His lips thinned. “Really?”
“Look, I was telling Solina my home is about to get hauled away. I wasn’t looking for a lot of company, but I can see the two of you”—she pointed between Thorin and Skyla, who had made her way across the lobby to join our party—“are willing to make things difficult, and we don’t have time for that.” She turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. “So come on, then, if you’re coming.”
“What about the others? Baldur and the Valkyries?” I asked Thorin as we followed Gróa out to the street.
“Baldur will have to take care of himself. That’s what we all agreed, right?”
Skyla slipped a phone from her rear pocket. “I’ll text Embla and let her know we’ll be in touch. She and Naomi and a couple others were going to head over to Port of Portland and sniff around a little.”
She pushed a stray curl out of her eyes and shrugged. “Does it look like I give a damn?”
I turned to Gróa, who stared at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. “That’s some kind of loyalty,” she said. “You do anything to deserve it?”
I dropped my gaze and shoved my hands in my jeans pockets. “I ask myself that question all the time. Still pretty sure the answer is no. But they don’t seem to agree.”
The old seer picked up her pace. “The Honeywagon’s still here. Good. Let’s get this baby on the road, and then we’ll talk.”
Lo and behold, she had stenciled “Honeywagon” across the back and beneath the Winnebago’s passenger window. When she’d first mentioned her mobile home, I had envisioned something older and more decrepit: a square, lumbering beast on whitewall tires, trimmed in avocado-green paint and lots of rust. This current incarnation, however, was classy with sleek lines and muted colors. She obviously appreciated her comfort.
“We could get you a spot in the parking lot, couldn’t we?” I asked as we trundled up the steps and into the plush interior.
Gróa swung herself into the driver’s seat and fastened her seatbelt. “Nope. A völva never stays in one place too long, honey. I’ve been in Portland for two weeks waiting for you to get here. I’ve nearly worn out my welcome.”
“Two weeks?”
“Didn’t want to miss you. I knew you were coming, just wasn’t sure about the date.”
“Where are you taking us?” I asked as Skyla and I settled across from each other at the little table where Gróa probably ate all her meals. Thorin eased his huge frame into the front of the RV and slumped into the passenger seat. He wore an expression I couldn’t interpret. Irritation? Confusion? Dread? Curiosity?
“Nowhere important right now.” Gróa shifted into drive. The motor home lurched forward, and Skyla grabbed at the table in front of her, her knuckles going white. “We just gotta move.”
Thorin glanced at me before returning his attention to Gróa. “Is someone chasing us?”
She yanked the steering wheel and weaved through traffic. Someone honked. Skyla groaned and bit into her bottom lip. “Not us,” the seer said. “Just me.”
“Why?” He growled.
“Being a seer doesn’t always pay very well. I might have missed a couple of payments on the old Honeywagon.” She patted her dashboard and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“We’re running from the repo man?” Skyla asked, her voice high and squeaky.
Gróa laughed and jerked the steering wheel again. The Winnebago lurched and recovered its balance. “Better than running from the wolf, though, isn’t it?”
She followed the highway for a while before turning into the driveway for the Rolling Hills RV park, a few miles outside the city. She twiddled her fingers at the front gate guard, and he waved her by.
“Is this where you’ve been staying?” I asked. “Won’t the repo man look for you here?”
“Nah,” Gróa said. “That’s Nathaniel on the gate. We go way back. If anyone comes looking for me, he’ll throw them off my trail.”
She slowed, bumped over one speed bump and another before she pulled into an empty campsite and killed the engine. Thorin unhooked his seatbelt, rose, and squeezed through the narrow passage between his seat and the driver’s. A frown sat heavy on his face, and I nearly choked on the urge to laugh. How could I not? The whole thing was the setup for a cheesy joke: a fortuneteller, a Viking god, a Valkyrie, and a reincarnated sun goddess are riding in a Winnebago...
He motioned for me to move over, and I made space for his big frame. He said nothing but set his fisted hands on the tabletop and cracked his knuckles. Gróa climbed from behind the wheel and joined us at the table, but she didn’t sit. After several tense seconds of listening to Thorin’s knuckle popping, she reached out and laid her withered hand over his massive fists. He stopped and sat still, although his bunched shoulders and clenched jaw indicated his annoyance.
“I understand you’re out of your element,” Gróa said, “and it’s probably doing funny things to your nerves, judging by those rain clouds that have been following us since we left the city.”
I glanced out the window beside us and noticed, for the first time, the ominous darkness blanketing the sky. Thorin exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. “Until I’m certain of you and your intentions, the storms will stay.”
She sniffed and rolled her eyes. She turned from the table and stepped into her compact little kitchen, where she pulled a teapot from a cabinet and filled it with bottled water retrieved from another cabinet. “Good thing I don’t mind the rain. Sets the right kind of atmosphere for what we’ve got to do anyway.”
“And what’s that?” I asked.
“Accessing the energies fueling our visions requires concentration, focus, calmness and complete self-control. A gentle storm”—Gróa arched a meaningful eyebrow at Thorin—“can put me in the right mood for divination.” She set the teapot on the stove and turned on the flame.
Skyla snickered. “Did you hear that, Boss Man? Gentle.” Thorin frowned at her, but Skyla returned his stare with a wide-eyed look of obstinacy until he snorted and turned away. To Gróa, she said, “This sounds a lot like the sort of things I had to do to invoke a spirit once.”
She was referencing the time she contacted the spirit of one of the Valkyries who had perished in the fire at the Aerie. The information from that spirit had led us to the recovery of Surtalogi, the fire sword. It had also led us to Thorin’s brother, Grim, and his ice cave on Mount Rainier. Ultimately, that confrontation had all worked out to our benefit, but not before we all waded through a flood of pain, heartache, and betrayal. Should I expect this experience to be any different?
Probably not.
“That was all about control and focus, too,” Skyla said.
“And innate ability.” Gróa searched her cabinets again until she came up with a box of tea and a canister of sugar. “Solina, you have the ability, but you lack experience. I can help you with that.”
“When do we get started?” I asked.
The seer’s gaze flickered around the table to Thorin then Skyla and back to me. Her shoulders bobbed once. “Now, I guess.”
“One more question, first. How did you find me?”
