Odin's Murder (9 page)

9.

Exits

I count in the shadows until Memory goes back inside, and a few more minutes until my erection subsides before I cut across the lamp lit campus. The back of my skull pounds; I’ve rubbed my eyes a dozen times and I can’t make the white spots go away. My entire body aches, as if I’ve been hit by a nuclear blast, and my balls hurt like they’ve been kicked, twice.

I laugh, but it’s bitter in my mouth, as I pass a couple by the fountain in front of the main building. She’s looking at him, shy and sweet, and he takes her hand. I contemplate saying something crass, to ruin it for them, too, but I keep walking, five, four, three, two, one.

I want to find Danielle, just to get Memory out of my head, but I’m so worked up I would maul her. She’d probably let me, too—she was dying to strip down to skin at the chapel, trailing her hands inside her swimsuit, and I’d have gone for it too, if we’d had the time. But I spot her hanging out with her project group friends, and turn the other way, knowing it would be smarter to just go sleep off my headache. I head toward the dorm, stopping when I see that window is open and the light is on. I don’t really think I can face Memory’s brother right now.

Cherry is red hot, maybe even more than I can handle, but that kiss? That was like nothing I’ve ever had, and my mind and body are still in an uproar. I unclench my fists. They’re raw and chapped from washing dishes, and remind me what happens when I can’t keep my head in check.  I breathe deep on five, release on ten. It doesn’t help.

I glance up at the clock tower. Cross the quad, walking slow. Dr. Anders’ office is in an old, yellow, brick building, up a couple floors, third room on the right. The exterior door is unlocked and closes with a smooth, quiet click. I take the stairs two at a time, avoiding the patches of window light until I get to the right floor. The hallways are dark, too, lit only by the red glow of emergency exit lights.

The professor’s door is easy to find; it’s covered in stick-on notes, taped assignments and may as well have a black gash of WASH ME graffiti across the clouded window. It’s also unlocked. I’m surprised and a little disappointed. I wanted that fine-tuned concentration of jimmying a lock open, clean, with no noise or damage to the door, the victory of precision that cuts through the battering ram urge to destroy.

The room is dark, except for the vague glow of a computer monitor on a desk against the side wall. I shut the door behind me and step into the room. What I’m looking for should be behind the desk. Something titters in the corner and I freeze, heart pounding in my throat.

It rustles again, a small soft sound, not human, and I exhale. Near the window is a cage—complete with a black bird.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I whisper, walking around the desk. “Kinda small for a watchdog, aren’t you?” The bird stares at me and knocks its beak against the cage. “Nope, sorry. Can’t let you out,” I tell her. It lowers its head, dejected, bites at one of its toes, and I have an immediate kinship with the thing. I know what it’s like to be stuck behind bars. My fingers twitch for my camera; I feel like if I could take its picture I would know its name. “I bet you’ve seen what I’ve come here for,” I tell it. “A jar of glass marble things. Round and shiny—almost silver? I saw them the other day. You weren’t here.”

She makes an odd sound in agreement.

“I was trying to switch groups. They’re a weird bunch. Mostly harmless. Well, except for one of them.” I rub my hand over my mouth, still feeling the sting of her kiss and the horrified look on her face.

The bird flaps its wings and I continue looking, finally finding the bowl close to the computer. I reach in and take one of the gumball sized marbles. Even in the dark I can see the iridescent shine on the silvery surface, and the tension eases from my shoulders as I roll it in my fingers. I stash another in my pocket. There are two dozen or so, all slightly different. Anders won’t notice a few are gone.

I turn at another
churrrp
. The bird is watching me, black feathers ruffled up at its neck. “Don’t tell him, alright? Or Mary, either, she’d have me put in solitary. It’s just a little tension relief. Better than a fistfight, y’know?”

Though I bet punching someone in the jaw would make this headache go away. Jeremy’s face flashes in my mind, and I quash the thought before I get riled again. I turn to leave, but stop, fishing out another marble, one with a line of bright blue spiraling through it. I slip it between the bars of the cage and it rolls across the paper lining the bottom. “You like shiny things, too, right?”

If the prof noticed, it would confuse the hell out of him, and that thought makes me grin at the bird.

“See, I’ve set you up. You can’t rat me out, now. You’re an accomplice.”

The bird ignores me, absorbed with my gift, tiny talons grasping at the marble. I step back into the hall, pulling the door closed as I leave.

*

Even a full night of sleep, several aspirin, and a cup of coffee cannot banish the residue of my Memory-induced migraine. On my way to morning group study, drinking one of the many sodas I’d need today, I let myself think about last night. And her.

The kiss was like a flashbulb going off in my brain. Not in a good way. Not like in the goofy cartoons where they kiss and see fireworks and pink hearts and crap, or chick movies where the music blares when their lips meet. This was more like the two enemies kiss because there is no other option anymore, and their brains fry like they’ve been hit with a Taser.

And her face afterward. Disgusted. And maybe even scared. The way she’d run back to her college boy, who couldn’t even get a girl his own age, so he hit on students. In five years, he’d be sexually harassing his secretary over a photocopy machine.

“Mr. Tyrell, how are you this morning?” Mr. Anders walks next to me, his grungy sneakers keeping pace with mine. He’d be about my height, too, if he didn’t slouch.

“Alright,” I say, hoping I don’t wince as I say it.

“I know you were concerned about your co-op—are things working out?”

“It’s okay.”

He glances at me. “Just okay?”

“It’s fine. The group is fine. The other kids are fine.” I don’t know what he wants me to say and I’m getting pissed. “We’re missing a girl.”

“Ah, Sophia Williams.”

“I thought her name was Sonja.”

“Same thing. Same meaning, in Greek.” His beard twitches as his lips purse tight with annoyance. Laid-back or not, he doesn’t like being corrected. I say nothing.

“It’s important that you connect with your peers. It will help with your anger management issues.” He steps in front of me, stops. “Yes. I’m privy to your file and aware of your current circumstances. Dean Burnett did you a great favor by allowing you into the program.”

I swallow a surge of anger. His words are mild enough, but his tone sets me on edge. I manage an “I know,” before he gestures for me to go ahead of him.

“One aspect of being in this program is getting to know your collaborators and making an effort beyond the class work.” He’s trying to bait me somehow, pushing for the last word. This conversation isn’t about me playing well with others; it’s about me getting along with him.

I nod, clear my throat. “I’m making an effort, sir, believe me. It’s not an issue. Ask my team. I’m behaving. No fights, no arguments.”

A wide smile appears under his scruffy half-beard. “Excellent. You have an incredible vision, Mr. Tyrell. I’m very interested in how you use it.”

I keep my mouth shut. He looks me up and down, and I know that look, a gang boss assessing a new inmate for his worth. I take a swig of my soda, watching him watch me.

“You’ve got some steel in your spine, young man. Six credit hours of my class would take you far, should you ever want to look into an internship in conflict-zone photojournalism.”

My head throbs as I try to make sense of what he’s saying. He nods once, and walks off.

“What was that about?” Julian asks, coming up behind me, donut in his hand. His cheek bulges as he chews.

“I have no idea, just asking about the project, I guess. He’s really weird.” And kind of a bastard, I don’t say, because I’m more pleased with his praise than I want to admit. Me, some kind of war correspondent. Mary would get a kick out of that.

“Yeah, but a he’s genius,” Julian says. “I’ve read his research papers. His dissertation on the antagonist’s point of view in folklore is fascinating.” He sighs at my mock yawn. “He may have personality quirks, but his name carries a lot of weight in academic circles. And his courses are impressive on a transcript.”

“Personality quirks? Try one turd short of bat-shit.” I should have taken all his marbles. And let the bird out.

“Come on, Memory says she has something to share with the group. She sounded pretty excited.”

“Fantastic,” I groan. He gives me a look. “Sorry, I just have a headache. I’m sure whatever she has to tell us will be enlightening.”

“You two are going to have to get along.”

“That’s what Anders was just telling me.”

“He’s right. I need you two working together, not screwing up because of personal issues.”

“There’s nothing personal going on between us, trust me,” I say, almost believing my own lie. “I’m hanging out with Danielle. And your sister’s attached at the hips to her college boy-toy.”

He flashes a glare at me, and then mutters, “She always wants what turns out to be the most trouble.”

I snort. She’d wanted that kiss last night. She’d been reaching for me, eyes sliding over my face, fingers moving toward me. There was no curbing that, and her want had me responding with automatic focus, zooming in on her mouth, still red from kissing another guy.

Trouble is right.

“He’s a better choice than last summer,” Julian says. “She spent the first two weeks glued to Marcus, and I spent the last two finishing his work on our project because he decided to sabotage it out of spite. I’d rather not have to repeat that situation.”

“Marcus? The one from my fight? They dated?” Jeremy said Marcus had had a ‘thing’ for her.

“Dated. Hooked up. Summer fling. Whatever you want to call it. My sister has an astounding memory. Give her an encyclopedia and she can recall every image. Take her to a museum? Each stroke on every painting. But a guy? They are used and forgotten in minutes. Marcus didn’t see it coming.”

“So she dumped him.”

He gives a tight nod. “Hard.”

“Why? What did he do to her?”

He looks at me, eyes hawk sharp, then shrugs. “They never really do anything. That’s the problem. She just gets bored.”

“So what do you expect me to do?” I stop him at the classroom door. “Be her damned babysitter or something? Her warden? I’m sure she’d really be into
that
.”

“Just keep her focused. I’m telling Faye the same thing.”

I stare at Julian. “So you’re telling me to keep Memory occupied on the project, not to touch her and make sure she stays out of trouble, right?”

“Right.”

“Isn’t that Jeremy’s job?”

“Yeah, it should be, shouldn’t it? She’ll use him up and spit him out just like the others.” Julian sighs, and rolls his eyes, same expression as his sister. “He’s alright. He’s a graduate of the program.”

My turn for eye rolling, but he stops me.

“His project article on comparative cultural archetypes got him a free ride to grad school. That’s money, dude. I have no idea why it’s so unimportant to you, or why you even came here, but this class is currency.” The kid is as naive as a first timer in the detention yard, but there is hard iron in his eyes. “Do
not
screw it up for me.”

I sigh and rub my hand over my head. “Fine.  But you’re asking me to walk a fine line.”

“Just think of it as another fantastic challenge at SHP,” he grins, and slides into his seat.

I try to picture myself at a university, strutting around in a tie, toting a backpack full of books rather than swiped knives.

My social worker would pass out cold.

10.

Matter

“Guys, you’ve got to hear this,” I say, running into the room. I toss my bag on the table and flip through the book from Dr. A.

“What is that?” Julian asks, making a grab for the book. I twist out of his way.

“Just listen,” I say and begin to read out loud. “The often overlooked Fourth Edda portrays Odin in a less loving light—”

“Odin?” Ethan says. “Like Thor’s father? The guy with the hammer? I had those comic books.”

“The comics and the movies are based on the Old Norse poetic sagas,” I say. Faye nods.

“What Fourth Edda?” Julian steers us back on topic. “I’ve never heard of that—”

“Shhh! It’s not very well known. Now listen: ‘The All-Father had a fierce battle with his son Yvengvr, who, desiring a portion of his father’s power, seduced the witch Mimir, a paramour of Odin’s, in order to bargain for a higher throne in the Aesir.’”

“What’s the
ayzeer
?” Ethan asks. He looks rough, his eyes dark and tired over the soda can he sips from.

“The Norse pantheon,” whispers Faye to him, “in Asgard. Kind of like Olympus. Where the gods all live.”

“‘Enraged, Odin shamed his son,” I continue, “stripping him of his powers but leaving him immortal, forced to walk among mortals for eternity, denied a warrior’s glorious death. Now wary of others who sought to rebel, the god Odin disguised his powers—Thought, Memory, Magic, Wisdom and War—as scavenging birds, and sent them through the portals of the earth, to spy on the doings of men, for he only had one eye, and could not see all things at once.

“The birds travelled far and wide, and returned at night to Odin’s shoulders, tattling what they had seen— ’”

“Okay, we’ve seen things similar to that,” Julian says, and I catch his eye and nod.

“Yeah, the ravens. But listen, Jules, this is new: ‘But of clever Yvengvr they saw nothing, for he hid underground at the witch’s well, waiting to capture his father’s powers and regain his rightful place in Asgard.