Magnus had gone off to talk to the other members of Odin's Taint about this new twist of events. The second he was out of earshot, both Mestoph and Leviticus turned to Sir Regi. “What the Hell was that?” they asked in unison. Sir Regi shrugged, or what passed for it in a small dog.
“That was me ensuring we have body guards for the remainder of this trip. Otherwise we were going to have to ride with them all the way to Reykjavik, figure a way to disappear before the officials got involved, and then trek back out this way. In case you haven't noticed, the storm is moving inland. And in case you didn't notice, St. Peter hired a bunch of barbaric goons to kill us and anyone else associated with us. His failure will be obvious by the time we leave here, and he's not just going to give up. We need protection, transportation, and guides. I just got us all three rolled into one. Religiously devout bodyguard-chauffeur-guides.”
Mestoph and Leviticus each looked like they were about to broach an argument, but the words fell just short of being spoken. It probably wouldn’t have been convincing, anyway. Marcus finally spoke up, “Who are the Vanir?”
“Norse gods, separate from Odin and the rest, but gods none the less. I think they're supposed to be dead or in hiding. Something like that,” answered Stephanie.
“Actually, they're not dead. There was a war between the Vanir and the major Norse gods called the Aesir. As part of an eventual peace treaty the two groups exchanged members and the Vanir taught the Aesir to use magic, which hitherto they had no knowledge of. Now the Vanir are essentially a subgroup of the Aesir. Not necessarily equals, but not subordinates either,” explained Sir Regi.
“Thank you, Britannica,” said Mestoph.
Stephanie raised a brow in mild surprise. “You say that like they're...oh...” she said as she realized the truth, the raised brow dropping in dismay.
“Oh, what?” asked Marcus.
“They are real, aren't they?” asked Stephanie.
The three of them that weren't human just shrugged and nodded, like it was no big deal to them. The truth was, to them, the Norse gods were no big deal. They were more annoying than useful or relevant.
Iceland might have been the land of the midnight sun during summer, but in late spring it was the land of the nine a.m. sunrise. Rise it finally did, and with it so did the funeral pyres. Being hearty people and used to heavy drinking, the cart of mini-bottles had done little to dull the faculties or the sentiments of the barbarians. They burned their brothers in the early light with little fanfare. The rock mounds and scrubby wood of each pyre had been fashioned in the shape of a crude boat. There were small effigies of scrub brush and twigs that looked faintly feminine and were presumably meant to represent the Valkyries that were to lead the dead on their journey to the afterlife. The barbarians were silent and observed the rite with little show of emotion. Though they had fallen in battle and would be well on their way to Valhalla, they were still sad to see their friends and comrades go.
Once the service was over, the barbarians gathered more rocks and finished building cairns from the raised daises that had served as the base for the pyres. It was quickly done, and then the barbarians made to prepare the survivors for departure. They gave only fifteen minutes to gather up anything the survivors wanted to take, and then they were pulling out. Magnus was very clever about keeping Mestoph and Leviticus’ little group separate, giving them tasks and using them as coordinators. One of the vehicles they had arrived in was a mangled wreck, but they still had two large SUVs, two trucks, and one old army Range Rover. They assigned the survivors to various vehicles and arranged for drivers; Mestoph, Leviticus, Marcus, Stephanie, and Sir Regi would be riding in the Range Rover with Magnus and Fenrir.
Although all of Odin's Taint had wanted to help escort Sir Regi to the Vanir, they had reluctantly agreed to split up and traveled light. When the fifteen minutes were up, only a few of the survivors were still digging through belongings—whether they were looking for sentimental items or looting was anyone's guess—everyone jumped in their assigned vehicles and got ready to head out. Everyone, that is, except for Father Mike; he was leaning against the Range Rover with his arms folded across his chest.
“You guys are up to something,” said Father Mike as the other vehicles pulled off, leaving them no choice but to take him along despite the limited room.
“Obviously, so are you,” said Leviticus.
Father Mike smiled. “I come to Iceland to do mission work with the pagans, and God drops Vikings in my lap. I'm thinking that's no coincidence, so I'm sticking with you guys.”
“Technically, God shot you out of the sky and then sent Vikings to kill you. Maybe that's no coincidence,” said Sir Regi, who seemed to have totally forgotten he was a talking dog.
“You all aren't from around here, are you?” Father Mike asked, gesturing to the world around them. “And I don’t just mean Iceland.”
“No, we're not,” said Stephanie with a finality that broached no further discussion— something only a woman seemed to be capable of doing—and got in the Range Rover.
The shepherd and the lamb came to the edge of a deep chasm made of sleek, glassy obsidian. Warm steam rose up from it, making it impossible to see how deep it went. These kinds of vents gashed Iceland here and there from one end of the island to the other and were as commonplace—and possibly more so in certain areas—as houses. The shepherd stood perilously close to the edge, trying to absorb as much warmth as he could. It had been over a week since he had been anything resembling warm, and he had to fight the urge to simply jump in.
Persephone stirred and jerked in his arms. The shepherd put her down a few feet from the edge and then stood back, waiting for further instructions. Instead, there was a brilliant flash and then, standing where the lamb had been, there was the Persephone he knew and loved.
She was curled in the same position the lamb had been in, and it took her a minute to stretch to her full height. She stretched her arms, rolling her shoulders back at the same time, and then gave her head a quick twist to the left and then the right as if she were giving herself her own chiropractic adjustment. The shepherd watched with both admiration and lust. Her skin was the palest of whites, and in the steam from the vent she sometimes seemed to disappear; only her long, curly black hair kept her from floating away. She was lean but had the build of a woman who was not averse to physical exertion—or perhaps even the occasional battle. Lean muscles rippled and coiled as she stretched, emphasizing her strength and beauty.
That's not to say she looked like a boy with breasts. On the contrary, she had just the right amount of curves for her slight frame, and her face was that of a goddess. Literally. She had classic Greek features, but not like an ancient statue; no, hers was the beauty of dreams. Her eyes were the deep blue of the arctic seas, with stormy flecks of violet that hinted at her mischievous side. She was everything a goddess should be, and more than any man should ever want, and the shepherd suddenly felt inadequate.
When she was done with her contortions, she stood and smiled at him. It was a smile of both love and sadness. He had gone through Hades for her without the slightest explanation. Now the man that stood before her hardly looked like the one she had come to know. He was haggard and sickly. He was pale and covered in mud. His clothing was soaked and torn and despite his best efforts not to, he shivered uncontrollably. It was only then that she realized her nakedness, and with a soft whisper a black gown seemed to shed from her skin to cover her. It did nothing to dampen her sexuality.
She walked over to the shepherd and caressed his face, paying no attention to the grime and mud that clung there. With another whisper his muddy rags fell to the ground and were replaced by a thick woolen sweater and heavy cotton pants. The rain streaked down them like they would a duck’s well-oiled back and ran into puddles on the ground. The shepherd felt true warmth, inside and out, for the first time since they had left.
“We're here,” said Persephone softly.
The softness disappeared suddenly and she turned toward the chasm, shouting with an authority the shepherd had never heard before.
“Heimdall! Show yourself,” she commanded.
Her voice echoed, and then there was silence. A swift wind picked up and sent the steam swirling into sinister spirals. The earth shook from somewhere deep, and then there was the sound of stone grinding on stone. Finally a figure appeared. It rode on a piece of multi-colored stone up through the steam. The stone was various shades of gray, black, dark brown, and green, with a single band of shiny red all sandwiched together like Paleolithic plywood. It was what one could imagine the droll and dour Vikings of a thousand years ago might have called a rainbow.
Standing at the helm of that extending stone bridge was a tall and bulky man in iron and leather armor burnished and etched by years of battle followed by years of disuse. Standing out starkly against the darkly weathered armor was skin so white it was far beyond pale, like alabaster. Long hair billowed behind him, and a braided beard reached to mid-chest, so white it could’ve been spider silk. This was Heimdall—the White God.
As Bifrost, the stone bridge that linked Asgard with Midgard, moved closer, the god squinted his eyes and both the shepherd and Persephone felt they were being scrutinized in a way they had never been before. The god shifted uncomfortably and touched an intricately detailed horn strung at his side. His thumb rubbed over what looked like an etching of a jester and a wolf, as if remembering or dreading something. Then he shook off the emotion or memory, literally shaking his head, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Persephone,” said Heimdall as the bridge came to a stop directly in front of her. He spoke in tones far older and more Germanic than even the shepherd’s Icelandic accent. “Where is your master? I hear him not, and see not his baleful visage.”
Persephone sighed. “I fear he is not far behind, and I beg asylum for my companion and I.”
There was a long pause as Heimdall appeared to be contemplating the possibility. Again his hand went to the horn at his side. Finally he laughed, more to himself, like someone who couldn’t believe what he was about to say.
“That decision is not mine to make, but if you wish to plead your case to the Allfather, then I grant you both passage to Asgard.”
Heimdall sighed and lead them across the bridge. As Bifrost bridge pulled back into the steam and out of sight, there was a flash of lightning and a loud crack of thunder and up from the ground rose a man of slight build and angular features. He was olive skinned with solid black, almond-shaped eyes. There was no hair at all on his head; not on top, on his chin, or even above his eyes. He had long, slender fingers, which he had a habit of tapping randomly against each other as he was thinking. He wore a long, black robe that was tailored closely to his physique but flared out and pooled at his feet like ink.
The man walked toward the edge of the chasm and knelt down to put one of his long-fingered hands just a hair off the ground. He smiled and the edges of his thin, harsh mouth curled up. He pinched up a bit of dirt and sniffed it, then sprinkled it into the wind. The smile turned into a full grin, revealing two rows of pearly and perfectly aligned teeth.
“Persephone,” he said in a slithery whisper, drawing out the S so much that his tongue poked out briefly from his mouth, as if he were tasting the air.
They had been driving for almost an hour in complete silence. Magnus had asked where they were heading, and all Sir Regi had said was “inland.” Since then there had been glances between Magnus and Fenrir, Marcus and Stephanie, Leviticus and Mestoph, and between Father Mike and everyone else. No one would meet his eyes, though they all had their own reasons for avoiding talking to him. Only Sir Regi seemed oblivious or impervious to the awkward staring cliques that had formed around him.
Mestoph and Leviticus weren’t just staring intently at each other; they were deep in a hypnomancy argument.
“We've got to get rid of that priest!” said Mestoph.
Leviticus shrugged. He agreed, but as he had been stating over and over for the last half hour, there was no clean and easy way of doing it.
“We could kill him,” suggested Mestoph, somewhat sheepishly.
“You're right. We could. But we're not. Too many innocent people have already died for this.”
Mestoph pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes briefly, and sighed. Somewhere close to a hundred people had died on that flight. Despite the fact that he and Mestoph hadn’t been the ones who had fired the rocket, hired the mercenaries, or given the order to take them down at any cost—one which even Leviticus had agreed was hard to believe God or Satan would have been able to justify—Leviticus blamed himself. He believed deep in his heart, or whatever he had, that they had died because of him.
“Don't start that again,” said Mestoph.
“Start what? Feeling guilty for all the shit we've caused? The plan was to bring things to the edge of catastrophe. Our catastrophe has gone AWOL, and another one happened in its place.”
Mestoph rolled his eyes and sighed. “Come on. A plane crash is not a catastrophe,” he said, but he regretted it even as the words came out, even before he saw the horrified look on Leviticus’s face.
It had been a catastrophe. Even he had to admit that. It had once been his job, his pleasure even, to arrange catastrophes of just this sort. But spending time around Marcus and Stephanie had given him an insight into the human condition that he had never experienced. Leviticus didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.
“When it comes time to act, we can't have him hanging around. The second he finds out you're and Angel—or, God forbid, that I'm a Demon—it's all over. He's gonna pull some Super Pope powers on us, and then we're toast. It's bad enough that Stephanie knows.”
“Stephanie knows what?”
“That I'm a Demon,” said Mestoph as if Leviticus should have known exactly what he was talking about, not realizing he hadn't told Leviticus about it before the rebels attacked.
“How the Hell did she find out?”
“I told her.”
“Why?” said Leviticus, throwing his hands up in agitation.
“Well, she already knew...mostly. She was OK with it.”
“OK? She was OK with it? You tell her you're an elder Demon from deepest pits of Hell who used to revel in the pain and suffering of humans, and she's OK with it?” asked Leviticus, his voice getting higher and higher pitched as his frustration peaked.
“I never reveled! I might have gotten some pleasure out of it on occasion, but I never reveled. And I didn't say it like that. She said 'You're not an Angel are you?' and I said 'No' and that was pretty much it.”
Leviticus just shook his head in disbelief. Nothing was ever simple when Mestoph was involved. Not that it was simple when he was involved either. To get there they had told so many lies that they could no longer talk openly in front of anyone. Their plan had fallen to shit, and then their shitty plan had fallen to shit. Now they were stuck in Iceland with two humans who thought they were trying to save the world, two Neo Vikings who thought they were trying to save the world for all Viking-kind, and a priest who thought they were the key to him fulfilling his Godly calling. This priest was just one problem too many with one solution too few. He couldn't let Mestoph kill him; it just wasn't right. Although their moral compass had spun far from pointing in the direction of the righteous, killing a priest was too much.
“We'll just have to put up with Father Mike until we find an opportunity to ditch him,” said Leviticus.
“Well until then, what are we supposed to do? This Vanir gig is only going to work as long as these barbarians don’t realize we have no idea where we're going or what we're looking for. Then I don't think they're going to be quite so friendly.”
“Just keep our heads down and make it up as we go along,” said Leviticus.