“Where the hell is he?”
He shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
I shifted my attention to Baldur. “What happened when you went to confront Val with the Valkyries? And where is Skyla?”
“I was wondering when you were going to ask,” Baldur said.
I gave him a half smile. “Sorry. I was a little distracted.”
He waved aside my apology. “The house, the one I followed the wolf to, was deserted. We checked it out. The Valkyries went back to the hotel to await word from the women trying to hack Helen’s GPS network.”
“Why would Val lead you to a deserted house?”
“Because he wanted us to find this.” Thorin leaned back and fumbled for his pocket. He withdrew his fist, held it over the coffee table, and unclenched his fingers. Something metallic clinked against the tabletop.
I leaned forward to get a better look. A ring?
“May I?” No one stopped me as I retrieved the bit of rusty metal and examined it. Worn and brittle, it appeared old, maybe ancient. The large band, larger than the circumference of my thumb, bore a roughly hewn shape resembling... “A bear? I don’t get it. What does this mean?”
Thorin cleared his throat. “When my father died, his essence was split between his two offspring. I got his strength. Modi got his anger, his battle rage, I guess you could say.” He paused long enough that I wondered if he would say more. “Have you ever heard the term ‘berserk’?”
“Sure. I mean, in a general way, to imply someone has gone crazy.”
He nodded. “It was also a term for a certain kind of fighter, well known among the Vikings. A berserker fought in a trance-like fury. They were like beasts or monsters, and they fought until they were killed or until everyone else was dead. The word for berserk comes from their habit of wearing a bear pelt during fighting. It literally means ‘bear shirt.’”
“I know you’re going somewhere with this,” I said dryly, “but the anticipation is killing me.” Val had mentioned something about berserkers in relation to Thorin’s brother when we had been preparing to confront him at Mineral Lake. Grim’s personal history had mattered less to me at that time than his potential threat to my future welfare, so Val’s brief history lesson had failed to make the transition into my long-term memory.
Thorin sniffed. “My brother was the Viking berserkers’ god. He was the one they beseeched before going into battle. Hundreds of years ago, they gave Grim this ring, a token of their praise and admiration. Grim never goes without it.”
A desert rolled across my mouth. I swallowed. “This... this is Grim’s ring?” Thorin’s head bobbed. “And the fact Val has it means what? He has your brother?”
“Or that he’s dead,” he said in almost a whisper. His eyes turned up to mine, dark and bottomless. “Have you... seen anything, Solina? Bears? Strange wolves? Anything?”
“I haven’t had many coherent dreams lately. They’ve been a swirl of things. Impressions. Images.” I stood and ambled to the pool table squatting in the center of the room beneath an elegant stained-glass light fixture. As I made my way around the table, gathering balls from the netted pockets, I recounted my latest dream about the cave, the roaring river, the waterfall, and jumping fish.
And someone calling for me. Someone who sounded very much like my father.
The only reason I hadn’t gone running home to check on them already was because Baldur’s men had verified everything was fine and dandy in North Carolina. I operated under the assumption that staying far away from them was the best thing I could do to keep my parents safe.
“There haven’t been any bears,” I said. “Nothing I can relate to Grim.”
Thorin’s skeptical expression turned resigned. He scraped a hand through his hair and tucked the long strands behind his ear. He stood and approached the pool table where I had finished racking the balls. “Your dreams are never just coincidences.”
“Does it mean anything to you? The fish and the cave. My father’s voice?”
He rearranged several balls in the triangle configuration, changing out stripes for solids. The eight ball went in the center; I knew that much. Not like I had played a lot. Not like I had the time.
“It could,” he said. “But I can’t see what point Val’s trying to make with it. Or what could happen to lead us there again.”
“The cave is real?” I lifted the rack from the table and replaced it in its holder. I selected a cue stick from the rack on the wall and positioned the white ball on the table.
Thorin looked at Baldur. Baldur blinked like a tired old owl. “Loki,” Baldur said.
Thorin nodded. He grabbed a cue stick and chalked the tip. I held out my hand, and he slapped the chalk in my palm. I readied my stick, bent over the table, and lined up my opening shot. My brother had been a pool-playing phenomenon. Anything he set his mind to, he could do and do well. In college, he had funded his social life by hustling in the local bar circuit. He taught me a few things, but that was a long time ago, and I was sorely out of practice. Here goes nothing.
I drew in a breath, exhaled, and made the opening break without skidding my stick across the felt or slipping on the cue ball. The yellow-striped nine ricocheted off the end of the table, rolled back, and sank in the corner pocket to my right. Good beginning.
“Loki. The salmon. I should have put it together.” But the legends were all still rather new, and I tended to forget the details until something jogged my memory.
After killing Baldur, Loki had tried escaping retribution by hiding out as a salmon in a stream. But the gods had found him, fished him out with a net, and carried him to a cave where they bound and tortured him. The rest was history. Val’s history. Val was turned into a wolf and forced to kill his brother, Narfi, whose entrails the gods had used to bind Loki.
I bent and lined up another shot, aiming to sink the red-striped eleven into the far left corner. The shot carried through, and the ball fell in. Leaning heavily on my luck, I repeated that same performance twice more.
Thorin whistled low between his teeth. “All right, Fast Eddie.”
“You can be Fast Eddie,” I said. “I’ll be Vincent because I’m younger and cuter.”
My next shot flopped, banking too hard off the rail. The violet twelve ping-ponged down the table, and I nearly lost the cue ball in a side pocket. I scowled. “You jinxed me.”
Grinning, he leaned over, steadied his stick, and made quick work of clearing the table until only the shiny black eight ball and two of my stripes remained. He straightened, crossed his arms over his chest, and winked at me.
“So.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m dreaming about Loki’s cave, and Val is leaving clues about your brother. Do we think the two are related?”
Thorin said nothing until after he’d made his shot. The eight ball strolled the length of the table before teetering into a corner pocket. He cocked his head and studied my face before answering. “I think it’s too soon to know. But I don’t like that you’re dreaming about your father. That makes things more... complicated.”
Cold shivers trembled down my spine. “What would Val want with them? I understand Helen using them as leverage to get to me, but Val? His schemes have never involved me, except as a means of getting to you. How would using my parents get to you?”
He set down his pool cue, took my hand, and drew me close. An undercurrent of energy ran beneath the surface of his touch, but it remained vague, never formulating into an image or impression. Still, it felt like... longing? Unbidden, Hugh’s words about Thorin’s feelings popped into my mind again.
