Free The Apple Throne by Tessa Gratton Page B

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.
    Shrugging, I turn away. “I don’t know what use I’d have for them.”
    He grabs the bag and drops them in. “I know a fantastic drinking game.” “Which way to your nodders so we can go?” I do not let my gaze drift down to the runes.
    Amon leads me two aisles down to one that is entirely made up of Thor Thunderer paraphernalia that you could never find in a temple. Replicas of the god’s hammer Crusher in all sizes and types, from key chains to one made out of a beanbag; a goat-driven chariot toy and a few blue-and-yellow-painted goat skulls; fake red beards; children’s costumes of plastic armor; sock puppets and collectible statues and picture books. And, of course, a long row of bobbleheads.
    I stare in horror. Thor is the most popular god—the friendliest and, many argue, the best—but this is a shrine of tacky consumerism I can’t understand. He is a
god
. I’ve long felt isolated, but I’ve never before felt so
sheltered
.
    Amon looms behind me. “You really hate this.”
    “It’s so…crass. Disrespectful, after all he’s done for us.”
    “Us?”
    Pursing my lips to fake annoyance, I scramble for an explanation. “He protected everyone from the giants for centuries.”
    Amon leans his shoulder against the corner of the bright red shelf, a plastic hammer hanging inches from his face. “Why don’t you just call him then, or one of the other cousins, to get Soren out for you?”
    “You know the gods aren’t supposed to interfere with the affairs of mortals so directly.”
    “The Covenant? I don’t think it extends to helping
you
or getting Baldur’s