“We might have found Nina. There’s a Jane Doe here. She was in a car wreck. Baldur is checking her story.”
“Really? Is she okay?”
Thorin exhaled. “Not really. But I think she will be.”
“You think it’s her?”
“For Baldur’s sake, I certainly hope it is.”
The bedroom door eased open, and Val stuck his head in. When he saw me, awake and on the phone, his eyebrows drew down.
I read the question in his expression. Thorin, I mouthed to him.
Val rolled his eyes and came fully into the room, carrying two Styrofoam cups. He went to a seating area in the corner, settled into an armchair, and set the cups on the coffee table beside a glossy book full of Oregon landscape photos.
“Any news on the sword?” Thorin asked.
“Funny you should ask.” I filled him in on our discovery of Skyla’s relationship to Embla and my phone call to Tori.
“So,” Thorin said. “Grim.”
“You might have mentioned him before.”
“It was strictly need-to-know information.”
“Well, guess what? I have developed a severe and chronic case of needing to know.”
“The only thing you need to know is to stay far, far away from him.”
“Too late for that.”
“No,” Thorin said, and I imagined him smearing a hand over his face. “Please, please tell me you didn’t.”
“I could, but you don’t like it when I lie to you.”
“Where are you right this minute?”
“I’ll give you a hint. It starts with a C and rhymes with Horvallis.” I held the phone away from my ear while Thorin cursed a blue streak. Val looked up from the photography book in his lap, grimaced, and shook his head.
“Solina,” Thorin finally said in a more reasonable tone. I put the phone back to my ear. “He cannot be trusted. He’s my brother. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t have to listen to you at all. If it mattered so much, you would be here. But you’re not.” I had basically restated what Tori had said to me earlier, and I felt disloyal repeating her words, but my feelings made the sentiment no less true. Thorin should have been there with me, and maybe I was more jealous of his loyalty to Baldur than I wanted to admit. “I understand your need to be with Baldur. I’m not asking you to leave him, but by staying there with him, you forfeit your right to express an opinion on my activities.
“I am going to find your brother, Thorin. If you know anything about him, anything useful that might help us, please tell me. What I really need is leverage. Does he have any weaknesses, anything we can use against him? Is there anything he wants?”
“The only thing Grim has ever really wanted was Mjölnir,” Thorin said. “What do you think is going to happen? You’re just going to change his mind with a little reasoning?”
“Probably not. But I can’t just sit around and do nothing.”
“Please. Please don’t do this.” Thorin sounded defeated, and I almost changed my mind. His anger and his belligerence I could resist, but a vulnerable Thorin was difficult to defy—difficult but not impossible.
I started to say something consoling, but Val crossed the room and took the phone from me. “Thorin. I’ve already made an appointment to meet with Grim on campus. There’s a flaming sword on the loose, and I intend to recover it. It was lovely hearing from you. Tell Baldur we said hello and call back soon. But not too soon.” Val swiped his thumb over the screen and ended the call.
“Oh, that’s really going to piss him off.” I pantomimed listening for a distant sound, cupping my hand behind my ear. “I can hear his head exploding all the way from here.”
Val chuckled. “Did you get enough sleep?”
“I guess. Why?”
“We have an appointment with Grim in”—Val glanced down at the screen of the phone—“thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?” I rolled out of bed and crouched over my bags. When I found my scruffy suede boots, I plopped to the floor and tugged them on. “You found him. He’s here?”
Val nodded. “He’s got an office in the anthropology building on campus. I called and talked to his secretary.”
I grunted and heaved myself up from the floor. “Is one of those cups for me?” I pointed to the pair sitting on the coffee table.
Val swiped one and presented it to me. “Indeed.”
I stuck my nose to the opening in the lid and inhaled. “God, I love you.”
“You only love me for my coffee.”
I shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Val had already located the anthropology building, so we wasted no time wandering around campus. He led me to the entrance of an elegant Victorian-style building constructed of tan bricks, maroon trim, and black slate shingles. A slab of gray stone, etched with “Waldo Hall, 1907”, arched over the front doors.
