Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

question surprised me. We’d been getting along so well. But I tend to react when provoked. “No,” I said. “If I had, it would already be in my possession.” Frigg seethed and Odin chuckled softly.
    “You were supposed to keep
my
anger in check,” he said.
    The fourth course was cleared away—the waiter making sure we were all okay, since the gods hadn’t touched the veal—and the fifth was laid before us. Five different well-aged cheeses were attractively presented on a white rectangular platter with crackers and fruit compote. Some were sliced in triangles, some in thin, translucent pieces. It was a superlative achievement in both geometry and dairy. The sommelier served us something from Italy; I didn’t quite catch it.
    “Mjöllnir rests in Gladsheim,” Odin said once the servers had retreated.
    “No one wields it now?”
    The Norse gods frowned as if I’d asked something particularly inane. “Like who?” Odin said.
    “I was thinking maybe some other, later aspect of Thor. The one from the comics is popular right now.”
    Odin scoffed. “Popular, perhaps. But he is not worshipped, and you know what that means: He can’t muster magic enough to manifest himself! He has to be played by a human actor in his own movies. He’s nothing but cheap entertainment. Surely you know this.”
    I did know it, but it never hurts to let possible antagonists think they are smarter than you.
    “Well, if he can’t do it, then surely some other aspect of Thor can?”
    “They are all comfortable in their current situations, and none is as strong as the original. I wouldn’t want a single one of them at my back. No, Thor’s responsibility is now yours.”
    “Mine? You want
me
to face the world serpent?”
    “Or find someone else to do it, yes.”
    This twist in the conversation reminded me uncomfortably of Cleopatra on the ceiling. I looked up and examined it again past the glow of the chandelier, and, while I did, the gods directed their attention to the cheeses.
    The artist had taken quite a bit of license; Cleopatra reclined, leaning on her right arm, while her left hand held a snake up to her breast, inviting it to bite her. I thought the snake would have simply bitten her hand when she reached to pick it up, but that was the least of the odd choices the artist had made. For some reason, he had decided to give Cleopatra European features and provide her with a Rubenesque figure; my archdruid would have described her as “festively plump.” She also appeared to be dressed in Greek style rather than anything Egyptian. Though still quite beautiful as a work of art, the inaccuracy bizarrely exposed what I think is the true tragedy of Cleopatra: No one really understood her or her decision. But maybe some could empathize with the feeling of being trapped by circumstances. I certainly could.
    “I can’t agree specifically to a cage match with Jörmungandr,” I said, “but I will fight on your side against Hel, see if I can recruit additional aid, and return Gungnir to help make amends for my wrongs against you.”
    Odin opened his mouth to reply but closed it again asthe sommelier arrived to bring us a dessert wine for the final course. It was to be a macaron filled with Bavarian vanilla and strawberries and served with champagne jelly, and he assured us it would arrive shortly. But I never got to try the macaron. Never got to hear Odin’s stifled reply.
    As the sommelier drew close behind me to deposit a glass over my right shoulder, several things happened in quick succession in a fraction of a second. The Morrigan’s left hand blurred and pushed me so violently from my seat that my head hit the floor while my ass was still in the chair. Glass tinkled. The sommelier cried out and fell backward, to hell with the wine. The report of a rifle cracked in the air. Odin and Frigg lurched to their feet.
    After the second passed, the Morrigan’s words floated down to me as I struggled to stay low but get in a defensive position. “There, Siodhachan,” she said, amusement in every word. “I saved your life. Now you can stop whining about our agreement.”
    Someone had tried to shoot me in the head through the window and had shot the sommelier instead. Since he’d taken the bullet in the hip and had been standing behind my right shoulder, that meant the shot had come from the roof across the street and had been aimed more or less at the top left side of my face.
    The sommelier clutched at his hip and