Modern Goddess: Trapped by Thor (Book One) (20 page)

I doubted it.

“
I’m just details and
facts,” I tried to reason with him.

“
You are neither,” Odin
replied sharply, “They simply empower you.”

I gave a frustrated sigh. “I... I don't
have anything that anyone would want.” I looked around the ground
by my bare and dirty feet. I was still in my wet, muddy, torn PJs.
I still had dirty bedraggled hair. I felt like picking it up and
pointing at it dramatically and asking Odin if he thought terrible
destruction-loving gods would need my power. I knew it wasn't going
to work. Odin was Odin – all-powerful, all-wise, and more than half
beard. I couldn't argue with him.

I didn't understand. None of this made
sense. I didn't have enough facts. I didn't have enough
details—

Thor put a hand on my shoulder. “I will deal
with it.” He looked up at his father. “I will solve it. I will stop
it before it can begin.”

As this had already begun (unless a
triple-attempted kidnapping was freshening up for the main event)
Thor could hardly stop it before it had started.

Then
again, he was Thor and Zeus and
Jupiter. He had a yacht, a magical hammer, and a greasy black suit.
He also had more wisdom and power than I would like to
admit.

“
You must.” Odin let his eye
drift up until he stared at the zenith of the ceiling. “If you do
not....”

Yep, that was end-of-the-world-Ragnarok
talk, even if it was dramatically veiled.

“
I will stop them,” Thor
intoned powerfully. “I will stop him,” he added far more
quietly.

“
It will not be easy,” Odin
warned.

As if saving the world/universe was easy –
especially when the bad guys were gods.

“
I will prevail. I will be
victorious,” Thor's voice rang out.

Odin's good eye seemed to lose focus, and
I knew that he was returning his gaze inwards.

I felt cold, confused, heavy, sick,
overcome, and a lot like I wanted to mope into a corner and drape
my arms over my head until it all went away.

Thor's grip slid down my shoulder. His
fingers spread wider, felt more pronounced over the coarse, wet
press of my clothes.

That
detail broke through the heady mess
of potential hysteria. That detail shone like a light through the
darkness.

While I still didn't know what was going on,
this new fact lodged itself in my mind with far greater primacy and
importance.

The feel, the warmth, the expectation, the
meaning of his touch.

Then
Thor slapped me on the back. “Time to
go save the universe, Details,” he said with a note of mirth. “We
better get you to a weather station before you freak out,
though.”

I turned slowly to stare at him. Though it
appeared that Odin was deep within himself – and therefore unlikely
to snap at us to stop play-fighting in his godly throne room – I
wasn't comfortable with shouting at Thor in Asgard.

Still, I dipped my head down a touch and
snorted. “I still don't see what this has to do with me,” I said,
tone bitter, but voice quiet.

He snorted. “You think being kidnapped by
two sea monsters and three gods is coincidental?” He crossed his
arms and tried to grin.

Tried.

This was mostly an act, wasn't it? No one,
even if they were an arrogant, rude, and stupid triple-god, could
go from having a super serious conversation about saving reality
with their all-powerful dad, to joking about it several minutes
later.

I could see the press of concern crumpling
the corners of his eyes. I could make out the slight pitch to the
corners of his lips.

“
Details,” he dipped his head,
“Are you staring at my nose again?” He held my gaze.

I spluttered.

He grabbed my arm. “No more games. We must
go save the gods.” He began to pull me towards the door and,
apparently, towards my impending doom and Ragnarok.

As he pulled me from Odin's throne room, I
began to realize things had escalated. The last time I'd left the
one-eyed god, I'd been forced to join Thor in a mission to find out
who had nicked Odin's monstrous underground-facility sea-pet.
Things had gone up a notch. It was world-saving time.

I was still stuck with
Thor/Zeus/Jupiter.

I didn't resist as Thor pulled me along on
our mission – I couldn't.

I'd like to say
that after our quick
discussion with Odin, Thor changed tune. I'd like to say that after
it was impressed upon him by his own ruddy father that this
situation was of the important, potentially world-ending variety,
that the hammer-wielding god got down to business.

I would be lying.

If I’d thought the prospect of Ragnarok
was one that would put a firecracker under Thor's butt and get him
at least acting, if not proactively, then I was wrong.

Sometimes it felt like the triple-god was on
the wrong side of adulthood. After countless millennia of being a
tough and in-charge guy, he was still growing up.

If I’d entertained a glimmer of hope that
old golden beard would slick back his eyebrows and get on with
saving me proper and saving the rest of the universe at the same
time, I was sorely mistaken.

Instead of going straight to the Integration
Office, or making an appointment with one of the wise goddesses, or
booking a ticket to an oracle somewhere – we ended up in the
Ambrosia.

Yep, that's right. The world was ending, I
was being hunted by a trio of powerful and angry gods, and Thor sat
across the table from me enjoying happy hour.

Thor chucked back another ale. He jerked his
head, slamming the glass into his face, the golden ale sloshing all
over his cheeks and down his beard. Rather than pool down the sides
of his mouth and splatter across his clothes, the liquid
disappeared the instant it touched him.

I glared at him. I sat in a large
overcoat, which I’d borrowed off a passing mystery god, and had my
arms tightly crossed around my middle as my eyes narrowed further
every time Thor gulped back another ale. I was still in my
bedraggled PJs underneath the overcoat, and they were still damp.
My hair was a sandy, dirty, clinging mess that stuck to my neck and
itched the skin something shocking. My feet were also bare and
unclean.

Thor looked the picture of perfection.
Inexpertly-drinking perfection anyway. He was still in his shiny,
powerful armor. I’d suggested – being dirty and bedraggled – that
both of us should find the time to change before hitting the
streets and finding out who wanted to destroy the universe. Thor
had grabbed my wrist and pulled me on (something he was doing an
awful lot, especially when I complained about anything at all). He
had assured me there was no time to change. The universe was in
jeopardy and we had to save it regardless of what we were
wearing.

He'd taken me straight to the Ambrosia.
Fortunately, we had gone through the back door, as the sight of a
giant, magical-armor wearing Nordic god and one dirty and
bedraggled pj-wearing details goddess wouldn’t be a welcome sight
on most city streets.

Thor was slowly gathering his entourage
around him. At first, his usual drinking buddies seemed unsure
about my presence at the table. They rightly thought that having
the immigration officer sitting next to them would spoil some of
their fun (especially if their fun consisted of recounting all the
illegal and frankly un-hilarious exploits they'd gotten up to like
racing titans in diamond mines and setting off volcanoes to roast
marshmallows).

I sat there, dripping, itching, and
seriously put out.

What an ass.

“
Details,” Thor roared, downing
his two-hundredth beer. He was acting drunk, though he couldn't
become inebriated (no matter how much alcohol he consumed, I
doubted anything could make him stupider). “Stop looking at me like
that, Details,” Thor said as he banged a giant hand down on the
table and leaned in with a massive ear-to-ear grin.

All the other gods at the table cheered at
the move. They would cheer at anything. If Thor declared that two
plus two equals four, they would all give a rip-roaring cry of joy.
If Thor declared that he was potty trained, then they'd bring the
roof down with their cheerful shouts.

I let my teeth sink so far into my bottom
lip I could have chewed right through it.

He pointed a finger at me. “You know what
you lack, Details?”

All the other gods leaned in. The god of
merriment who sat next to me hiccupping with constant laughter,
leaned in so far that he jostled my arm, making my wet, sandy hair
slap me in the face.

He was like an eager puppy waiting for his
master to throw him a titbit. They all were – all of these gods
were hanging off Thor's words as if being here with him was the
best thing the universe had to offer.

“
You lack imagination,” Thor
said, and there was a flicker in his eye. His tone was still jovial
and his words still elicited a raucous and out-of-proportion
laugh.

“
I lack imagination,” I repeated
and shook my head. I wasn't about to point out that if these
groupie-gods thought sitting and watching Thor drink beer with all
the accuracy of a potato gun was rewarding, then they lacked
imagination, too.

“
Yes.” He leaned back,
resting his hand on the table.

He looked serious.

Everyone laughed and laughed.

For my part, I let my fingers curl up
until my neat nails dug neat and evenly into my palms. What a total
jerk. “If I lack imagination, Thor,” I said, hardly able to
unclench my jaw, “What do you lack then?”

A quick hush of silence ran along the table.
They were all waiting for Thor to come back with a semi-lame, but
still laughable comeback, or for him to reach over and bang me on
the head.

“
What I lack, Details, is
something you will have to find out.” He smiled, grabbed his ale,
and tipped it down his throat.

This grew only a smattering of laughter.

Damn him, I thought for the millionth time.
Damn him for being who he was. Damn him for being powerful, damn
him for being assigned to me, and triple damn him for bloody
existing.

I rose. It was a quick move and my chair
tumbled out from behind me. I turned sharply. I was sick of this
bloody—

Thor grabbed my wrist quicker than I could
blink. “You aren't going to go get yourself in more trouble, are
you, Details?” he asked almost languidly, and he slowly turned his
head over to stare up at me (though across at me was more accurate,
because though Thor was still seated, he was a man of godly
proportions).

The groupies cooed and chuckled. Ah yes,
they had all heard about my escapade in the flood drains several
days ago, if not my recent adventures in Egypt and Greece. They
were all under the impression that Thor was begrudgingly protecting
me from some small-time immigration-officer-hating divinities. The
begrudging bit was right, but the small-time bit was totally
wrong.

This was huge, this was enormous, this was
terrible. I was being hunted for god knows what reason (because,
presumably, some god did know the reason). Yet here Thor was,
taking it as seriously as 200 ales and a happy-hour party could
allow for.

I yanked at my wrist, intending to pull it
free. I could hardly move it. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I
snapped at him.

He held my gaze, almost looking like the
Thor who had saved me from his perpetually evil, once best friend.
He grinned. “Be sure to scream if any sea monsters try and attack
you from the toilet.”

The god-groupies howled with laughter.
Apparently toilet humor was still comedic gold for all-knowing
divinities.

He let my hand go. I could have bloody
slapped him, if it weren't for the fact it would shatter my arm.
Still, the sentiment was there.

I walked away so stiffly that my muscles
were twanging.

By the time I made it into the bathroom, my
jaw was so tight my teeth felt as though they would pop from my
mouth like a spring under strain.

The bathroom of the Ambrosia wasn't what you
would expect. It was a bath house, for one, and not a set of toilet
stalls. Gods didn't need to go to the bathroom – they didn’t, to
put it delicately, expend waste common to humans and animals. Gods
were sustained on belief, not high-fiber cereals.

Gods still had bathrooms. They had a few
more baths, pools, palm trees in pots, and candles than your usual
toilet stall.

The bathroom of the Ambrosia was modeled on
one of the old baths of Rome. There were beautiful frescos and
statues everywhere. There were also, inexplicably, palm trees in
pots. It was funny how gods picked up the apparent
wealth-indicators of whatever time they were in. In Rome, a couple
of nice gilded statues and a sweet many-roomed marble palace were
usually enough to indicate how posh a place was. In modern times,
however, it was palm trees in pots. Lots of them.

I’d put off coming to the bathroom the
moment we'd gotten to the Ambrosia for several reasons. Firstly, I
had stupidly harbored the hope that all of this had been part of
Thor's plan. Perhaps he was coming here to get some god gossip – to
try to find out from the other divinities what the word on the
street was. The second reason, however, was that... I hated going
to the public goddess baths. Why? I was unpopular wherever I went.
Also, I was wearing human bed ware, I was hideously dirty, and
everyone would know by now that I'd been saved recently, and
humiliatingly, by Thor.