I COLLAPSED ON THE GRASS.
Gazing up through the tree branches at the blue sky, I had trouble breathing. I hadn't had an asthma attack in years, but I remembered all the nights my mom had held me while I wheezed, feeling like an invisible belt was tightening around my chest. Maybe you're wondering why my mom would take me camping and climbing mountains if I had asthma, but being outside always helped.
Lying in the middle of the atrium, I breathed in the fresh air and hoped my lungs would settle down.
Unfortunately, I was pretty sure this wasn't an asthma attack. This was a complete nervous breakdown. What shook me wasn't just the fact that I was dead, stuck in a bizarre Viking afterlife where people ordered pig heads from the room service menu and impaled each other in the lobby.
The way my life had gone so far I could accept that. Of course I'd end up in Valhalla on my sixteenth birthday. Just my luck.
What really hit me: for the first time since my mom died, I was in a comfortable place, alone and sad (as far as I could tell at the moment). Shelters didn't count. Soup kitchens and rooftops and sleeping bags under bridges didn't count. I'd always slept with one eye open. I could never relax. Now, I was free to think.
And thinking wasn't a good thing.
I'd never had the luxury of grieving properly for my mom. I'd never had time to sit and feel sorry for myself. In a way that had been as helpful to me as the survival skills my mom had taught me-how to navigate, how to cap, how to make a fire.
All those trips to the parks, the mountains, the lakes. As long as her old beat-up Subaru was working, we'd spend every weekend out of town, exploring the wilderness.
What are we running from? I asked her one Friday, a few months before she died. I was annoyed. I wanted to crash at home for once. I didn't understand her frantic rush to pack and leave.
She'd smiled, but she seemed more preoccupied than usual. We have to make the most of our time, Magnus.
Had my mom been deliberately preparing me to survive on my own? Almost as if she'd known what would happen to her . . . but that wasn't possible. Then again, having a Norse god for a dad wasn't possible either.
My breathing still rattled, but I got up and paced around my new room. In the photo on the mantel, eight-year-old Magnus grinned at me with his tangled hair and his missing teeth. That kid was so clueless, so unappreciative of what he had.
I scanned the bookshelves: my favorite fantasy and horror authors from when I was younger-Stephen King, Darren Shan, Neal Shusterman, Michael Grant, Joe Hill; my favorite graphic novel series-Scott Pilgrim, Sandman, Watchmen, Saga; plus a lot of books I'd never been meaning to read at the library. (Pro homeless tip: public libraries are safe havens. They have bathrooms. They hardly ever kick out kids who are reading as long as you don't smell too bad or cause a scene.)
I pulled down the illustrated children's book of Norse myths my mom read to me when I was little. Inside were simplistic pictures of happy smiling Viking gods, rainbows, flowers, and pretty girls with blond hair. And sentences like The gods dwelt in a wonderful and beautiful realm! There was nothing about the Black One Surt who burned baby carriages and threw molten asphalt, nothing about wolves that murdered people's mothers and made apartments explode. That made me angry.
On the coffee table was a leather-bound notebook tilted Guest Services. I flipped through it. The room service menu went on for ten pages. The TV channel list was almost as long, and the hotel map was so convoluted, divided into so many subsections, I couldn't make sense of it. There were no clearly marked emergency doors labeled: Exit Here To Return To Your Old Life!
I threw the guest services book into the fireplace.
As it burned, a new copy appeared on the coffee table. Stupid magical hotel wouldn't even allow me to properly vandalize things.
In a rage, I flipped the sofa. I didn't expect it to go far, but it cartwheeled across the room and smashed into the far wall.
I started at the trail of dislodged cushions, the upside-down sofa, the cracked plaster and leather skid marks on the wall. How had I done that?
The sofa didn't magically right itself. It stayed where I'd thrown it. The anger drained out of me. I'd probably just made extra work for some poor staff member like Hunding. That didn't seem fair.
I paced some more, thinking about the dark fiery guy on the bridge and why he'd wanted the sword. I hoped Surt had died with me-more permanently than I had-but I wasn't optimistic. As long as Blitz and Hearth had gotten away safely. (Oh, yeah. Randolph, too, I guess.)
And the sword itself . . . where was it? Back on the river bottom? Valhalla could resurrect me with a chocolate bar in my pocket, but not a sword in my hand. That was messed up.
In the old stories, Valhalla was for heroes who died in battle. I remembered that much. I definitely didn't feel like a hero. I'd gotten my butt kicked and my guts cannonballed. By stabbing Surt and toppling off the bridge, I'd simply failed in the most productive way possible. A brave death? Not so much.
I froze.
An idea struck me with the force of a sledgehammer.
My mom . . . If anyone had died bravely, she had. To protect me from-
Just then someone knocked on my door.
It swung open and a girl stepped inside . . . the same girl who had circled over the battle on the bridge, then pulled me through the gray void.
She had ditched her helmet, chain mail, and glowing spear. Her green headscarf was now around her neck, letting her long brown hair spill freely over her shoulders. Her white dress was embroidered with Viking runes around the collar and cuffs. From her golden bely hung a set of old-fashioned keys and a single-bladed ax. She looked like the maid of honor at someone's Mortal Kombat wedding.
She glanced at the overturned sofa. "Did the furniture offend you?"
"You're real," I noted.
She patted her arms. "Yes, it appears I am."
"My mother," I said.
"No," she said, "I'm not your mother."
"I mean, is she here in Valhalla?"
The girl's mouth formed a silent Oh. She gazed over my shoulder as if considering her answer. "I'm sorry. Natalie Chase is not among the Chosen."
"But she was the brave one. She sacrificed herself for me."
"I believe you." The girl examined her key ring. "But I would know if she were here. We Valkyries are not allowed to choose everyone who dies bravely. There are . . . many factors, many different afterlives."
"Then where is she? I want to be there. I'm no hero!"
She surged toward me, pushing me against the wall as easily as I'd flipped the sofa. She pressed her forearm against my throat.
"Don't say that," the girl hissed. "DO-NOT-SAY-THAT! Especially not tonight at dinner."
Her breath smelled like spearmint. Her eyes were somehow dark and bright at the same time. They reminded me of a fossil my mom used to have-a cross section of a nautilus-like sea animal called an ammonite. It seemed to glow from within, as if it had absorbed millions of years of memories while lying under the earth. The girl's eyes had that same sort of luster.
"You don't understand," I croaked. "I have to-"
She pushed harder against my windpipe. "What do you think I don't understand? Grieving for your mother? Being judged unfairly? Being somewhere you don't want to be, forced to deal with people you'd rather not deal with?"
I didn't know how to respond to that, especially since I couldn't breathe.
She stepped away. As I choked and gagged, she paced the foyer, glaring at nothing particular. Her ax and keys swung on her belt.
I rubbed my bruised neck.
Stupid, Magnus, I told myself. New place: learn the rules.
I couldn't start with whining and making demands. I had to set aside the question of my mother. If she were anywhere I'd figure that out later. Right now, being in this hotel was no different than walking into an unfamiliar youth shelter, alley encampment, or church basement soup kitchen. Every place had rules. I had to learn the power structure, the pecking order, the no-nos that would get me stabbed or rolled. I had to survive . . . even if I was already dead.
"Sorry," I said. My throat felt like I'd swallowed a live rodent with lots of claws. "But why do you care if I'm a hero or not?"
SShe smacked her forehead. "Wow, okay. Maybe because I brought you here? Maybe because my career is on the line? One more slipup and-" She caught herself. "Never mind. When you're introduced, go along with what I say. Keep your mouth shut, nod your head, adn try to look brave. Don't make me regret bringing you here."
"All right. But for the record, I didn't ask for your help."
"Odin's Eye! You were dying! Your other options were Helheim or Ginnungagap or . . ." She shuddered. "Let's just say there are worse places to spend your afterlife in than Valhalla. I saw what you did on the bridge. Whether you recognize it or not, you acted bravely. You sacrificed yourself to save a lot of people."
Her words sounded like a compliment. Her tone sounded like she was calling me an idiot.
She marched over and poked me in the chest. "You have potential, Magnus Chase. Don't prove me wrong or-"
From the wall speakers, a horn blast sounded so loudly it rattled the picture on the mantel.
"What's that?" I asked. "An air raid?"
"Dinner." The girl straightened. She took a deep breath and extended her hand. "Let's start again. Hi, I'm Samirah al-Abbas."
I blinked. "Don't take this the wrong way, but that doesn't sound like a very Viking-ish name."
She smiled tightly. "You can call me Sam. Everyone does. I'll be your Valkyrie this evening. Pleased to meet you properly."
She shook my hand, her grip so tight my finger bones popped. "I will now escort you to dinner." She forced a smile. "If you embarrass me, I'll be the first to kill you."