The Collector's Curse

【24】Gods Don't Exist

There was an array of paintings—portraits that went through the centuries. But I couldn't make out the faces on them, their traits indiscernible. As I got closer, though, familiar features began to appear on them, clearer with every step I took. Once I was close enough, I recognized the man represented in every single one of them, the man represented through the centuries.

Ulrik.

With a startle, I sat up on the bed at once, woken up by the shock. My mind was in such a state of confusion that it took a moment for me to return to reality. I was in Ulrik's bed, but I couldn't remember going to sleep, especially with my clothes on. The curtains were drawn, but I saw rays of light coming from their edges.

The secret room. I found a key to open it, and Ulrik had caught me snooping around. Haakon... He claimed to be Haakon, and he'd sliced his arm open to prove it. All of that felt like a fever dream, and I struggled to grasp what was real and what wasn't.

"How are you feeling?" a low, terribly familiar voice asked.

My eyes darted to its source, and in the shadow of the poorly illuminated room, I noticed a silhouette seated on the big armchair a few feet away from the bed. I couldn't hold back the instinct to recoil, pulling the covers higher on me as if it could protect me from him.

This man wasn't who I thought he was. The person I'd fallen in love with over the past few weeks was nothing but an illusion, a lie. Because even if I still couldn't accept that his claims were real, this whole thing was either a cruel joke at my expense or the most mind-blowing revelation of my life.

"How long was I out?" I tremblingly asked.

"A little under an hour. I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Mila," he said, leaning forward so his elbows were on his knees. "I wanted to ease you into the truth, not this."

"This can't be the truth. You can't be...immortal."

"Why?"

My eyebrows came together. "What do you mean, why? Gods don't exist."

"Most of them do, actually. You've met a few of them, even."

"What?"

"The club we went to in Oslo. You met Tyr."

My eyes widened, and then I dubiously asked, "The god of war and bloodshed? The one who lost his hand to Fenrir?"

But as I said those words, I was reminded that the man had indeed worn a prosthetic hand, something I hadn't linked to the name before now.

"That Tyr, yes. And the man who came and sat with you while I was gone, the one who bothered you... It was Loki."

"Loki, the trickster god?"

He nodded, and despite the darkness, I could tell he was dead serious about all that. "And the man who came to your aid was Thor, my half-brother."

My jaw dropped, but I snapped it closed as bile gathered in the back of my throat. I was feeling dizzy again, my brain incapable of computing all of this. Everything in me wanted to reject his story and remain anchored in reality. But the malicious aura of the man who'd bothered me was still fresh in my mind. And I had noted the resemblance between the man who'd come to my aid and Ulrik. Everything added up, but even that wasn't enough to convince me.

"We met your great-grandmother," I reminded him, certain I'd found a mistake in his elaborate lie.

The way he sighed and passed a hand over his face wasn't frustration but rather weariness. "Agnes isn't my great-grandmother."

"Who is she, then?"

I could sense his eyes on me, intense and piercing, as he said, "She's my daughter."