Stormbringer: Book 2 of the Wyrd

Three

There are three of them, all men, lined up in a row along the Bifröst, and I pull the car to a stop to avoid running them down. It's been a while and they're older than I recall, but I still recognize the faces. The two on the outside are Thor's brats, Magni and Móði. Magni looks like his father, huge and broad, with a glare that's both vicious and slightly vacant. Móði takes more after his mother, smaller and slighter than his meathead older sibling. Both boys have hair that gleams like burnished copper beneath the sun.

They're trouble enough on their own, yet nothing compared to the man standing between them.

Forseti, god of law and justice, as bright and blond and self-righteous as his useless asshole of a father, Baldr.

Shit. I am so, so fucked.

Forseti's sword is sheathed and Móði looks unarmed, but Magni's holding a hammer like it's his baby and all three of them are armored. It occurs to me, as my claws hit the glimmering surface of the Bifröst, that maybe this wasn't the right skin to be wearing when I made my entrance.

Behind me, the car's engine rumbles.

"Hey, kids," I say, stepping forward. "Long time no see."

Magni growls, hands clenching the grip of his hammer. He gets halfway through raising it when a gesture from Forseti has him stepping back.

"You should not have returned to this place, Usurper." Forseti's shoulders are thrown back and tight with a rage and sorrow that pours from him like molten gold. "You will find no solace here, only death."

And, okay. It's not exactly like I was expecting a happy reunion, but still. Death? Harsh.

I hold up my hands, trying not to notice the way Magni's looking more and more like he's sitting on coiled springs, waiting for his lid to pop.

"No need for that," I say. "I'm here to tie up some loose ends, that's all. But I'm not gonna do it standing in the middle of the road."

"You will not enter Ásgarðr," Forseti says. "It is done with your vile ways."

I take an experimental step forward just to see how Thor's brats itch to do the same. The only thing keeping them at bay is Forseti. "Look," I say. "Whatever you think's happened, whoever you think I am, I can assure you it's not—"

"You are my father's murderer, twice over," Forseti snarls. "You, who ate his heart and defiled his legacy. Who brought Ásgarðr to its knees with your dishonor, the níð of Hveðrungr and Ginnarr made flesh. I know what ruin you bring, waste of the old era. You who are the last of the filth not burned clean by the fires of Ragnarøkkr, the last of Odin's deceit. Ásgarðr renounces you, demands justice for your crimes. And justice will be had. I, Forseti, son of Baldr the Betrayed, will see it done."

And then he draws his sword.

I have just enough time to think, Oh shi— before Magni's war hammer connects with the underside of my jaw and the world turns into a rainbow spin of pain.

The front fender of my car stops me, my spine cracking across the chrome as I hear the engine roar. I don't get time to right myself, instead feel thick fingers wind through my feathers as I'm hauled upright.

"Come quiet, jötunn curr," Magni snarls.

"Unlikely," I reply, and it isn't until my elbow is already connecting with the bastard's gut that I realize his answer was "Good!"

Escape leaves me with a throbbing skull and Magni with a fistful of orange-red feathers, and I scramble into a crouch before he can descend on me again. I get halfway up before the point of a blade presses against my throat.