The Trap (13 page)

BACK TO A LONG TIME AGO . . .

N
ine Iron wasn't sure just what he was expecting the Pale Queen to be like. Probably a queen. Like Queen Victoria, who had died and was widely admired by the English for having never had any fun, ever.

“So, tell me,” Nine Iron said to Risky's back as they walked down yet another tunnel. “What's she like, your mother?” He was already thinking the Pale Queen might someday be his mother-in-law.

Poor fool.

“Well, she's very friendly; she likes to crochet and arrange flowers, and loves long walks on the beach.”

“Really?”

“No, you idiot. She's the Mother of All Monsters. And you're supposed to be an assassin? It's a good thing you're not interviewing for the mastermind position. Do you even realize that we're inside the Pale Queen?”

“Inside?”

“These tubes, they're all part of her. Through this series of tubes—what we call the intraweb—she gives birth to and then dispatches her minions. The tubes are connected to the world above and all through the World Beneath. Although the three-thousand-year curse has closed off just about all the world-above connections. Nowadays mostly she has to reach outside the frame.”

Just to make conversation and to ward off his own nervousness, Nine Iron said, “What's that mean, outside the frame?”

Risky stopped. She turned back to him. They both stood still. “Maybe you're smarter than you look after all. But you'd pretty much have to be, wouldn't you?”

Nine Iron said, “Yes?”

“Say you have a picture, right? A photograph? A painting? You put it in a frame. You stare at that picture long enough, it's almost like you fall into that painting. That becomes the world you know: whatever is inside the frame. Stare long enough, and you can't even see what's outside the frame. But you know what, Paddy ‘Nine Iron' Trout of County Grind?” She plucked at his collar and gave him a little slap.

Anyone else who ever did that to Nine Iron would have lived (briefly) to regret it. He wouldn't have let the biggest, scariest, most scarred-up, glowering, evil, squinting thug pluck his collar and slap his cheek. Because Nine Iron didn't fear guys like that.

But there was something about this redheaded young woman that told him he'd best just stand there and take whatever she dished out.

Paddy had never had anyone stand up to him the way Risky did. She wasn't afraid of him at all. He might as well have been a fly rather than a feared member of the Nafia.

He kind of liked the way she had slapped him.

At that moment her beauty, her fearlessness, and of course the sheer mind-boggling evil that seemed to emanate from her like some intoxicating perfume made him fall just a little in love with her.

Paddy knew at that moment that he would never marry any other woman. Where would he ever find a woman as completely pitiless, cold, and just plain rotten as Risky?

He knew as well that he could never tell her of his love. Because she would totally kill him.

Oh, absolutely.

In a heartbeat.

So he would have to bury his infatuation deep down inside.

Risky leaned close. “I'll tell you, Paddy: there's a great deal that exists outside of that frame. Come. I'll show you something.”

He followed her. He would have followed her anywhere.

She moved faster now, as though she was moving with new purpose, excited, anticipating.

“Oh, I'll definitely show you something,” she said, and laughed in her delightfully demonic-psychopathic-creepy way.

Suddenly the tunnel came to an end.

They stepped out onto a plateau, a sort of mesa, or maybe just a broad, wide platform. Beyond the plateau the ground fell away out of view. But it glowed down there; it glowed with a rainbow of colors that sent wild shadows up to the vaulted stone roof far, far overhead.

Nine Iron had a sense of a space so vast you could have put all of County Grind there and had space left over for all of New York.

He had expected something out of Dante. Not that he had read Dante. But in any case, he'd expected dark and gloom and maybe glowing red lava.

He had not expected this manic swirling of color. It was darkness, yes, but very colorful darkness. And yet, none of the colors cheered him up the way colors were supposed to.

When he looked closer, he began to see the reason for this. The colors came from millions of tiny whirls, like small tornadoes each united in a swath of millions of similar tornadoes of light, all forming one impossibly vast swirl.

They moved closer to the edge of the mesa, and Nine Iron found it very strange that he was sweating, because it wasn't that hot, really. And he found it strange that he was dragging his feet, because it wasn't like him to be afraid of something he couldn't see.

He certainly found it strange to feel his own heart, no longer an ignored source of rhythmic thumping, now like an animal struggling to pummel its way out of his chest.

“I don't . . . ,” he said through lips now cracked, speaking with a tongue dry as dirt.

“Did you know that white light refracts into every other color?” Risky asked him.

“Um . . . My heart . . . it . . .”

In a singsong voice, Risky called out, “Mommy, Mom-meeee. I have a visitor.”

“I don't . . .”

“Every soul casts its own light; did you know that, Paddy? Even the darkest of souls casts a light all its own.”

A whimper was swallowed deep in Nine Iron's choked throat. How could he be so afraid and so in love? There had to be something wrong with him. (Well, duh.)

“Did you think she was the Pale Queen because she didn't get enough sun, Paddy? No, no, no. She is the Pale Queen because she is made up of so many lost souls, all swirling together in their many hues to create one brilliant light.”

Nine Iron wanted to say something along the lines of “That's great to know, thanks for the lesson, I'm outta here.” But he was in no condition to say anything at all because his heart was like the heart of a whale, filling his whole inside with an intolerable pounding.

“She can take any shape, my mother, any shape or form. A conquering worm, a spider as big as a ship, a creature of blades and spikes. But you, Nine Iron, you will see her as she is.”

He could no longer force his feet forward. So Risky, laughing gaily, grabbed his arm and hauled him mercilessly to the edge. Dread and infatuation were at war in Paddy's poor, confused brain.

“Now gaze upon the Pale Queen,” Risky crowed.

Nine Iron did.

And he fell to his knees.

And from that moment forward there was absolutely zero chance that Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout would ever serve anyone but the Mother of All Monsters, or love anyone but Ereskigal.

I
t took Mack a few seconds to put what Dietmar had just said together in his head. “Wait, are you telling me that's Thor?”

As if in answer, the bearded giant hopped up onto the stage and plugged his guitar into the amp.

“Okay, I'm not trying to say I'm Jimmy Page or Hendrix or anything, but I think I just about have this down.”

He waved a hand behind him, an almost careless gesture. And suddenly there was a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder.

A decidedly non-god-sized human appeared, perched on a stool behind the drum kit. He had a brown beard and long hair.

But the first sound was from Thor's guitar. An urgent, insistent riff that built in intensity.

A bass player appeared, just popped into view. Added his urgency to Thor's.

And then the drummer started in.

They rocked for about thirty seconds until Thor yelled, “No, no, no! That's not it. Why can't I get it right?” He held out his guitar and glared at it like it just wasn't doing what he wanted it to do.

The music stopped. The drummer shrugged.

Thor looked embarrassed. “Work in progress,” he said to Mack and the others. “Work in progress. But wait. I have one for you; it's, like, my theme song.” He looked over his shoulder at the drummer. “‘Immigrant Song.' One, two, three, four . . .”

The drummer started beating out a tattoo.

Thor played a rhythmic riff.

And out of nowhere three very intimidating-looking women with long blond braids appeared and began singing in high-pitched wails, “Ah ah ah aaah! Ah ah ah aaah!”

Thor sang:

He was just launching into a second verse of “Immigrant Song” when a far door crashed open and an old guy, about a foot taller than Thor, stomped in.

“I'm trying to watch the match!”

This second god—because that's clearly what he was—looked like an older, meaner Thor. But without the ludicrous T-shirt. This god was dressed the part, with a gold shield over his chest, gold bands around his bare arms, tall boots, and a sword clanking at his side.

But the outfit looked less than impressive. The hem of his tunic was frayed; the gold was smudged and seemed to be marked with some dried food.

“I'm just trying to entertain our guests!” Thor protested. But he waved his hand and disappeared the rest of the band. “You know,” he said significantly. “Our guests?”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” the ancient muttered. “Good, good. It's about time. We're completely out of Gouda.”

“Kids,” Thor said, “this is Odin. Or Wotan if you're speaking German. Odin, these are . . .” Thor hesitated. “Should I intro you as the Magnificent Twelve or what?”

Mack said, “That would be great. Sir.” He thought about that for a beat;
sir
didn't seem like quite enough. So he added, “Your Highness.”

“Welcome,” Thor said with a grand sweep of his hand, “to Asgard!” Then, as if realizing how it must look to strangers, he added, “You should have seen it back in the day.”

There was a rustle of fabric dragging on stone. Mack saw a third person, quite unlike either Thor or Odin. More human-scale, though still rather tall. She was very dark skinned, with black-in-black eyes and jet-black hair that reached all the way to the floor.

Looking closer, Mack saw many tiny stars glittering in the depths of those eyes. Her formfitting dress was actually in a lunar pattern, like a blown-up photograph of the gray and white surface of the moon.

Mack looked at her and yawned. So did Jarrah, Dietmar, and Stefan.

“Nott, goddess of the night,” Thor explained unnecessarily.

Nott spoke in a dreamy, faraway voice. “Welcome.” Then, since they were all having a hard time keeping their eyes open, she added, “Oh, good grief, I'd forgotten how vulnerable mortals are.” She snapped her fingers. “Stay awake.”

Mack's cell phone signaled a message. Mack, Odin, Thor, and Nott all reached for their phones at the same time.

“Huh,” Stefan commented.

“You guys get service here?” Mack asked, incredulous. “Aren't we, like, in magic land or something?”

Nott explained. “We are not confined; it is you who are limited. Humans see the world as if peering through a straw. They choose not to see us.”

“Exactly,” Thor boomed. “Doesn't mean we can't have BlackBerries. I mean, my manager has to be able to get hold of me. He could have a gig for me.”

“You play gigs?” Jarrah asked skeptically.

“All over Germany, Denmark, up in Sweden, Norway. Not stadiums, that's not my thing. I mean, it's mostly small clubs. But I like the intimacy, the audience feedback. You know?” He stroked his blond beard. “I haven't played a lot of gigs lately. . . . I guess it's been a while.” He sighed and seemed a little sad.

Then Thor clapped his hands together and said, “Hey! You guys thirsty? Flagon of ale?”

Mack left it to Jarrah to decline the offer of a beer.

Xiao gave Mack a significant look and began a whispered conversation with Nott.

Mack checked his message:

Don't worry, Mack; Mom says she will replace laptop since I need it for school. Next time: no chisels!

Mack sighed deeply. He'd loved that laptop. All his files would probably be lost. All his games. None of which, he realized with a secret smile, were nearly as cool as hanging out with the gods of Asgard. Even this decrepit Asgard.

Xiao left Nott's side and came back to Mack. Smiling all the while, Xiao whispered, “We are being deceived.”

Before he could ask what she was talking about, Thor launched into an earsplitting solo. So what Xiao said next had to be shouted into his ear.

“NOTT SAYS IT'S ALL A TRAP!”

“WHAT?”

“THEY'RE GIVING US TO THE PALE QUEEN!”

Odin had left, muttering something about the music. Thor whaled on his guitar. Nott carefully avoided meeting anyone's eye.

“WHY?”

“I DON'T KNOW!”

You know how sometimes you'll be at a party and the music is really loud, so you have to shout to be heard? And then suddenly the music stops, and you're still shouting?

Thor's guitar solo ended abruptly on the word “I.”

Which left Xiao yelling, “DON'T KNOW.”

The giant blond god took off his guitar and laid it aside. “What is it you don't know?” Thor demanded, with a sidelong glance at Nott.

“So many things,” Mack said. “Such as . . . well . . . such as, where's the bathroom?”

Cold blue suspicion filled Thor's eyes. He shot a distrustful look at Nott. “We're not that formal around here. There's a jar over there.”

Mack saw a flower vase he recognized from his own living room. Definitely IKEA.

“No. It's number two,” Mack said.

“Ah.”

“In fact, we all have to go number two.”

Jarrah, Dietmar, and Stefan stared at Mack.

Fenrir sauntered toward them. His wolf breath reached them first.

“That's right,” Mack blustered. “We all need a bathroom.” He tried out a weak smile. “It's all the travel. You know.”

“I'll show them where to go,” Nott volunteered.

There followed a very long pause during which Thor looked nervously toward the doorway through which Odin had disappeared. He licked his giant lips uncertainly. Then he shrugged.

“If you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“Right this way,” Nott said.

“Don't be long,” Thor said, with no trace of the openhearted bonhomie he'd shown thus far. “Fenrir will miss you.”