Arthur Quinn and Hell's Keeper E-Book

Alan Early

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Father of Lies Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 396

Beschreibung

Arthur Quinn has defeated the World Serpent. He's come face-to-face with the Fenris Wolf. But now he faces Loki's most powerful child, Hell's Keeper. With his friends Ash, Ellie and Ex, Arthur sets out to stop this new menace. But Loki has a trick up his sleeve, a trick that changes everything.Arthur must confront Loki for a final showdown. But faced with a terrible secret and enemies at every turn, can Arthur find the courage he needs to defeat the god once and for all, or has Loki finally won?

Leseprobe

Praise for the Arthur Quinn books

‘A brilliant creation … fast-paced and thrilling’ – Eoin Colfer, author of Artemis Fowl

‘A clever blend of fantasy and the every day. It’s like Harry Potter, Dublin style’ – Irish Examiner

‘One of the most exciting adventure stories published in Ireland in the last few years’ – Irish Independent

‘An absolute rip-roaring read’ – Sunday Business Post

‘A gripping supernatural thriller’ – Sunday Independent

‘Norse myth, Irish history and contemporary Dublin blend convincingly’ – The Irish Times

‘A mystical world of mythological characters comes alive, time stops, the unimaginable occurs, and the excitement is full blast from beginning to end’ – VOYA, Voices of Youth Advocates

‘An action-packed suspense mystery’ – School Librarian Journal

‘It’s like a ride on the back of the Fenris Wolf itself, breathlessly exciting … perfect for everyone who enjoyed Avengers Assemble.’ – Alexander Gordon Smith, Inis Magazine

‘A fantastic, riveting read and one you will enjoy over and over. Bring on the third book!!!’ – Mary Esther Judy, The Bookbag

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

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© Alan Early, 2013

ISBN: 978 1 78117 158 5

Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 215 5

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 216 2

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

All characters and events in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, which may occur inadvertently, is completely unintentional.

To Paul, Dee, Lou, Ruairí and Tag, for your names and so much more.

Prologue

Neil Conifrey felt a surge of relief when he saw the turn off the main road up ahead. It had been a long journey from Dublin and the snail’s pace of the Friday rush-hour traffic had only made it longer. Kurt and Susanna had squabbled in the back for most of the two-hour-plus drive, while Joanna – Neil’s wife – sat staunchly silent in the passenger seat, massaging away a particularly painful migraine. Now, as they approached the turn-off, the bickering finally came to an end. Neil glanced in the rear-view mirror at his two kids. Kurt was sixteen and had definitely inherited genes from Joanna’s side of the family. With the cleft in his chin and the slightly bulging eyes, he was the spitting image of Joanna’s older brother. He even shared his uncle’s dark five o’clock shadow. Ten-year-old Susanna, on the other hand, took after Neil with her mop of wiry brown hair and poor eyesight.

He focused back on his driving as he turned up the laneway towards the holiday home. Despite the harsh winter they’d just emerged from, the gravel track was overgrown with brambles and bushes already. Usually he didn’t have to trim back the growth until their annual visit over the May Bank Holiday, but by the looks of it he’d have to do some work on it this weekend.

Bad weather had forced them to remain in Dublin over Christmas. Normally they were glad to get out of the city to visit Joanna’s parents in Leitrim, but the snow and ice had put a stop to that. Now – to celebrate Joanna’s birthday – Neil had taken the family to their holiday home a few miles outside Mullingar. He thought it would be a much-needed break from the hustle and bustle of the city – although, judging by the way it had begun, he figured he’d have gotten more rest back in Dublin.

The house itself was secluded at the end of the laneway, overlooking a small hillside. It was a compact bungalow, painted a cheery yellow and of a clean, modern design. The sun had set a couple of hours before and, as Neil parked the car, he was surprised to see light pouring from one of the windows.

‘Did anyone leave a light on last time we were here?’ he asked, pulling up the handbrake. He turned to his children, irritated.

‘No,’ Kurt answered sullenly, looking out of his window.

‘Wasn’t me,’ said Susanna. ‘Honest.’

Neil turned to Joanna, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she warned him. ‘You probably left it on. You always do at home.’ He unhooked his seat belt, unwilling to admit that she was more than likely right. He did have a habit of forgetting to turn off the house lights at night or any time he was going out.

They bustled out of the car. Joanna leaned back against the bonnet, inhaling the cool air deeply, glad to be out of the stuffy vehicle. She was holding a bag of basic groceries they’d picked up in a petrol station en route. Susanna ran off to inspect the apple tree she had planted the previous spring. As Neil heaved their one suitcase out of the car boot, Kurt was waving his mobile phone in the air, trying to catch some reception.

‘I have no bars,’ he complained. ‘Dad, there are no bars.’

‘Of course there aren’t,’ Neil said, pulling the wheeled case towards the front door. ‘There weren’t any when we came here last year or the summer before that or the spring before that. And there won’t be any if we come here in May. But isn’t it nice to be away from the pitfalls of modern society for a few days?’

Kurt chose not to answer, sighed and thrust the phone back in his pocket petulantly. Neil smiled to himself, took the house keys out of his pocket and tried to find the right one before his son could voice another complaint. Even after coming here all these years, he still couldn’t work out the previous owners’ key-coding system.

‘No apples,’ said Susanna sadly, crossing back from the small front garden.

‘They’ll grow in the autumn, Suzie,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t worry. As soon as your dad gets the door open, we’ll put on some nice hot chocolate. How does that sound?’

As if on cue, Neil managed to turn the correct key in the door with a click.

‘All aboard!’ he exclaimed as he went in – an old joke he’d used countless times before, which they all rolled their eyes at now.

Considering the house had spent some months uninhabited, Neil had expected it to be almost arctic inside, but he was bewildered to find that it was actually quite warm. As he put down the case, the family all piled past him into the kitchen – to where he’d apparently left the light glowing on their last visit. None of the rest of them seemed to notice the warmth in the house, or, if they did, they didn’t think it strange. He watched through the door as Joanna turned the stove on and his children rooted through the cupboard for supplies. He made his way slowly towards them, keeping his ears alert for … well, he didn’t know what for. He didn’t want to think about it, really. The back of his hand felt a radiator as he passed; it was hot to the touch.

‘Any marshmallows?’ Joanna was asking as she heaped spoonfuls of chocolate powder into a saucepan of simmering milk.

‘Just a few,’ Kurt replied, retrieving a near-empty bag of marshmallows.

‘We’ll put some more on the shopping list for tomorrow.’

‘Joanna,’ said Neil.

‘Hmm?’ She didn’t turn, just kept stirring the chocolate.

‘Joanna,’ he said again, more urgently this time.

‘What is it?’ she asked irritably, swivelling towards him.

‘Did you put that there?’ He pointed to the breakfast table. The calendar from the wall had been left on it, open to the month of February. The first three weeks’ worth of days had been crossed off – right up to today. A rough-edged X the colour of rust marked off each day. It looked like it had been scrawled with a fingertip in ink. Or …

‘Is that blood?’ Kurt spluttered, staring at the calendar.

‘Hello there!’ said a voice behind them. Neil spun to find himself facing a tall man. He had platinum-blond hair, cropped close to his skull. His beard was trimmed into what he’d often heard Joanna refer to as ‘fashionable stubble’. His eyes were a shockingly pale blue and they darted from one member of the Conifrey family to the next. He was wearing pinstriped trousers, a matching waistcoat, shirt and tie. There was no sign of the blazer that would complete the three-piece ensemble. Over it all, he wore a frilly pink apron that had ‘Kiss the Cook’ scrawled across it in cartoony text and a print of a naked, muscled chest underneath it. He was grinning at them, exposing a row of flawless white teeth.

‘Is that hot chocolate?’ he asked, slamming the door behind him. ‘I do love hot chocolate.’

‘Wh– … who are you?’

Without warning, the man leapt forward. He thrust a hand against Neil’s chest and pushed him backwards. Joanna cried out as Neil flew through the air, crashed into the kitchen units and slumped to the ground.

‘Who am I?’ cackled the blond-haired man shrilly. ‘I am Loki, the Father of Lies,’ he said, strolling nonchalantly further into the kitchen. ‘And we’re all going to have such fun together!’

Part One

Chapter One

‘We should go to the cinema tomorrow.’

‘Is there anything good on?’

‘There’s that new one about the gangster who moves to a small town. It’s meant to be OK.’

‘Ugh, no. How about the new one in the “Blue Moon” series? It’s got vampires.’

‘And also romance. And that Robert Mattinson guy. So, no thanks!’

‘We can decide when we get there. I’ll ask my mum to drive us into Tralee. You up for it, Arthur?’

Arthur Quinn was in another world, kicking an empty Coke can in front of him as he shuffled along the pavement heading home from school. He should have been as excited as his friends for the weekend ahead, but he just couldn’t get that ‘Friday feeling’. His brown hair, naturally shaggy, was starting to become unruly again after a tight haircut only a month previously. Freckles covered his nose and high cheekbones. His right eye was a deep blue, punctuated by flecks of apple green, while his left eye was covered in a dark leather eye-patch. It was permanently bloodshot now and the once-blue iris had turned an ugly crimson. A line of scar-tissue peeked out from either side of the patch, tracing where a chunk of rock from an exploding tower had taken the vision there. The can tumbled off the path and kept rolling along the rain gutter.

‘Arthur?’

‘Hmm?’ He picked the can off the road and dropped it into a nearby bin, then turned to his friends. Paul, Louise and Dave were all staring at him quizzically. ‘Sorry, did you say something?’

‘I asked if you wanted to come to the cinema tomorrow,’ Paul repeated irritably. He was tall and lanky, in the middle of his first teenage growth spurt. The eldest of the group, he’d just turned thirteen a few weeks earlier, although Arthur hadn’t been around to join in the celebrations. He’d still been living in Dublin then. Last October, Arthur’s father, Joe, had been offered a job in the capital city, working on the excavation for the upcoming Dublin Metro train. When the work had been postponed indefinitely a month ago, Joe had made the decision to move home to Kerry. They’d been back in the quiet village of Farranfore less than a week, but already Arthur was missing his Dublin friends. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Paul, Louise or Dave. On the contrary, he still valued their friendship greatly. But he and his Dublin mates had been through so much together in such a short time. Only they could really understand how he felt now and the fears that he had.

‘Oh. Uh … no thanks.’

‘Oh come on, Arthur! It’ll be fun,’ Louise urged. She was almost as tall as Paul, with black hair and olive skin that were a result of genes from her Italian mother.

‘It’s been a long week and I just want to rest,’ Arthur lied. Granted, it had been a long week, but he didn’t feel like resting. He’d had enough of that in the hospital after the explosion. He’d caused the explosion himself, three weeks ago, in order to stop the evil trickster god Loki’s latest plan. Arthur had had to do it and he still believed that losing the sight in one eye was a better option than what the god had had in mind for him. Loki had been trying to transform everyone in Ireland into wolves, an unstoppable army to help him conquer the world.

A millennium before, the trickster god had created three terrible children with the ultimate aim of destroying the world. The other gods were enraged by his actions and bound him under Dublin for eternity, disposing of his children in various ways. However, when construction on the Metro began, Loki was freed and set about finding and releasing his evil brood. Arthur – with the help of his friends and an army of dead Vikings that had been buried to guard it – managed to defeat and kill the first child, the World Serpent. Then Loki went to find his second child – a wolf-man called Fenrir. Fenrir was supposed to have created an army of wolves for Loki to enslave humanity with, but, after spending a thousand years living in this world, he had grown to respect – and even like – the human race. He had disobeyed the Father of Lies’ orders and went as far as hiding Loki’s third child in case the god returned. Only Fenrir knew the whereabouts of Loki’s daughter – Hell’s Keeper, as she was known.

But after the explosion at the tower, Fenrir had gone missing …

The only thing Arthur wanted to do this weekend was chat to his Dublin friends online. He was desperately looking forward to finding out if they’d had any luck in finding Fenrir with Ash’s GPS since he’d left them the Sunday before.

‘Don’t worry, Mad-Eye Moody,’ said Dave. ‘We won’t go to a 3D film!’ He pointed to Arthur’s eye-patch and burst out laughing. Despite the dull pain he still felt there, Arthur couldn’t help but join in. Dave was short for his age. Actually, if he had been nine, he would still have been short for his age. He was tubby, moved slowly and had greasy hair. In other words, perfect fodder for bullies. His one saving grace – and the one thing that kept bullies at bay – was the witty one-liners he was known for.

A car-horn honked. Arthur looked around to see his dad behind the wheel, waving to him.

‘See you three Monday,’ Arthur shouted to them as he ran to the car. He was secretly pleased that his dad had shown up when he did; it meant that he wouldn’t have to field any more questions about why he didn’t want to go to the cinema. He guessed his old friends wouldn’t be too impressed that he was blowing them off for his new friends in Dublin. Buckling himself into the passenger seat, he said hi to Joe.

‘Good day at school?’ Joe enquired as they drove through the quiet market town. His hair was starting to thin and he was going grey at the temples, but apart from that, and the bags that sometimes appeared under his eyes, he showed no other signs of aging. Upon quitting the job in Dublin, he’d been fortunate enough to return to his previous career as a freelance engineering consultant. The work wasn’t as regular as in the city – which meant that he had much more time to do errands and hang out with Arthur.

Arthur’s mother had always liked the freedom the job had given Joe. It meant that they could book weekends away at short notice or that she could rely on him to pick up Arthur from school. But then, less than a year earlier, she’d suddenly become sick. She’d deteriorated very quickly, getting weaker with each passing day. Arthur still missed her and thought of her constantly. He reached for the golden ribbon tied around his right wrist. It had been hers and she’d worn it always, so when she died he had taken it as a constant reminder of her.

They passed through the quiet village and into the countryside. It was an overcast February day outside, mild and dry for this time of year. As they waited at a crossroads for a tractor to turn, Arthur gazed with fascination at a robin by the ditch in the road. It was pecking at a scrap of sandwich someone – probably a farmer – had dropped earlier. Just then, a crow swooped down out of nowhere. It grabbed the crust in its strong beak and soared away, leaving the robin hungry. Joe pulled away before Arthur had a chance to throw out some of his leftovers from lunch.

Their house was a large two-storey building covered in a sandstone facing. Each of the four front-facing rooms had a bay window. There was an expansive lawn in the front – always kept neatly mowed and with a cosy rockery in one corner – and a long, unkempt field in the back. Joe kept meaning to get some animals to keep in the meadow – a couple of goats or sheep, he used to say – but he never got around to it.

He parked and unlocked the front door. Arthur dropped his schoolbag on the hardwood floor and loped upstairs.

‘Dinner in an hour!’ Joe shouted after him as he bounded into his bedroom and collapsed on the bed. He sighed and looked around the room, thinking of Ash and the others in Dublin.

This is home, this is home, he kept telling himself. But then, why didn’t it feel like it?

In a time before the writing of history, in Asgard, the realm of the gods, the great rainbow Bifrost is a bridge between the worlds. Seven colours shimmer and shift across the magical structure. It changes position – travelling to where a god most needs use of the bridge – and leads from any point in Asgard to any point in Midgard, the world of man.

The sun is at its highest point in the clear azure sky. It is noon and, though the air is hot, Loki feels comfortable in his heavy brown tunic. Such is the magic of the place. Bifrost rises before him then dips over a hillside and into Midgard. He sits on a boulder, watching the fluctuating colours and resting before his journey. He has a small feast laid out before him on the rocky terrain, comprising seven types of cheese, nine wines from the nine worlds and more meat, mead, bread, pâté and sweets than one could count. He is filling his belly now with a swan leg, savouring the rich flavour as meat juices seep down his bearded chin. He smirks as he chews, thinking of all he has achieved in such a short time.

Two days ago, the gods shamed him. They sat and laughed as an ugly giantess abused him, stitching his mouth shut. He stormed out of Odin All-Father’s great dining hall then, vowing vengeance on them all. He rose the following morning and created the World Serpent, sending it to the world of man to wreak devastation. Next, he transformed an injured and pitiful beast into the Fenris Wolf – a wolf who could change himself into a man – and charged him with building an army of men with similar powers, with which he would rule. And now, finally, he will create his third – and most powerful – child.

He glugs some mead and throws the now-empty horn aside. It cracks in two and golden, syrupy droplets spill out. He stands, stretching his back and neck with a crack, then turns towards Bifrost. Suddenly he breaks into a run, faster than any man’s legs could carry him. He sprints up the bridge and, even though it appears to be nothing more than a translucent rainbow, his footing is solid.

As he reaches the apex of Bifrost, he leaps into the air, landing on his backside with a thump. Then he slides down the other side of the bridge, arms splayed out joyously and screaming ‘Wheee!’ all the way down. The sky grows darker as he descends, until his feet land in Midgard. It is night in this part of the world of man and the village he has arrived in is totally silent. All are asleep here, for which Loki is thankful. If anyone had been awake and seen the rainbow in the middle of the night, they might have raised their weapons against him. And though he could easily have dealt with them, he doesn’t want the inconvenience.

The village is called Roskilde and many worshippers of the gods reside here. What a suitable place to steal from Odin, Loki thinks as he walks between the low huts. They are constructed from wood, with straw and earth roofs. A narrow hole has been left in the centre of each roof to allow smoke from the cooking fire within to escape. His footfalls make no sound on the twigs or pebbles scattered about and, apart from some heavy snoring from a few huts, the only sound to be heard is the light lapping of the nearby river and a couple of longboats knocking gently against the wooden quay.

He stands stock-still in the centre of the village, closes his eyes and listens. Slowly he turns his head, searching for a particular sound. And then–

‘There!’ he hisses to himself, following the direction of the noise. It had been a whimper, tinny and in the distance, but distinct nonetheless. A baby’s whimper.

He arrives at the hut where the sound came from, and enters noiselessly. Although it is pitch black inside, he can see perfectly. A man and woman sleep soundly on one bed-roll. Straw has been gathered in a pile for the mattress with some deerhide laid over it. The couple are snuggled together underneath a warm bearskin. Loki looks down at them pitilessly. They don’t even stir at his arrival in their house, but continue to dream peacefully.

The baby lies next to them. She is wrapped first in tight swaddling and then in another piece of the velvety bearskin. The fur blanket is so thick around the babe that she has no need of bed-roll straw like her parents. Her eyes are wide open, staring up at Loki, and she whimpers again – this time Loki can sense her fear – spittle bubbling out at the side of her lips. It’s intoxicating. She’s clearly terrified, more scared than she’s ever been in her short life, too frightened to cry for her mother and father. A third whimpering sound is all she can manage.

He leans down and picks her up, cradling her in his arms. Then he swivels and leaves the house.

‘You will be my most terrible child,’ he whispers to her as he strides back through Roskilde. ‘I will give you a part of myself. For generations to come, people will whisper your name around campfires and in the dark of night. You, Hel, will be the thing they fear the most.’

The baby girl finally starts to cry – a high-pitched shriek that pierces everyone’s dreams in the village, waking them. But by now it is too late. Loki steps onto Bifrost and the two of them are gone. The anguished cries of the child’s parents rend the night, while the wails of the lost babe echo throughout Roskilde. And that sound echoes through all of Midgard for all of time. The sound of a taken baby. The sound of Hel herself.

Chapter Two

Arthur’s eyes shot open. The sound of the baby’s cries faded slowly inside his head. He felt a wetness on his cheek and when he touched it he was shocked to find tears seeping out of his good eye. He sat up in bed and pulled the pendant from around his neck. It had come into his possession months ago, when he’d found it in a tunnel underneath the city of Dublin. It was round, roughly twice the size of a two-euro coin and seemed to be made of bronze. An image was hammered onto the face of the pendant. It depicted a tall, wide tree with bare branches intertwining on top. A snake was coiled around the trunk, strangling it. The pendant protected Arthur from Loki – the trickster god couldn’t touch it without being blasted away – and it was glowing green now as it always did whenever something happened in connection with Loki.

Arthur wiped the drying tears from his face and threw his blanket off. He put the pendant back around his neck, got out of bed and knelt on the carpeted floor. He reached under the bed, brushing aside the old Beano annuals he had piled there before finding what he was looking for. His hand gripped the handle and pulled out the war hammer.

He’d found the hammer underneath Dublin, near where he’d found the pendant. The head of it was forged from iron and ancient letters and symbols were embossed into the gleaming metal – runes that even the pendant wouldn’t allow Arthur to read. The handle itself was a simple piece of timber – barely long enough for an adult’s grip – wrapped in fine rope for extra traction. It felt lighter in Arthur’s grasp than it had any right to, as if it was made just for him. He’d held other war hammers and they didn’t suit him. But this one was different – it had belonged to the god and warrior Thor, who’d died battling the World Serpent. The hammer wasn’t radiating like the pendant, but it was giving off a low warmth.

‘Ready for battle,’ Arthur murmured, clutching the handle tightly. It had played an integral part in defeating Loki before and he knew it would do so again. It was the only weapon he knew of powerful enough to hurt the god, and it had already saved his life more than once. He slid it back under the bed, confident that it would come to him when he most needed it.

With the dream or vision or prophecy or whatever-it-was still fresh in his mind’s eye, Arthur knew he’d have to let his friends in Dublin know what he’d seen. He always dreamed of Asgard when Loki was up to something.

He had barely been in contact with anyone from Dublin since he and Joe had moved last Sunday. Part of him had expected Ash, his best friend, to email or text. But the other part of him realised that she was still hurt by his leaving. On Wednesday evening, he’d had a text from Ellie Lavender, one of their other friends, suggesting that they should all have a video chat at lunchtime on Saturday. Well it was only after eight o’clock now, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He picked up his mobile phone from the bedside locker – about to call Ellie to have her bring forward the video chat – when it rang.

A JPEG of Ash filled the screen along with the text ‘Incoming Call’. He held the phone at arm’s length, unsure how to proceed. Then, on the fourth ring, he pressed the ‘Answer’ key and put the phone to his ear.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hey,’ Ash’s voice came through the tinny speaker. ‘We all need to talk.’

‘I know. Ellie arranged a video chat for twelve-ish. Didn’t she mention it?’

‘She did but I mean we all need to talk now.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ Had Loki done something to her? Or Max or Ellie or any of them?

‘We had a dream. We had the dream.’

‘What? Who?’

‘All of us.’

‘Huh? Max and the Lavenders too?’

‘No, Arthur. You don’t get it. All of us. My parents, the Lavenders’ granddad, everyone.’

Loki bit his fingertip with a sharp canine, breaking the skin. A pearl of blood formed on the tip: a perfect, glistening orb. He pressed his finger to the calendar and drew an X across the day’s date. As he dragged his fingertip across the paper, the wound stung. When he was finished, for a couple of seconds the fingertip was encased in a bright green light, and when the light faded it was healed. He looked down at the calendar. Just over a week to go until the next full moon. The full moon – fundamental to the source of Fenrir’s power – would help him find the wolf.

‘Good morning, Wolf-father,’ said a voice at the door behind him. The girl was wearing her black hair loose for a change and it hung sleekly down by her shoulders. When Loki had brought her here she’d been wearing an antique frilly dress from the early twentieth century, made grubby and stinking after the explosion. Now she was wearing a pair of denim jeans and a black fleece hoodie that he’d found for her amongst the teenage boy’s spare clothes. Her name was Drysi and she was the first person that Fenrir had turned into a wolf, a thousand years ago. This, technically, made her Fenrir’s daughter and Loki’s granddaughter. She certainly had more sense than Fenrir, Loki thought, and had remained by his side since his return, unlike her turncoat father.

She rolled into the kitchen in the wheelchair they’d been lucky to find in the attic. Neil had left it there for when his frail mother-in-law came to stay for a couple of weeks every summer. Unlike the bamboo contraption Drysi had been used to, this was simpler to manoeuvre and she was able to move around the house with ease. She’d lost the use of her legs a hundred years ago, during the 1916 Rising, when a roof had collapsed on her. But she believed to this day that Loki, when the world was finally his, would restore her ability to walk.

‘Good morning, Drysi,’ Loki said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Drysi went to the fridge, where she raided the bag of food the Conifrey family had arrived with the night before.

‘I slept well,’ she told him, before adding spitefully, ‘but I suspect our guests didn’t.’

‘Oh no?’

‘No.’ She smirked as she carried just enough bread and butter for herself to the table; Loki never needed to eat and only did so out of habit, but she had appetites just like any other living being. ‘By the way, they were making a bit of a racket when I passed the living room just now.’

‘Is that so?’ said Loki. He kicked his chair back and strode down the hallway towards the living room. He paused just outside and knocked on the door.

‘Room service!’ he called in a high-pitched falsetto before bursting in.

The room, like the rest of the house, was quite modern. Not much more than a blank canvas with a few touches from the family here and there: framed photographs, DVDs, old magazines and books. The Conifrey family were sitting in the centre of the floor on a plush cream rug. Each of them had their arms tied behind their backs, their legs bound together with black duct tape and a strip of the same tape across their mouth. They were positioned back to back, with more layers of tape wrapped around them, keeping them all tightly in place. Despite this, Loki could still hear the sounds of snivelling from the girl child.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. He dropped down in front of her and ripped the tape off the girl’s lips, with no regard for the stinging pain that followed. She whimpered more.

‘Quit your whining,’ warned Loki, ‘and tell me what’s wrong!’

‘I … I had a nightmare,’ the girl, Susanna, said, avoiding his eyes.

‘So?’

‘You were in it.’

‘Oh really?’ He seemed pleased at that and he sat back, crossing his arms eagerly. ‘Tell me more.’

‘You … you took a baby.’

As she said this, the rest of the family turned their heads towards her, their eyes wide. Loki noticed their reaction. He moved around and pulled the tape from the man’s mouth, taking some unshaven facial hair with it. The man couldn’t help but yelp in pain.

‘Why did you look so surprised just now?’

‘Please,’ said Neil. ‘Please, for the love of God, let us go.’

‘Answer me!’

‘Just let my family go,’ he pleaded further, ignoring Loki’s demand. ‘Please just–’

He was cut off when the trickster god slapped him hard across the face.

‘Enough! Answer my question,’ said Loki, struggling to remain calm and keep his anger in check. ‘Why were you so shocked when she told me about her nightmare?’

‘Because I had the same one,’ Neil told him, his voice weak.

‘What happened in it?’

‘You were in some other world. And then you travelled on a rainbow. To … to a small village. It was a long time ago, I think. At least it looked that way. You stole a baby.’

‘Hel,’ uttered Loki, leaning away from the man in quiet awe.

‘Yes! That’s right. That’s what you called her.’

‘Did you all have this dream?’ Loki looked at the rest of the family. They nodded slowly, their eyes filled with fear.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Drysi from the doorway.

Loki stared at the floor, deep in thought. Drysi repeated her question.

‘I don’t know,’ Loki answered eventually, getting to his feet and striding briskly past the girl out the door. ‘But it can’t be good.’

‘The exact same dream,’ Arthur muttered, still amazed.

‘Yup,’ said Ellie’s voice from his laptop speakers.

After the call with Ash, he’d promised that he’d video chat with them all in half an hour. He had just needed time to have a quick shower and get dressed. He had also wanted to ask Joe about the dream. His dad had been reading a newspaper when he’d gone downstairs to the kitchen.

‘Dad,’ he had said, somewhat coyly.

‘Yes, son?’ Joe didn’t look up from the paper.

‘Did you have a weird nightmare last night?’

‘I did as it happens.’ He peered over the edge of the broadsheet at Arthur quizzically. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I got up to use the bathroom at one stage during the night,’ he lied, ‘and I heard you moaning.’

‘Oh.’ Joe seemed to buy it, setting the paper down. ‘It was such an odd dream.’

‘What happened in it?’

‘There was some guy … this crazy-looking man …’ His eyes met Arthur’s again. ‘And he stole a baby. I felt like I was that baby in a weird way … like I was the one being taken. It was really horrible.’

After that Arthur had gone back to his room to shower and dress. He was sitting at the computer now, watching the faces of his friends on-screen. One half of the monitor showed the video link-up of Ash and Max Barry. Ash – short for Ashling – was the same age as Arthur and was one of the first friends he’d made when he moved to Dublin. Her wavy auburn hair was tied up in a ponytail, the way she usually wore it. She and Arthur shared a lot of the same interests: similar music, books and films. But, unlike Arthur, she was really into electronics. She could spend hours by herself poring over circuit boards and program coding. In fact, she’d been the one that set up this three-way video chat.

Next to her was Max who, at eight, was Ash’s little brother. He had the same shade of hair as the rest of the Barry family, but it sat on top of his head in tight curls. He had an excitable demeanour and almost continuously rattled on about football, the one great love of his life.

So far Ash and Max had managed to keep their involvement in foiling Loki’s schemes secret from their older sister, Stace, and their parents. Arthur firmly believed that this was the best course of action. The more people who got involved with Loki, the more likely they would be hurt by him.

On the other side of the screen were the Lavenders. At eleven years old, Ellie Lavender was the world’s youngest paranormal investigator. She had a slight frame, which made her seem younger, and her straight black hair was cut into a bob that ended just above her shoulders. Since Arthur had known her she had always worn an oversized adult trench coat. Whenever her parents were off travelling the world, as they had been for the last few months, her mother lent Ellie her coat to wear. Right now they were in Greece. With her knowledge of world mythologies, her abnormally high IQ and her photographic memory, Ellie had all the skills necessary for a great detective. She had even managed to recall Arthur’s face after Loki had wiped everyone’s knowledge of the World Serpent’s attack on Dublin. When she’d seen him on TV the year before, his face had been so familiar that her suspicions had been aroused and she’d decided to investigate him. Now she was as wrapped up in Loki’s devious plans as the rest of them.

Xander Lavender, or Ex as he preferred to be known, was the polar opposite of his sister. He was a year older than the rest of them but seemed to have been rushed through adolescence. He was as tall and broad as an average man and even had a few wisps of facial hair on his chin. His hair was shaved tightly to his round skull, giving him a fierce appearance. While Ellie was chatty and intelligent, Ex was quiet and brooding. He rarely spoke and when he did it was short and to the point.

Ellie was just finishing her account of the dream in close detail once more.

‘But you mean everyone?’ Arthur said, aghast. ‘Everyone in the world?’

‘That’s what the news is reporting. It looks like most of the world had exactly the same Dream with a capital D.’

‘I still can’t believe it,’ Ash said. ‘It seemed so real.’

‘Are these just like the dreams you always get, Arthur?’ Ellie asked.

‘It was definitely another one of the Asgard dreams,’ Arthur said, ‘or visions. Whatever you want to call them.’

‘What can it mean?’ That was Max. After having the dream for himself and witnessing the baby-napping, he seemed quieter, more subdued than usual. He’d experienced some bad nightmares after Loki’s first scheme and Arthur hoped they wouldn’t start up again.

‘Haven’t a clue, Max. Although every time I had one of the dreams before, they usually told me something that would help me defeat Loki. So maybe …’

‘Maybe it’s someone reaching out to us?’ Ellie finished for him. ‘Someone wants to help humanity? To beat Loki?’

‘Possibly. Who knows … but tell me, what else has been going on? How are the army?’ he asked, referring to the surviving members of the Viking army who had helped them fight the World Serpent. After the monster was defeated, the army had remained alive, so they were now living in the Viking Experience in Dublin, hiding in plain sight. Although ‘alive’ wasn’t quite the right way to describe them, Arthur thought. Sure, they could move and think, but their skin had shrunk and discoloured like an Egyptian mummy’s, their hair was gone and Arthur hadn’t a clue if their hearts were still beating. They weren’t dead but they weren’t quite alive either.

‘They’re fine,’ Ash said. ‘We visited them on Thursday after school. Eirik seems to miss you.’ The soldiers couldn’t talk – their vocal chords had long since withered away – but they could communicate to some extent by grunting, and Eirik was the most proficient at this.

‘What about the webcam? Find anything?’

Ash had been held captive by Loki for a short time and she had struck up a friendship with Fenrir, who had also been a prisoner. And now he had a webcam that belonged to her. The webcam was wireless and GPS-enabled, so if it was still out there she should be able to track it down.

‘Nothing,’ she said, frustrated. ‘It might have been destroyed. Or maybe Fenrir’s already gone. Maybe Loki has him.’

‘I hope not. Because if Loki finds Fenrir before we do, I have a sneaking suspicion that all hope of stopping him is gone.’

Chapter Three

Within twenty-four hours, every news agency on earth was broadcasting reports of the mysterious Dream. It was such a huge story that journalists the world over decided to capitalise the ‘D’ to emphasise the importance. The Dream – which hardly varied at all from one account to another – appeared to focus primarily on the inhabitants of Western Europe, as it hit when most of the populations in these time zones were asleep. Despite this, reports were also coming in from every other continent that the Dream had spread there also. People who had dozed off for an afternoon nap in the Americas, to those who’d slept in or worked night-shifts in Australasia, all testified to having had the same dream. Enthusiastic reporters visiting the town of Roskilde, Denmark, helped to fill the twenty-four-hour rolling news channels. There was no doubt that this had been the village featured in the Dream. Most Dreamers were even able to name the town itself – as if it was somewhere they’d actually been to – and historians confirmed that the descriptions of the Viking-era village matched how they believed Roskilde looked a thousand years ago.

No one could identify the baby that had been stolen all those centuries ago. No one could explain the Dream. No one came forward with any helpful information. And no one felt quite safe going to sleep the following night.

But sleep came and days and nights passed without any further incidents. Some people reported that they’d had another one, claiming that their nightmares of going to work without any clothes on, or of finding that they were back in school on the day of an important exam which they hadn’t studied for, were in fact prophecies of the End of Days. News coverage continued to pore over the Dream, while analysts and psychologists searched the vision for metaphors. They prattled on for hours about the obvious symbolism behind the rainbow or how the whole Dream was really an allegory for the Iraq War. They were all so busy looking into the various hidden meanings that they couldn’t see the wood for the trees. In fact, some historians who suggested that the rainbow was similar to the Norse legend of Bifrost were actually laughed off the air.

Only Arthur and his friends knew the truth, but they weren’t planning on letting anyone in on the secret any time soon. They’d spent most of the weekend working to find Fenrir. Ash had managed to hack into a security database that had access to all exterior CCTV cameras in the country. They took turns staring at chunks of grainy footage from the day of the explosion, hoping to catch a glimpse of the wolf-man and where he’d disappeared to. All to no avail.

By Monday morning, Arthur was feeling downbeat and distraught, and his right eye was tired from the hours spent examining the pixellated videos. He went to school to find the whole place abuzz with excited chatter about the Dream. Paul, Louise and Dave were eager to hear his take on it. After discussing it at length with Ash and the others, he didn’t feel like rehashing it all again so he just gave them brief one-word answers. They soon realised he didn’t want to talk and left him with his thoughts. He barely even noticed when they kept their distance for the rest of the week.

He walked home by himself every day. He’d begun the week by half-running home, hoping that some news of Fenrir awaited him there. By the end of the week – and with no further developments – he just strolled home slowly. Alone and dejected.

On Friday, as he left school behind him for the weekend, Arthur visited his mother.

Although he hadn’t been to the cemetery in months, he could still find the way to his mother’s grave without any trouble. The route would always be imprinted on his mind and he manoeuvred through the narrow, grassy pathways with ease. The grave itself had crisp, white gravel scattered over the top and a low limestone edging around it. A red lantern sat in the centre of the grave. The tiny LED bulb inside it was glowing faintly. Thanks to the small solar panel attached to the top, it would stay lit for years. The gravestone was black marble with green veins creeping through its pristine surface. It reflected the rolling clouds from the sky above. His mother’s name was chiselled out in neat Roman text: ‘Rhona Hilda Quinn, Beloved Mother and Wife’. Below that were her dates of birth and of death, and above these, in an oval frame embedded in the stone, was a portrait of her from a few years ago. Her eyes were a pale green and she had fair, strawberry-blonde hair which curled inward at the jawline, framing her face nicely. Like Arthur, she had high cheekbones and her skin was sprinkled with freckles.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he said to the open air. This was the first time he’d attempted to talk to her. After the funeral, Joe had suggested that Arthur speak or pray to his mother. It would help the healing process, he’d said. But Arthur had always felt too stupid talking like that. She was gone and she couldn’t hear him, end of. But now it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as he’d anticipated. In fact, it kind of felt right.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you sooner,’ he went on. ‘We moved back a couple of weeks ago. I know it’s no excuse but I’ve been busy.’

Some crows cawed overhead, drawing his attention. When they passed, he turned back to the grave.

‘I guess, wherever you are, you’ve seen what’s happened to me. Loki and everything. You probably know where Fenrir is now, right?’

He didn’t expect an answer but part of him still hoped for one.

‘Help me, Mum. Help me find him. Please.’

The wind picked up, stirring some fallen leaves across the grave. Apart from that, all was silent. Without another word, Arthur turned and left.