Free Stormbringer by Alis Franklin Page A

say,” Hel replied. “To the gates of Ásgarðr.” She turned to Sigmund. “And an escort inside.”
    He blinked. “Me?”
    “Odin is dead.” Hel, Sigmund thought, did not sound mournful for this fact. “And it is possible his successors may not honor his oaths to the
valkyrjur.
But you are
ásynja.
By right, they cannot deny you entry to the realm.”
    “Sigyn was the goddess,” Sigmund pointed out. “Not me.”
    “Dude!” Em snapped. Even Wayne looked disappointed. It wasn’t like Sigmund wanted to be the wet blanket on the cool plan to bring social justice to the dead, but…Well. He also didn’t want to be the reason it failed, if some Asgardian gate guard took one look at his claim to divinity and laughed him off the Bifröst.
    Hel tilted her head, the exposed sinew around her back teeth flexing in that maybe-smile. “You, bearer of Father’s burden, who bought victory with the blood of Ásgarðr’s king? Forgive me, but all will know you. If they make pretense not to it is that alone: pretense. Do not allow them such disrespect.”
    “Oh,” said Sigmund, feeling small and foolish. Hel meant it kindly (probably), but as far as Sigmund could tell, she was still describing Sigyn, not him.
    “Well, we’re in,” came Em’s voice, while Sigmund was still busy studying the rips in his jeans. “C’mon, bro. We need you, too.”
    “I’m in,” Sigmund told his knees. “Of course I’m in. Always.” He looked up and gave Em his best smile, trying not to feel the worms crawling in his gut or the creeping decay flaking in the corners of his vision.
    “Awesome,” Em said, offering a brofist.
    Sigmund returned it, earning a cheer of, “Woot! Adventure time!” from Wayne as he did.
    His friends believed in him. So, apparently, did the goddess of death. When he turned back to look at her, Hel was regarding him, head tilted slightly to the side. Gravity shifting the fabric of her veil, leaving one thin sliver of smooth, soft, pale-skinned cheek exposed.
    Sigmund looked away, trying not to feel like a creep or a perv.
    “So,” he said instead. “Um…when do we leave?”
    —
    Hel gave them the afternoon, vanishing from the shop in a cloud of dust and black feathers, leaving the three of them blinking and standing in among a group of guys discussing who would win a fight between Batwoman and Power Girl.
    “—such a waste, dude. Why make them fight it out when they could be making out instead?”
    “Uh, because
Maggie,
you doofus,” said Wayne, as if she hadn’t just shifted dimensions care of a towering monstrous avatar of death. She and Em had shared glances and rolled eyes, the arguing boys slinking away in outnerded shame.
    They’d spent the rest of the afternoon apart, arranging leave and packing and doing the sort of things they’d do if they were just driving to Melbourne for the weekend for a con, not helping lead an undead army in the overthrow of centuries of tradition.
    Sigmund spent a long time, staring at his half-packed duffel bag, marveling at the speed with which his life had descended into
Urban Fantasy: The Roleplaying Game.
    Just before Hel had left, Sigmund had suggested the possibility of walking into Ásgarðr and finding Lain sitting on the (potentially allegorical) throne. Things with Baldr had been confusing, but Sigmund was reasonably sure Lain still had at least some claim to the realm.
    Except Hel had actually laughed so much at the suggestion, she’d had to steady herself against a display case.
    “I love Father, truly,” she’d said. “But he is no king. Nor, I think, would he desire to be such.”
    Sigmund hadn’t mentioned LB. Or Gungnir.
    Instead, he’d headed home, grabbed his duffel, and thrown together a bunch of jocks and socks and spare T-shirts. Plus an extra pair of jeans and a toothbrush and…
Jesus.
What was someone supposed to
bring
on this sort of thing, anyway? Fifty feet of hemp rope and an eleven-foot pole? Caltrops? An impossibly infinite