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

by Rick Riordan

“Uh…” I cleared the last falafel and seawater out of my throat. “You want to come with me to a creepy mansion and look through a dead guy’s stuff?” Alex beamed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Loki himself. His autumn-leaf-colored hair swept around the edges of his flag officer’s hat. His intense irises glinted like rings of hardening amber, suffocating the life out of his poor trapped pupils.

Normally, I didn’t get this close to Mallory unless she was pulling an ax out of my chest on the battlefield. She valued her personal space. There was something troubling about her gaze—a sort of free-floating anger, like a fire that jumped from rooftop to rooftop. You never knew what it would burn and what it would leave alone.

“All right.” I helped Blitz to his feet and gave him a hug. He smelled like toasted kelp and Dwarf Noir eau de toilette. “Don’t you dare die without me.” “Do my best, kid.” I faced Hearthstone. I put my hand gently on his chest, an elfish gesture of deep affection. You, I signed. Safe. Or me. Angry. The corners of his mouth pulled upward, though he still looked distracted and worried. His heartbeat fluttered under my fingertips like a scared dove. You, too, he signed.

The warriors’ spirits fluttered inside their rib cages like blue flames clinging to the last remnants of kindling.

I decided Alfheim was a pretty world as long as it was manicured and trimmed and kept up by the servants. Allowed to go wild, it went wild in a big way. I wondered if elves were similar. Calm, delicate, and formal on the outside, but if they let loose…

Andiron gestured, Come here. Hearthstone hesitated. He edged closer to the ghost. I will tell you a secret, Andiron said. When I whispered into that well, I made a wish. I wanted to be as kind and good as you, brother. You are perfect.

“Well, Valkyrie, you’ve got your father’s silver tongue. I don’t see any reason to kill you for what you’ve said.” That was Mallory’s way of saying thank you.

my success would depend on me. Alas, me was my least favorite person to depend on.

“You’ll live,” the jotun grumbled, like this was a personal failure on his part.

He said something in a language I didn’t know—his voice wet and hollow like water dripping in a coffin.

Perhaps Sigyn had tried to shield Loki from the snake because she knew her husband was already full of poison. He could barely keep his human form from liquefying into the stuff.