“Who were you?” Thorin asked him. “Before?”
“Who I was then is not important. Not now.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s simple.” Rolf’s tone was calm, neutral, almost nonchalant. “I have the sword, Surtalogi, and I want you, Magni, Son of Thor, to come and take it from me.”
The room spun. I closed my eyes and put a hand to my pounding temples. “I knew I saw you at Grim’s house.”
Rolf hacked a derisive sound. “You were the only one.”
“You were there,” Thorin said. “At the cave. During the fight with Grim. I remember.”
“Do you remember fighting with Grim, being so single minded that you didn’t notice me until I brought that ice cave down on you and took the sword while you were busy scrambling for escape? You nearly succumbed. You’re a lucky bastard, aren’t you? Always have been. Damned Aesir and their charmed lives.”
“Where’s my brother?” Thorin asked.
“Oh, he’s your brother when you think someone else has done something to him. You were so ready to kill him yourself. What does it matter if I was the one to finish him off?”
Thorin grunted as though someone had punched him in his stomach. “He’s dead?”
Although I was inclined to say Good riddance, then wasn’t the right time.
“I can’t show you his severed head or anything, but you were the only one that came out of that ice cave that day.”
“So you want me to come. And we fight for the sword.”
“Yes. You and only you. No tricks, no cheating. You can have the sword if you can take it from me.”
“Easily done.” Thorin glared at his phone as if issuing it a challenge.
“Not so fast,” Rolf said. “You can’t bring Mjölnir or Megingjörð or the Járngreipr, and you must come alone.”
Thorin wore Thor’s belt, Megingjörð, as a torc around his neck. Supposedly, it doubled his strength. Without the Járngreipr, the gauntlets he wore as retooled cuffs around his wrists, he wouldn’t be able to lift his hammer. Thorin arched an eyebrow, obviously intrigued. “Trying to level the playing field? What if I refuse?”
After a dramatic pause, Rolf said, “If you refuse my terms or if you violate my conditions in any way, I’ll give the sword to Helen.”
“Why?” I asked, finding my voice. “Why are you doing this?”
“For revenge, of course.” Quickly, before either of us could form a reply, Rolf spat out the rest. “I’ll give you an hour to think it over. Call me at this number when you have your answer.”
The call went dead.
I remained on my knees, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip pinned between my teeth, biting until I tasted blood.
“Solina,” Thorin said, speaking my name in all seriousness.
My eyes flew open, and I looked up at him. He wore fresh clothes—jeans and a soft flannel shirt I had bought for him when I’d gone to town the day before. Everything seemed to fit, so I had done well, guessing at his sizes. The shower and a few hours of rest had restored his healthy coloring, and he looked a lot more like his old self, but with several days’ growth of beard that he rarely sported. He had also tied his hair back in an uncharacteristic knot.
He crouched beside me, still holding his phone. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I pushed up from the floor. “What revenge is he looking for?”
Thorin shook his head and shrugged.
“And you really have no idea who he was or what he wants with you now?”
“I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.”
“That’s what I said when he let me go in San Diego. I still don’t know why he did that. It’s almost as if he wanted me to go running back to you. But why?”
Thorin gritted his teeth and said, “I. Don’t. Know.”
I patted his shoulder. “It was mostly a rhetorical question, big guy. Don’t get hung up on it. Like you said, I’m sure we’ll figure it out soon enough. But in the meantime, what are we going to do?”
Thorin’s brow furrowed. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and thought for a moment. “Baldur is here. He should know about this. We’ll tell him, and then we’ll decide.”
I followed Thorin into the living room. Baldur was sitting on the sofa, sipping a cup of coffee. He smiled and waggled a couple of fingers at me. Seeing Baldur’s face triggered a memory of my dream, of the scroll I had tripped over in the orchard. If I could believe it—and how can I not? —he wasn’t merely the Allfather sitting there, grinning at me. He was also Skyla’s grandfather. I shook away the thought. Not important right now. Deal with it later.
I turned away from the men and started toward the coffee pot.
“So,” Baldur said, “I see you both survived the night?”
My gaze darted to Thorin, who tried his best to smother a smile. Survived, indeed. I still had the bruises of Thorin’s choke hold on my neck, and Thorin’s cheek showed the pale pink imprint of my burn.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but what are you doing here, Baldur?”
“Checking up on my patient.”
