Free The Apple Throne by Tessa Gratton Page A

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