Page 67 of Valkyrie Confused

ARNLAUG

Pan’s kissis still tingling on my lips as I pull out the leather cord wrapped around my neck and fist the silver disk hanging from it. Its unadorned, except for theothalarune carved on it.

Odin’s rune.

“Odin,” I call out. “Please hear my prayer. I need to see you.”

I don’t have to say it twice. Like all the times before, he summons me to him.

Not to his throne room. That was destroyed, like the rest of his palace, when he sacrificed himself to save the world. We’re in a cave deep inside the earth, near the root of Yggdrasil in Midgard.

He has a throne here too, of course, in which he’s reclining in all his glory. Except, when I approach to fall to my knees before him, I see his hair is matted with dirt, his robes not as pristine as I remember.

Is his power waning, or am I just now noticing the imperfections?

“You asked to see me, child.” His voice booms as strong as ever. “Is your quest complete? I don’t see the Valkyrie you were tasked with procuring.”

Procuring. Like she’s an object, not a person. Not a vibrant, amazing woman, who’s taken everything I’ve thrown her way in her stride, where men would have broken down and cried like babies.

Not the woman I can’t stop thinking of.

Not the woman I fucked this morning and long to be with again.

I push the thoughts into a tiny box in the back of my head, where Odin won’t think to look for them, and touch my hand to my forehead. “I apologize for the delay, AllFather. I have found your Valkyrie”—the words taste foul—“but she’s not ready for you yet. I am helping her train, so she is delivered to you in peak condition.” Like a horse.

Since when does talking to my god disgust me?

Since I remembered what it’s like to worship a different, Greek god.

More dangerous thoughts to be tucked away from the surface. Odin has always maintained that he doesn’t mess with the minds of his followers, but gods lie.

Even the sexy, horny ones. They lie when they say that sex is just sex.

Odin stands and glowers down at me when I dare glance at his face. “And who are you, to decide when my Valkyrie is ready?” he asks in a dulcet tone that belies the storm in his single eye. “Who are you, to keep her from me”—he steps closer, until he’s hovering over me—“when I’ve specifically asked that she be brought to me immediately?”

“I thought—”

“You weren’t created to think.” He places his hand on my head, an almost fatherly gesture, except for the feeling of intrusion that comes with it. “You were created to follow orders. Were my orders not clear?”

His touch extends inside my scalp. He’s prodding my brain. Seeking what I’ve kept from him.

It wouldn’t do for him to catch me in a lie, so I brave the truth. “I’m always your humble servant, but I have questions, Mighty Odin.”

The weight on my head disappears, and when I raise my gaze again, he’s reclining in his throne. His hair and beard are stark white now, and his robes show no wear or tear. “Questions,” he says flatly. “Ask yourquestions, then, so you can go complete your task. But remember.” He taps the patch covering his righteye. “Knowledge always comes at a price. So for every one of your questions I answer, I get to ask one in return.”

Hunger circles the depths of his remaining pale-blue eye like a shark. He wants something from me.

The uncertainty tightening around my lungs isn’t a feeling I’m used to. Odin is my god. My creator. His proximity invokes awe, but not fear. He wouldn’t harm me.

“Ask your first question, Arnlaug Odinson.” The last name he’s never uttered before sounds wrong. I’m not his son; I’m his creation. He’s made sure all Berserkers know the difference.

I don’t let it get to me. “Why do you want the fledgling Valkyries brought to you?”

He harrumphs. “Because they’re mine.” His tone is that of a child refusing to share his toys.

He furrows his brow.

I quiet my mind, spreading a blank sheet over my thoughts, then focus on a mental image of the open sky and fields of green. Better safe than sorry.

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