Stormbringer by Alis Franklin Page A

“That’s Hel. It is, right? It’s her?”
    Sigmund blinked, then exhaled. The crea—
Hel
was still there, looking at them from across the crumbling store. Because Em was right, it was her: the queen of the dishonored dead, in the black and twisted flesh.
    Half beautiful woman, half corpse. That’s how the stories went. Sigmund couldn’t see any of the former, hidden as it was beneath black fabric.
    Funny how everyone always assumed it would be the corpse-skin Hel would cover.
    (“the living rejected her, and so she rejected them in turn”)
    Sigmund swallowed down his fear and began to walk forward. As he did, Hel bowed, just slightly.
    “Stepmother,” said a voice like the last light of midwinter. Hel turned slightly to Em and Wayne, repeating the incline of her head. “Honored
valkyrjur.
I am Hel Lokadóttir, keeper of the dishonored dead. You know me, I think.”
    Sigmund had no idea how Hel was forming the words without lips. Yet there they were. It wasn’t magic; she was speaking heavily accented English, and he could see her jaw and throat work when she spoke. Could see the flick of her black tongue and—
    He should probably stop staring. It wasn’t like he’d never seen a
jötunn
before, and up close, Hel didn’t even look that different from her father. Thinner, female. Ravens and bone instead of flames and vultures. But obviously related.
    Sigmund’s heart slowed. “Um,” he said. “Yeah. Uh…hi.”
    She’d called him “Stepmother,” and Sigmund felt the echo of Sigyn’s love at the words. Hel might’ve been a seven-foot-tall grinning fanged skullmonster who spread rot and entropy with her very presence, but she was family. Alive family, at that.
    “You, um. You look…well?” Sigmund tried. The last he’d heard, Baldr had dismembered Hel and scattered the chunks across the city.
    It was hard to tell, but Sigmund thought he saw Hel’s cheeks twitch beneath her veil. It might’ve been a smile. He hoped it was a smile. “And you,” she said. “Forgive me my intrusion, I would not normally come into your Realm, lest dire business drew me from my own.”
    “Uh.” Sigmund pushed his glasses up his nose, wondering if he should offer Hel a cup of tea. “Lain’s, uh. He’s not here, sorry. He went back to Asgard last night.”
    “Yes.” Hel nodded, a slight incline of her head that sent black feathers ruffling. “I know this. But it is not Father with whom I wish to deal.”
    “Oh,” said Sigmund, and got halfway through wondering what Hel could possibly want with him when she added:
    “It is your friends whose aid I seek.”
    “Oh.”

Chapter 3
    There are three of them, all men, lined up in a row along the Bifröst, and I pull the car to a stop to avoid running them down. It’s been a while and they’re older than I recall, but I still recognize the faces. The two on the outside are Thor’s brats, Magni and Móði. Magni looks like his father, huge and broad, with a glare that’s both vicious and slightly vacant. Móði takes more after his mother, smaller and slighter than his meathead older sibling. Both boys have hair that gleams like burnished copper beneath the sun.
    They’re trouble enough on their own, yet nothing compared to the man standing between them.
    Forseti, god of law and justice, as bright and blond and self-righteous as his useless asshole of a father, Baldr.
    Shit. I am so, so fucked.
    Forseti’s sword is sheathed and Móði looks unarmed, but Magni’s holding a hammer like it’s his baby and all three of them are armored. It occurs to me, as my claws hit the glimmering surface of the Bifröst, that maybe this wasn’t the right skin to be wearing when I made my entrance.
    Behind me, the car’s engine rumbles.
    “Hey, kids,” I say, stepping forward. “Long time no see.”
    Magni growls, hands clenching the grip of his hammer. He gets halfway through raising it when a gesture from Forseti has him stepping back.
    “You should not have returned to