Loki's Wolves by K. L. Armstrong, M. A. Marr

fine—the runes wouldn’t choose him if he wasn’t the champion.
    Check again.
That’s what he wanted to say.
If a kid has to fight this… whatever, it should be Jake, or even Josh. Not me.
    Granddad said they’d talk more later, then he slipped off with the Elders into a private meeting, and Matt was left alone with his parents. They told him a few more times that everything would be fine. Then Dad thumped him on the back and said Matt should go enjoy the fair, not worry about curfew, they’d pick him up whenever he was ready.
    “Here’s a little extra,” Dad said, pulling out his wallet. “It’s a big night for you, bud, and you deserve to celebrate.”
    When he held out a bill, Matt stared. It was a hundred.
    “Uh, that’s—” Matt began.
    “Oh. Sorry.” His dad put the hundred back, counted out five twenties instead, and put them in Matt’s hand. “Carnies won’t appreciate having to cash a hundred, will they?” Another slap on Matt’s back. “Now go and have fun.”

    Matt wandered through the fair, sneakers kicking up sawdust. He didn’t see the flashing lights. Didn’t hear the carnies hustling him over. Didn’t smell the hot dogs and caramel corn. He told himself he was looking for his friends, but he wasn’t really. His mind was still back in the rec hall, his gaze still fixed on that mosaic, his ears still ringing with the Seer’s words.
    Our champion is Matthew Thorsen.
    Champion. Really? No, really? I’m not even in high school yet, and they expect me to fight some giant serpent and save the world?
    This isn’t just some boxing tournament. It’s the world.
    Matt didn’t quite get how that worked. Kill the serpent; save the world. That’s how it was supposed to go. In the myth of Ragnarök, the gods faced off against the monsters. If they defeated the monsters, the world would continue as it was. If the monsters won, they’d take over. If both sides died—as they did in the myths predicting Ragnarök—the world would be plunged into an ice age.
    What if the stories weren’t real?
    But if the stories aren’t real, then Thor isn’t real. That amulet around your neck isn’t real. Your power isn’t real.
    Except it obviously
was
. Which meant…
    Even thinking about that made Matt’s stomach churn and his head hurt and his feet ache to run home. Just race home and jump in bed and pull up the covers and hide. Puke and hide: the strategy of champions.
    Matt thought of his parents catching him, and his heart pounded as he struggled to breathe. They expected him to do this, just like they expected him to walk home after practice and make his own science fair project. They expected him to be a Thorsen.
    Something tickled his chest, and he reached to swat off a bug. Only it wasn’t a bug. It was his amulet. Vibrating.
    Um, no, that would be your heart, racing like a runaway train.
    The tickling continued, and he swiped the amulet aside as he scratched the spot. Only it wasn’t his heart—it really was the pendant. When he held it between his fingers, he could feel the vibrations.
    Weird. It had never done that before.
    “You are looking for Odin,” said a voice behind him.
    Matt wheeled. There was no one there.
    “You are looking for Odin,” the voice said again, and he followed it down to a girl, no more than seven. She had pale blond braids and bright blue eyes. She wore a blue sundress and no shoes. In this weather? She must be freezing. Where were her parents?
    “Hey,” he said, smiling as he crouched. “Do you need help? I can help, but we should probably find your parents first.”
    The girl shook her head, braids swinging. “I do not need your help, Matthew Thorsen. You need mine.”
    Strange way for a kid to talk. Formal, like someone out of an old movie. And the way she was looking at him, so calmly. He didn’t recognize her, but in Blackwell, there were so many little blond kids that it was impossible to keep them all straight.
    “Okay, then,” he said. “You