Thorin led us out of a side entrance to a footbridge spanning Las Vegas Boulevard. The sun had set, and a chill fell over the desert. If I’d hated my tiny red dress before, I now loathed it for its lack of insulating fabric. I also mentally kicked myself for not buying a shawl or wrap in anticipation of this kind of situation. As if I could anticipate anything. I’d never been to Vegas before and certainly never prowled around at night in unsuitable attire. Thorin noticed me rubbing my arms and shrugged off his jacket. I slipped it on and relished the residual body heat trapped in the fabric. It also carried his scent, the vague odor of ozone and damp air.
From our vantage point, the city presented a grand display of lights and animated billboards. Those signs were their own vignettes, miniature digital performances, regardless of what they advertised. I could have looked at them all night.
“Baldur is very upset, isn’t he?” I said, seeking conversation to fill the silence between us.
Thorin grunted. “He’s been put through hell, literally, and now he’s seeing there’s a chance he might face it again. I think most men would be depressed—or downright insane.”
“He’s not most men. He’s a god.”
“Just because we are not human doesn’t mean we don’t share the same emotions. What he feels is quite real.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” But I don’t know how to say what I did mean, so I asked something else. “If Baldur gave up, went into seclusion, what would it mean to Helen?”
Thorin considered his answer for a moment before saying, “Baldur is not necessarily more powerful than the rest of us, but in his role he is like a lens that focuses light into a beam. Without him, we are diffuse and less effective.”
“She can pick you off easier if he’s out of the way?”
“I think that’s the way she’s looking at it.”
“Is she more powerful, stronger, than you?”
Thorin laughed at that. “She only has more resources. At one time, Val and I were virtually omnipotent, but over the years we lost the sources of our supremacy. I’ve almost given up hope of ever finding them.”
Intrigued, I stopped and tugged us over to a bench out of the flow of foot traffic. We sat in a dark shadow between the streetlights, away from the notice of passersby. “What sources?”
“You looked up Mjölnir, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Thor’s hammer. An infallible weapon.”
“It was mine after his death. Only his blood kin can wield it.”
“And only if you’re worthy enough?” I said. So what if I had researched more than a few Wikipedia articles? Maybe Marvel was on to something.
Thorin sniffed. “Worthiness has nothing to do with it. It depends more on lineage, and on these…” Thorin pushed back his cuffs and showed me the thick bands circling his wrists. “The Járngreipr.”
“What?”
“They’re gauntlets, special gloves necessary for lifting the hammer. Baldur helped me refine them into something more… inconspicuous.”
I inspected the bracelets. Engravings marked their surfaces, like letters but from an unfamiliar alphabet. Some ancient language, I supposed. “And your necklace, is that something special too?”
Thorin looked away and gave the subtlest of nods. “Memegingjörd. I wear it as a torc now, but it used to be Thor’s belt.”
“What does it do?”
“It doubled Thor’s strength. Mine too, I guess, although I’ve rarely had cause to need it.”
“And Thor was your father?” I already knew, but wanted to hear him confirm it.
Thorin inhaled a deep breath and held it. He looked at the sky, but no stars dared to compete against the Vegas lights. “Yes,” he finally said.
I whistled low, between my teeth. “Unbelievable. Well, not really, considering everything else that has happened. But still…” I wanted to savor the import of his admission, but this was the most information I had ever gotten out of Thorin. If I interrupted our rhythm, he might clam up again. “And the hammer, what happened to it?”
“I took for granted that I was its only master. It was stolen.”
“But you said only Thor’s blood kin can wield it.”
“Wield it, yes, but it’s not like the comic books, Solina. Anyone could take it. Anyone who wanted to see me weakened.”
I shook my head and furrowed my brow. “I don’t understand.”
Thorin opened his mouth to say something, but then he stopped and drew out his phone. He thumbed the screen until he found something satisfactory. “These are some artistic renderings of it,” he said, passing me the phone.
I studied the images on the screen. Some looked like tiny, stylized hammers. A few resembled another kind of weapon. “An arrowhead,” I said.
“That’s what it most resembles when its size is reduced. It remains in that form, and anyone can carry it. But to transform it to full size and use it as a weapon, Thor’s blood must run in your veins, and you must have these.” Thorin motioned to his wrists, indicating his bracelets.
“I think I’ve seen it,” I said. Thorin drew back from me as if I had breathed fire. “No, really. The night we had drinks with Helen. She wore a gold necklace with a strange charm on the end of it. I remembered thinking at the time that it looked like a weird arrowhead.”
Thorin leapt to his feet and pounded his fist into a trashcan beside us. It crumpled under his assault. A nearby couple recoiled from us and stepped back. They gave Thorin a wide birth and eased to the other side of the bridge to pass us. Everyone else either ignored us or was too caught up in their own conversations to care. “In plain sight,” Thorin growled. “This whole time she’s had it hiding in plain sight.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Women check out each other’s jewelry all the time. Men aren’t supposed to notice those things.”
“But it’s my weapon. I should have recognized it.”
“She kept it tucked in her cleavage. I think it says something good about your character that you weren’t paying attention to her bust line.”
Thorin grunted. “I was too busy looking at yours.”
