"There was one time, before came the world we know, when the old gods—the Aesir—were warring with their age-old enemies, the Jötnar."

The solemn narration was interrupted by childish curiosity. "What's a yot—yotnar?"

A smile. "A Jötunn, love. Jötnar is the plural form. They were giants from the icy realm of Jötunnheim. The gods lived high up Yggdrasil, the tree of life. Their protector was Thor, wielder of the great hammer Mjölnir." These words were accompanied by a frown, which nevertheless soon flitted away. "Whenever Thor was away, however, the gods were worried. What if the giants attacked while the great guardian was gone?"

"Gods shouldn't be afraid. They're gods!"

Laughter. "The gods weren't perfect, far from it. Odin, their leader, thought to build a wall to keep the giants away. The others did not like the idea. It would take too much time, they said. Too much effort. Then, a stranger came to visit—a traveling builder wandering the roads with his loyal steed." There was a pause, then: "The stranger proposed to build the wall for the Aesir, though he asked for a great price."

"Oh, what was it, what was it?"

A great, deep breath. "The builder was a lover of beautiful things. First, he asked the gods to give him the sun, then the moon. For his third boon, however, he asked for something of greater beauty, a gift that was more precious than the sun and the moon combined."

Another lengthy pause, then: "The hand of the goddess Freya, fairest of all the goddesses."

Bright Falls, 1986

The snappy dresser had come to the diner again.

The man was not hard to spot among the regulars of the Oh Deer Diner. Freya Anderson knew all of them; everyone in Bright Falls knew each other. Their faces—weather-beaten or pockmarked or covered under a thick layer of foundation—were as familiar as her own. Norm MacDonald was exchanging bad jokes with his friend Rick Johnston, the latter rolling his eyes over his cup of coffee. Lorna Mitchell was of age with Freya, yet her eternally pinched mouth and squinted, suspicious eyes made her look much older. And Carl Stucky, as always, patiently listened to his aging mother's ramblings without ever placing a word in edgewise; he did throw sad, longing glances toward the waitress once in a while, however.

On the radio, Pat Maine spoke of the weather and the upcoming fishing season. He'd spoken of the weather and the upcoming fishing season the previous day, and on the one that had come before. Freya suspected he would speak of the weather and the upcoming fishing season tomorrow as well. Bright Falls was ever shaped by the seasons; in the spring and summer, the lakes surrounding the town were invaded by anglers looking for the perfect catch. In the fall, Pat would spend hours talking about hunting—and about Deerfest, of course. And in the winter, the town would go back to dormancy, Bright Falls' population of fishermen and hunters retreating to their much neglected homes like grumpy, groggy bears back to their dens.

Freya sipped from her mug, trying not to look at the stranger. Newly married Jane Marigold, who had been one of Freya's schoolmates growing up, puttered about, filling up cups and flashing bright smiles at her clients. That one had a heart of gold to match that golden head of hair, coiffed in a perm of ludicrous proportions. Jane stopped by the well-dressed stranger's seat, taking out her notepad and pen.

"Hiya, hon!" she said brightly. "Same as usual?"

No one else dared to look their way, but Freya was all too aware that the whole of the diner would love nothing more than to gawk openly. Bright Falls didn't get many visitors, which was fair; who the hell would ever want to come to a dying loggers' town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere? Who was this mysterious stranger, always so well-dressed with his ties and suits, who came every morning to read the local newspaper over a cup of joe? Why had he come here of all places?

"Of course," said the stranger, in his low, melodious voice. Damn, but the man had a voice. Freya wasn't one for shitty metaphors (she was a librarian, she hoarded books, she didn't write 'em), but there was something rich and velvety to his tone, like a good cup of hot cocoa after a grueling day spent shoveling snow. Hell, but she would have paid good money to have him read something to her—the goddamn phonebook, even.

"Alright!" chirped Jane, sashaying away.

Now people were openly staring. Damn city folks, Freya could almost hear them, always thinking they're so slick and better than us. She could not hide her scowl, taking a puff from her cigarette to soothe her rattled nerves. There was something nastier to the curiosity on display, an undercurrent of disapproval that would sour even the godly taste of Jane's coffee.

After all, the newcomer was not only well-dressed and well-spoken, he was Black.

Oh, the people of Bright Falls would never admit to any kind of prejudice. They were the sort to say, well, that can't be, my husband's cousin's mother's nephew had a black roommate in college, I'm one of the good 'uns. They smiled and bowed and scraped—only muttering in displeasure once people's backs happened to be turned. Bright Falls was a decent place to live, oh yes, siree.

Well, unless you were different, that is. Something of which Freya was all too aware.

("Oh, there goes little Freya Anderson, staring into empty space again. What a strange little girl." "She's the daughter of that mean old drunk, what did you expect?" "Where did they come from again? Some place in Europe, isn't that right? These foreigners, they're so—")

Freya cursed under her breath, going back to her crossword. One spot in particular had her stumped. Threshold. Four words. She was not usually that bad with puzzles and word games. Hell. She needed to focus; she needed the peaceful clarity of her own mind.

But, of course, even that had its own risk.

Freya sighed. She didn't like using her… abilities… whenever she was surrounded by this many people. She tried to tune them out, oh, she did, but they were all so goddamn noisy. And it's not like she wanted to know about their lives, about how Jane's smile was brought about by her husband's new gift, oh, that naughty boy, he sure liked seeing me in that lingerie, tee hee, and how scowling Mrs. Crichton had nearly struck her dog that morning because, damn that mutt, won't ever listen, should ask Bob to put him down soon, and greasy-looking Steve Randall, who was swindling his dementia-riddled father out of his savings and thinking, anyway, the old fart doesn't need that dough anymore, I have to pay Gerry and his pals back before they—

God. Sometimes she felt her whole world was populated by tiny people with tiny minds. It made her want to scream and rage, it made her want to shout at them to shut the hell up and leave her alone.

(No wonder her dad was so cranky all the time. She felt a stab of pity for the grumpy bastard, all of a sudden.)

Freya sighed deeply, rubbing her temples and trying to focus again. Thankfully, the familiar sights of the Oh Deer Diner eventually dissipated, leaving only a place of her own imagining in its stead. Around her stood rows and rows of well-worn, well-read books. Some of the bookcases stretched up to the ceiling; others teetered dangerously to the side, too full with rather thick tomes. Here, she could find the sum of all of her knowledge, everything she had learned after a lifetime of watching people from the side, silent but ever watchful.

Threshold. Four words. What could it be? Freya stood from her—imaginary—desk, searching a pile of books beside her. Usually, it did not take long for her to find what she sought; this library, unlike the one she ran in the real world, molded itself to her whims, growing and shrinking as she saw fit.

And then, she felt it. A nudge, a whisper, a breeze upon her neck that made her hair stand on end.

Someone was here, with her.

Someone was in her mind.

It was less like an intrusion, and more of a… presence. Like someone was standing at the edge of her vision, just beyond the corner. She opened her eyes, heart pounding. This had never happened before—not even with her family, who shared her unusual ability. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she found herself glancing behind her shoulder.

The well-dressed man looked back, eyes slightly wide behind his glasses. She suspected her expression was quite similar. It was a strange thing, to have your own feelings mirrored on the face of another. Her heart began to beat faster, for some unfathomable reason.

Eventually, the man smiled, with beautiful, white-gleaming teeth. "Having trouble with today's selection?" he asked Freya, pointing in front of him, where his own paper was spread open. "It might be impertinent of me, but I could help, if you want."

Freya wanted to say no. It would have been in-character for her to say no; she was her father's grumpy little double, but in female form, after all, more at ease with books or knitting needles than with people. This time, the eyes of every patron were upon her. She could feel their curiosity, their shock, their disapproval. Freya scowled, her hands tightening under the table; tiny people with tiny minds, she remembered. More than anything, it was that feeling which drove her to say, "Yeah, why not? Mind if I take a seat?"

"Of course not," said the gentlemanly stranger, motioning to the space in front of him. As she sat, he continued, with a genial smile, "I'm Warlin."

She gladly shook his hand. "Freya Anderson. So…" Freya motioned at the page with her chin. "You seem to be doing pretty well. Ah, this one is easy. 'The hart's—'"

"'Sweetheart', yes. Four words, so it's not 'doe'." His frown dissipated at her confident smirk. "Ah, the hind, of course. How could I have missed it?"

"Don't sweat it. Here, everyone is obsessed with deer. It's kind of a thing."

"Oh?" His dark eyes were twinkling. "Have you heard this one, then? Why is the deer able to jump so high in the air?"

Freya frowned. "No idea. Why?"

"Because of its strong hind legs, of course."

She stared blankly at him for a moment, then groaned. "Oh, Hell. That was terrible."

Warlin chuckled. "I know. I'm something of a connoisseur of bad puns. I collect them across my travels, savor them like fine wine." As she rolled her eyes, he added, "What about you? What got you stumped?"

"'What stands in-between. Threshold.'"

"Oh, that one." Again, the man—Warlin—flashed that charming grin of his. "I'll give you a hint. It's me." Freya quirked a brow, prompting a chuckle from him. "It's 'Door'. As in, 'Warlin Door.'"

"No kidding?" she said, mirroring his grin. "Never heard that one before."

"Well, you might have noticed, but I'm not from around." At this, he glanced behind him—and the rest of the patrons, who had been surreptitiously listening to their conversation, went back to pretending they were quite absorbed by today's paper. Freya scoffed, and they exchanged another secret grin.

"We don't get that many visitors," said Freya. "Come to take in the sights, then?"

"You could say that. In truth, I'm looking for… inspiration."

"Here?" At the ass-end of civilization? Freya meant to say. "Really?"

"I come from the city," he explained. "L.A. I'm something of a comedian of sorts. Paid the bills by doing stand-ups in seedy bars and the likes. But it seems my fountain has run dry. I figured I needed a change of scenery to get the creative juices flowing again."

"Huh," was all she could say. He didn't look like the type of comedians she knew; he was too distinguished, too well-spoken, for one. Freya tried to keep the doubt out of her voice as she added, "And you think you'll find it… here?"

"Stranger things have happened," answered Warlin. "I tend to trust in my intuition. It might sound preposterous to your ears, but it's usually right. There's something here for me, I know it."

"The muse Thalia hiding somewhere in the bushes, watching hunters who enjoy cheap beer a bit too much?"

Warlin laughed. "You know your classical mythology."

"Nah, the Greek myths aren't my forte." Freya could recite the Poetic Edda to him word by word, but that wasn't something she usually told random people she just met. "So, where are you staying while you're visiting our lil' corner of the world?"

"I've rented a cabin, near one of your lakes. Hm, I can't recall what it's named right now, but I think it was called—"

For some reason, Freya shivered. "Cauldron Lake?"

He snapped his fingers. "That's the one! Yes, Cauldron Lake, I'm staying near Cauldron Lake. Pretty place, quite peaceful if I may admit. I'm sure the inspiration won't be long in coming."

Again, Freya felt cold, goosebumps prickling her skin. Cauldron Lake. She'd heard stories about the place—from gossiping wives to superstitious fishermen, all the way to the elders of the neighboring rez. Don't go near the lake, they said, especially after sundown. Even Freya's father had forbidden her to go in the woods surrounding Cauldron Lake, quite in opposition to his usually hands-off approach to parenting.

But those were stories, told to children to keep them scared of the dark. This was real life, not fiction—and Freya Anderson had grown too old for tales of things that went bump in the night.

Still, she felt her smile freeze as she finally said, "Yeah. I'm sure you'll be writing again in no time."

"—the hand of the goddess Freya, fairest of all the goddesses."

"Freya! Just like—"

There came another laugh. "Yep. Freya was a goddess of love and beauty, and the mistress of all magic. The gods hesitated when the stranger named his price. He had asked for far too much, they thought! Then the craftiest among them, Odin's sworn brother Loki, came up with a clever stratagem."

"A what?"

"A trick. The gods agreed to give the builder what he wanted, if he could finish his work in one season. They thought he would fail, you see? And then they would have a strong foundation they could use to build their wall, while the stranger would leave empty-handed."

"What a bunch of jerks! I hope the builder showed them!"

"Oh, he did. He was the fastest worker the gods had ever seen, only needing the help of his horse to carry materials from the mountain. The wall grew taller and taller each day—and so the gods became afraid once more. Angrier than ever, they went to Loki, asking him to stop the builder with his trickery. He succeeded where they had failed, by luring the builder's horse away."

"How did he do that?"

An innocent question, though not one with an innocent answer. "Uh… Loki turned into a pretty mare, and the stallion… fell in love with her?"

A giggle. "That's cheesy!"

Another word would have been more appropriate, but the storyteller did not say it. "Anyway, at the end of summer, the poor builder had not finished his work. When the gods looked at him and laughed, he began to suspect treachery. Suddenly, he grew in size, becoming as tall as the wall! He was a giant, one who had hoped to win fair Freya's hand by hiding his true nature."

"Did he smash them? Odin and all the others, I mean?"

"No. At that very moment, Thor came flying, with Mjölnir in hand. With one strike, the lord of thunder crushed the giant's head. And thus the gods had their wall and with it, their own realm—Asgard, perched atop the highest branch of Yggdrasil."

That didn't get the expected response; rather than a smile, the storyteller was met by a frown. "I don't know. It didn't feel right, what the gods did to the builder. And what about Freya?"

"What about her?"

"Maybe she was in love with the builder too. Maybe she would have wanted to live with him rather than those jerkface gods. Why did nobody ask her?"

A lengthy pause, then, soft as a sigh, "Why did nobody ask her indeed…"

Warlin looked at the Anderson family farm, clearly torn between amusement and bewilderment. "That's where you grew up?"

"My mom kept it in better shape when she was alive," Freya muttered in response. Her dad was a deft hand when it came to tearing down shit; he wasn't so good at repairing whatever broken thing left in the wake of his chaos, however. "Come on. It's freezing out here."

"As long as your family doesn't give me the cold shoulder," Warlin said, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, for Chrissake—"

"I even thought of another ice pun, but then it just slipped my mind."

"Fuck you." Hiding her smirk, she slightly shoved him, prompting a chuckle out of him.

Freya crushed her cigarette under her boot, before walking up the dirt path leading to the Anderson farm. She hated to admit it, but Warlin was right; the place was a damn wreck. The paint could have used some touching up, and the roof was in need of obvious repairs (Freya dearly hoped it wasn't leaking). Still, she doubted it would ever get fixed. When her dad and uncle weren't on tour, playing long-forgotten hits for indifferent crowds, they holed themselves here, drinking themselves to a stupor.

Still, Warlin had asked to meet them, and meet them he would. "My family's long gone," he had admitted to her one night they had broached the subject while cuddling in bed. "I'm all that is left of the Door clan."

Freya had looked up at him in sympathy, squeezing his hand. "Sorry."

"Don't be, darling. I've made my peace with it. But I would meet yours, if I could."

Freya's frown deepened at the memory. Damn the man. He was quite persuasive whenever he turned on the charm. She expected he would soon be regretting his idealistic wish for a family reunion, however. Uncle Odin was sure to behave, but Dad… Tor Anderson was trying even at the best of times. She couldn't imagine two people more different than her grump of an old man and the smooth operator who had won over her heart.

No matter what happened, it would surely be interesting, to say the least…

Freya climbed up the porch, knocking at the door. Warlin stood behind her, standing prim and proper, smiling a salesman's perfectly practised smile.

Thankfully, Uncle Odin was the one to open the door. Freya eagerly returned his embrace. "Oh, my dear, sweet girl!" the man said, laughing and clapping her on the back. As always, he was wearing a long black leather coat, and an eyepatch over his right eye. "Good to see you, kiddo!"

"Had enough of Dad's ugly mug?" Freya said with a lopsided grin.

"Heard that, you brat!" came the familiar holler. Tor Anderson's expression was as dark as a thundercloud. Freya jutted her chin at him, goading the old bastard. A smile soon broke on his face, however, and with a gruff bark of a laugh, he came forward to squeeze his daughter into a bear hug.

"Miss ya, girl," Tor said. "How have you been?"

"Same old. Work keeps me busy, 'specially when the kiddos from the elementary school come to visit. Never a dull moment when they're around."

"Good, good."

An awkward silence hung in the air. Neither father nor daughter were ones for small talk. Finally, someone cleared their throat, and Freya almost jumped out of her skin. Warlin was looking at her uncle and her father, dark eyes gleaming with good humor, as always.

"So," he began, "are you going to introduce us or…?"

Freya sighed. Here goes… she thought. "Dad, Uncle Odin, this is Warlin, my boyfriend."

Odin's brows went high up his forehead; still, he was beaming at her. In contrast, there was something steely in Tor's gaze. Freya could count on the fingers of one hand the number of boyfriends she'd introduced to the old fart; he'd found all of them lacking, of course.

"Nice to meetcha, sonny!" Odin said, giving Warlin's hand a vigorous shake. "I'm Odin! Odin Anderson."

"Delighted," said Warlin. He turned to Freya's father. "Then, you must be the famous Tor."

"The one and only," the latter growled. He stood unmoving in front of Warlin, arms crossed over his chest. The old fart was also blocking the way, clearly unwilling to let them in. Stubborn old goat, Freya thought, earning herself a glare from the man. Ungrateful brat, she could almost hear him say, though now there was the ghost of a smile upon his lips.

Odin, as always, was the one to defuse the situation. "C'mon, people, don't just stand there, come on in!"

They followed him to the living room, which was even more of a mess than Freya remembered. Empty pizza boxes and discarded beer bottles littered the place, and the faint and fairly recognizable scent of weed lingered in the air. Where there was no trash the furniture was instead covered in a thick layer of dust. Warlin inspected the couch for a moment, finally choosing a spot devoid of any stain. Freya slumped next to him, not leaving her father's gaze as he sat across from her, in his old leather sofa.

Despite her exasperation, her heart twinged at the sight. Suddenly she was remembering all those evenings spent sitting in his lap, listening to the deep, steady tempo of his heart as he told her all those stories about the Norse gods and their age-old enemies, the giants of Jötunheim. God, but she loved that man, loved and hated him in equal measure, never one without the other—because she was made of the same stuff as him, a raging inferno at one moment, a warm hearthfire the next.

"Sorry 'bout the mess!" Odin said, cackling. "Your dad and I, hoo-wee, we went on a bender a few days back!" He tapped at his head, grinning. "But we drank long and deep from the Mead of Poetry that night, oh, we did! Already I can hear Kvasir's murmurs in my skull…"

"Chatty bastard, he is," Tor added, with a scoff.

Warlin received all that nonsense with a smile. In his impeccable suit, sitting so primly on that beat-up couch, he looked as out of place as poor Tor did in Freya's library on the rare occasions he had visited her at work.

(He had made a kid cry once, but the little snot had deserved it; he had pulled a younger girl's pigtails and bullied another boy, for which Tor had threatened 'to hammer his thick skull in until his head was finally screwed on right.' The brat had wisely stayed put after that.)

"Interesting," Warlin commented, as if Odin and Tor had been talking about the weather. "You two are musicians, if I remember correctly."

Ah, Hell's bells, Freya thought, knowing what was sure to follow. Predictably, Tor and Odin's faces lit up like the fourth of July. And on and on they went, reliving their glory days, talking of past flames and notorious binges. Warlin listened with undivided attention, nodding and prompting them at the right moment. Damn, but he was good. With only a few words, he had the two crusty bastards wrapped around his little finger. Pat Maine at the radio said Warlin had serious talent, and he was right. Freya's heart softened at the sight; she loved his creativity, his patience, his curiosity. He could soothe her like no one else did, calming the fire in her soul.

After a while, Odin had grown to trust Warlin enough to hand him over a drink. The latter politely refused the offer. It was wise; Freya didn't know what her father and uncle put in their moonshine, but she was sure it wasn't anything good.

"So," Tor said gruffly after taking a sip of his own drink—his second beer in one hour, "what is it that you do, exactly?"

"I'm something of an entertainer," Warlin said, smooth as butter. "I like to make people laugh. I like to make people think. I want people to hear what I have to say, and for my words to be the spark that drives them to strive for a better world than the one we have been given."

Odin and Tor stared at him blankly, the former with a bland smile, the latter with furrowed brows.

Freya coughed, feeling the need to intervene. "Warlin found a job at the radio station. He'll do night shifts and Pat will work during the day. Isn't that nice?"

"Sure," said Odin, "sounds like a good idea—"

"You're a creative type?" Tor suddenly barked, cutting off his brother.

"Why, yes," Warlin answered. He was still smiling, but Freya noted the uneasiness in his dark eyes.

"You make up stuff," Tor challenged. There was something in his tone that set Freya on edge. "Stories."

"More or less," Warlin said, with a nervous chuckle. "I'm a performer. Or at least, I would like to be. I've been having something of a dry spell lately. Still, moving here did me some good." He looked at Freya with such sincere adoration that she found herself blushing. Damn the man and his easy charm. He enjoyed flustering her, the crafty bastard. "I found my muse, for one."

"Oh," Odin said simply, his smile dissipating. Meanwhile, his brother jumped out of his seat, roaring, "She's not your anything! I know the real reason you came here, liesmith!

"I'm sorry?" Warlin managed, while Freya growled in warning, "Dad…"

"You think I was born yesterday? I know what your kind hopes to find in Bright Falls! And I won't let you take it!"

Warlin's face went smooth as a statue's, all the warmth gone from it. That was it; Freya leapt to her feet with a shout of, "You shut your filthy mouth, you—"

"Come on, love," said Warlin, holding her back, "it's no use, we should—"

Odin was doing very much the same with his brother. "Whoa, whoa, bro, tone it down a notch, will you? The kid's—"

"OUT!" Tor Anderson cried out, jabbing a finger toward the door. "My daughter's not yours for the taking, deceiver! Get out, or I'll make you!"

Tears burned in Freya's eyes. She'd always thought that her father was better than the petty assholes who kept throwing them looks whenever they went out for a stroll, hand in hand, but here he was, finally showing his true colors. Tiny people with tiny minds, she remembered, the thought bitter on her tongue.

"Alright, then," she spat out, as venomously as she could. "You'll get what you want, you old bastard. We're leaving."

Her words seemed to hit him like a hammer. Tor went very still, his arm dropping limply at his side. It wasn't anger that she saw in his eyes, then, nor disgust. No, the emotion showing in Tor's pale eyes was—

Fear.

Freya's father was deathly afraid.

Then the fire was in him again, and he hollered, "C'mon, get! Out, both of ya!"

Freya didn't need to be told twice; she dragged an apologetic Warlin away, while Odin sputtered ineffectively behind them.

"Kiddo!" he shouted to Freya as she stormed out of the house. "Freya, wait!"

Freya muttered a curse, stopping in her tracks. Warlin looked back at her, finally giving her a shrug.

"I'll wait for you in the car," he said. God, how she hated the empty look in his eyes, the defeated slump in his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Freya croaked. "I should have—I didn't think he would—"

Warlin put a hand over her shoulder, slightly squeezing it. "It's fine, darling. Take your time." Still, his smile flitted away the moment he turned away to head toward the car. Freya stifled a sob as she watched him go. Fuck, but she had made a mess of things.

Her face was set in a stern expression when she looked back at her uncle. "Don't you dare make excuses for him," she warned. "I heard them a thousand times before, I don't need to hear 'em now."

"I know," her uncle answered, despondently. "But…" At this single word, Freya rolled her eyes, throwing her hands in the air, and Odin quickly added, "You gotta understand, kiddo. He loves you more than the whole world, more than his own life. You're his light, the spark inside his soul."

"So what, I'm supposed to be a good little girl and forgive him when he treats my boyfriend like fuckin' garbage? Is that it?"

Odin hesitated. It was almost pathetic to behold; the famed songwriter seeking the right words without ever finding them. "It's complicated… this town, Cauldron Lake… things aren't that cut and dry. Your pa and I, we sacrificed a lot to get where we are now." He pointed at his eyepatch with a shaky finger. "With thunder and lightning—with this hubris—we were born. We brothers sought to be warriors as well as poets… Elder Gods in mortal flesh. So I can't help but wonder… what is your own beau seeking in Bright Falls? Why here of all places?"

"Why does it matter?" Freya said, through grit teeth. She would have expected this bullshit from her father, but not from her uncle, who was always the more stable—the saner—of the two. "It's not your business, what Warlin does with his life. And what I do with mine."

Her uncle shook his head. "No, no… but a war needs its warrior, you see? We thought it'd be us, fighting the darkness, keeping it at bay throughout the ages of the world. I sacrificed my own eye to peek inside Mimir's well and become worthy of the cause. But it's never ending, this cycle. Someone will have to take up the fight after us, just as we did after…" He paused then, licking his lips. "Well, a new hero will rise after us, and who knows what he'll be willing to sacrifice? It always goes this way in every saga. Will the hero do as the Allfather did, sacrifice himself to himself… or will someone else pay that price?"

Freya sighed. Her anger was gone, replaced by a deep-seated wariness. "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about, but I can take care of myself, y'know? You—and Dad too—well, you don't have to be afraid for me. This isn't some stupid story you're telling me at bedtime. And I'm not a character in an old saga. I'm me—boring ol' Freya Anderson, town librarian. What else could I be?"

"If you say so, kiddo," Odin said, with a tired chuckle. "Just make sure you won't just become a muse to another's design. You're better than that."

Freya looked away from his earnest gaze. She remembered her mother, who had been more of a groupie than a partner in those last years of her life. Freya had vowed to never fall into that trap. "Trust me. I ain't about to play second fiddle in someone else's life. I'm my own person, always been."

"Good," said her uncle. "Might not feel like it, but I'm glad for you, really. He seems a good sort, your young man. I've always wondered why we weren't beating boys away from you with sticks, your pa and I. You really are something else, kiddo."

Freya snorted. She was hardly a looker after all. In fact, she tended to dress like someone's grandma. Or a trucker. Sometimes a bizarre mix of the two. "You know I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can. You would have jammed those knitting needles in their eyes, wouldn't you?"

She clapped his shoulder. "You old sap. You hide it well, but you got a bleeding heart, y'know?"

He chuckled, patting her back. "Yeah. All of us Andersons do. Take care of yourself, sweetie."

She nodded. "Sure thing, Uncle Odin."

The moment Freya had her back turned, Odin's smile disappeared. The Nornir had spun their thread and, unlike that stubborn brother of his, Odin Anderson knew there was nothing he could do to stop the tragedy that was sure to follow. With another sigh, he went back inside the house, all too aware of the storm gathering over the horizon—the Thunder God's rage and sorrow made manifest in the waking world.

All they could do now was to rise and meet that fate with arms outstretched.