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by
Rick Riordan
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December 15, 2024 - January 12, 2025
My name is Magnus Chase. I’m sixteen years old. This is the story of how my life went downhill after I got myself killed.
The guy was like a ninja. A homeless vampire ninja.
Someday, I want to study Vikings. Men who wear metal bras are cool!
(of course it had to be a BMW)
“You missed a pedestrian,” I said. “You want to go back and hit her?”
just to make small talk, I asked, “So who’s trying to kill me?”
“The statue of Leif Erikson…Does that mean the Vikings—er, the Norse—discovered Boston? I thought the Pilgrims did that.” “I could give you a three-hour lecture on that topic alone.” “Please don’t.” “Suffice it to say, the Norse explored North America and even built settlements around the year 1000, almost five hundred years before Christopher Columbus. Scholars agree on that.” “That’s a relief. I hate it when scholars disagree.”
And weren’t there a couple of movies about Thor?” Randolph shook his head in disgust. “Those movies…ridiculously inaccurate.
“Myths are simply stories about truths we’ve forgotten.”
and that scared the baked beans out of me.
Now, hurry. We’re in a twenty-minute parking spot.”
“YOU CAN’T DROP a bombshell like that and walk away!” I yelled as Randolph walked away.
“Yo!” I caught the sleeve of his cashmere coat. “Rewind to the part about a Norse god being my pappy.”
So a well-dressed Satanic male model who could melt cars…why not? My brain just kind of expanded to accommodate the weirdness.
“Cool down, man. I have a corroded piece of metal and I’m not afraid to use it.”
time to ruin this guy’s outfit.
Weakly, I raised my free hand. I flipped him a gesture that he wouldn’t need to know sign language to understand.
Then I died. The end.
Billy went to school. He had a good day. Then he died. The end.
actually died. One hundred percent: guts impaled, vital organs burned, head smacked into a frozen river from forty feet up, every bone in my body broken, lungs filled with ice water. The medical term for that is dead.
you can imagine Tinker Bell at age thirty-something, minus the wings, wearing flannel, denim, and Doc Martens, you’ve got a pretty good picture of my mom. She was a petite lady with delicate features, short blond pixie hair, and leaf-green eyes that sparkled with humor.
but Thor gets a little upset. He still holds a grudge that Jesus never showed up for that duel he challenged him to.”
She looked like the maid of honor at someone’s Mortal Kombat wedding.
I made a mental note to avoid Odin.
No, but your dad was apparently a jackass!
Hey, good job. You’re a hero. Have a cookie.
Not that my regularly scheduled life was so great, but it beat getting judged unworthy by twelve bearded guys named Erik.
How could a homeless kid have a dad who was the god of abundance and wealth? Talk about a cruel joke.
I went out to find breakfast and kill it with my sword.
I tried to fit that into my new worldview: a teenager from the 1860s, the son of a former slave and a Norse god, who was now having breakfast with me in an extra-dimensional hotel.
“Don’t mind Mallory. She’s a sweetheart, once you get past the fact that she’s a horrible person.”
John Winthrop’s vision of a shining ‘City on a Hill’? That wasn’t just a metaphor. He had a vision of Asgard, a glimpse into the other worlds. And the Salem witch trials? Hysteria caused by magic seeping into Midgard. Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston. It’s no accident his most famous poem was about a raven, one of Odin’s sacred animals.”