The Hammer of Thor (Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, #2)

by Rick Riordan

Apparently North America was lousy with ancient gods. We had a full-blown infestation.

According to Annabeth, our family, the Chases, had some sort of special appeal to the ancient gods. Maybe it was our winning personalities. Maybe it was our brand of shampoo. Annabeth’s mom, the Greek goddess Athena, had fallen in love with her dad, Frederick. My dad, Frey, had fallen in love with my mother, Natalie. If somebody came up to me tomorrow and told me—surprise!—the Aztec gods were alive and well in Houston and my second cousin was the granddaughter of Quetzalcoatl, I would totally believe them. Then I would run screaming off a cliff into Ginnungagap.

“You mean the guy in Cincinnati with the gun? No, he’s okay. He’s just going to the firing range. Or do you mean that fire giant in Muspellheim? He is coming this way…No, hold on. He tripped! That was hilarious! I wish I’d Vined that.”

It seemed a little early in the morning for mead, but for all I knew these guys had been partying since 1999. That was the song blasting from the overhead speakers, anyway.

You Keep Using the Word Help. I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means