Mikill gunned the engine in reply.

I hunkered low in my seat as we sped down the highway, tucking my chin into my scarf. Mikill’s frozen hair and beard crackled in the wind of our passage, but at least they weren’t shedding a hail of sleet like they did in the summer.

We turned off the highway and passed the darkened grounds of the Pemkowet Dune Rides, now closed for the season, which meant their trails weren’t being maintained on a regular basis.

No matter how many times I’d made this journey, it never failed to be simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating. I’d learned to take Mikill’s driving on faith, but my stomach still dropped every time we departed from the trails to plunge over the undeveloped dunes, the buggy bouncing, beams of its headlights jouncing wildly, cutting two narrow tunnels of light in the darkness.

And then there was Garm.

Unnerving as it was, there was something plaintive about the hellhound’s howl as it echoed across the dunes on a cold November night. I’d imagine it probably was pretty lonely being Garm, whose sole purpose was to patrol Hel’s territory aboveground and guard Yggdrasil II.

How and why that came to be, I couldn’t say, any more than I could tell you why Garm can be pacified by a loaf of bread. When I asked the first time, Mikill’s response was simply that that was the way it was, which is an annoyingly common response among the immortal members of the eldritch community. After his one and only visit to Little Niflheim, Lee theorized that it had something to do with bread being an ancient and universal symbol for life, and that it represented a symbolic sacrifice in order to pass over the liminal threshold between the realm of the living and the dead.

After I had Lee define the word liminal, which he admitted was more or less a fancier word for threshold, I had to agree that his theory sounded pretty good.

None of which was the slightest bit reassuring when Garm bounded out of the darkness, the size of two Volkswagen Beetles stacked atop each other, his eyes like twin saucers of yellow flame, his plaintive howl turning into a slavering snarl.

And this time, he had been lying in wait for us. He launched his attack just as we were cresting the rise of the immense sand basin from which Yggdrasil II emerged. Mikill had to veer sharply to the left to evade the hellhound. I let out a yell as the dune buggy teetered on two wheels, grabbing the roll bar with one hand and clutching the loaf of bread to my chest with the other.

The dune buggy thumped back to earth as Mikill threw his weight toward me and wrenched the steering wheel. Behind us, Garm let out a full-throated howl and reversed course. Mikill gunned the engine and sand sprayed under our oversized tires, the buggy sinking.

Uh-oh.

“Mikill!” I shouted in a panic. “We’re stuck!”

“Yes.” The frost giant reached across me with one long arm to unbuckle my seat belt. “Throw the offering, Daisy Johanssen. As hard and far as you can. Then be prepared to take the wheel.”

“What?” I stared at him.

“Now, Daisy Johanssen!” he said impatiently. “The hound is upon us!”

Doing my best Major League pitcher impression, I stood up in my seat and hurled the bread as far as I could into the night. Garm checked himself in mid-attack, the claws of his massive paws plowing furrows in the sand.

For a moment his immense head hung over me, yellow eyes flaming, strands of drool hanging from his jaws, his panting breath hot on my face.

“Good boy,” I whispered, my heart in my throat. “Go get it!” Garm’s ears pricked up and he bounded away after the bread.

Mikill vaulted out of the dune buggy. “Drive, Daisy Johanssen! I will push.”

I scrambled into the driver’s seat. Son of a bitch, wouldn’t you know it was a stick shift? I worked the clutch and the gas pedal frantically, yanking at the gearshift while Mikill set his shoulder to the rear of the buggy and heaved with all his might.

Given the grinding, thunking noises I was eliciting from the dune buggy in my desperate attempts to find a gear, any gear, if Mikill hadn’t been a frost giant, we probably never would have gotten unstuck. Then again, if Mikill hadn’t been a frost giant, I wouldn’t have been there in the first place. With a groan of protest, the dune buggy lurched free. Out in the distance, Garm was making nummy noises.

Mikill yanked open the driver’s-side door. “Take your seat and be quick about it!”

I scooted back to the passenger seat. “Sorry! I never learned to drive stick.”

Mikill glanced at me. “So I noticed.” Clearing his throat, he put the dune buggy in gear and uttered his usual warning. “Be sure to keep your limbs inside the vehicle during the descent.”

We careened down the face of the sand basin, the buggy’s headlights illuminating only a fraction of the vast trunk of Yggdrasil II. I held my breath as we approached the crack in the trunk that led to the interior. Even though I knew from experience that it was more than large enough to admit the buggy, it was always hard to wrap my head around the sheer scale of the thing.

Inside, I let out a sigh of relief as we spiraled down a ramp hewn into the interior of the trunk, Mikill reducing his speed. The temperature dropped as we descended, though not as markedly as it had on previous visits. Icy mists rose from the deep well-spring far below, beneath the immense canopy of roots that the Norns tended with loving care. I gave them a wave as we reached the bottom and sped past them, but they were busy with their buckets.

Other than the Norns’ tireless activity, all was quiet in Little Niflheim as we drove down the dark, mist-shrouded street to the old sawmill where Hel reigned on her throne.