Two Ravens and One Crow - 4.5 Read Online Free PDF Page B

sprayed stucco on the outside of houses and called it an exterior. But long ago, back when this building was originally constructed, artists used it as a medium to create permanent bas-relief sculptures. This one—undoubtedly one of the finest I’d ever seen—depicted the suicide of Cleopatra, who’d famously decided to leave this world by snakebite. Seeing it made me immediately miss Oberon, because I knew he would find the opportunity for parody irresistible, and I knew what he would say if he could see it now, complete with the voice of Samuel L. Jackson: enough
! I have
had
it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking ceiling!>
    “Beautiful,” I said, and hoped my smile would be interpreted as art appreciation rather than amusement at my hound’s fondness for movies.
    “Yes,” the Morrigan agreed.
    Our scintillating conversation was blessedly interrupted by the sommelier, who returned with the bottle of Shiraz. He poured a little out for our suspiciously missing homie, then left us to fill the silenceonce again. We had nothing, so we drank a bit and speculated about all the different flavors we could taste in the fermented grapes. The Morrigan opined that it had a layered flavor, stony but finishing with a lush
réglisse
. Frigg tasted spice, whatever that meant; I doubt it was an allusion to the planet Arrakis. I am not proficient in the language of wine, so I was just about to suggest there was a faint top note of mango chutney when Frigg’s eyes shifted over my shoulder and her expression softened. She rose from her chair, and the Morrigan and I followed suit. Turning to follow Frigg’s gaze, I saw a tall man in a tuxedo approaching our table. Gray hair flowed about his head and down to his shoulders, but it wasn’t thin and receding; it was somehow virile and imbued with badassery. The simple black eye patch over his left eye didn’t make him look like a pirate but instead communicated wisdom—precisely the prize for which he gave up his eye. It spoke of his suffering and his willingness to sacrifice—to stop at nothing—to remain the wisest of the wise. His epic beard was a bit surprising and somewhat intimidating: I’d expected an unruly carpet flowing down his chest, but it was a densely packed and trimmed affair, almost like topiary, which gave his features the weight of a carefully constructed edifice that few men could pull off. Most guys grow beards that do nothing for them other than communicate to the world that “this is what happens when you don’t shave.” The beard of Odin told you that he wasn’t a hippie or a barbarian or a fantasy author but a god who could bring order to chaos.
    He took his wife’s hand and planted a kiss on it. Then he turned to the Morrigan and nodded to her once. “Morrigan.” She nodded back. Then his eye swiveled to face me, and I could
feel
the frost of his hatred; I had to suppress a shudder. “So you are the one,” he said. “Slayer of the Norns and Freyr and so many others.” His voice reminded me of whiskey—and I don’t say that just because I’m Irish. His words were rich and smoky and quite possibly had been aged in oak barrels for years before he spoke them. “Since I recovered, I have watched you from Hlidskjálf, unable to believe what I saw. Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I saw nothing in you that suggested you were capable of defeating us. But now, seeing you in person, I can perceive your essential nature. You are deceptive.”
    “Frequently,” I admitted. “Hello, by the way. I’m honored to meet you.”
    Odin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Honor!” he growled. “You cannot speak to me of honor when you have none!”
    Frigg placed a delicate hand on his arm. “Let’s sit down, shall we?” The tension drained from Odin’s shoulders, and his fists unclenched. We all sat, and as we did so I realized that Odin and I had something in common: We were both under the complete control of