Outside, the sound of footsteps were coming closer to the house. I could hear conversation, some grumbling, some laughter. But I could not for the life of me look away from Odin’s steady gaze.
“Promise me you will be very, very careful in the upcoming days.”
It was such a weird request I just frowned. “I’m always careful.”
“Be more careful.”
“Why? How?”
“Because you are a target. And any way you can be, obviously.”
Obviously. So helpful.
Then the door swung open—apparently none of the gods nor my sister and Ryder felt like knocking.
I, however, felt like someone had just thumped me hard in the chest.
Odin complained, loudly and at length that he didn’t like his house being violated by everyone in town who didn’t know how to wipe the mud off their boots, and why hadn’t anyone knocked, and it wasn’t like he was going to keep the powers inside, so get the hell out of his living room.
It all sort of washed over me like an ocean wave, while I sat there, his previous words a boulder trapping me flat to the ocean floor.
Myra caught my gaze over the crowd of quickly departing gods, and I gave her a wobbly smile. I pushed up to my feet, my hand falling to the bottle of powers still in my coat.
It was still there, one problem solved and almost off my to-do list. That was good, right? Something positive had come out of this day? I could deal with the war, with dark magic all in good time.
If I had time.
“Are you all right?” Myra asked as I headed toward the door. Piper was next to Jean, looking a little wide-eyed, but trying not to show it.
“Enough. I’ll tell you after we’re done. Let’s get these powers put away.”
Her light blue gaze shifted across my face as if looking for injury or lie there. Finding neither, she nodded. “Ten bucks if you can guess where he’s going to keep them.”
It was a thing we did. It was childish. We did it anyway.
“In a hollow log.” I said.
“Gasoline can.”
“Tool cabinet.”
“Chainsaw.”
We had followed the crowd of gods out to wherever Odin had decided to stash the powers. Past a pile of discarded wood lumps that looked like they’d been mauled by a herd of mutant woodchuck termites, around his garbage can, burn barrel, and into the corner of his back yard that ended at the tree line of what seemed to be endless forest.
Right there, shining like a drop of molten silver between an old elm and older ash tree, was an Airstream travel trailer.
“Trailer,” I said, even though our guesses were up. “Didn’t even know he had one.”
He not only had a trailer, he also had a big gray V-8 pickup parked in front of it with vanity plates spelling out SLEPNR.
Odin himself opened the door of the trailer and flicked on a light. The interior seemed to shine in gold, and in the falling light of day, it made the whole thing a lot more mystical than a travel trailer should be.
I’d never seen the inside of Odin’s trailer, but what I could see from the door looked like all the wall space was taken up with shelves and shelves of books.
Huh. Not really what I’d expected.
“All right, all right.” He came back out of the trailer, wiping his broad, nicked-up hands over the jug in his hand.
