Magnus Chase Book 2 Free to Read on Online Free

Could You Please Stop Killing My Goat?

LESSON LEARNED: If you take a Valkyrie out for java, you'll get stuck with the cheque and a dead body.

I hadn't seen Samirah al-Abbas in almost six weeks, so when she chosen out of the blue and said we needed to talk most a matter of life and death, I agreed correct away.

(Technically I'm already dead, which means the whole life-and-death thing didn't use, only still…Sam sounded anxious.)

She hadn't yet arrived when I got to the Thinking Loving cup on Newbury Street. The identify was packed as usual, so I queued upwards for coffee. A few seconds subsequently, Sam flew in—literally—right over the heads of the café patrons.

Nobody batted an centre. Regular mortals aren't practiced at processing magical stuff, which is fortunate, considering otherwise Bostonians would spend about of their time running around in a panic from giants, trolls, ogres, and einherjar with battle-axes and lattes.

Sam landed next to me in her school compatible—white sneakers, khaki slacks, and a long-sleeve navy shirt with the King University logo. A greenish hijab covered her hair. An ax hung from her belt. I was pretty sure the ax wasn't standard apparel code.

As glad as I was to see her, I noted that the pare under her eyes was darker than usual. She was swaying on her anxiety.

"Hey," I said. "Y'all look terrible."

"Nice to see you, besides, Magnus."

"No, I hateful…non terrible like different than normal terrible. Just terrible like exhausted."

"Should I become you lot a shovel so you lot can dig that hole a little deeper?"

I raised my hands in give up. "Where have you been the final month and a half?"

Her shoulders tightened. "My workload this semester has been killing me. I'm tutoring kids subsequently school. Then, every bit you might remember, there'southward my function-time job reaping souls of the dead and running top secret missions for Odin."

"You kids today and your decorated schedules."

"On top of all that…there's flying school."

"Flight school?" Nosotros shuffled forward with the line. "Like airplanes?"

I knew Sam'due south goal was to get a professional pilot someday, merely I hadn't realized she was already taking lessons. "Y'all can do that at sixteen?"

Her optics sparkled with excitement. "My grandparents could never accept afforded it, simply the Fadlans have this friend who runs a flight school. They finally convinced Jid and Bibi—"

"Ah." I grinned. "And so the lessons were a gift from Amir."

Sam blushed. She's the only teenager I know who has a betrothed, and it's beautiful how flustered she gets when she talks nigh Amir Fadlan.

"Those lessons were the most thoughtful, the most considerate…" She sighed wistfully. "Only enough of that. I didn't bring you here to talk about my schedule. We have an informant to meet."

"An informant?"

"This could be the break I've been waiting for. If his information is practiced—"

Sam'southward telephone buzzed. She fished it out of her pocket, checked the screen, and cursed. "I have to go."

"You only got here."

"Valkyrie concern. Possible code 3-8-one: heroic death in progress."

"Yous're making that up."

"I'm non."

"So…what, somebody thinks they're about to die and they text you 'Going down! Need Valkyrie ASAP!' followed by a bunch of sad-face up emojis?"

"I seem to recall taking your soul to Valhalla. You didn't text me."

"No, but I'm special."

"Just get a table exterior," she said. "See my informant. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I don't even know what your informant looks like."

"You'll recognize him when you see him," Sam promised. "Be brave. Also, go me a scone."

She flew out of the shop like Super Muslima, leaving me to pay for our order.

I got two big coffees and 2 scones and found a table outside.

Spring had arrived early in Boston. Patches of dirty snow still clung to the curbs like dental plaque, but the cherry trees popped with white and red buds. Flowery pastel habiliment displays bloomed in the windows of high-end boutiques. Tourists strolled by enjoying the sunshine.

Sitting outside, comfortable in my freshly laundered jeans, T-shirt, and denim jacket, I realized this would be the first spring in three years that I hadn't been homeless.

Terminal March, I had been scrounging from Dumpsters. I'd been sleeping under a bridge in the Public Garden, hanging out with my buddies Hearth and Blitz, avoiding the cops and only trying to stay alive.

So, two months ago, I died fighting a burn down giant. I'd woken up in the Hotel Valhalla as i of Odin's einherji warriors.

Now I had clean clothes. I took a shower every day. I slept in a comfortable bed every dark. I could sit down at this café tabular array, eating nutrient I'd really paid for, and non worry about when the staff would force me to move along.

Since my rebirth, I'd gotten used to a lot of weird stuff. I'd traveled the Nine Worlds meeting Norse gods, elves, dwarves, and a agglomeration of monsters with names I couldn't pronounce. I'd scored a magical sword that presently hung around my cervix in the form of a runestone pendant. I'd even had a heed-melting conversation with my cousin Annabeth near the Greek gods who hung out in New York and made her life hard. Obviously North America was lousy with ancient gods. We had a full-diddled infestation.

All of that I'd learned to accept.

But being back in Boston on a nice spring 24-hour interval, hanging out like a regular mortal kid?

That felt strange.

I scanned the crowd of pedestrians, looking for Sam's informant. You'll recognize him when y'all meet him, she'd promised. I wondered what kind of information this guy had, and why Sam considered information technology life-and-death.

My gaze fixed on a storefront at the end of the cake. Over the doorway, the brass-and-silver sign withal gleamed proudly: BLITZEN'S All-time, but the shop was shuttered. The front door window was papered over on the within, with a message hastily scrawled in red marker: Airtight for remodeling. Back soon!

I'd been hoping to ask Samirah about that. I had no idea why my old friend Blitz had abruptly disappeared. One day a few weeks ago, I'd merely walked by the store and establish it closed. Since then, there'd been no word from Blitzen or Hearthstone, which wasn't like them.

Thinking nearly this made me then preoccupied I almost didn't see our informant until he was correct on top of me. But Sam was right: he kind of stood out. It's non every day you run across a caprine animal in a trench coat.

A porkpie hat was wedged between his curly horns. A pair of sunglasses perched on his olfactory organ. His trench glaze kept getting tangled in his back hooves.

Despite his clever disguise, I recognized him. I'd killed and eaten this detail goat on another world, which is the sort of bonding experience yous don't forget.

"Otis," I said.

"Shhh," he said. "I'k incognito. Call me…Otis."

"I'thou non sure that'due south how incognito works, merely okay."

Otis, aka Otis, climbed into the chair I'd reserved for Sam. He sat on his back haunches and put his front hooves on the table. "Where is the Valkyrie? Is she incognito, too?" He peered at the nearest pastry handbag as if Sam might be hiding inside.

"Samirah had to get reap a soul," I said. "She'll be dorsum soon."

"It must be nice having a purpose in life." Otis sighed. "Well, thanks for the food."

"That's non for—"

Otis snapped upwards Sam's scone bag and began to consume it, paper and all.

At the table side by side to the states, an older couple glanced at my goat friend and smiled. Maybe their mortal senses perceived h

im as a cute child or a funny pet dog.

"So." I had a difficult fourth dimension watching Otis devour the pastry, spraying crumbs across the lapels of his trench coat. "You lot had something to tell us?"

Otis belched. "It'southward about my master."

"Thor."

Otis flinched. "Yes, him."

If I worked for the thunder god, I too would have flinched when I heard Thor's proper noun. Otis and his blood brother, Marvin, pulled the god'southward chariot. They besides provided Thor with a never-catastrophe supply of goat meat. Each night, Thor killed and ate them for dinner. Each morning, Thor resurrected them. This is why you should get to college, kids—so when y'all grow up you practice not have to take a chore as a magical goat.

"I finally have a pb," Otis said, "on that certain object my master is missing."

"You lot mean his ham—?"

"Don't say information technology aloud!" Otis warned. "Simply, yes…his ham."

I flashed dorsum to January, when I'd first met the thunder god. Proficient times around the campfire, listening to Thor fart, talk about his favorite Tv set shows, fart, mutter about his missing hammer, which he used to kill giants and stream his favorite Television set shows, and fart.

"It'due south still missing?" I asked.

Otis clacked his front hooves on the tabletop. "Well, not officially, of course. If the giants knew for certain that Thor was without his you-know-what, they would invade the mortal worlds, destroy everything, and send me into a very deep funk. But unofficially…yes. We've been searching for months with no luck. Thor'south enemies are getting bolder. They sense weakness. I told my therapist it reminds me of when I was a kid in the goat pen and the bullies were sizing me up." Otis got a faraway look in his yellow slit-pupil optics. "I think that's when my traumatic stress started."

This was my cue to spend the side by side several hours talking to Otis about his feelings. Being a terrible person, I only said "I feel your pain" and moved on.

"Otis," I said, "the last fourth dimension nosotros saw yous, we found Thor a nice iron staff to use as a backup weapon. He's not exactly caught."

"No, but the staff is not equally good as the…ham. It doesn't inspire the same fear in the giants. Besides, Thor gets cranky trying to watch his shows on the staff. The screen is tiny, and the resolution is terrible. I don't like it when Thor is cranky. It makes it hard for me to find my happy space."

A lot near this did non make sense: why Thor would take so much trouble locating his ain hammer; how he could perchance have kept its loss a secret from the giants for and then long; and the idea that Otis the goat would take a happy infinite.

"So Thor wants our help," I guessed.

"Not officially."

"Of course non. Nosotros'll all have to clothing trench coats and glasses."

"That's an fantabulous idea," Otis said. "Anyhow, I told the Valkyrie I would keep her updated since she is in accuse of Odin's…you know, special missions. This is the first practiced pb I've gotten to the location of the certain object. My source is reliable. He's another goat who goes to the aforementioned psychiatrist. He overheard some talk in his barnyard."

"You desire us to track down a lead based on barnyard gossip you heard in your psychiatrist'due south waiting room."

"That would be great." Otis leaned then far frontward I was afraid he might fall out of his chair. "But you're going to have to be conscientious."

Information technology took all my effort non to laugh. I'd played catch-the-lava-ball with burn down giants. I'd eagle-skied over the rooftops of Boston. I'd pulled the World Serpent out of Massachusetts Bay and defeated Fenris Wolf with a ball of yarn. Now this goat was telling me to exist careful.

"So where is the ham?" I asked. "Jotunheim? Niflheim? Thorfartheim?"

"You're teasing." Otis's sunglasses slipped sideways on his snout. "But the ham is in a different unsafe location. It'due south in Provincetown."

"Provincetown," I repeated. "On the tip of Greatcoat Cod."

I had vague memories of the place. My mom had taken me there for a weekend one summer when I was about eight. I remembered beaches, saltwater taffy, lobster rolls, and a agglomeration of art galleries. The most dangerous affair nosotros'd encountered was a seagull with irritable bowel syndrome.

Otis lowered his vocalisation. "There is a barrow in Provincetown—a wight's barrow."

"Is that like a wheelbarrow?"

"No, no. A wight…" Otis shuddered. "Well, a wight is a powerful undead creature that likes to collect magical weapons. A wight's tomb is called a—a barrow. Sorry, I take a difficult time talking virtually wights. They remind me of my father."

That raised another batch of questions nearly Otis'due south childhood, simply I decided to go out them for his therapist.

"Are there a lot of lairs of undead Vikings in Provincetown?" I asked.

"But one, as far as I know. Merely that'due south plenty. If the certain object is there, it will be difficult to retrieve—underground, and guarded by powerful magic. You lot'll need your friends—the dwarf and the elf."

That would have been great, if I had any thought where those friends were. I hoped Sam knew more than I did.

"Why doesn't Thor go and check this barrow himself?" I asked. "Wait…permit me guess. He doesn't want to draw attending. Or he wants united states of america to have a chance to be heroes. Or it'south hard piece of work and he has some shows to grab up on."

"To be fair," Otis said, "the new season of Jessica Jones did just start streaming."

It'due south not the goat's fault, I told myself. He does non deserve to exist punched.

"Fine," I said. "When Sam gets here, nosotros'll talk strategy."

"I'grand not sure I should expect with you lot." Otis licked a crumb off his lapel. "I should have mentioned this earlier, but you see, someone…or something…has been stalking me."

The hairs on my neck tingled. "You call back they followed you here?"

"I'm non sure," Otis said. "Hopefully my disguise threw them off."

Oh, great, I idea.

I scanned the street but saw no obvious lurkers. "Did you get a good wait at this someone/something?"

"No," Otis admitted. "But Thor has all sorts of enemies who would desire to stop us from getting his—his ham dorsum. They would not want me sharing information with you, especially this last part. You lot have to warn Samirah that—"

THUNK.

Living in Valhalla, I was used to deadly weapons flying out of nowhere, but I was nevertheless surprised when an ax sprouted from Otis'southward furry chest.

I lunged beyond the tabular array to help him. As the son of Frey, god of fertility and wellness, I tin can practise some pretty awesome get-go aid magic given enough time. But as soon as I touched Otis, I sensed that it was too late. The ax had pierced his heart.

"Oh, dear." Otis coughed blood. "I'll merely…dice…at present."

His head lolled backward. His porkpie hat rolled beyond the pavement. The lady sitting backside united states of america screamed every bit if just at present noticing that Otis was not a cute puppy dog. He was, in fact, a dead goat.

I scanned the rooftops beyond the street. Judging from the angle of the ax, information technology must have been thrown from somewhere up in that location…aye. I caught a flicker of movement just equally the attacker ducked out of sight—a figure in black wearing some sort of metallic helmet.

So much for a leisurely cup of coffee. I yanked the magical pendant from my neck chain and raced later the goat-assassinator.

Your Standard Rooftop Chase Scene with Talking Swords and Ninjas

I SHOULD innovate my sword.

Jack, these are the peeps. Peeps, this is Jack.

His existent name is Sumarbrander, the Sword of Summer, only Jack prefers Jack because reasons. When Jack feels like snoozing, which is most of the time, he hangs out on a chain around my neck in the form of a pendant marked with fehu, the rune of Frey:

When I need his help, he turns into a sword and kills things. Sometimes he does this while I wield him. Other times he does this while flying around on his own and singing annoying pop songs. He is magical that way.

As I bounded across Newbury Street, Jack sprang to full form in my hand. His blade—xxx inches of double-edged os-forged steel—was emblazoned with runes that pulsed in different colors when Jack talked.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Who are we killing?"

Jack claims he doesn't pay attention to my conversations when he is in pendant form. He says he commonly has his headphones on. I don't believe this, because Jack doesn't take headphones. Or ears.

"Chasing assassin," I blurted out, dodging a taxi. "Killed caprine animal."

"Right," Jack said. "Same old, same former, and then."

I leaped up the side of the Pearson Publishing edifice. I'd spent the last ii months learning to use my einherji powers, so one jump took me to a ledge three stories above the main archway—no trouble, even with a sword in one mitt. And then I hop-climbed from window ledge to cornice upward the white marble facade, channeling my inner Hulk until I reached the pinnacle.

On the far side of the roof, a dark bipedal shape was but disappearing behind a row of chimneys. The caprine animal-killer looked humanoid, which ruled out goat-on-goat homicide, but I'd seen enough of the Nine Worlds to know that humanoid didn't mean human being. He could be an elf, a dwarf, a small behemothic, or even an ax-murderer god. (Please, not an ax-murderer god.)

By the time I reached the chimneys, my quarry had jumped to the roof of the next edifice. That might non sound impressive, simply the next building was a brownstone mansion near 50 anxiety abroad across a small parking lot. The caprine animal-killer didn't even have the decency to break his ankles on impact. He somersaulted on the tar and came upward running. So he leaped back across Newbury Street and landed on the steeple of the Church of the Covenant.

"I detest this guy," I said.

"How do you know it's a guy?" Jack asked.

The sword had a point. (Pitiful, I keep stumbling into that pun.) The goat-killer's loose black clothes and metallic war helmet made information technology impossible to guess his or her gender, but I decided to keep thinking of him equally male person for at present. Not sure why. I guess I found the thought of a bro goat-assassin more abrasive.

I backed up, took a running first, and leaped toward the church.

I'd love to tell yous I landed on the steeple, slapped some handcuffs on the killer, and announced, You're going abroad for livestock murder!

Instead…well, the Church of the Covenant has these beautiful stained glass windows made by Tiffany in the 1890s. On the left side of the sanctuary, one window has a large fissure at the height. My bad.

I striking the church'southward slanted roof and slid back, grabbing the gutter with my right manus. Spikes of pain shot up my fingernails. I dangled from the ledge, my legs flailing, kicking the beautiful stained glass window right in the Baby Jesus.

On the brilliant side, swinging precariously from the roof saved my life. Just as I twisted, an ax hurtled from above, slicing the buttons off my denim jacket. A centimeter closer and information technology would've opened up my chest.

"Hey!" I yelled.

I tend to complain when people try to impale me. Sure, in Valhalla nosotros einherjar are constantly killing each other, and we get resurrected in time for dinner. Merely outside Valhalla, I was very much killable. If I died in Boston, I would not be getting a catholic do-over.

The goat-assassinator peered down at me from the peak of the roof. Thank the gods, he appeared to exist out of throwing axes. Unfortunately, he still had a sword at his side. His leggings and tunic were stitched from black fur. A soot-smeared chain post coat hung loosely on his chest. His black iron helmet had a chain mail curtain around the base—what we in the Viking business organization call an aventail—completely roofing his neck and throat. His features were obscured by a faceplate fashioned to resemble a snarling wolf.

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