The Apple Throne (8 page)

“I don’t suppose you have the Valkyrie of the Tree’s number?” I ask, opening the contacts. Surely, the Valkyrie of the Tree would be able to help, and she doesn’t know anything about the rules for Idun and her orchard.

Amon snorts.

Thumbing through, I look for any name that might trigger a helpful thought. Nicknames for his friends and family, a few businesses I recognize, my own Bear captain. Bright Home. And Firstname:
T is for Twat
, Lastname:
Thunderer,
which I’m guessing is his father, though it’s difficult to imagine that old-fashioned god with a tiny cell phone. It must surely be a landline.

What would Thor do if I called him now? My glance slides up to the bobbleheads. In the growing dawn light, I can make out what the plastic toys are wearing under their matching faces: the full armor, a Stoneball uniform, a Viker coat, a Santa suit, and some sort of medieval-cut velvet. I’ve never been comfortable with this more ridiculous side of iconography, and that the god is Amon’s father makes it even less tasteful.

I can’t call Thor. He’s a rule-follower, perhaps more than any of them. Kind, yes, and fiercely protective, but he would value duty over selfish love. He would return me to the orchard. I put the phone onto Amon’s thigh. He drops it back into the driver’s side pocket.

Bright morning lights the roofs of Leavenworth as we pull into town. It’s charming, with buildings designed to look like cottages and inns from deep in the Bavarian woods. They’re whitewashed with dark porches and shutters and fake thatching. Amon parks in front of a shop called
Willkommen Koffee
. The sign is decorated with a lederhosen-wearing troll carefully sipping from a steamy cauldron.

“I need coffee,” Amon says.

“I need the keys,” I reply, and he twists his mouth as he slaps them into my palm.

Inside the shop is narrow but cozy, with dark booths and a shelf along the entire wall covered with tiny troll and goblin statues. They’re wide-eyed and frolicking, proportioned like children, and wearing ridiculous, clownish clothing. I stare up at them, appalled, while Amon thumps a note on the counter and asks for two jolts. The chalkboard menu informs me that’s coffee with a shot of espresso, and I correct him that I’d prefer black tea.

As he flirts easily with the messy barista, I shuffle through a stack of newspapers next to the condiments. It’s all from today and yesterday, about the local Yule celebrations. How many attended the tri-city sacrifice, that last year’s winter prince passed his crown on to a new winner at midnight, that there was a traffic jam near Sif Fairhair park because of some deer. Nothing riveting, nothing dangerous. No dead berserkers or even unidentified young corpses. If Soren is in trouble, it didn’t happen near here. There’s one national paper, with images from Bright Home. It’s yesterday’s date.

“Your tea, miss,” calls the barista. I turn, and Amon stomps down the aisle toward the back of the café. My tea waits in a heavy green mug with a metal diffuser sticking out from the surface. “About ninety more seconds,” the girl says. She wears an apron with braided ribbons to match the lederhosen and a short skirt underneath. Her eyes are all on Amon’s receding form.

The godling hunkers down on a stool at the shop’s solitary computer. It’s a huge monitor, at least ten years old. A yellow sign with bent corners declares,
Interweave for patrons only. Please be considerate.

I follow him with the national paper in hand. As he signs online, I flip through it, hunting for Soren’s name, berserkers, images of anything I recognize. Amon nudges my hip, and I glance over at the screen where he’s put
buzzer slang
into a search engine. As I skim over the dictionary results and skanky images, Amon beheads three sugar packets at once and dumps them into his espresso.

“Look Soren up,” I say. With a broad grin, he starts typing again. I turn away to remove the tea diffuser and set it onto the saucer. Amon makes a sound caught between gasp and groan. I jostle tea over the edge of the mug in a shock of fear. “What is it?”

He uses his broad shoulders to block the monitor. “Just relax, all right? I found a breaking news link about your boy.”

“Tell me he’s alive,” I whisper.

Amon pushes up from his stool, still blocking my view. He takes my arms. “He’s alive.” This near, I can see tiny shivers of lightning creep around his pupils.

“
Let me see
.”

“You have to promise to stay calm. I know what gods are like when they get upset. Storms and cracks in the world and shapeshifting skit.” His hands tighten. “But I also know I’m strong enough to hold you like this forever.”

I laugh desperately; I have no power to draw lightning or split the earth. I can’t even seeth anymore. “Let me see it.”

“What’s going on?” calls the barista.

“Nothing,” Amon and I say at once.

“Show me,” I whisper to him as the girl turns on the coffee grinder. It shrieks for us.

Amon gently releases one shoulder and draws me forward with the other. He’s got a news story pulled up. There’s Soren’s face, blank and exhausted. My pulse pummels my ears. I reach out and touch the old screen, shivering at the static against my skin. The headline under his chin reads:
SUN’S BERSERK ARRESTED FOR MURDER.

T
he information is spare, and my fingers shake so much Amon pulls me off the stool by my waist and takes over. He shows me that most of the articles draw on a single original, from a place called Eureka in Alta California.

It happened the morning of Yule. Reports claim Soren stopped a car from leaving its driveway with his bare hands, ripped off the driver’s door, and flung a man out so hard his neck snapped on impact.

There’s one witness who says Soren wasn’t even frenzied, and another who says he definitely was, because how else could he have ripped the door off? Most of the witnesses condemn Soren outright.
Unprovoked
.
Premeditated. Blood will out
.

My throat closes, and I can’t stand the rich coffee smells. I cover my mouth. I know absolutely Soren did not murder anybody.

But there’s a dead man.

And Soren is in jail.

At least I know he is alive.

He must be so full of despair. Thinking of his own father, Styrr Bearskin, who infamously went berserk in a mall when Soren was eight years old and killed thirteen innocent people.

I’ve never seen Soren avoid my eyes as he did when he told me that story. He looked anywhere but at me, then would suddenly snap that hot gaze right to mine and not let go. As if I was the only thing to keep him focused. Keep him sane. I must get to him.

“Idun,” Amon says quietly. “Hey, jilly. You’re staring through the computer. You see something on the other side?”

I blink slowly, until my eyes alight again upon the screen. I click through to another image of Soren. It’s kinder, in full color. His shoulder leans into Baldur’s, and they’re laughing about something.

“Take me there,” I whisper.

“Huh?”

“Take me to Eureka. To Soren.”

Amon neither pulls a face nor even looks surprised. Only resigned. “It’s about a twelve-hour drive, maybe more if the snow’s bad, but I’ll take you.”

That was easy. “Why?”

“What the skit else should a person do? Leave you on the side of the road?”

“Some would.”

“I’ve met him.”

“Soren?”

The godling tugs at his eyebrow ring. “A year or so ago. At Bright Home. He was looking for
you
now I recall. Asking why Idun wasn’t at a Hallowblot sacrifice.”

“I only attend the quarter celebrations.”

“That’s what I told him and offered to hook him up with one of the disir-daughters. They love a good buzz.” Amon grins slyly, as if to imply Soren might have taken him up on it.

I return a level gaze. He can’t fool me so easily. “You know he’s no murderer.”

“I think anybody could murder, given the circumstance.”

Grabbing to-go cups and pumpkin bread for the drive, we go back outside. In the bright morning, Amon’s van is revealed to be a gentle sky blue. He tells me it’s named Aurora and boosts me into the passenger seat before I can protest. Once he’s settled behind the wheel, Amon says, “I also know the militia lieutenant in Eureka.”

My shoulders wilt in relief. Knowing the chief of the local authorities will be a boon. Since the death wasn’t on federal land, it’s the kingstate militia who must have him. “That’s wonderful.”

“Doesn’t mean it’ll matter a rag.”

“Do I want to know how you know him?”

There’s Amon’s wide grin again. Like he’s laughing at me. “Nope.” Then he stills, staring at the bobbleheads. “Skit,” he says. “Gotta make a stop first, jill.”

“Where? For what?”

He jerks the van into gear. “The new year nodder.”

As we drive to the south side of town, Amon points to each of the bobbleheads and tells me their names: Stone Brain and Hammer of Klaus and Short Stop and All Dressed Up/No Date and Fur Face.

“Is it truly necessary?” I ask, straining not to snap my irritation and worry. “We’re in a hurry.”

“If you want the van to run, she needs her good-luck charm. It’s a five-year tradition: first sober morning post-Yule, I have to grab a new daddy mascot to replace my father’s love.”

“Hmm.
T is for Twat
?”

“Lady Idun, I didn’t know such a word could pass those pretty little teeth of yours.” He pulls smoothly into an icy Walton’s parking lot. The glaring yellow flower logo is the brightest thing in the world.

Stiffly, I say, “I do need a toothbrush.”

Walton’s is a busy warehouse store with metal shelves and sweeping, blue-painted rafters. Yuletide music pipes merrily through the aisles. Garlands and sparkling Yule trees and glittery stars and candy canes hang from the high ceiling. We go to the pharmacy section first, and I grab travel toothgel and a brush. Amon stands with his head angled back to stare up at one of the trees.

“Should be some stuffed horses hanging by the neck from those branches if they really want to capture the spirit of the holiday,” he says, and smiles when I can’t help imagining the horror.

I drop my items into the hand basket and start toward the center aisle again, though I have no idea what part of the store Amon plans to find his good-luck charm. It seems to carry everything you could possibly want, with no conceivable organization. The entire place is a shrine to commercialism, and I can’t say I’ve been inside one in seven years. My mom and I traveled from festival to festival during the warm months and occasionally had use for the cheap supplies, but once she vanished and I lived with Uncle Richard, we abandoned this sort of place in favor of locally owned shops.

“This way,” Amon says, heading toward the rear of the store. I hurry to keep up, eyes caught by beach towels printed with pink and yellow sun runes and a poor likeness of Baldur the Beautiful.

“You know your way around,” I say crossly. “Visit my Bears often?”

He tosses me an amused glace and leads me further into the toy section. Twelve short aisles of glaringly offensive colors and sounds. The godling weaves past plastic dragons and pillows shaped like cutesy purple cat wights, robots and hundreds of Viker figures encased in plastic. A line of warriors dressed in black stops me in my tracks.
GO BERSERK
is the brand name, and each individual toy is labeled with a real berserker band like
Mad Eagles
or
Scarlet Wolves
and the warrior’s own name. With growing horror, I realized they’re based on not only real bands, but real men. I’ve heard of a few, like Hal Henryson, father of Henry Halson who is Vider’s mentor in Tejas.

And there, in a box with a garish gilded sun, is an action figure whose packaging declares:
Special Edition Sun’s Berserk
. Soren Bearstar.

I cover my mouth with my hands to keep from squeaking. The toy is shaped vaguely like him, with an odd skin tone more like dull sand than his lovely cinnamon. The spear on his cheek is exaggerated, as it is on all of them, and he’s grimacing as if about to go into battle, with a miniature Sleipnir’s Tooth sword in his hand.

“Heya, you found him,” Amon says behind me.

I whirl and actually smack him in the stomach with the back of my hand.

Amon catches my wrist a little too roughly. “Whoa, whoa, joke. It’s not even a great likeness. Not like this one.” He drags me across the aisle to the row of god figures and taps a finger against the plastic sheath holding a very voluptuous, very angry-looking Fenris Wolf.

“Oh
my
,” I whisper, appalled laughter catching in my throat. Her teeth are long and her breasts huge, her hair reddish like Loki’s instead of the dark color I know. “Is there one of you?”

“There was, but I was recalled.” Amon pauses, leans down. “For a choking hazard.”

The flirtatious tone makes his innuendo clear. Embarrassment warms my face. The godling laughs as I compose myself, smoothing down the flare of my coat.

“Now that I think on it,” he says slowly, “there’s no Idun the Young action figure, though you can find any other of the gods in some form or another. Not to mention apples of immortality made of glass or marble or plushy.”

I hold his lightning gaze, angry suddenly that it’s a secret at all. That nobody in the Middle World knows Idun is a girl like them, a girl with a mortal heart pretending to be a god. Mightn’t it be better if everyone knew? It would give people hope to know the gods need us, need a living girl to complete their immortal magic. Like Baldur, Idun could be a symbol of the connection between gods and humans.

But if Amon discovers I’m not divine, he might not feel a need to help me. I say, “I like my privacy,” and scoot around him into the next aisle.

It’s magic-themed, and I stop. Here are plastic seething wands and catskin gloves. Spools of red yarn with weaving instructions. Bags of runes.

I reverently touch a cheap velvet bag hanging from cardboard that declares,
Read your future in twenty-seven runes!
The picture shows pale rocks carved with glaring silver runes.

Amon joins me, dropping the Soren action figure into my hand basket. My noise of disgust only earns me a grin. “You want some runes?” he asks.