The Ship of the Dead (Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, #3)

by Rick Riordan

Alex Fierro gave me two thumbs up. At least I think that was the gesture. It was hard to be sure from this distance.

Percy wadded up his falafel wrapper. Along with being a water-breather, the dude also had the ability to inhale food.

“Soon,” I said. “We don’t exactly know where we’re headed, or how long it’ll take to get there—” “Story of my life,” said Percy.

“Well, Estelle Blofis,” Percy corrected. “My stepdad is Paul Blofis. Not much I can do about that surname, but my little sis is awesome. Five fingers. Five toes. Two eyes. She drools a lot.” “Just like her brother,” Annabeth said.

Jason saved my butt by offering to make trading cards and action figures of her.”

Alex crossed his arms. “If those two were any cuter together, they’d cause a nuclear explosion of cuteness and destroy the Eastern Seaboard.”

The brownstone’s front door had been forced open, the dead bolt busted out of the frame. In the foyer, sprawled across the Oriental rug, lay the carcass of a wolf. I shuddered. You couldn’t swing a battle-ax in the Nine Worlds without hitting some kind of wolf: Fenris Wolf, Odin’s wolves, Loki’s wolves, werewolves, big bad wolves, and independently contracted small business wolves that would kill anybody for the right price.

“You’re a strange person.” “I prefer the term fabulously weird.”

He squinted at the page. When he concentrated, the left corner of his mouth twitched like he was enjoying a secret joke. I found that tic distracting. I wanted to know what he found so funny.

I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to stay there on that deck with Alex and watch the afternoon sunlight change the color of the river from blue to amber. Maybe we could read some of Randolph’s old paperbacks. We could drink all his guava juice. But the raven had barfed up our orders. You couldn’t argue with raven barf.

Erik the Green from floor 135 greeted me cheerfully. (From what I can tell, approximately 72 percent of the population of Valhalla is named Erik.)

The TV had been turned to the Hotel Valhalla Channel, which displayed a list of the afternoon’s events: racquetball, machine-gun tag (like laser tag, except with machine guns), watercolor painting, Italian cooking, advanced sword-sharpening, and something called flyting—all done to the death.

“There he is!” yelled Halfborn Gunderson, berserker extraordinaire, speaker of the obvious. He barreled toward me like a friendly Mack truck. His hair was even wilder than mine used to be. (I was pretty sure he cut it himself, using a battle-ax, in the dark.) He wore a T-shirt today, which was unusual, but his arms were still a wild landscape of muscle and tattoo. Strapped across his back was his battle-ax named Battle-Ax, and holstered up and down his leather breeches were half a dozen knives.

I grabbed the nearest bit of rigging and pulled as hard as I could, hoping I had the right line, or hoping I at least looked helpful while doing the wrong thing.

I looked skyward with a silent prayer: Frey, god of summer, Dad, thanks for the boat. But could I suggest that forest green is also a great summery color, and please stop embarrassing me in front of my friends? Amen.

“I’ll watch out for Sam,” Alex volunteered. “That’s what family is for, right?” Amir blinked even more. I got the sense that he still wasn’t sure what to make of Alex Fierro, Sam’s green-haired gender-fluid half-sibling chaperone of doom.

He reached behind him. From the hood of his car, he hefted a large green insulated pack—the kind Fadlan’s Falafel used for deliveries. “This is for you, Magnus. I hope you enjoy.” The scent of fresh falafel wafted out. True, I’d eaten falafel just a few hours ago, but my stomach growled because…well, more falafel.

Me, I was an atheist. I only prayed sarcastically to my own father for a better color of boat. Learning about the existence of Norse deities and the Nine Worlds had just made me more convinced that there was no grand divine plan. What kind of God would allow Zeus and Odin to run around in the same cosmos, both claiming to be the king of creation, smiting mortals with lightning bolts and giving motivational seminars?

“Unlock the dinner—I mean the prisoners, would you? Then make yourself…” He waved vaguely toward the feast hall then stomped off, leaving me to imagine how he might’ve finished that sentence: comfortable, scarce, a sandwich.

Great. We had assigned seating. A daughter of Aegir sat down on either side of me. According to the name tags, the lady on my left was Kolga. The one on my right…oh, boy. Apparently her name was Blodughadda. I wondered if that was the sound her mom had made on anesthesia after giving birth to daughter number nine. Maybe I could just call her Blod.

TYPICAL. SOMEBODY says fruity edge and immediately my name comes to mind. Come on, people. A little respect.

SMOOTH SAILING. I never appreciated that term until I’d actually had some. The next two days were shockingly, perversely uneventful.

I had no idea what vatnavaettir were, but if Halfborn Gunderson considered them bad, I did not want to meet them.

“Yes, Magnus,” she said. “It may surprise you to learn that the month of Ramadan lasts one month.” “Glad you haven’t completely lost your snark.”

Jack followed me around the deck, alternating between Abba hits (Vikings are huge Abba fans) and telling me stories about the old days when he and Frey would roam the Nine Worlds, spreading sunshine and happiness and occasionally killing people.

IN CASE you’re wondering, Old York looks absolutely nothing like New York. It looks older. Magnus Chase, master of description. You’re welcome.

Sunlight spread across the blue wool fibers of his jacket. Warmth sank into his chest, knitting his broken ribs, mending his punctured lungs, un-flattening several internal organs that did not function well when they were flattened.

Personally, I liked my cursed rings to at least do something cool, like turn you invisible and let you see the Eye of Sauron.

confuzzled

“Cailleach!” she shouted from somewhere nearby. I recognized the word: Gaelic for witch or hag, which I assumed Mallory was using as a term of endearment for her newly discovered maternal unit. In case you’re curious, the word is pronounced: Ki—followed by clearing a large amount of mucus from your throat. Try it at home, kids! It’s fun!

“Jack,” I said, “why don’t you go check on Sam? Maybe you can advise her on getting through those doors. Or you could sing to her. I know she’d love that.” “Yeah? Cool!” Jack zoomed off to serenade Sam, which meant Sam would want to hit me later, except it was Ramadan, so she had to be nice to me. Wow, I was a bad person.

I did not understand their relationship, but I knew they needed each other as much as Hearthstone needed Blitzen or our Viking boat needed to be yellow. It didn’t make much sense. It wasn’t easy. But it was just the way things had to be.

“The walnut will hold him,” Frigg said. “At least until we return him to his chains.” “Bah!” Thor raised his hammer. “I say I should just smash him right now! Save us all a lot of trouble.” “Honey,” said Sif, “we’ve talked about this.” “Indeed,” said Odin, his ravens squawking on the high back of his throne. “My noble son Thor, we’ve been over this approximately eight thousand six hundred and thirty times. I’m not sure you’re using strategies for active listening. We cannot change our foretold destinies.”