“If you want to be tolerated here, don’t touch anything that’s not yours. So, anything. And don’t set anything on fire or I will whip you from now until the end of time.” He swings the door open and I step out. “Get upstairs,” he says. “You know where the kitchen is already, go and ask Mrs Crocombe for some food. If you’re lucky, she’ll feed you.”
“And if I’m not?”
“She’ll chase you out of her kitchen and make you wait until dinner time.”
I leave the cell, walking between the angry Thor and strangely silent Bryn before dashing up the stairs for breakfast.
Thor
Bryn and I exchange unhappy looks.
Keeping the hammer in my possession is harder than it seems. It has an affinity for Anita, but it cannot grow legs and walk, of course. That means it was delivered. We both know the only entity likely to have done that.
“Crichton!” Bryn shouts for his manservant.
The demon butler appears.
“Why did you move the hammer from Thor’s possession to the girl’s?”
Crichton’s expression barely shifts as he is accused. However, he makes the matter slightly easier by not denying his role in the affair.
“It wishes to be with her. She has fed the spirit. It was crying out for her all night long, and finally I could stand the infernal din no more, sir. I apologize.”
“You realize she could have used that weapon against any one of us?”
“Sleep is a blessed mercy,” Crichton replies, ignoring the inference.
“I am beginning to think that you are not as much on my side as I might like, Crichton,” Bryn continues.
“I take great offense to that, sir. I am doing what needs to be done, even if those actions are not apparent to you in the moment. I have always acted in the best interests of this house and its inhabitants. Let the hammer sleep with the girl and let the girl sleep with the god. All will sleep well.”
“I am not a god,” I say, hotly.
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir." Crichton agrees far too smoothly.
“I am not a god,” I repeat to Bryn.
“I know. I’ve seen you bleed. But you used to have that thing under control, and you don’t anymore. The sliver of power in you is waning, perhaps. Or the girl has a stronger one inside her.”
“Not possible.”
We call this ability of mine a sliver of the ancient because saying that I have some old Norse power inside me would really throw a spanner in the proverbial works, given we are both ostensibly Anglican priests.
“She needs to be told,” Bryn said. “She needs to understand why the thing is so drawn to her, and why she is capable of atrocity when she wields it. It’s not enough to take it from her. It’s going to come back. And it's not enough to punish her in a bathroom. She has sinned, Thor. She has sinned against man and against god using an infernal weapon that should not be tolerated to exist.”
Bryn would be more comfortable if we destroyed the hammer, but I don’t think it can be destroyed. The physical form of the thing could be broken, but the hammer is not a thing. It is a being. A force that commands those near it to do its will. There is no point berating Crichton. He did the hammer’s bidding obediently, just as Anita did. I am the one who thwarts the unseen beast. But I made a mistake. I let years of calm lull me into believing the hammer was just an artifact. It fooled me, and now that it has tasted blood, it cries out for more.
9
Anita
“Mrs Crocombe?” I say her name hopefully. Thor seems to be a little afraid of the woman, but I think she’s lovely. Yesterday she brought me the first comfort I’ve felt in a long time. There can be no overestimating the value of a warm kitchen and fresh baking.
“Oh, hey!” Nina smiles. She’s already in the kitchen eating breakfast. Croissants and strawberries await, a better breakfast than I have indulged in for a very long time.
“Hey,” I reply. “Thanks for the lend of the tracksuit.”
“No problem. You can come pick through my closet if you like.”
“That's really nice, but I’m hoping I can get my own things soon. Assuming Thor lets me out of the house.”
“Bryn rarely lets me out,” she commiserates. “Unless I am going to church.”
“So you're a prisoner too? How many girls are stuck here with these old creeps?”
Nina smirks around her croissant. “Just us," she says. “Eat something. You’ll need your strength to run when they hear you calling them old creeps.”
“Shoe fits,” I say, grabbing three of the croissants. One goes in my mouth. The other two each go into the pockets of the tracksuit. Nina gives me a weird look. She’s a beautiful girl. Elegant. One of those people who probably floats through life being stunningly tragic. But she's never had to hoard food, and it shows.