She was beautiful in the way most goddesses were, and revered by her people the way queens expected to be. The immortal passed these days as a middle-aged socialite whose designer winter clothing would’ve been coveted by Nadine Mulroney if his best friend were here. Her light brown hair was done up in a chignon, and the jeweled sort of headband she wore could’ve doubled as a crown of sorts.
“Oh, hey,” Wade said happily. “Hot dogs!”
The table was covered in so many platters of food there was almost no room for the plates. The small tray piled high with plain hot dogs in buns was surrounded by tiny ceramic condiment jars. Wade plopped down in one of the empty seats and stared longingly at the tray of hot dogs until the god to his left picked it up and passed it to him.
“One should never go hungry,” the dark-haired god said, his voice deep and amused.
Wade snatched the platter out of the god’s hands and started to smother the hot dogs with all available toppings. Patrick didn’t tell him to stop, choosing instead to sit quietly beside him, keeping all his attention on Odin.
“Should I call you Aksel Sigfodr?” Patrick asked slowly. “Or would you prefer Odin?”
“I am worshipped by many names. I answer to them all,” Odin said easily enough, which wasn’t an answer. There were so many ways to piss him off if he didn’t like what name Patrick chose to use.
He figuredassholewouldn’t be the best place to start.
Patrick’s gaze flickered over to the goddess again, weighing who she could be and only coming up with one answer. “Frigg?”
Odin’s wife, the titular queen of the Æsir, smiled at him in a way he was sure she thought was comforting, but which made Patrick want to run for the exit. Sitting there reminded him of the breakfast he’d interrupted on Hera’s rooftop last summer. The only difference was he didn’t have Jono with him to lean on for support.
“Well met,” Frigg said.
Patrick nodded slowly at that statement, in no way wanting to repeat it, because the words would be false. The dark-haired god at the table passed over a tray piled high with bone-in prime rib. “Take some.”
“I’m not hungry,” Patrick said.
“I am,” Wade mumbled around a mouthful of hot dog.
The god produced a knife from somewhere and transferred a thick slab of prime rib to Wade’s plate. The teen hummed happily at the addition, and Patrick resigned himself to letting Wade eat whatever he wanted at this table.
“You’ve done well by the fledgling,” the god said.
“We try,” Patrick replied.
“I know.”
The statement had Patrick eyeing the god warily, mind skimming through all the possibilities of who the immortal could be but unable to decide until he looked into eyes no mortal would ever have—pale blue with a thin rainbow of colors ringing black pupils that seemed full of stars. Eyes that saw everything, the way Muninn and Huginn could, only in a different way. Tasked with keeping an eternal watch for the onslaught of Ragnarök, Patrick wondered what the god saw these days.
Patrick swallowed dryly before reaching for the nearest glass of water. “Heimdallr.”
The immortal that stories called the shining god smiled, flashing gold teeth. “Yes. I see your lessons stuck.”
The knowledge that Heimdallr might have been watching him from a distance all these years made bile creep up Patrick’s throat. He forced it down with more water.
“Your ravens said you wanted to talk,” Patrick said, wanting this conversation over with as soon as possible. “The Norns wanted me to find you. They seem worried about your safety, but you’re a god, so I think you’ll be fine so long as you steer clear of the Dominion Sect. General Reed ordered me to find you. He thinks you might know where the Morrígan’s staff is, but I don’t think he knew you were immortal.”
Odin didn’t immediately answer and took his time choosing which piece of prime rib he wanted, slathering it with horseradish once it was on his plate. A waiter came over from the bar with an open bottle of what Patrick thought was wine, but turned out instead to be mead. It looked like liquid gold when poured into the wineglasses. Patrick waved off a pour for himself and Wade.
“It’s rude to decline an offer from the gods,” Frigg said mildly.
“My track record isn’t great with your kind, and Wade is underage. We’ll stick with water.”
“My son brews it locally at Eiketre. It is offered at every bar in this city,” Odin said.
“I don’t drink while working a case.”
Which wasn’t exactly true, but no way was Patrick willing to deal with gods while impaired in some way. The last time he’d done that, he’d ended up with a soul debt.
“You might be better company if you did.”
