Chapter Six

Of Myself, Friendship, and Falling Action


To say that I was surprised when I turned Warren's car's CD player on would be a massive understatement.

Rather, I was surprised when I heard exactly what was blaring from the speakers.

And that, also, was an understatement.

It was an hour or so after we'd left Giselle's, and after chatting about nothing in particular, I asked if I could turn the CD player on.

His reaction was a shrug and a nod, and I leaned forward to press the play button.

I jumped in surprise when it started, the volume much louder than I expected, and frantically slapped the dial until the music was quiet enough for me to think. Then I narrowed my eyes, practiced my hyperventilating angry-breath, and turned to glare at War.

Who was smiling lightly and driving along as if he hadn't just fooled me with the greatest trick since… well, actually, there were no tricks greater than this.

"Your car just Rickrolled me!" I exclaimed indignantly.

He snorted dismissively and fluttered his fingers at the CD player. "So shut it up and get another CD out of the glove box. The case for that one's in there too."

"Do I want to know why you have a Rick Astley CD?" I grumbled, smacking the power button of the radio. It shut up instantly, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief to whatever deities were out there.

"Actually, it's a hand-burned CD," War explained, as I began the delicate process of ejecting the CD and finding its case. "I have it on hand just in case I'm transporting any suckers that are likely to be Rickrolled easily."

"… I'm a sucker who's likely to be Rickrolled easily? Gee, thanks. I feel so validated." I finally singled out the empty case labeled "for taxi service only" and placed the CD—which was, as Warren had said, a custom-burned one—inside. "My life… it just feels so complete now that I know I'm easily Rickrolled."

"Stop being so dramatic."

"No. I refuse." I pointed a finger at him, narrowing my eyes. "You may be a founder of Gamle-Sti, but I—I, Warren—am… um…"

The silence went on for a while as I tried to figure out what I was, until Warren lifted his eyebrows and said helpfully, "An idiot?"

"… Don't be mean, Warren. Don't be that guy."

His look said you will die in your sleep by shaving cream and Sharpie, so I looked away and coughed awkwardly.

"… don't look at me like that either, Warren. Don't be that guy. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, WARREN. AHHH. HELP! HELP! POLICE! CONSTABLE! SIERRA! PIERRE!"

Warren was putting up admirably well with my loud shrieking, although probably because we were going about sixty and the roof was down, so the wind was carrying away my words. All he did was look at me like that and inquire, "Who's Pierre?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "But it's fun to say, isn't it? Pieeerrrrrreee. Just rrrolling the R's around on your tongue. Pieeeeeerrrrrrrrrreeeeee."

"Pieeellleee."

"No, you're not doing it right, it's not an L noise, try to purr with your tongue…"

Half an hour later, Warren was rolling his R's like a professional, and we were shouting the name "Pierre" at each other like a couple of deranged monkeys. Judging by the stares of the late-night highway commuters around us, we probably were.

"Pieeerrrrrreee!" I screeched, flinging my arms up in a convincing show of inexplicable joy.

"Pieerrrrrreee!" Warren shouted, and banged on the horn for emphasis. The siloughette of the truck driver in front of us jumped visibly, and a burly arm emerged from the window to give us the finger.

For some reason this struck me as incredibly funny and I started laughing until I couldn't breathe.

"Okay," I wheezed as soon as I could talk again. "I think it's time for us to get off the road before we hurt someone else or ourselves. What time is it? Like… one in the morning?"

"About ten 'til," Warren said. I glanced at him to see if he was showing any signs of exhaustion, but his eyes were wide and alert; his hands didn't shake at all on the steering wheel.

"How are you still so wide awake?" I asked wonderingly. He shrugged a shoulder and glanced into the rear-view mirror. Something flickered in his eyes—worry, maybe? Or fear?

"You kind of have to be awake to avoid the Brood," he said shortly, and just like that, his maroon eyes were back on the road.

Well, if that wasn't creepy…


We finally pulled off the road into a little town in Montana, the name of which I never bothered to catch, and then into a trailer park. I was opposed to the idea at first—I mean, don't you need a trailer to stay in a trailer park?—but then War assured me that the security at this park was comprised of demigods and those in the know. "They know Trippy," were his exact words, as he patted the interior of the car fondly.

"Oookay," were mine, as I got out to open the trunk.

As Warren pulled the cover back over the car, I extricated a couple of blankets and a pillow from inside the trunk. These we had a minor battle with, involving much smacking and attempts to strangle, until fifteen minutes later we were lying foot-to-head in the back of the convertible.

At this point I was really anxious, seeing as, um, hello? Fifteen-year-old girl here, along with—what, sixteen-year-old boy? Sixteen-year-old boy I pretty much didn't know.

(Okay, so I knew he was nice and honorable and weirdly chivalrous and all, also he saved my life several times now, but besides that? Nothing.)

Fortunately, the foot-to-head business remained foot-to-head, and we sat up for a few minutes just talking. Warren told me about Sierra and her half-brother Odd—half-brother on the mother's side, he told me, both fathered by different gods—and how they were trying to build a permanent settlement at Gamle-Sti. He talked for a while about Giselle and people like her: demigods of unimportant, peaceful deities like Idun or Freya who lived all over the USA as sort of safe houses for roving Norse.

At the mention of that word, though, it all changed.

"That's what the people at Half-Blood call us," he said bitterly, and his fist clenched with anger. "Just Norse. This one girl, Clarice or Clarissa or something, she treated my sisters like dirt. 'Do this, Norse.' 'Fetch that, Norse.' 'Hold your sword up, Norse, you're horrible at fighting.'"

His face was contorted with fury. "We're inferior to them, Mallory. They think we're vermin! Because our parents—the Norse gods, Mallory, are so little-known. The Greek gods; everyone knows them. Everyone can name them off the top of their head. You say Zeus to someone, they say 'Greek god of thunder!' You say Týr to someone, they say 'what about tires?'"

War suddenly sighed, drooping. "The Norse gods are so much less powerful than the Greek gods. You don't remember their little end-of-the-world thing, do you? Must have been, oh… seven years or so ago. I was only eight when it happened."

He placed a hand on his face, looking miserable. "Everyone went to sleep, Mallory. Everyone in the space of their battle just… went to sleep. I have a mortal cousin up there who wrote me after—said she just conked out in the middle of the street. She's not a deep sleeper. She woke up a few times, and… she saw things. Monsters. Demigods." His grip tightened, and he was back to being angry. "Percy Jackson in the exalted flesh."

I stayed quiet. Warren sighed again, and dropped his hands to his lap.

"The Norse gods could never accomplish something like that. Hardly anyone knows about them, Mallory, even less people than the Egyptians. Do you know how horrible that is?" He laughed humorlessly. "My father is less powerful than the Egyptians, because nobody knows about him. All the gods' power is based off of belief and nobody believes in my father."

I didn't know what to say, until he suddenly leaned forward and grasped my hands.

His eyes were burning brightly red with a hopeful sort of rage. "You, Mallory. You're special. You're more powerful than me, I can tell. You can bring belief back into this world, Lory!" His grip tightened. "So what if we don't know who your immortal parent is? We know it has to be one who's never had one before! Odin has never had demigod children! Neither has Skadi! You're one of the new generation, Lory!"

I stuttered. I'm embarrassed to say it, but I stuttered. In my defense, I was nervous since he'd just done the manic hand-grabbing thing and all.

"B-b-but I have a dad! So I can't be Odin's kid!"

"You never know," he said intensely, still staring into my eyes. I swear we were so close I could see our breath intertwine. "Just because they're not powerful doesn't mean the Norse gods aren't crafty. Look at Sierra, for example—she grew up thinking her dad was her real dad and her mom was AWOL. But when the Brood started coming after her, that's when Loki showed up."

He let go of my hands and leaned back, laughing lightly. "Can you imagine what kind of hello that would be? 'Hi, Sierra, I'm your real father. Sorry I couldn't visit you earlier, but I kind of had to flee from my son.'"

"What?"

"Oh, Loki ended up tied up in Hel with the World Serpent wrapped around his neck," he said carelessly. "Jormangund. His son, can you believe it? Also Hel's brother. When the snake's power got sapped enough by disbelief he sprung himself, and apparently he celebrated his newfound freedom by having an affair with practically every woman that came into sight. Including Sierra's mom, but luckily her husband resembled him enough that when she had Sierra nobody questioned the parentage." He shrugged. "She ran off after the birth, I guess because she was the only one who knew."

I felt like a steamroller had just run me over.

Every illusion I'd had about being a demigod had just been shattered. I thought I was mothered by a goddess! That would explain why she'd had to sprint, wouldn't it? She was too busy to play mommy to a half-mortal chick.

Was I like Sierra instead? Was my father the immortal one? Was the man waiting for me to return at the place I used to call home not my real dad after all?

Who was the woman in the photograph? Who was the man that I called my dad?

I think Warren realized how crap I felt, because he leaned forward and took hold of my hands again, gently this time.

"Mallory?" he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have gone off like that, but… the Greek demigods just piss me off. Thinking about them is kind of like sour beer; it clouds my judgment and leaves a really bad taste in my mouth."

I tried to smile, but it didn't really work, so he just looked at me for a moment.

"Good night," I croaked finally, when the silence began to get unbearable.

"… Good night," he said unsurely, and then reached over to turn the light out.


I didn't sleep.

Instead, I clambered into the front seat and turned the car on. In the glow of the clock numbers, I fished a CD out of the glove box—something by the Cranberries, one of the few bands I'd actually heard. I thought it was strange that Warren actually had a CD I recognized, but then again, we were both demigods, so maybe that was it.

Or something. I didn't really know. Nor did I care, since in my opinion the Cranberries were actually pretty good.

I slipped the CD in and swiveled the dial until it was utterly silent, then nudged it until I could just barely make out the words. Then I leaned back, tugged the blanket over my shoulders, and closed my eyes, just thinking.

Gamle-Sti… it seemed like a mythical place to hear Warren talk about it. An organized place for people like us—like me. I could find out who my mother was—or my father, I reminded myself sternly. I could find out who my… parent was, and then—

Maybe I would have siblings! I sat up suddenly, enraptured with the thought. Siblings closer than Dolores, who turned against me at the littlest infraction and called me a freak behind my back, did she think I couldn't hear her?

But it wasn't Dolores' fault, really. I sank back into my seat, feeling abruptly saddened. No, it wasn't Dolores' fault. It was mine; I'd turned against her, spitting harsh words in her direction as if I'd expected her to just take them and not to fight back.

I suddenly missed Dolores, very, very much.

Something wet slid down my cheek, and I curled up around my blanket, sobbing silently. The stress of the past few days just smashed down on me like a fist. This was real. This wasn't just a silly dream that was going to go away. Even my epiphany in the alleyway seemed like a faraway occurrence, like it had never happened.

But it was real now, I knew, and I couldn't let my fear stand in the way.

I waited until I stopped trembling, then I wiped away my tears. The Cranberries wailed on in the background, something about salvation, and I breathed in through my nose a couple times until I could stop hiccupping.

Then I curled up and went to sleep.

I woke to the sound of Motion City Soundtrack's Everything Is Alright, and for some reason Warren singing along as well. In my groggy haze I noted that he had a pretty nice voice. I yawned lengthily and blinked around at the surroundings.

"What time is it?" I asked blurrily.

"Dunno. One or so?"

"One?! You let me sleep until—when did you wake up?"

"Eight o'clock," he said, flicking his eyes at the clock. "You'd crawled up in the front seat, so I pulled your seat belt and got moving. Went through North Dakota while you were sleeping."

I looked down self-consciously and put a hand over my nose. He noticed, judging from his chuckle. "I didn't hear you snore, Lory."

"… Dolores lied. I will kill her with fire."

"Leave the fire to Sierra. If you ask nicely she might torch your sister."

"Sweet."

He laughed again at that, and I rubbed my forehead in an attempt to wake up. "We can stop for Cokes the next time we find civilization, can't we?" I groused, banging a thumb against a particularly achy bit of my skull. "I'm going through caffeine withdrawal and it's a bitch of a headache."

"Whatever," he said lightly, and pulled off into a rest stop.

I vaulted gingerly out of the car and slumped over a picnic table while he went off to find caffeine. I was almost asleep when a cold can pressed against the back of my neck and I shrieked, instantly jerking upright and flailing wildly.

Luckily for both his dignity and my Coke, my attacker had leapt back at the first screech. He lifted an eyebrow at me and held up a red can.

"You wanted this?" Warren inquired, and I groaned miserably at him.

"You. Are. So. Cruel," I grumbled, and snatched the Coke from him, gulping it as if it were the Elixir of Life.

Forty-five minutes later we were on the road, pleasantly full thanks to Giselle's paper bag of food. (Warren had had to light a fire in the little barbeque thing to make pancakes, but besides that, little hassle.) I was sipping at my third Coke of the morning while the stereo blared Relient K.

We slid to a stop at a red light in the fair city of Elbow Lake, Minnesota.

"Mallory," Warren said suddenly. "Lory, I want to let you know something."

I wasn't really paying attention, but I looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Lory," he said again, quieter this time. "I just… No matter who your parent turns out to be, I won't be cruel, okay? I won't… exile you like some people do to the more… obscure campers. If you turn out to be the daughter of… some minor unknown deity. Or if you end up the sole daughter of… I don't know, Odin or someone. Someone special."

"You'll be nice to me because I'm someone to be pitied," I shot back. "Or because I have enough power to turn you into dust."

"No! No, Mallory, that's not it—"

"Well, you should be," I continued stubbornly. "Because if you're mean to me after I'm claimed, I will smite thee, mortal. Smite thee to bits, dammit."

He snorted at that, and shook his head. In front of us the cars continued to pass by, flash-flash-flash.

"If you do turn out to be, like, the princess of all that is special and shiny," he said lightly, "don't change, okay? Please, continue to be an idiot."

"Did you seriously think I'd let power go to my head, War?" I propped my feet up on the dashboard. That plan was ruined when the light went green and Warren accelerated suddenly enough to jerk them back down.

"Hey, I was relaxing, you jerk—anyway. Do you really think I'd get bigheaded with all the power?" I paused, tapping my chin. "… I probably would, actually, but that is beside the point. It's way beside the point. It's like… all the way over at the dull end."

Warren shook his head despairingly. "Mallory, you are so…"

"Awesome?" I grinned charmingly. (Or at least as charmingly as I could, seeing as I looked like I'd been sleeping in the back of a car for the past twelve or so hours—hey! I had been sleeping in the back of a car for the past twelve or so hours! Look at my excuses!) "I know."

He took a hand off the wheel and placed it over mine, which was resting on the console. "Sometimes, yes. The rest of the time you're just a dimwit."

"I love you too, you bastard."

"Doesn't everyone?"

We slid to a stop in front of another red light, and Warren was just turning to me, a strange little light in his eyes, when I saw the car.

It was a navy-blue Volvo station wagon, and it was on the wrong street. Instead of the street that cars were supposed to go down, it was driving up the street. Towards us.

Towards me.

I think I had time to think, Oh, shit, and then the Volvo smashed straight into my car door, and everything went white with pain.

And then everything went black.


BRIEF A/N:

My sincerest apologies for this very late update.

This chapter was slightly shorter than my usual 10-page rule. This is also the penultimate chapter. After Chapter Seven, there will be an epilogue.

Then, readers, there will be a sequel.

Please leave a review. Thank you for reading.

-Thai