Because Tara doesn’t know what to say, she curtsies. Bowing her head, hiding her eyes, she tries to think of the perfect apology, the delicate way to say, “Yeah, no, I’m not gonna be your house-goddess.” There has to be some way to say that politely without losing her head—in a frightening, very literal sense of that expression.

“Your Majesty, we did not expect you so soon,” Lionel says, buying her time.

Odin steps into the house, his voice low and rumbling. “I’ve got to leave for Muspelheim earlier than expected, but I had to see you settled. Just so you know, the queen of Alfheim has cleared you of all wrong doing. You are still a Light Elf, and welcome in her realm.”

Tara’s eyebrows rise. She doesn’t know how court games work, but she’s pretty sure that’s a big deal, and Odin had to pull some serious strings to get Lionel off the hook.

“You honor me,” Lionel says, ducking his head.

“Honor you? You’re my son!” His voice turns wistful, and his eyes get distant. “My last, my youngest, boy.”

Tara’s eyes dart to Lionel. His jaw is hard. His hands are clasped behind his back. He doesn’t look honored or wistful. His face is blank. Tara’s seen the look before on Kayla, one of her girlfriends. Kayla’s mother left when she was young; she’d been raised by her dad. Kayla’s mother had shown up at their high school graduation and Kayla had been polite, but later she’d seethed, “Why is she here? She hasn’t done anything for me in all these years, and now it’s like she wants credit!”

Her stomach ties up in knots. Odin, All Father … terrible father to Lionel.

“Muspelheim,” says Lionel, voice neutral. “Why there?”

“To find Loki,” Odin responds, sounding weary. “He must be found if we are to avoid Ragnarok. We heard he was bound for Hel, and arrived to find the Fire Giants there already. Some say he’s joined the House of Sutr, and has retreated to his kingdom. If pointless death and destruction is to be avoided, he must be brought home.”

Odin sighs. “But enough of that. I came here for happier things. I have Einherjar and members of the Diar following me on mundane steeds.” His single blue eye settles on Tara. “They’ll be witness to your oath, Tara … and I have a magically preserved Apple of Idunn for you to eat.”

From a satchel at his side, he pulls out an apple. Its fragrance immediately fills the room. Its red and gold flesh sparkles in the dimming foyer, and just looking at it, Tara knows it will taste more like apple than any fruit she’s ever eaten. Her mouth waters, she licks her lips, and all clever words fail her. “I’m so sorry …” she says, unable to tear her eyes from the fruit. “I can’t accept your offer.”

“What?” says Odin.

“I can’t—”

Odin waves his hand and Tara can no longer speak. She feels like her blood has slowed, and as though each heartbeat and breath is a monumental effort. She can’t move her arms or her legs, or even her pinky finger. Odin turns to Lionel and her eyes remain fixed on the place the apple had been. It’s only her mind that is free to burn … this is so much like Rogier.

“You were supposed to woo and charm her,” Odin says. “What happened?”

“She needs more time to consider your offer,” Lionel protests.

Tara wants to shout. No, she doesn’t need more time.

Lionel continues, “Magic is new to her. This is all very disorientating.”

“She must take the oath!” Odin says. “That is required of any human allowed to stay in Asgard.”

Then let me go home! Tara wants to say.

“Does it have to be the modern version of the oath?” Lionel asks. “When your reign started, Einherjar took the same oath as a prince. They pledged allegiance to the realm, not obedience. Give Tara the chance to take that oath, and I’m sure she’d take it.”

At first Tara is furious at his words, and then she realizes that she was the one who suggested the distinction. But she can never pledge allegiance to a realm whose leader literally immobilizes his subjects.

“That was a different time,” Odin says, sounding tired. “When the realm was young and growing, I needed ideas. But we’ve hit an impasse, and are at war. The dwarves’ ongoing rebellion and now the Fire Giants.”

Floorboards creak as the king paces. “I am a general, Lionel, as well as king. A general needs obedience, not soldiers who question his every decision. Until the war is won, I cannot revive the old oath.” Odin’s voice reminds her of the rattle of the L train wheels: powerful, lonely, and worn.

Outside, there are heavy footsteps by the door. Her heart would seize up, if it could. Inside, it is silent.

“Then … let her go home,” Lionel whispers, his voice catching. She hears so much pain in his whisper. I’ll miss you, too, she wants to say. Forever.

Odin paces again. “She can’t go home. Not only would it be unprecedented, she’s heard too much.”

“Heard too much?” says Lionel, and Tara internally echoes his surprise.

Odin’s voice reverberates through the small foyer. “She overheard one of my council members discussing the Earth problem.”

Tara’s fingers itch to fidget. So that wasn’t hyperbole.

Odin continues, “Even if she hadn’t, she knows too many of our limitations. There have been too many … setbacks … with humans lately.”

Tara’s eyes want to blink. Does he mean the two other humans that had been here recently? If they left—or escaped—that must have been an embarrassment.

Odin’s voice becomes lower. “And then there is all the mischief that physicist Eisenberg and she are up to … She must stay.”

Odin is worried about the work that Tara is doing with Eisenberg? She feels … flattered and terrified.

“She’ll never take the oath,” says Lionel.

“She must take the oath,” Odin rumbles, and she can hear the curl of his lip. Tara can’t help noticing there is no “or else.”

Tara hears the heavy footfalls just outside retreating, and rapidly approaching hoofbeats.

Odin says, “Boy, what is wrong with you? You know her full name, and you have Elvish charm! Charm her!”

Tara’s throat constricts.

“Charm her?” whispers Lionel, and Tara swears she feels the air go cold.

“Yes, save the woman you love with it,” Odin says, sounding exasperated.

The hoofbeats halt close by, and men’s voices and the whinny of horses rise.

Lionel’s tone becomes servile. “If that is what I must do, All Father.”

“Yes, you must,” Odin says, and in the periphery of her vision she sees his hand wave. Her heart is beating again, fast and loud. She feels the rush of blood in her veins. She gasps for air and blinks, eyes tearing with dust.

“Lionel,” she whispers. She can’t see his features through her tears. He’s just a shadow before the door. “Don’t—”

He takes a step closer. Her vision clears and she’s gazing directly into his pale blue eyes. The same color as Odin’s. “No, Lionel, don’t,” she says, backing away.

“There is no other way, Tara,” he says, his jaw ticking.

Shaking her head, she says, “There is always another—”

“Tara Lupita Gibson!” His voice rises to almost a shout. She feels tendrils of cold seeping through the fabric of her dress, rising goosebumps everywhere. She gasps, preparing to be stripped of her will.

“Do you trust me?” Lionel asks, stepping far too close.

It takes her a moment to realize she can answer No. The realization makes her heart skip a beat. She still belongs to herself. She almost laughs with relief, but then her eyes go wide … why is she still herself? And then she remembers his words. “I never want to see the light of you leave your eyes again.” She gulps, understanding. Lionel is tricking Odin, or at least trying to. She feels the cold of Lionel’s magic all around her—he’s angry, she realizes, and probably terrified, too. Fighting to keep from shivering, she murmurs, “Yes.” She tries to clear her mind, and lets her gaze go to a point on his chin, purposely letting her vision become unfocused. “Yes, I trust you,” she says, in as monotone a voice as she can muster.

Lionel holds up his arm. “Take my arm, my lady.”

“Of course, my lord,” Tara responds, putting her arm into his and staring at a random point on the wall, hoping she looks convincingly vacant. Her fingers want to twitch, her nose suddenly decides it needs to be scratched, and she wants to glance back at the All Father.

“I wish I could do that to Frigga,” Odin grumbles.

Leading her to the door, Lionel pauses and says, “The men are waiting outside. I presume that is where the oath will take place?”

Odin, a few steps behind them, waves a hand for them to keep going. “They don’t like coming in here.”

Lionel takes another step, and Odin does, too. Lionel stops, turns, and says, “Father … there is a book in the dining room that Loki stole from your private library. Laws of Asgard from Antiquity to the Birth of Baldar. I believe you may want to collect it.”

Tara can’t help glancing up at the All Father. His single eye is wide. “You’re right.” He smiles. “My son.”

Turning on his heel, he mutters, “Typical, God of Book Thieves.”

Lionel leads her out the door, closing it behind them. Tara contains a gasp. On the Lake Trail stands a line of Einherjar. She’d guess at least fifty stand in the rapidly dimming light of late afternoon.

Lionel begins murmuring at a rapid-fire pace. “I’m sorry you thought I was going to charm you. I couldn’t think of any—”

“But you didn’t, and I’m fine. How do we get out of this?” Tara asks.

“I’m ready to go to Nornheim now,” Lionel says, his voice surer. “Do you still—?”

“Yes,” Tara says.

“Keep me from falling,” Lionel whispers, raising his chin and facing the soldiers.

“Always,” Tara replies, squeezing his arm.

The soldiers begin clapping. She feels Lionel’s weight press upon her arm, and before her eyes, perfect replicas of her and Lionel walk toward the trail.

“Now,” says Lionel. “Before Odin comes out.”

She feels him stumbling toward the side of the house, pulling her with him, but looks in his direction and sees nothing. She looks down at herself and sees the ground. They’re invisible, and all eyes are on the illusions he’s created. Helping him keep his balance, she guides him around the corner. She glances back to see their doppelgängers waving to the soldiers, just before the road. The men are cheering. Beside her, Lionel gasps, “I wish you’d found a sword.”

“It will be fine,” Tara insists, leading him to the meadow. It has to be fine; they’ve come so far.

“I can’t tell if you’re lying or just naturally unrealistically optimistic. Maybe it’s just that your species is so young—” His invisible self must trip on something, because he almost face plants in the grass, and Tara almost goes with him.

Trying to steady him even though she can’t see him, her voice gets frantic. “Let’s discuss the influence of xenobiology on culture later, Lionel.”

“Right,” he mutters.

He feels less wobbly and she quickens their pace. They tramp into the meadow, and the grass flattens beneath them. “Someone might see that,” she murmurs under her breath. Glancing up, she sees the gap in the wall where the World Gate is. Tugging harder at Lionel’s arm, she tries to urge him into a jog, but he stumbles and she slows.

“I’m still trying to maintain the illusion in front,” Lionel responds, his voice sounding like he’s gritting his teeth. “As long as Odin doesn’t look out the—”

From behind them comes the shattering of glass. Odin’s voice booms behind them. “What are you doing?”

“—window,” Lionel finishes. “Get your knife out.”

He makes them visible, whips a knife from his wrists, hands it to her, and says, “Wait for my signal, and then throw it at the ground.”

From behind them come a cacophony of footsteps. They turn to see Einherjar pouring around the sides of the house. Odin has leapt through the window, and the soldiers line up on either side of him, a glittering line of armor and weapons. Tara’s heart races. “Well, dying here might be better than being a zombie,” she whispers.

“I prefer your naive-human optimism.”

“I was being optimistic,” she whispers.

Keeping his eyes on Odin, he backs toward the gate, and Tara does the same.

The Einherjar raise their spears, and Tara’s legs go weak. Then their spears start glowing, and she almost falls over in sheer terror.

Odin holds up an arm—Tara braces for the agony of becoming a red-hot pincushion—but the Einherjar put their spears away. She almost breathes a sigh of relief and then sees them taking out swords instead—they don’t intend to kill them, they intend capture. Death was an optimistic prediction; she’d tease Lionel about that, if she wasn’t scared speechless. Stepping forward, Odin says, “Lionel—” What follows is a string of words … or maybe names … in Elvish, too long for Tara to follow.

Lionel freezes.

Odin finishes, “—Odinson, halt right there.”

Lionel’s head bows, and his eyes are wild. Tara wants to grab his arm and pull him away from whatever spell Odin has cast, but she’s got knives in both hands. “Lionel,” she whispers. “Lionel.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her. He just begins muttering words under his breath. Words that sound vaguely familiar.

Odin sighs. “If you’re so weak you can’t resist the invocation of your name—”

Lionel’s voice becomes louder and he lifts his hands. It’s the same words he used in the swamp. He’s summoning the Destroyer … again.

“No,” Odin roars. “Sto—”

His voice is drowned out in the thunder of the Einherjar charge. Chant rising in a crescendo, Lionel throws the blades at the ground before them. There is a spark, a shimmer, but for what feels like an eternity, yet is probably less than a second, Tara thinks nothing is happening.

And then there is flame. It’s not like in the flash of fire in the swamp; it is a wall that reaches the treetops, and its heat is like opening an oven on full broil. For a moment, Tara is stunned. Tilting her head back, she gapes. She can hear the sound of shouting from the other side and pounding footsteps … going where? She knows in an instant, and throws one of her knives to the grass on the left and the other to the right, willing them to catch. They explode with almost as much fury as Lionel’s had, and she sees men draw back behind the fires. Her eyes widen as the four blades’ inferno join together in a solid “u” of orange heat. Tara looks at Lionel, and sees him gaping at the flames.

“Lionel, what now?”

He snaps from his awe. “Run!”

They grab hands, and they tear through the wildflowers, now bathed in the glow of fire and the shadow of smoke.

Lionel begins to laugh. “I am Odin's son but I am not an Odinson! He tried to compel me, and it almost worked … but my last name is not his!”

Tara cannot speak, and it’s not just from the smoke. Between the gap in the ancient stone wall where the World Gate resides stands a looming shadow.

She and Lionel draw to a halt before the huge figure of Thor. “No one can lie to Odin,” Thor rumbles. He tilts his head. “It would take magic from you, brother, to compel me to stall them.”

Lionel draws back. “Thor …” he begins. The big man nods and rolls his hand as though to say, more, more, more. Tara sees shapes running behind the stone wall. Lionel adds hastily, “Ásabragr?” Thor nods again, and keeps doing the hand motion. Lionel spouts, “Ása-Þórr, Atli, Biorn, Einridi, Ennilang, Hardhugadr, Hardveur, Hioridi, Rym, Sonnung, Vethorm, Veod, Veur, Vingthor Odinson, I command you to hold the gate?”

A man shouts.

Thor shrugs. “Close enough. I am compelled.”

A spear slices through the air, and Thor holds up his hammer. Lightning pierces the smoky shadows, catching the spear and shattering it. Lionel pulls her forward. Everywhere is rainbow light. Tara braces for zombieland.

Bending over, Lionel gasps for breath as the heat of flame is replaced by cool, crisp air, and the smell of mud replaces the acrid stench of smoke. “It would have been nice to get to know you, brother,” he murmurs. Odin’s addition of “Odinson” to his name had shattered the compulsion he’d almost set upon Lionel. Lionel may be Odin's son by blood, but he is not his son in spirit.

“Thor let us go, didn’t he?” Tara whispers.

Lionel can only nod. Lionel is proud to be his mother’s son. Being Thor’s half-brother might not be so bad, either. He feels Tara’s hand on his back, and he remembers that they aren’t out of the woods yet. Straightening, he sees that they aren’t actually in “woods” of any kind. They are in a rolling plain with very regular furrows that look a lot like—

“Looks like downstate Illinois, or maybe Iowa …” Tara whispers.

“Iowa?” He turns to her and she is framed by blue skies, as she often has been in his hallucinations of her, but this blue sky is real and brilliant. He drops his eyes to the ground. The furrows are definitely the sort you’d expect from agriculture. The soil is dark and rich. Do the giant spiders farm? Do the zombies, or the Norns?

A chittering comes from their feet, making them both look. There is a rectangular cage of copper-like wire that’s not quite knee high. It seems to be made of the same sort of material as the metallic net they’d first been captured with. Inside is a squirrel with tufted ears, chittering madly in Squirrel, racing in circles around what looks like an ear of some sort of seed husk. The chittering is rather repetitive; it’s just “shit, shit, shit, shit …” over and over again.

“Ratatoskr?” says Tara.

The creature stops, blinks at her, and says, “Fuck you!” Thankfully, Lionel hasn’t given Tara the ability to understand Squirrel.

“Is the wire keeping him from speaking?” Tara asks.

Stepping toward it, Lionel tries to extend his magical senses into the cage … but can’t. “It could be.”

Tara lifts the cage and touches a finger toward Ratatoskr’s nose. “He’s kinda cute when he’s not swearing.”

“Nutt mites!” Ratatoskr shrieks in Squirrel, shaking the wire with tiny paws.

“Um …” says Lionel.

From behind them comes a low growl. They both turn to see a metal beast approaching them. It is reminiscent of the vehicle bonded to Tara. On the back is a raised pennant of the United States of America.

“We’re home,” Tara whispers, putting down the cage and walking toward it, waving both arms. Within moments, the four-wheeled chariot beast skids to a halt not ten paces from them. Lionel quickly illusions his ears to look rounded.

Three men, one old, two young, all of complexion similar to Lionel’s, get out with firearms raised. “Halt right there, Asgardians!”

“We’re not Asgardians! We escaped!” Tara cries, hopping up and down in happiness that hurts Lionel’s heart. He has a horrible moment when he hopes they don’t believe her. He forces himself to relax, to dissipate the magic threatening to course through his fingers, and releases a breath. This is better than Nornheim … so much better than that. He is closer to Chicago … and closer to the gate that will take him to his mother. He swallows. The Dark Elves are going to think of him as a Light Elf, since Odin so helpfully got his status reinstated.

The old human puts down his weapon. “Like the girl and the colored boy that came through on the eight-legged magical horse a few weeks back?”

Tara’s arms drop, and her mouth forms a small “o.” Lionel rolls back on his feet, remembering Odin riding Gna’s steed. Had two humans stolen Sleipnir?

“Dad, I don’t think they like to be called colored anymore,” says one of the young men, lowering his own weapon. “And I’m pretty sure he was Hindu.”

The second young man says, “Hey, Director Rogers was right! The squirrel trap he gave us worked. Foul-mouthed critter won’t be in Mom’s bird feeders anymore.”

“How do we know for sure you’re not a Valkyrie?” asks the old man, spitting in the dirt. “Ya got a driver’s license?”

Tara shakes her head. “No, I was abducted, and I didn’t have my wallet—”

“What’s your name?” asks one of the young men, holding up a rectangular device.

“My name is—”

Lionel feels the flush of magic on the back of his neck. “The gate is opening!” he says.

The firearms go up again—thankfully at a space behind their heads. Ducking, Tara darts toward the chariot, and just before he follows, Lionel picks up Ratatoskr’s cage. The stalwart farmers don’t blink. Lionel hears one of them grumble, “Thor’s not eating another one of my goats.”

By the chariot, Tara turns and looks back. “They can’t hold the Einherjar back,” she says. Turning to look at the men, she gulps. “They’ll be slaughtered.”

She’s right. “Go tell them not to defend us,” he says. “Odin won’t harm them if they’re truthful and say we were here.”

“Were here?” says Tara.

“I have a plan,” Lionel says. She meets his eyes, nods, and darts off toward the men.

He can’t believe what he is about to do, but he doesn’t belong in the House of Odinson … Tara was right. She can’t stay in Asgard and be free; neither can his mother, neither can Lionel. Facing down zombies is better.

He kneels down beside the cage.

“I’ll fuck you up!” hisses the squirrel he really hopes is Ratatoskr.

“I know you’ll try,” Lionel replies. He flips the cage’s latch.

Tara darts up to the oldest of the farmers. “Sir,” she says to the man. “You can’t fight Odin for us.”

He doesn’t put down his rifle, but his eye darts from the sight to her. “You don’t understand, girl—”

She bristles at the word “girl,” but then he continues. “—Odin, he’ll make you a slave. We been hearing things, and not just from Rogers. Some people round here, they don’t have their heads on straight. That apple thing, it’s a trap.”

“I know—but …” She puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t even know if I’m not a Valkyrie!”

“If he’s hunting you, you’re one of ours,” he says, narrowing the eye in the sights.

That is frustratingly noble. Tara tries again. “We’re going to run—”

“If we can’t stand up to them, what hope have you got running?” His eyes get wide, and he looks around. “Where’d she go?” he calls to his sons.

“I dunno.”

“Me, either.”

Tara looks down at her hands and sees they’re gone. “I’m invisible … and running. Thank you, sir.”

She feels a hand in hers, and hears a shrill squeak. “Don’t strangle me, you shit!”

“Is that squirrel loose again?” says one of the men she thinks are the old guy’s sons.

“This way,” says Lionel, and she can feel his breath in her ear. He pulls on her hand, and together, they run and stumble toward a strand of trees at the bottom of the incline.

Behind her, she hears the stamp of many feet, and hears a shout in Asgardian of, “Team report!”

“Not the tree on the right, you two-legged morons!” chitters the tiny voice. “The one on the left! And hurry. I can’t keep you nucking futts invisible forever.”

Ratatoskr is making them invisible? That would explain why Lionel is running and not falling over. She hears someone behind them say in English, “You will put down your weapons for the All Father!” but doesn’t look back.

They pass from the brightness of the sun to the semi-shade of an oak tree that’s just starting to put forth spring foliage. “Stop!” shrieks Ratatoskr.

Tara skids to a halt and feels Lionel do the same a heartbeat later.

“Hold onto your flippin’ tits, I need a second to open the World Gate,” grumbles Ratatoskr.

“I’m going to hold your tail instead,” says Lionel. “And you’ll be a popsicle if you break your oath.”

“Some assholes got no fucking trust,” mutters Ratatoskr.

Tara looks back. Odin is standing just beyond the three farmers. She holds her breath … and exhales when the farmers lower their shotguns. She can’t hear what they are saying but she sees the old man shrug. His sons spit and then copy the motion. Tara smiles, but her smile drops when Odin strides past the farmers and points down the hill toward the trees Lionel, Tara, and Ratatoskr hide in.

“Hurry, Ratatoskr,” Lionel hisses.

“Ouch! Stop squeezin’—it’s hard to open this gate and keep you invisible.”

Einherjar warriors race down the rise.

“Make us visible,” shouts Tara. “Just get us out of here!”

She knows the exact moment she’s visible. The Einherjars’ eyes light up and their pace increases. She looks over at Lionel. His arm is outstretched, but disappears at the elbow. “Seemed best to let him open the gate and go first,” he says.

“Go first where?” Tara asks. But Lionel is gone, except for his hand still in her own. His wrist disappears in a shimmering spot of light.

“Halt!” shouts an Einherjar, raising a spear, but she’s being yanked forward, her eyes are filled with every color of the rainbow, and she almost falls over.

“Tara?” says Lionel.

“I’m okay,” she says, regaining her feet and looking around. They’re in a sort of hallway, on the far side of which is a silvery curtain. The walls are a milky white and shimmering. Ratatoskr is nowhere to be seen, and Lionel’s hand is bleeding. She looks back the way they came. There is a solid wall, but in its surface, she sees Odin striding toward them, the farmland of Illinois or Iowa in the background. He halts just before their noses. Tara and Lionel draw back. Tara’s breath catches. She swears her heartbeat is so loud it must be audible even to Odin on Earth. Lionel’s hand tightens.

But then Odin’s flickering image draws back, too.

“Where are we?” she asks as the All Father backs away.

“Shh …” Lionel whispers. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think we might be in the nest of some of Nornheim’s giant spiders.” He touches the wall. “And I can’t open the gate … it’s gone.”

“Giant spiders,” says Tara, noticing for the first time that the hallway they are in is about eight feet high.

“I consider myself more average-sized,” says a feminine voice.

“Norns,” whispers Lionel, like you might say a curse.

They both turn. Coming through the silver curtain is a wo