Sýrja was halfway through her sentence when Pestilence’s blood-bound lackey gave her an utterly contemptuous sneer and hit her with enough electricity to fry a city, cutting her off with a crackling boom of lightning that put a hole straight through the ceiling and opened it to the sky above. Narrowing her eyes, Sýrja brushed the lightning from her body and turned back to the man carrying a Token of Ra. It was the one thing she couldn’t piece together about the two of them. She could understand why the stuffed turkey was in the basement, but a Champion of Ra? Considering how she had watched them blood-bind Ra, she doubted the man would be working for Pestilence.

Further, the Favor was painfully new, the magics used to create it only hours old. Hours? “Did Ra free himself?” she demanded. Please, heavenly piglets let Ra have freed himself. That would at least give them a fighting chance… “If you know where he is, I need to talk to him about Pestilence. Immediately. He’s got my dagger.”

The man with the eye-searing Token of Ra just blinked at her bovinely. Then, without another word, he took a deep bow that almost bent him in half, and stayed there.

“Oh for the glint of gold,” Sýrja sighed. One of those types. “You can get up now. This is serious. Pestilence has had eight hundred years to bind anyone with the power of stopping him.”

Behind her, the bird was still puffed up, red-faced and sputtering. “How…you…no…fry?” When Sýrja didn’t answer him, the Spandex-wearing imbecile hit her again with a six-foot-wide bolt of lightning, then when that did nothing, did it a third time with an eight-footer just for good measure, widening the hole in the ceiling and allowing the rain to fall through.

Sýrja glanced at him over her shoulder. “Are you done?”

The bird’s mouth fell open and he stared at her. And, now that she was giving him a second look, she could tell that the blood-binding magic smelled faded, almost as if the one who created it had— Sýrja felt a sudden rush of hope. “Did you kill Pestilence?” She hadn’t thought that such an uninformed fop would have been able to kill the pest, but stranger things had happened.

It was the second bird—the one with Ra’s shining favor strapped to his waist—who dragged himself back from the ground where the last lightning bolt had thrown him and bowed deeply again. “Pestilence had a jiaolong bind Lord Thunderbird, Mistress.”

Sýrja made a face. “Of course he did.” So that’s how he was getting around Blóðvefr’s appetites. He was using patsies to do his bindings for him, so he didn’t become bound to the blade himself. She squinted at the bird, examining the etchings that were even then losing their power under his skin. “The magic looks faded, though. Is the snake dead?”

The fop was staring at her, something clearly breaking in his mind. “How…not…fry?”

“I know, I know,” Sýrja said, rolling her eyes. “A mere shapeshifter. Survived you. Totally impossible, right? Eventually you’ll figure it out.” She turned back to Ra’s Champion. “Is the snake dead?”

“I killed it, Mistress,” the samurai bird said, bowing so low he almost touched his feet with his nose.

“Mistress?” Thunderbird scowled at the Japanese man. “Why do you call a shapeshifter mistress? A yatagarasu is clearly above them in the power structure.”

“Don’t tell him,” Sýrja said, glancing sideways at Thunderbird. “I want it to blow his bird mind.”

The look of horror that crossed the poor man’s face as he struggled with the two imperatives made Sýrja actually feel sorry for him. Seeing him sputter and babble apologies, she changed the subject before the peacock could get enraged and fry him, too. “We have to work fast. I’ve been bound against working seiðr, but if you can get me to a öndkar, I might be able to rid myself of this body.” She hesitated at the samurai’s blank look. “I don’t know of any in the First Realm that haven’t been captured by the Catholics, though. Do you know anyone capable of making an öndkar? It requires an adept blood magus, preferably one of my völvur.”

Very slowly, mouth open, Ra’s Champion just shook his head.

“Damn it. There were supposed to be five of you. At least tell me Gaia got her Champion out before she was bound. We need a mind-magus to unbind Loki. I saw him a few days ago.”

The samurai just shook his head again, mouth open.

Sýrja cursed in frustration. “Then what can you do for me? I would have thought a Champion would be more versed in the rules of the game than this!”

“I’m sorry, I’m but a mere yatagarasu, great megami” the man said, dropping to his knees and throwing his forehead to the ground. “Perhaps my daimyō could help. She has a copy of On the Use of Blood.”

Sýrja snorted. “I don’t need a book. I need a blood magus capable of making an öndkar. Have you seen Buðlungr or did they send him home already after collecting Loki?”

Behind her, Thunderbird stalked up and grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her around to face him. “Why can’t I feel you or fry you?!”

Sýrja felt her teeth elongate in reflex and she had to fist her hands to keep the claws at bay as the rush of Bǫlvakǫttr. “Because, eventually, you hairbrained fop, you will realize that, when evil carries around one of the strongest sorcerous objects of power in existence, not everything is going to be as it appears.”

The bird stared at her. “Did you…just call me…”

“A fop. Yes.”

His mouth fell open and he stared at her like that broke something in his tiny avian cranium.

Because the samurai seemed to be the functioning brains of the operation, Sýrja turned back to him. “Get off the ground. We don’t have a lot of time. Pestilence is going to realize you killed his jiaolong and he’s going to retaliate. Do you know anyone who can work even rudimentary seiðr? We just need a distraction long enough to get me out of this body.”

“Theo,” the samurai said, hastily getting back to his feet at her command.

“Then get me to Theo,” she said. “I need to talk with him immediately, see if he’s got the capability of making an öndkar.”

“My Lord Thunderbird knows where Theo—”

“No, we’re not going anywhere until this maggot starts answering my questions,” the featherhead interrupted.

Sýrja sighed, deeply. Men. Always so aggressive… “What question do you want answered?”

“Why can’t I feel you on my continent?” the bird demanded, as single-minded as a neurotic weasel.

“I already told you I’m not answering that one. Anything else?”

Thunderbird narrowed his eyes and instead turned his attention to his Japanese companion. “Do you know something I don’t know, little man?”

“I’m sure he knows a lot of somethings you don’t know,” Sýrja said, amused. “But he’s not going to tell you it, either. Are you, Masaaki?”

The sun-bird, who hadn’t given her his name, froze, his eyes widening in a combination of fear and awe. He dropped to the floor again in another head-to-floor bow.

Thunderbird saw the bow, then, scowling, turned back to look at Sýrja. Seeing his look, she allowed her teeth to elongate with the Bǫlvakǫttr.

He didn’t, however, piece together what was happening. Instead, he said, “Is your kind of shapeshifter immune to lightning?”

“Well, Thor has tested the theory enough times when he visited my place drunk, so I’d say probably yes,” she said, offering the American god a very strong hint.

But that seemed to make him relax. “You’re just immune to lightning.” There was clear relief in his words. “For a moment, I thought…” He squinted at her.

“Thought what?” Sýrja asked innocently.

He narrowed his eyes. “Nothing. My friend is busy freeing the slaves in this dungeon. Only after he is satisfied will I take you anywhere.”

That made Sýrja stiffen. “You don’t understand. Pestilence is carrying—”

“Pestilence will fry the next time I see him,” the pigeon retorted.

“Oh, because that worked so well for you last time you met him,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the aftersmell of the blood-binding.

The peacock stiffened. “He used his thug to attack me. A warden of the East just as I am a Warden of the West.”

“Uh huh,” Sýrja said, nodding. “And what will he do the next time he shows up? I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but Pestilence rarely does his own dirty work. He’s got dozens of Champions bound, and even more gods and goddesses. Most of them never managed to get a Champion onto the field before they were locked away.”

Thunderbird sniffed. “I don’t know what a mere shapeshifter thinks she’s doing, concerning herself with the doings of the gods.”

“Maybe you’ll figure that out,” Sýrja said, looking the bird over disdainfully. Then added, “Eventually.” Sýrja returned her attention to the logical one. “If you feel the need to free the mortals, then do so quickly. This is beyond the scope of their meager lives, though, and right now every second counts. Clearly Pestilence wasn’t expecting a Champion of Ra. That gives us a few precious minutes to regroup. We need to get me to an öndkar before Pestilence finishes shattering the Realms.”

“I…” The samurai hesitated. “I would prefer to free them, Milady. I spent many years in dungeons such as this, and it is against my nature to leave them this way….”

Sýrja sighed. She couldn’t fault a Champion of Ra for being honorable. “Just hurry. Then tell your foppish friend to get us to Theo. I’m going to check outside, see if I can figure out what they did with Loki.” She started to climb the stairs again.

Behind her, she could feel the electricity in the room start to crackle again. “Just who do you think you are, shapeshifter?!” Thunderbird shouted up at her. “You are in the presence of a god.”

“Just come get me when you’re ready to act as my shuttle service, ‘god,’” Sýrja said. “Until then, might want to stick close to your Champion buddy. You’ve been Marked by Pestilence, and as far as I know, you’re the only god he hasn’t managed to get yet.”

She could hear the unease in the bird’s voice when he said, “Is that why Zeus and the others are missing?”

Sýrja stopped at the head of the stairs and turned to face him, realizing that the mere fact Thunderbird could come and go on flashes of lightning was probably why he hadn’t been taken yet. “How many did you check?”

“Twenty or so,” the peacock replied. “Poseidon and Ares were the only two that were still home.”

Sýrja felt her heart hammer. “The hothead is still out there? Unbound?!” This was excellent news. “You need to take me to him right now. He could change everything.”

The bird squinted at her. “Why? All his Furies are dead.” He cocked his head. “Well, except for two.”

“A Fury is as good as a Valkyrie, in a fight,” Sýrja said, coming back down the stairs in her excitement. “And I’d give anything to get a Valkyrie right now. Do you know where his Furies are?”

But the idiot fop straightened with smug satisfaction and crossed his arms over his chest. “Even better—I know where a Valkyrie is.” Then, to Masaaki, he said, “Don’t tell her. I wanna see the look on her face when her feline brain explodes.”

Seeing the smug satisfaction on Thunderbird’s face, Sýrja swiveled on Masaaki and grabbed him by the kimono. “If you know where a Valkyrie is, you tell me, right now.” Her eyes must have started glowing in her fury, because the yatagarasu’s face brigtened in a soft blue light.

“With Theo,” the samurai said, swallowing.

Dropping Masaaki, she swiveled on Thunderbird. “We leave the humans. Take me to Theo. Now.”

But the fop, enragingly, just leaned back against the wall and smiled a slow, lazy smile. “First, you’re going to answer why I can’t sense you on my continent.”

“Because I’m a goddess that Pestilence blood-cursed into the body of one of my feline mounts using my athame Blóðvefr and reincarnated as a baby of one of my völvur.” Her binding kept her from uttering or even thinking her actual name, but even a drooling idiot without god-blood or even any rudimentary knowledge of Ásgarðr would be able to piece that together.

Thunderbird stared at her for so long she thought something might have snapped in his mind. Then, to her consternation, he started belly-laughing.

“My binding keeps me from saying my true name or working seiðr,” Sýrja snapped, flushing.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Thunderbird said. “I’ve been around the block a few more times than Masaaki. You’re not Freyja. She’s pretty.” He wrinkled his nose and looked her over. “And doesn’t smell like piss.”

Sýrja cocked her head, deciding that the bird would spend a few thousand years as a magpie as penance. “You take me to my Valkyrie,” she said, getting up close enough so that her nipples touched his crossed arms through her filthy shirt. Looking up at him, “Or next time Pestilence comes after you, I’ll tell him you own a private booth with the Seattle Seahawks and you go there for home games on Sundays.”

The smug look slipped from Thunderbird’s face and his arms dropped from his chest. “How did you know about that?”

She grabbed him by the ripped Spandex bicycling shirt and yanked him closer. “Take. Me. To. Her.”

Thunderbird snorted and pushed her arm away from him. Straightening with an overly-dramatic flair, he loudly said, “Even if you were Freyja, I have an obligation to help these people.” He gestured to the humans staring at them in awe from the cages around them.

“Fuck the humans,” Sýrja said, “this is bigger than a few humans.”

“It’s the honorable thing to do,” Thunderbird said. “Isn’t it, Masaaki?”

The samurai swallowed hard, but didn’t comment.

Sýrja squinted at Masaaki, then back at Thunderbird. “We don’t have time to screw around with a few pathetic—” She frowned. “Wait. You don’t even like humans.”

“I find their dance customs exquisite.”

Dance customs… That was it. Sýrja grabbed him by the stretchy shirt again with both hands, ripping the colorful cloth as she once again yanked him close. “You get me to my Valkyrie or I’m going to make sure you never procreate, you get me?” She squinted up at him. “And yes, I know you haven’t ever had sex without blowing a woman apart with your orgasm, and ever since that first time, you generally contain yourself to unicorn porn on four very secluded mountaintops in the Rockies so no one gets hurt. You’re essentially a forced celibate, but you’ve always wondered what a good blowjob or a quickie would feel like if the girl didn’t die at the end.” She leaned up into his recoiling face and, lowering her voice, said, “You don’t get me to my Valkyrie, I’ll just save you the trouble and make sure you never have to think about it again.” She reached down with her other hand and grabbed him by the scrotum, making sure he felt claws.

Thunderbird’s sunkissed Athabascan face reddened until he was almost purple. His eyes slipped nervously to Masaaki, clearly more concerned about the samurai finding out he was essentially a billion-year-old virgin than he was about losing a nutsack. Of course he was. Because she was bound to a shapeshifter form and he could heal a nutsack.

Sýrja released him in disgust. “Just take me to see her. She’ll put the fear of Ásgarðr into that insidious pest.”

Raising his head proudly, Thunderbird said, “Even if I did believe you—which I don’t—Masaaki wanted to release these captives first.” He glanced over her shoulder at the samurai. “Didn’t you, Masaaki?”

The samurai froze like a rabbit suddenly caught under the inspection of both a fox and an eagle. He glanced between the two of them, clearly not knowing which side to take.

“Ugh!” Sýrja cried. “Just do it. Free them. I’m going to see if I can figure out where he put Loki. He had Buðlungr blood-bind him rather than risk undoing the Blóðvefr spellwork by overwriting the enchantment.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” the peacock said. “You want to release Loki?”

“This is a war,” Sýrja said looking Thunderbird up and down, “and…considering what we have available, we need Loki’s ability to think outside the box, not have him trapped inside that drooling, meatheaded thug I saw earlier.” Then, as Thunderbird was again reddening, she went up the stairs, looking for the scent of the trickster.

She was outside the house, following Loki’s scent into the forest, when every hair on her body suddenly stood on end.

Pestilence, she thought, turning to the path behind her in horror. She didn’t have time to get back inside and warn the birds, however.

Knowing that her freedom would make the difference between the life or death of the Realms, Sýrja slipped into the forest as the shadows approached the house.