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“I don’t know why he’s so worn out,” Gil said. “I had a great night.” He elbowed Sterling cheerily. “Buck up, buddy, it’s okay. Just a few more nights of this and we’ll be all clear. You won’t have to chain me up and babysit me anymore.”
Sterling frowned at him. “Yay.”
The french doors to the dining room swung open, and something came thundering out of the kitchen. Without even being asked, Olga had brought us two massive plates piled high with steaming hot food. Whatever Carver had paid for our time at the Twilight Tavern, it was more than worth it. She dumped the plates in front of me and Herald, and I swear the earth moved a little when they hit the table.
“I’ll be back with your drinks,” she boomed, sweeping gracefully away.
I didn’t wait to get started, barely breathing in between bites of everything the cook had arranged on my plate. Two kinds of eggs, rashers of bacon, sausage, something blackish that Herald told me was meant to be blood pudding, fried bread, heaps of baked beans, scorched mushrooms, fried tomatoes – I mean, I could go on, but I’ll stop there.
We were having the full English that day, it said on the handwritten card at our table. I was chewing an enormous mouthful of food anyway, so I took some time to peruse the menu. It was confusing, to say the least. It had all sorts of things on it. Too many sorts, like the menu had been designed by someone who had never actually eaten at a restaurant.
The full English was listed, sure, as was an American breakfast, and a continental variant, but then the menu went way off the rails, listing entries such as “one bottle of warm ketchup,” something called a “twig salad,” and “a goat.” Just the goat. No description of how it was prepared, either, or whether it was served alive. Twilight Tavern had no idea what it wanted to be.
Olga swept over to our table, a steaming pitcher of coffee in one hand. “And how is everyone enjoying breakfast?” she said, a suspiciously friendly grin on her face, as if to imply that a negative answer would result in a trip to the hospital.
“Excellent,” I said, meaning it in all honesty. “I’ve never had an English breakfast before. It’s the best. Though I do wonder, there are so many different cuisines on the menu. Is it meant to be fusion?”
“The decor as well,” Herald added, as politely as he could. “It’s quite – eclectic.”
“Oh, that is about normal,” Olga said, a finger on her chin. “That it seems as if the house cannot decide what it wants to be, how it wants to look. There are so many options, you see? And the All-Father cannot make up his mind about the direction he wants this bed and breakfast to go.”
Herald choked on his orange juice. He swiped at his lips with a serviette, adjusting his glasses, as if seeing better would help him understand. “Sorry,” he said to Olga. “Did you say the All-Father? Odin himself owns this place?”
Olga nodded, nonplussed. “Oh yes. Immortality takes its toll on the entities, you see.”
“I hear that,” Sterling droned, stirring his coffee with the tip of his finger.
“Gone are the days of glorious battle, when man would kill man, at times for conquest, at others for the sheer joy of it.” Olga sighed, her eyes gazing into the distance. “That leaves the valkyries with very little to do, you understand. There is only so much merriment to be had in Valhalla. And with the boredom of eternity comes a desire to seek other pursuits.”
“The Sisters run their own fast fashion empire,” I offered, trying to contribute to the conversation.
“That they do,” Olga said, doing a little spin. The building vibrated as she did, as the folds of her incredible dress spun to reveal so many panels of color, like the world’s biggest, loveliest pinwheel. “They designed this for me themselves.” She sniffed. “Custom-made, you see. Not off the rack.”
Sterling golf clapped approvingly, as did Gil. Olga made a little curtsey – which, for a valkyrie, apparently wasn’t very little at all – then sashayed away, pitcher in hand.
“That really bothers me, if I’m honest,” I said, my voice lowered. “How the entities don’t seem to be taking any of this Eldest business very seriously. It’s like the Scions. Don’t they see what’s going on? Even the Midnight Convocation didn’t make a big deal of it.”
“How did that go, anyway?” Sterling said, resting his chin in one hand. “You two seem to be mostly alive, at least.”
“About that. They’re setting a trial. I won’t get their favor that easily. This one guy with a glowing sword issued a challenge, says we have to fight him and his siblings.” I looked at Gil and Sterling pointedly. “They said I could bring allies if I wanted.”
Gil set down his utensils, then cracked his knuckles, his muscles taut. “Bring it. Did they say when this was happening? We could call for backup.”
Herald took a sip of his coffee, then shook his head. “Knowing the Convocation? Any time now. And I don’t think we can afford to distract our friends from what they’re doing at the moment. Carver needs to stay in Valero to handle all the rifts he can, and the Lorica is hunting down the cultists, priests, and worshippers of the Eldest. Plus, there’s been another attack directly from the Heart.”
Gil frowned. “Yeah. I heard from Prudence. She says Royce and the other Mouths are scrambling to shut down the bad press on that one. They hit a log cabin. Pretty big one too, those fancy places rich people like to keep for weekends. No one was in it, but the blast radius was big enough for a hell of a lot of normals to see.”
I shook my head. “I really don’t envy Royce right now. Where would you even start trying to clean up a mess like that?”
“Whatever,” Sterling drawled. “He’s got his problems, we’ve got our own.” He waved vaguely at his face. “Like all these cuts on my face. I should be able to heal out of them, but it’s gonna take time.” He coughed loudly. “It’s not like anyone’s volunteering any blood to help me speed up the process.”
“It’s just some cuts,” Gil said, somewhat wounded. “I said I was sorry, man. They’re not gonna leave scars, anyway. It’ll just be a couple more nights.” He patted Sterling on the back. I swear I heard Sterling’s skeleton rattle.
“Well if that’s all it is,” Herald said, getting up from the table and crossing over to Sterling’s side. He held a hand up to Sterling’s cheek.
“The hell is this?” Sterling said, his eyes flitting to either side of him. “Guys? What’s he doing?”
It shouldn’t have been possible. Coils of glistening purple energy were radiating from the palm of Herald’s hand, crossing the gap to Sterling’s face and stitching the cuts back together right in front of our eyes. Within seconds his cheeks were returned to their dead, alabaster perfection.
