Atypical (A Magnus Chase fan novel)

Ah! Suffocated Again!

     I was back on Beacon Street, but there was no one there.

     "Alex?" I called out. "Amara? Anyone?" I started to walk slowly towards where Alex had shown us the boulder exit to Valhalla, but the street shook and rumbled, and I held on to a lamppost to steady myself. All of a sudden, the metal became burning hot, and I snatched my hand back.

     The ground opened up in front of me, but this time, the crack was bigger. Much bigger. The entire street caved in, and ghostly voices echoed from the gap. Black smoke poured in from Helheim, and the ghostly red light was way more pronounced, now shocking. A burst hit me in the eyes, and I staggered, blind. Something hit me from behind, and I went tumbling into the land of the dishonored dead, screaming my head off.

     The dream shifted. I saw my father, Frey, pacing in a massive dining hall, most likely in a palace somewhere in Asgard. Everything was lavishly decorated with gold and pearls in the room, with a vaulted ceiling about three stories high, and a skylight, so the whole room was bright and fresh feeling. I was sitting at the end of a table that was forty seats long, and the tablecloth was white like the porcelain plates and cups. Everything was trimmed in gold.

     I tried to move, but I couldn't. Looking down, I saw that for some reason, Alex's garrote was in rope form, and had bound me to the chair, pinning my arms down like it had to Alex.

     I studied my father. He was in his ten-feet-tall godly form, and was wearing his usual flannel shirt and jeans, the kind of clothing I had always thought to be my mom's style. His look was casual, but he wasn't. He was thinking hard, pacing back and forth along the small length of the table. His dirty blond hair, the same as mine, seemed a little disheveled and messy, like he'd forgotten to brush it. His eyes were sparking with angriness, and he had bags under them. He gritted his teeth in frustration.

     I had never thought of summer to be so scary-looking. I had never seen him so agitated, and for the first time, it sank into me that he was not someone to be crossed. He was not a summery little person in the meadow to be looked over. He was a god, who could blast you to smithereens with a single thought. Those blistering Boston summer days where you think you would die of heat? My friends and I always joked that it must be some fire giant screwing around. Now, I wasn't so sure.

     A young man walked into the room. He was wearing simple clothes, so maybe a servant, or a slave? I didn't know my father kept those, but I guess all the gods did. He looked up nervously at Frey, hesitant to talk. I struggled to escape the ropes, and maybe save this poor guy from godly spontaneous combustion. My father nodded at him. "Well? Speak!"

     "M-my lord, have you made your decision?"

     Frey put his hands to his temples, and groaned. "No, I don't know what to do!" Then he looked directly at me, which should have been impossible since this was a dream. His eyes became solid black, and he spoke again, but this time, in the evil, feminine voice that had possessed Amara earlier. "Appease me, APPEASE ME MAGNUS CHASE!"

     The ropes tightened around my chest, and I couldn't breathe. I felt a cracking in my chest, telling me that several ribs had broken. I gasped for breath that wouldn't come. Everything went dark. Then I woke up.