“Hel might be inside. She was with Westberg, or whoever it is, all this week,” Patrick said.
“Maybe she was the one controlling whoever took Westberg’s place,” Jono said.
“Orwhatever. They felt human every time I interacted with the guy.”
“That means nothing,” Brynhildr said from behind them.
“Yeah.” Patrick raised the dagger, pressing the point of the blade against the center of the door. Magic burned and sparked from the touch, casting a malevolent, sickly color over the matte-black blade. “Get ready.”
Jono watched as Patrick leaned his entire bodyweight against his grip to pierce the encasement spell wrapped around Au Hall. White heavenly fire flared up around the dagger that burned bright. The spell wasn’t strong enough to stand against hundreds of prayers from all the gods of heaven, and it disintegrated with a crackling hiss. Magic peeled away from the door with a rainbow flash of color.
“Clear?” Jono asked.
“Yeah,” Patrick said.
Jono reached for the handle and yanked it up, breaking the lock and shoving it open with preternatural strength. They stepped inside the restaurant, a blast of warm air hitting them all at once. Jono’s nose twitched with the stink of expensive perfume, cologne, and the sweat of way too many people in too warm of a place.
A woman standing in the hostess area to greet new arrivals froze when she caught sight of them before rallying. “Au Hall is closed tonight for a private event. I’ll need to ask you to leave.”
Patrick held up his badge again, not even looking at her. “This is my invitation.”
He walked past her and into the restaurant proper, Au Hall packed with people despite the reactionary snowstorm raging outside. Jono stayed right by Patrick’s side, scanning the crowded restaurant. He wondered how many of the people who had bought seats for the fundraiser dinner had done so because they had no choice.
Classical music poured from the surround sound speakers, white noise beneath the chatter of conversation. Dinner guests mingled between tables if they weren’t already seated. Everyone was dressed for a black-tie affair, and Jono would’ve felt underdressed if he gave a damn.
“Do you see Thor?” Patrick asked, keeping his right hand angled behind his hip to hide his dagger.
Jono scanned the first floor but couldn’t see the god. “No.”
“Then let’s go upstairs.”
“Do you have a plan for when we find him and whoever is playing at being Westberg?”
“Adrenaline and hope for the best.”
Wade snorted. “That’s not a plan.”
“It’s a Patrick plan,” Jono muttered.
A set of stairs along the wall led up to a balcony area that would’ve offered up a fantastic view of Grant Park and Lake Michigan on a clear day. Jono took the steps two at a time, keeping pace with Patrick. He ignored the heads turning to watch them and the way conversation became muted below.
The commotion their group was causing by barging in on the fundraiser unannounced caught the attention of whatever was impersonating Westberg once they reached the landing. The balcony wasn’t as crowded—probably reserved for high-dollar donors—most of whom looked annoyed at their arrival.
Half the guests up there were seated at their dinner tables. Others mingled in small groups. Jono caught sight of Thor immediately, the god towering over everyone else around him. The man standing next to Thor who wore Westberg’s skin locked eyes with Jono. Whoever it was didn’t hesitate to turn toward Thor—and run the god through with a wooden spear that flashed into existence in his hands.
“No!” Brynhildr yelled.
“That’s Gungnir, Odin’s spear,” Eir snarled, shoving past Jono. “The Allfather would never willingly give it up.”
Silence reigned for a handful of seconds, the length of time it took for Thor to fall to his knees, obscured by the tables and people between them. Then everyone started screaming. Guests lurched away from the tables, clogging the narrow path between chairs, rushing for the stairs.
Patrick swore and raced after the two valkyries. Jono went after him. Patrick didn’t care about manners or niceties, and neither did Jono. They shoved aside anyone who got in their way, intent on making it to where Thor had fallen.
Then the crowd parted, tables flipping over as Patrick used magic to clear them a path across the balcony space. Plates and drinks went flying, sending food and alcohol into the panicking crowd around them. Brynhildr and Eir were golden blurs to Jono’s eyes, but they still weren’t quick enough to stop the man impersonating Westberg from planting his foot on Thor’s back and yanking free Odin’s spear.
A spray of blood arched away from Thor, splattering the imposter’s face. Jono thought it was the smear of red that blurred his features—but then his face kept changing. The features shifted like so much clay, reforming into a sharply featured face that looked nothing like Westberg. Light brown hair framed eyes the color of rich earth, and the smile on his face was as cold as the snowstorm raging outside.
Brynhildr touched her throat, her hand coming away with a spear that grew in size. “Loki. You have given your last betrayal.”
