Rather than the protesting groans Patrick expected to hear, almost everyone at the bar finished their drinks quickly, even if they’d just ordered. People started to cluster at the counter to close out their tabs, or left cash on the tables before leaving the bar. Within fifteen minutes, the only people who remained were the immortals, a couple of employees, Patrick, and Wade.
Patrick nudged Wade toward the bar counter, the two of them claiming stools several down from where Otenai sat. Thor eyed them before grabbing a clean glass from the workspace and pouring a pint of mead. He set the glass in front of Patrick, sliding it over the wood.
“On the house,” Thor said.
“I don’t drink while on the clock,” Patrick said.
“It’s rude to ignore hospitality.”
“This isn’t a home.”
“Ah, but it is.” Thor turned to pick a purple-skinned apple from a bowl near the register and set it next to the pint glass. “Don’t worry. These do not come from Iðunn’s orchard.”
Realizing that he couldn’t get out of performing hospitality under the god’s sharp gaze, Patrick picked up the apple and took a bite. The fruit was crisp and flavorful, a far cry from the out of season ones in the grocery stores these days. He sipped at the mead, the honey flavor of it coating the inside of his mouth.
“Can I have one?” Wade asked, pointing at the fruit.
Patrick passed the apple over to Wade. If the fruit wasn’t from Iðunn’s orchard, then it wouldn’t give Wade the promise of eternal youth. “Finish this.”
“And the mead?”
“You’re not drinking alcohol.”
“I’d say a fellow warrior is always welcome to drink, but the laws in this country are not favorable toward those who fight,” Thor said.
“Wade is eighteen,” Patrick said coolly. “He’s not drinking anything but water or soda.”
“If the fledgling won’t drink, I’ll gladly take what you would offer him,” Otenai said, sliding his empty glass across the counter.
Thor seemed amused by that request. “You have imbibed an entire barrel at this point.”
“You exaggerate. Half a barrel, if that.”
The other bartender poured another beer rather than mead for the immortal, setting it in front of him before leaving the bar area to go bus all the tables with the other workers. That left them in a small bubble of privacy Patrick wasn’t taking for granted.
Otenai slipped off his stool and carried his beer closer, bringing with him the same electric feel to the air that crackled around Thor. The immortal claimed the stool next to Patrick, studying him with eyes that saw too much.
“Otenai isn’t a name I’m familiar with,” Patrick said, breaking the silence.
“The DMV out of New York is plenty familiar with Otenai Burning Sky,” the immortal said. “Hinon is another matter entirely.”
Patrick frowned. It took a minute or so for him to pinpoint that name, dredging up his knowledge of myths studied over the course of years. “You’re of the Haudenosaunee.”
Known more familiarly as the Iroquois rather than the name they called themselves, the Native American tribe called the northeast part of the country home. But gods, no matter their origin, had a tendency to wander.
Hinon smirked. “I am.”
“Little far from your ancestral homeland, aren’t you?”
“I follow where Oniare goes. There have been sightings of the beast in Lake Michigan this winter, so in Chicago I stay.” Hinon raised his glass to toast Thor with a small smile on his face. “My cousin is good company. We thunder gods must stick together.”
Thor leaned against the work counter behind the bar, his hair falling over his shoulder as he stared at Patrick. “Hinon is always welcome. You, however, bring trouble.”
Patrick flexed the fingers of one hand against the edge of the bar counter. “I wouldn’t be in Chicago if the Norns hadn’t ordered me here.”
Thor arched one thick eyebrow. “Did they now?”
“Frigg told me to come here. Odin is in danger, but he doesn’t think he has anything to worry about.”
