too damaged to protect me from anything, but the norn wasn’t attacking. She was curious. I winced as the dark mass clenched. Its rejection of the seers apparently wasn’t limited to scrying.
She paled and backed away. “I see no path for you, druid.”
“I’m trying to find one,” I said.
“Everyone has a path, even if they cannot see it. A norn sees what others can’t. If you have no path, druid, that bodes ill for you and everything you touch.”
I sipped my beer. “Thanks. I’ll update my will.”
“What was that all about?” Murdock asked.
“Norns see personal futures. She basically told me I had none.”
The crowd shifted, and Jark’s vibrant red-orange signature registered nearby. I spotted him sitting in a dark corner. I nudged Murdock. “Let’s try not to provoke him any more than we have to. Keep a weapon accessible, though.”
Murdock unbuttoned his coat. “Most definitely in here.”
Jark held court at a crowded table. He pretended not to notice us, though with all the sendings fluttering around, someone had to have warned him the law was there. The conversation stopped as we sat. The onlookers watched curiously, their eyes shifting from us to Jark and back again. Jark’s smile rippled the scars on the side of his face. He lifted a pint of beer and drank half in a gulp, landing the glass hard on the table. He wiped a gray-streaked beard. “What brings you to this place?”
“You can speak English,” I said.
He snorted. “The plain of Niflheim holds many men from many places.”
“You didn’t mention that at the morgue,” I said.
“You didn’t ask,” he said.
“You said the Hound killed you,” I said.
The crowd around us shifted. People stepped back or moved away completely. Jark downed a long draft of his beer. “And yet you have not hunted him down.”
“Funny thing about that. We heard you’re afraid of the Hound,” Murdock said.
Jark snorted. “Then you’re hearing wrong. Me afraid of the Hound? That’s a lie. The Hound hunts the Dead like a snake. He has no honor. He lurks in the shadows and strikes out of cowardice. I don’t fear men who won’t face me in a fight.”
Jark reached for his beer again, and Murdock pulled it away. “Wrong, Jark? Wrong like you admitting you killed Sekka and here you are drinking a beer? Or wrong like you were lying when you said that Sekka killed you?”
Jark lowered his chin and stared. “I would watch your tongue. No one calls Jark a liar.”
By Murdock’s flat stare, I knew he was about to explode, but antagonizing a berserker was not the way to go. I leaned between the two of them. “We seem to have some wrong information, then, Jark. Maybe you can clear up—”
Murdock interrupted me. “I’m calling you a liar.”
Jark glowered. “I said watch your tongue, whelp. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
A smile twitched in the corner of Murdock’s mouth. “Did you just threaten me?”
Jark drew himself up and puffed out his chest. “I will do more than threaten you, you impudent dog, I will . . .”
Jark didn’t get to finish. Murdock’s body shield flickered on as he yanked the table out of the way. Jark rocked back in his chair with his hands in the air, the sudden exposure as comical as the surprise on his face. He obviously wasn’t used to anyone coming back at him. Murdock grabbed him by his tunic and slammed him against the wall.
Murdock pressed his face in close. “You will what?”
Jark struggled, color draining from his face at the realization that the human he called an impudent dog was strong enough to pin a berserker to a wall. “I will have your head for this.”