“That’s an overdose of Poe, isn’t it?” I said.

The Morrigan, seeing the ravens, gave a short bark of laughter. “There’s no Poe involved at all. Use your head, Siodhachan.”

I remembered we were supposedly meeting members of the Norse pantheon and said, “You don’t mean he is here—”

The Morrigan slapped me. “I said use your head, not your mouth.”

“But how can he—”

I got slapped again.

“Right. Sorry.”

The Morrigan took a deep breath and closed her eyes, clenching her fists at her sides. It was the first sign I’d seen that she felt the least bit nervous about this encounter.

“How do I look?” she asked, and I wondered again at how she could be simultaneously so ruthless and insecure.

“Fearsome. Deadly. A bit delicious.”

She smiled. “You always know what to say. Let’s go. And, remember, no magic.”

Once inside, we were greeted with a large smile by the maître d’, an impeccably scrubbed and barbered man dressed in black-tie livery. He ushered us to a window table in the Cleopatra Room, where waited none other than the goddess who gave her name to Friday. She rose to receive us.

Frigg glowed the way stained glass does; she had that sort of beauty, very colorful and beatific yet flat and gauzy with the suggestion that you’re missing quite a bit of depth. The question was whether the depth was carefully hidden or if it was simply missing.

She appeared cordial yet tense, like a little boy who’s being forced by his mother to be nice to his aunt Ethel or else, except that Aunt Ethel is the one with the hairy mustache and it’s all he can do to keep from screaming when she arrives and wants a kiss. The pleasant expression on Frigg’s face, with a ghost of a smile, didn’t reach her eyes; they were cold and unfriendly. She wore a royal-blue sheath gown circled with a wide black sash just beneath her ribs. Circling her neck was an extremely shiny something, set with enough diamonds to feed several families and a stable full of ponies for a year. I was about to check her out in the magical spectrum when the Morrigan grabbed my jaw and yanked it right to face her. She spoke in Old Irish so Frigg wouldn’t know what she said.

“Remember what I said about magic?”

“Not supposed to use any,” I managed to say while she had an iron grip on my chin.

“That’s right. None. But you were about to cast magical sight, weren’t you? See my eyes? They’re brown instead of red because I can’t use magic right now. Pretend they’re red, Siodhachan. I’m watching you.”

“Got it.”

She let me go and then I felt like the little boy, except I’d failed to greet Aunt Ethel properly and received a royal chewing out as a result. I blushed and muttered a quick apology in Old Norse to Frigg for my manners. “Call me Atticus, please.”

“Thank you for coming,” she said, then waved a hand at the chairs across from her. “Please, sit.”

I pulled out the Morrigan’s chair for her, and after she was seated I took the spot nearest the window. The sommelier showed up to welcome us to Statholdergaarden and discuss wine before we could say anything. Frigg ordered a bottle of Australian Shiraz, surprising me somewhat. It must have shown on my face, because she explained the order afterward.

“One gets so tired of mead from the teats of a magic goat every night. Not that I’m complaining about the quality—I dare anyone to find a better brew flowing from the udders of a she-goat—but one does need a bit of variety now and then. The food and drink here will be a welcome change.”

I was completely unprepared to answer her. Not only had I not drunk the same thing every night for centuries, I had never made small talk about goat teats before. I realized that my mouth had dropped open after the Morrigan reached over and pushed up on my chin. My teeth clacked together audibly, and then Frigg’s face turned crimson, realizing she’d introduced an awkward topic of conversation. The Morrigan seemed determined to embarrass everyone tonight.

Unsure of what to say, I kept silent and waited. I couldn’t think of a safe topic of conversation—not even the weather, because that might be interpreted as a reference to Thor. I didn’t want to embarrass myself or anyone else, and I didn’t want to earn another rebuke from the Morrigan for saying the wrong thing—like, for example, inquiring after the missing occupant of the chair next to Frigg’s. There was a place setting there, and Frigg had asked the sommelier for four glasses, but there was no other sign of the last member of our party. Unless you counted the two ravens on the roof.

I suppose there was a statistical non-zero probability that this could be a coincidence—two normal ravens just happened to be perching on the roof of a restaurant in Oslo where I was about to meet unnamed Norse gods—but I felt it was fairly improbable. It was far more probable that I was about to have an extremely uncomfortable formal dinner with two deities who had a long list of reasons to kill me.

Granuaile asked me once how it could be possible for all the world’s gods to be walking around without anybody noticing. The answer was (and is) simple: cosplay. Most gods cosplay as humans when they visit earth and do their best to stay in character. If they perform miracles here and there, they’re always small things that no one outside the local area will notice. But, more than anything else, they don’t show themselves because humanity doesn’t truly believe they ever will. We imagine them chilling out in their heavens or nirvanas or planes of punishment, and they’re generally expected to stay there. And if they’re going to work their divine magic on earth or pull a deus ex machina, then they act through surrogates or from afar. In a sense, deities are incapable of showing themselves because most people don’t believe they’ll meet their gods before they die. I am a notable exception to the rule. The ancient Greeks and Romans believed they could run into the Olympians, though, so that allowed Zeus and company to start all kinds of shit in the old days.

The silence lengthened. I couldn’t believe Frigg’s entire repertoire had been exhausted on goat teats and mead, but for the nonce, at least, her speech was on hiatus. Taking a deep breath, I employed the architectural-history gambit: “Why is this called the Cleopatra Room?” I asked.

The Morrigan pointed up. “The ceiling,” she said. Craning my head back, I saw an elaborate stucco on the ceiling. Back in Arizona, they just sprayed stucco on the outside of houses and called it an exterior. But long ago, back when this building was originally constructed, artists used it as a medium to create permanent bas-relief sculptures. This one—undoubtedly one of the finest I’d ever seen—depicted the suicide of Cleopatra, who’d famously decided to leave this world by snakebite. Seeing it made me immediately miss Oberon, because I knew he would find the opportunity for parody irresistible, and I knew what he would say if he could see it now, complete with the voice of Samuel L. Jackson: "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking ceiling!"

“Beautiful,” I said, and hoped my smile would be interpreted as art appreciation rather than amusement at my hound’s fondness for movies.

“Yes,” the Morrigan agreed.

Our scintillating conversation was blessedly interrupted by the sommelier, who returned with the bottle of Shiraz. He poured a little out for our suspiciously missing homie, then left us to fill the silence once again. We had nothing, so we drank a bit and speculated about all the different flavors we could taste in the fermented grapes. The Morrigan opined that it had a layered flavor, stony but finishing with a lush réglisse. Frigg tasted spice, whatever that meant; I doubt it was an allusion to the planet Arrakis. I am not proficient in the language of wine, so I was just about to suggest there was a faint top note of mango chutney when Frigg’s eyes shifted over my shoulder and her expression softened. She rose from her chair, and the Morrigan and I followed suit. Turning to follow Frigg’s gaze, I saw a tall man in a tuxedo approaching our table. Gray hair flowed about his head and down to his shoulders, but it wasn’t thin and receding; it was somehow virile and imbued with badassery. The simple black eye patch over his left eye didn’t make him look like a pirate but instead communicated wisdom—precisely the prize for which he gave up his eye. It spoke of his suffering and his willingness to sacrifice—to stop at nothing—to remain the wisest of the wise. His epic beard was a bit surprising and somewhat intimidating: I’d expected an unruly carpet flowing down his chest, but it was a densely packed and trimmed affair, almost like topiary, which gave his features the weight of a carefully constructed edifice that few men could pull off. Most guys grow beards that do nothing for them other than communicate to the world that “this is what happens when you don’t shave.” The beard of Odin told you that he wasn’t a hippie or a barbarian or a fantasy author but a god who could bring order to chaos.

He took his wife’s hand and planted a kiss on it. Then he turned to the Morrigan and nodded to her once. “Morrigan.” She nodded back. Then his eye swiveled to face me, and I could feel the frost of his hatred; I had to suppress a shudder. “So you are the one,” he said. “Slayer of the Norns and Freyr and so many others.” His voice reminded me of whiskey—and I don’t say that just because I’m Irish. His words were rich and smoky and quite possibly had been aged in oak barrels for years before he spoke them. “Since I recovered, I have watched you from Hlidskjálf, unable to believe what I saw. Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I saw nothing in you that suggested you were capable of defeating us. But now, seeing you in person, I can perceive your essential nature. You are deceptive.”

“Frequently,” I admitted. “Hello, by the way. I’m honored to meet you.”

Odin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Honor!” he growled. “You cannot speak to me of honor when you have none!”

Frigg placed a delicate hand on his arm. “Let’s sit down, shall we?” The tension drained from Odin’s shoulders, and his fists unclenched. We all sat, and as we did so I realized that Odin and I had something in common: We were both under the complete control of the woman sitting next to us. I admired Frigg’s good sense. Sitting down made it much more difficult for Odin to lunge across the table in an attempt to snap my neck. And seating the Morrigan directly across from him would serve as a reminder that, should matters come to blows, she would be the one choosing the slain.

The waiter appeared, an earnest man intent on regaling us with specials and options he’d been at pains to memorize, but Odin stopped him and spoke in the modern Norwegian language. “We will all take the full six courses,” he said. “If there are options, please leave it as chef’s choice. And please inform the sommelier that we also trust his judgment regarding wines for the remainder of the evening. We have much to discuss and do not wish to be distracted with decisions to make.” A credit card appeared in his hand. “This will assure you that we will pay for whatever you serve.”

The waiter bowed, took the card, and said, “Very good. I’ll return shortly with the first course, which is crayfish from the fjord and—”

Odin waved him silent. “We’ll figure it out when we eat it, my good man. Forgive me if I am being rude. I assure you we will tip generously.”

“Very good,” the waiter repeated, and went away to orchestrate what would no doubt be a very large bill. Odin returned his gaze to me and his language to Old Norse. Before he could enumerate the reasons I deserved to die, I jumped in. I had much to answer for, but I wouldn’t passively accept whatever he wished to say—especially regarding my supposed lack of honor. I like to think I have a smidgen of it, at least.

“Odin, wise as you are, I am sure you have already noted that I twice held Gungnir in my hands and twice refused to target you personally when I could have done so. In both cases, I chose to do that which would secure my safety and nothing more. You sit here before me today because I stayed my hand. Twice.”

“And you think because you spared my life twice that you are honorable?”

“The entire reason I came to Asgard was to honor my promises. I killed only those who seemed bent on killing me. The Norns tried first but killed Ratatosk instead. Having no choice, I slew them and then went to the hall of Idunn and Bragi. I could have slain them, but I left them alone.”

“But you stole one of Idunn’s golden apples! Your honor is the honor of a thief.”

“A thief who keeps his word. You tried to kill me for it shortly thereafter. I could have taken your life. Instead—with great reluctance, I might add—I took Sleipnir’s.”

“There was no honor in that decision. It was strategically the best course of action, because it occupied the attention of the Valkyries as well. Had you slain me outright, they would have pursued you to avenge me.”

“Even so, my point remains: I responded with violence only when it was first offered to me.”

“Ha! What violence from Thor prompted you to bring a party of men and giants to Asgard to slay him?”

“That is a separate matter. But, again, I was keeping my word.”

“You promised to kill Thor?”

“No, I promised to provide transportation to Asgard.”

“So in your mind you have done us no wrong?”

“I did not say that, Odin.”

We paused as the waiter brought out the first course. The crayfish was there, but so was a small trout roulade. I sampled it and discovered that the chef knew what he was doing. If this was to be my last meal, I couldn’t ask for a finer one. None of the gods touched their food. They watched me eat and waited for me to continue.