“I thought Lucien made a deal over that void?” Patrick asked.
Brynhildr shrugged. “His mother did.”
“With Odin?”
“With Ginnungagap.”
Patrick hunched his shoulders against the wind and started walking. “Hermes said the veil feels off.”
Brynhildr swung herself off the motorcycle, not bothering with the kickstand, and took off her helmet. The motorcycle revved its engine, and she patted one of the handlebars before leaving it behind. “We cannot cross it.”
“Is that normal?” Jono asked, practically shouting to be heard.
“Crossing the veil is always difficult these days, but something else fills it along the shores here.”
“There was something in the river,” Wade said.
“Chicago shares the edge of the world with Lake Michigan.”
“It’s alake,” Patrick said, lengthening his stride. “Not the damn Marianas Trench.”
“This is no ordinary storm, and what is building in it is no ordinary pressure,” Eir said.
“Fuck all you gods and your damn wars. If Chicago is ground zero for your Ragnarök, then I’m not getting a bonus this year because the government will pay for the property damage out of my paycheck.”
“We have tithes,” Jono reminded him.
“Shut up and let’s go crash a party.”
They were stopped at the entrance to Au Hall by someone who must have been hired to work the event. She was so bundled up that all Jono could really see was her eyes. “Private event. I need to see your invite.”
Patrick unclipped his badge from his belt and held it up for her to see. “Special Agent Patrick Collins with the SOA. Step aside.”
Her eyes widened and she hesitated, but gave ground when Brynhildr pushed past her with a confidence that could not be ignored. Brynhildr made it to the door—but that was as far as she got. The moment she touched the door handle, Brynhildr was thrown backward by a surge of magic.
Jono moved so fast the wind whistled in his ears, catching Brynhildr before she could hit the street. He grunted, feet sliding in the snow as he went down to one knee from her weight and the force of impact. He looked down at her fiercely angry face, tasting ozone in the back of his throat.
“All right, love?” Jono asked as he helped her back to her feet.
She looked down at her burned and blackened hands, strips of skin peeled off and hanging from the sides of her palms. The remains of her gloves hung from her wrists, half of the leather burned away. Then Eir was there, grabbing Brynhildr’s wrists to get a good look at the wounds.
“Hold still,” Eir said tersely.
She covered Brynhildr’s hands with her own. Silvery magic flickered at the edges of their joined hands for a couple of seconds. When Eir pulled her hands away, Brynhildr’s were completely healed.
Brynhildr yanked the remnants of her gloves off. “That spell is god-made and not one that has ever lived in the walls of Au Hall.”
“Hel?” Patrick asked.
Brynhildr grimaced. “I am not sure.”
Patrick pulled his dagger free and flipped it to get a better grip on the hilt. “Right. Hermes is useless right now, but I’m betting you can call your sisters.”
“Fuck you, too, Pattycakes,” Hermes said, busy sending the woman who’d been guarding the door away with a push of godly suggestion.
Eir pulled out her cell phone and unlocked it, the screen bright even through the swirling snow. “On it.”
Jono only half listened to Eir as she called one of her valkyrie sisters. He approached where Patrick and Wade stood near the door. The front windows of the restaurant were covered with cloth shades, more to keep the attendees from view than it was to hide the weather. The solid wooden door was the only way in, and Jono’s skin itched from the hellish magic emanating from it.
