FIC: Every Ending is A New Beginning
Title: Every Ending is a New Beginning
Fandom: American Gods
Pairing: Wednesday-centric, Gen.
Rating: R
Summary: A series of ficlets, one for each of the eighteen charms Wednesday learned on the World Tree.
A/N: For catnamedbuffy, on the occasion of her birthday. Much love to girlsigh, who endured all manner of wibbling and spammage.



1. I know a charm that can cure pain and sickness, and lift the grief from the heart of the grieving.

The tenement was a brisk walk from the steel mill, on the fourth floor of a dull, rectangular building. It was two rooms, with a bed that folded out of the wall and an ancient radiator that whistled as it worked. The rickety fire escape held a small forest of potted plants and flowers, and both windows had a view of the brick building across the alley.

Drab furniture blended with the colorless paint peeling off the walls, and through the grayness, Sif's hair shone like sunlight.

Thor's body was silent, motionless. The shot had been clean, but there was not much of him left above the neck. Blood soaked the collar of his slate-colored uniform shirt. A deep red stain was crawling its way across the floor, dark against the balding carpet and the scattered strands of Thor's coppery hair.

Wednesday crouched over Thor's body. Behind him, Sif made a small noise.

Once, Thor and Sif had married because they had chosen to. Here, their marriage had been arranged, created by the people who had brought them across the sea. They had been forced together by those who believed in them, and they had stayed together when that belief tapered off because they hadn't known what else to do.

But Thor had been kind to her, from the beginning. He had protected her, and cared for her. He had provided for her, because he'd known a Goddess of Harvest and Planting would not find work in the city. He had worked at the steel mill for the last twenty years, fourteen hours a day at immigrant wages, and now he was dead.

Wednesday wrapped Thor's body in a sheet, and Sif made another noise. It was a sob, choked and broken. Wednesday turned and her wide eyes were full of tears, but empty, hollow.

It had been a long thousand years, and for Sif, who was now alone, the days to follow would only be longer.

She would need money to keep the radiator whistling and the roof over her head. Wednesday didn't offer, because he knew she would refuse. He was her father-in-law in the minds of the handful of people who still believed, but she did not like him, and she did not trust him. She'd always been proud, and she'd only contacted him because there had been no one else.

Wednesday reached out and cupped her pale face, his fingers dancing through the spun-gold strands of her hair. He murmured quietly, too low for her to hear, and his thumb brushed her cheek. Her breath hitched, and her eyes fluttered closed.

When she opened them again, they were full of something that could have almost been life.

2. I know a charm that will heal with a touch.

Mad Sweeney was still asleep, but he was no longer on the floor of Jack's Crocodile Bar. Shadow had hauled him into one of the chairs, and he was slouched forward with his head on the table. His jacket was torn, and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. Shadow had a deep, purple bruise under one eye, and the hand wrapped around his beer bottle was bleeding from the knuckles.

"Did you see what you wanted to see?" Shadow asked quietly. He poked at his lip with his tongue. It was swollen, but it was not bleeding.

Wednesday grinned. "You need another beer."

"Iko Iko" was coming through the speakers again. Wednesday wished Shadow and Mad Sweeney had overturned the jukebox in their fight, because it deserved it.

He smiled at the bartender's sour look, and ordered a bottle of beer. He paid with a hundred dollar bill, and told the man to keep the change.

"For any damage my friends caused," he explained.

Mad Sweeney was awake when he returned to the table. He was watching Shadow palm quarters and nursing the remnants of his Southern Comfort and Coke. Wednesday did not offer to buy him another one.

When Shadow finished, Mad Sweeney began pulling bright gold coins out of the air. They were the size of half-dollars and twice as thick, and they hit the gouged tabletop with a loud plink. He talked as he worked. Freshly woken and full of booze, the Irish lilt was returning to his voice, creeping over his words like a poisonous vine.

Shadow watched him, his face the picture of rapt fascination. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was set, and Wednesday could practically see the wheels turning in his head. After a fairly lengthy show, Mad Sweeney insisted it was Shadow's turn. Shadow nodded, and tried his hand at it.

His right hand.

His left was resting stiffly on the table. He was holding his last two fingers up at an odd angle, and they looked a bit swollen around the knuckle. Wednesday was willing to bet they were broken. He was also willing to bet Shadow wouldn't say anything about it, because big strong men who just got out of prison didn't complain.

Wednesday smiled at that. He could appreciate a person who did not whimper over every little thing.

"Shadow, my boy," Wednesday said. "Hand me that menu. I'm thinking of dessert."

Shadow passed it over. Wednesday patted his left hand lightly in gratitude. Shadow automatically flinched. Then he glanced down on his hand, and and wiggled his last two fingers, confusion clouding his face.

3. I know a charm that will turn aside the weapons of the enemy.

It was after midnight, but New Jersey was still awake. Cars whizzed by Wednesday as he walked down the sidewalk, unconcerned with the rain-slicked streets. The light from the buzzing street lamps was yellowish, and it made the buildings look like the set of a bad horror movie. Distantly a horn honked, and everything smelled of wet pavement.

Wednesday's current vehicle was a metallic blue Buick with fictional registration. It needed water and antifreeze about every hundred miles, and it was parked two blocks away. When Wednesday reached the corner, the streetlight was the same blinding, glowing red as the little hand underneath it. He ignored it, crossing after a quick glance in both directions.

It was cold and miserably wet. It was the middle of the night, and the meeting had been a complete disappointment. Wednesday had driven three hours to get to New Jersey, only to spend five hours sitting in the dark while a dwarf made excuses.

Alviss had a one room apartment on the second floor. It had no electricity, and had the kind of plumbing that only worked when it was feeling charitable. He shared it, after a fashion, with two of his kinsmen, who had not been there when Wednesday arrived.

When Wednesday had asked Alviss how he lived that way, Alviss had only shrugged. He had said it didn't matter, because none of them were home very often. His kinsmen were retired coal-miners who now team-drove an eighteen-wheeler, and they were on the road twenty-eight days out of the month. Alviss spent nine months a year on an oil rig off the coast of Texas.

Alviss wasn't here, so he didn't understand. He didn't see what was happening. He didn't see the way these new Gods were swallowing up the little the old Gods had left. In the end, Alviss had grudgingly agreed that something needed to be done, but he had not wanted to be the one to do it.

This time, the streetlight was green when Wednesday reached the corner. The small pedestrian turned into a flashing red hand just as Wednesday stepped of the curb, but he kept walking.

An engine roared to life, and tires squealed. Wednesday looked up, and a glossy, black stretch limo was heading towards him on the wrong side of the street.

Wednesday coughed.

The limo never slowed. It came right up to Wednesday, but passed him. It swerved violently just as it should have splintered his legs. The limo fishtailed, and barreled towards a row of parked cars on the other side of the street.

With another squeal of tires it straightened, and sped away.

4. I know another charm to free myself from all bonds and locks.

Stateville Correctional Center was six miles north of Joliet, in Lockport. It was a sprawling expanse of cement and iron and wasted lives. The grounds were guarded by men with guns. It was surrounded by barbed wire that stretched to the sky, and Wednesday was going to break in.

He walked right through the front door.

No one gave the fatherly guard a second look. His identification badge was in order, and his navy blue slacks and crisp gray shirt were precisely to code. His policeman-esque hat was pulled a bit low on his brow, but it was early in the morning, and maybe he had been moonlighting as a bouncer at one of the clubs down in Joliet.

Wednesday gave the young lady at the metal detector a gruff but polite 'good morning'. She smiled, glanced at the plastic badge pinned to his breast pocket, and waved him through.

The bank job in Springfield had been planned, staged and performed like any other. Wednesday had donned the A-1 Security jacket and Loki had parked himself next to a pay phone down the street, just like they had a hundred times before.

A policeman had pulled into a parking lot of Moe's Wine & Spirits and asked Loki what he was doing. Loki had told the him he was waiting for a phone call from his girlfriend. The cop had nodded, and smiled. Then he had pulled his gun and told Loki to put his hands behind his head.

Two nights before, a thin, Caucasian man with shaved, orange hair had knocked over a liquor store on the other side of town. The knife in Loki's pocket had been enough to detain him. Springfield police had realized their mistake pretty quickly; another liquor store had been robbed by a man of the same description while Loki was being questioned.

They had kept Loki in custody. The Social Security number he'd given them hadn't matched the name on his Minnesota Driver's License, and neither had matched his fingerprints.

The inmates were on their hour of free time when Wednesday walked outside. Loki was alone, working out on the far end of the yard. His forehead and cheeks were damp with sweat, and his orange jumpsuit clashed horribly with his hair.

Loki followed Wednesday without a word. In the hallway, Wednesday unbuttoned his crisp, gray uniform shirt. Underneath was the navy blue button-down of the Springfield Police Department.

The papers Wednesday handed the young man at the front desk were very official. They bore the signatures of several important people, and they said Mr. Lyesmith was being transferred.

"I need to call and verify this," the young man said, inspecting the papers closely.

"Do what you think you must, son," Wednesday replied wearily. "But the Warden is in a meeting. He could be awhile, and Springfield PD is paying me double-time because of the drive."

The young man reached for the phone. Wednesday leaned against the counter to wait, and began to whistle tunelessly. The young man put down the phone and buzzed Wednesday out the front door.

Wednesday's black Nova was parked in a Tow-Away Zone on Route 53. Loki changed into a t-shirt and jeans as Wednesday drove towards US-30.

"Thanks," Loki said.

Wednesday grunted.

"He's in there, you know," Loki said.

"I know."

"Why didn't you spring him, too?" Loki asked. He rifled around in the glove compartment and found a pack of cigarettes.

"Too risky," Wednesday replied. "I didn't want them to start asking questions."

"I thought you needed him,"

Wednesday sighed, and took the onramp to US-30. "Right now, I need you more."

"For what?" Loki asked.

Wednesday told him.

"You don't need me for that," Loki said, a cloud of smoke chasing his words. "War is your thing."

"Wars in progress are my thing," Wednesday said. "I decide who wins."

"What's the difference?" Loki asked.

"The difference is, I finish wars. I don't start them," Wednesday said. "Chaos was always your department."

5. A fifth charm: I can catch an arrow in flight and take no harm from it.

San Francisco was larger than it looked. The tall buildings were packed closely together, making the city feel claustrophobic and small, but when a man got out of his car and walked around, he discovered the truth. It was incredibly hard to find someone in San Francisco, especially when that someone had the irritating habit of never being home.

Easter was a Goddess of the Dawn. She represented the morning, and the start of the Sun's journey across the horizon. She was also connected to rebirth and fertility, two things that were often associated with springtime. This had given her a love for nature, and a penchant for spending time outdoors.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Golden Gate Park sprawled before Wednesday like a cat basking in the sun. It was hot, and the air was heavy, humid. The park was crawling with people, and none of them were Easter.

San Francisco had a large number of parks. He had checked three others before this one, and he realized now that had been a mistake. Golden Gate Park was very large, and it would be after dusk before he finished searching it from end to end.

He was tired of Easter's attitude. She did not return his calls, and she was evasive when he managed to get her on the line. He had written her several times, and she had not answered a single one. He'd finally decided he would have to get her face to face, because he needed her to listen to reason.

He wanted her strength.

Easter Sunday was a Christian holiday for some, and they went to church to celebrate the resurrection of their Savior. It was a children's holiday for others, an excuse to color eggs and buy pet rabbits for their children. Many thought of it as both, and they would stop by the pet store on the way home from services.

Either way, it gave Easter strength. Whether they knew it or not, people were celebrating in her name on Easter Sunday, and they were celebrating her theme of rebirth, with the eggs and bunnies that had always been a part of her rituals.

It was the luck of the draw, and a simple case of name association, but it was enough. Easter fared better than most. She was one of the few that did not have to work full time, and her home was pleasant and livable.

A rustle of grass was all the warning Wednesday received. When he turned, there was a young man in front of him. He was tall and thin, and he was wearing a balaclava. He had a decent size switchblade in his outstretched hand.

"Wallet," he demanded. His voice was hoarse, muted.

"Yes," Wednesday said simply.

He made a brief show of searching himself. Then he muttered a few quiet words, and took a step forward.

The mugger lunged to meet him, jabbing at Wednesday with the knife. Wednesday caught the it blade first. The steel was solid and sharp, but it did not cut his fingers when he tightened his grip. He yanked the knife free, spun it around so the handle was in his hand, and buried it in the mugger's gut nine times.

He crumpled to the soft grass with a moan. Wednesday wiped the knife clean on the man's shirt. He pocketed it, and set out to find Easter.

6. A sixth: spells sent to hurt me will only hurt the sender.

The Bible said the Queen of Sheba had ruled with the heart of a woman and the head of a man, but Wednesday suspected this was because it was not polite for the Bible to talk about cunts. The Bible also said her journey to Jerusalem had been fueled by a thirst for knowledge. Wednesday thought it would have been more aptly named a hunger, and he doubted knowledge had ever come into it.

Bilquis had ruled Sheba at its peak, when spices and gems had flowed from its borders like water. She had been beautiful and strong, with flawless dusky skin and hair like black silk. Her honey-over-gravel voice had dripped enchantments no man could deny, and the people of Sheba had worshipped her as a Goddess while she was still alive.

She had also been half Jinn and the daughter of a witch, details the Christians neglected to mention when they made her Solomon's bride. Wednesday knew it was possible they had not realized. There was much they had not realized; like parts of the Song of Solomon were the very charm she'd used to gain her power.

She was a whore now. She turned cheap tricks in a cheap apartment behind a Los Angeles liquor store, squeaking by on the attentions of nameless, faceless men. She was weaker now, but she was still dangerous. Enchantments and charms still surrounded her like a cloud, and she still sang an almost hypnotic song of seduction. Her johns looked at her pretty face and thought they were lucky when she only asked for fifty.

The room was not warm, but Wednesday felt like he was inside and oven. The walls were a sickly shade of red, and the scarves draped over the lampshades gave the light a crimson hue. Bilquis was dark, but she seemed to glow in the red light. She was on fire, an Ifrit basking in the heat of its own flames.

She smiled at Wednesday as she spoke. Her hands slid over the contours of her body, across her breasts and down her thighs. Her eyes were hooded, heavy, and the air around Wednesday seemed to vibrate with her words.

He took a deep breath, and waved her into silence.

"I'm here to talk," he said.

"About what?" She asked.

"You know what," he growled.

"I'm not paid to talk."

"I'm not paying you, at all."

Bilquis considered this. Then she stood, and walked towards him.

"Why not?" She asked. "Don't you want to worship me?"

Wednesday grabbed her by the wrist, and scratched a sign in her skin with his thumbnail.

"I'd rather you worshipped me."

Bilquis' smile never slipped, and she was as graceful as a cat when she fell to her knees.

7. A seventh charm I know: I can quench a fire simply by looking at it.

The restaurant was a quaint establishment just on the edge of the fashionable side of town. The facade was shaped like a Tudor home, and soft, yellow light glowed through the linen-curtained windows. It promised a friendly atmosphere and menu prices that would not quite break a man's wallet.

Wednesday waited at the far end of the parking lot, drumming his fingers idly on the steering wheel. The car was a nondescript blue sedan with license plates that didn't match the registration, an owner that didn't match the name in Wednesday's wallet, and a trunk full of press-board violins.

The minutes ticked by slowly, each second floating past on the feeble, autumn wind. Wednesday's eyes flicked to the clock on the dash and his drumming faltered, his rhythm lost in irritation, annoyance. His partner should have left the restaurant by now, they should have already been out of this parking lot and halfway to the next town.

Grifts were only half clever plans and smooth lies. The other half came down to timing; the luck of being in right place at the right time, and the ability to get in and out before alarm bells rang and too many questions were raised.

Another minute passed, and another, and Wednesday began to worry. His partner was the second-best in the business, and he knew the rules of the game as well as Wednesday did. If he was lingering, there was a good chance it was not by choice. Wednesday stepped out of the car, straightening his jacket as he started for the restaurant.

There was a loud bang as Wednesday drew near, a rumble like thunder followed by a bright flash of orange-yellow light. Fire engulfed the restaurant from foundation to rooftop, and the windows shattered, releasing thick, heavy smoke into the chill September air.

The restaurant door pitched forward and his partner strode out, slowly, as if there is not a structure fire raging behind him. Flames curled possessively around his feet as he walked, and the tails of his shabby coat smoldered with hidden embers. He paused when he saw Wednesday, and handed him a press-board violin with a blackened scroll.

"Bastard wouldn't sell," he said simply, his scarred mouth curving into a smile.

Wednesday studied his partner for a moment, then turned his attention towards restaurant, frowning.

The fire winked out. The parking lot went dark, blackness swallowing everything but the light in Loki's eyes.

8. An eighth: if any man hates me, I can win his friendship.

There was a kind of power in madness. The mad were often fearless and strong, and they were often cunning. They would lie without guilt and speak without barriers, and they never worried about the repercussions of their actions.

But the mad were rarely happy, because they were disconnected and confused. They would often flit from place to place, searching for a way to bring themselves back to reality.

Mad Sweeney looked like shit.

The truck-stop was on the outskirts of Wichita. It looked like every other truck-stop Wednesday had ever seen. The booths were filled with large, bearded men in flannel jackets. The walls were plastered with highway signs. A gray cigarette-haze filled the air, and it battled for dominance with the heavy aroma of beer-battered meat.

Mad Sweeney was at the counter, ignoring a cup of coffee Wednesday bet he wasn't going to pay for. He was tipping the tobacco shavings from an empty pack of cigarettes onto a grubby rolling paper. He'd probably bummed from one of the truckers.

Wednesday asked the mostly toothless man at the register for change. He plunked fifteen quarters into the cigarette machine by the restrooms, and he tossed a soft-pack of Lucky Strikes on the counter before taking the seat next to Mad Sweeney.

His eyes narrowed when he saw Wednesday. His face was dirty, and there were crumbs in his ginger beard.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Wednesday had expected such a greeting, but he tried to look affronted. "Can't a man by a pack of cancer-sticks for an old friend?"

"We ain't friends," Mad Sweeney spat. He eyed Wednesday warily, but took the pack of cigarettes.

"You wound me."

Mad Sweeney didn't answer. He busied himself with packing the cigarettes and opening them. He slid one out by tapping the top of the pack against a grubby finger.

"Crooked bastards like you don't have friends," he said finally. "You have a job that needs doing."

"I always have a job," Wednesday admitted.

Mad Sweeney ignored this. He fished around in the pockets of his denim jacket, and produced a book of matches. It was bent and mostly empty. It was also apparently wet, because the matches refused to light. Wednesday sighed, and pulled a silver lighter out of his breast pocket.

"I don't want it," Mad Sweeney snapped.

"Have it your way, then," Wednesday said. He started to pocket the lighter, but Mad Sweeney grabbed is wrist. He snatched the lighter with his other hand, and flicked it open. His ginger beard glowed like fire behind the tiny, butane flame.

"The job, you bastard," he said. "I don't want your job."

Wednesday took the butter knife from Mad Sweeney's place-setting, and scratched lightly on the countertop with the serrated edge.

"Are you sure you won't reconsider, Mr. Sweeney?" Wednesday asked. His tone was clipped, distracted. "It pays, and I could be persuaded to buy you a couple of drinks while you are there."

"Fine. Whatever."

Wednesday abandoned the knife, and handed Mad Sweeney a piece of paper.

"Meet me at the place and time I've written here." Wednesday explained.

"What do I got to do?"

"I'll be dining with a young man when you arrive. You will join us. We will have a few drinks, and then you will pick a fight with him."

"Why?"

"I am interested in giving him a long-term job, but I need to see what he is made of, first," Wednesday said. "In my line of work, I cannot afford to hire cowards and wimps."

"Is he one of your kind?" Mad Sweeney asked. He chewed at a chapped bottom lip nervously.

Wednesday smiled. "Something like that."

"I'll be there."

"Are we friends, then?" Wednesday asked, extending his hand.

"Yeah," Mad Sweeney said. He took Wednesday's hand and squeezed. "But you are still a crooked bastard."

9. A ninth: I can sing the wind to sleep and calm a storm for long enough to bring a ship to shore.

The invention of the airplane brought travel that was efficient, allowing people to cross large distances quickly and smoothly, and without the inconvenience of the elements. But there was something to be said for sailing, for the dip and roll of waves, for ocean breezes and the feel of sea-spray on one's face.

Water was never Wednesday's business, that domain had belonged to Njord and Aegir. But his people had been sailors as much as they had been farmers, and he often felt the call of the open sea.

The in-flight meal was rubbery Salisbury steak, served with the kind of dry, flaky mashed potatoes that came from a box. Wednesday ate all of it, despite the unpleasant texture and flavor, because he learned long ago never to turn away a hot meal.

Next to him Shadow dozed, his light snores just audible over the dull thrum of the engine. His long legs were tucked clumsily under his tray table, tipping his half-eaten meal at a precarious angle. Shadow's face was not quite peaceful, and the fluorescent lights made him look sickly and washed out.

The airplane jolted, lurching sharply to one side. Shadow shifted fitfully, and the attendant broke from her conversation with a passenger to move to the front of the cabin. The airplane jolted again, bouncing up and down like a dolphin breaking a wave, and lightning flashed out the window. A roll of thunder drowned out the ding of the 'Please Fasten Seat Belts' sign, and Wednesday suddenly remembered it was Thursday.

The intercom crackled, and Wednesday distantly heard the pilot soothing the passengers with a mechanical, placating voice. Shadow shifted again, and a woman two seats over made a small, fearful noise.

Wednesday closed his eyes briefly, making a quick gesture with his hand. The airplane leveled out, and the next roll of thunder was quiet and distant. Several passengers murmured in relief, content to think the pilot had gained altitude over the storm.

The attendant approached Wednesday to take away the plates. She grumbled about Shadow's tray-table, which Wednesday and snapped shut with a smile. Then he touched his cold fingers to the attendant's arm and asked her for another Jack Daniels.

10. For a tenth charm, I learned to dispel witches, to spin them around in the skies so that they will never find their way back to their own doors again.

It was cold, and it looked like rain. A chill wind whipped through the Stop N' Go parking lot, and the tall, fluorescent lights fought to wash out the stars. Wednesday waited next to his brown-and-primer Charger with his overcoat wrapped closely around him.

A Ford Explorer pulled in, jolting as one of the rear tires took the curb. It was very sleek and very black, and the windows were nearly as dark as the paint. It was so new Wednesday could smell the leather from where he stood, and he suspected it was stolen.

The Explorer pulled into the space next to Wednesday's piece-of-shit, and Wednesday frowned. The bad guys always drove new, black cars with charcoal windows. It was a cliche that dated back to the day bad guys learned to drive, and Wednesday was tired of it.

He was tired of her, because she lived the cliches as much as she spread them.

Media wore a tailored black suit with a knee-lengthed, pencil skirt. Her tightly knotted bun made her look prim, and her low, sensible business heels clicked on the uneven pavement. She favored Wednesday with a tight, fake smile, and when she stepped close, she smelled of new cars and filed down VIN numbers.

"Have you finally decided to join us?" She asked. Her smooth tone was as fake as her smile.

He paused thoughtfully, pretending to consider, but he already knew his answer. Times were hard, and he was growing weaker by the day, but he knew he had nothing to gain by joining them. They would give him dominion over some meaningless notion with just enough followers to keep him alive, and it was nothing compared to what he could have if he waited.

Wednesday had a plan, but he could not set it in motion until Loki was out of prison. He would just have to be patient.

"No," he said simply.

"We will not offer again," Media said, her tone now icy. "We've given you too many chances already."

"I'm sorry, my dear," Wednesday said calmly. "I'm not interested."

"You should be," she replied. "One of these days, we will wipe what is left of your kind off the map."

"I would not be as easy as you think."

"Is that really a risk you are willing to take?"

"I'm a God of War," Wednesday replied. "I don't care who dies."

Media sighed, and shook her head. "Even if it is you?"

"It won't be."

Just as Media disappeared inside her shiny, black cliche, it started to rain.

Wednesday cleared his throat, and headed for the Stop N' Go for a cup of coffee. The store was clean and bright, and the clerk was an elderly woman with bluish hair. When Wednesday approached the counter, she stopped hitting the top of a small, black box to ring him up. It was a portable television, and the screen had turned to snow.

"Damn thing," she muttered. "Reception always goes out when it rains."

Wednesday smiled, and paid for his coffee with loose change.

He turned left out of the driveway and headed towards the interstate. Two miles down the road, on the corner of Main and Madison, a shiny black Explorer was wrapped around a telephone poll. A slick of oil oozed slowly into the gutter. Skid-marks glistened on the wet pavement, and the air smelled strongly of burnt rubber.

Someone so widely worshipped and revered would not be that easy to kill. Wednesday doubted she was dead, but it would get her out of his hair until he could get Loki out of prison.

11. An eleventh: if I sing it when a battle rages it can take warriors through the tumult unscathed and unhurt, and bring them safely back to their hearths and their homes.

The neon sign over the door named the place Bob's Bar and Grill in flashing green and pink lights. It was nominally a restaurant, but Wednesday thought it more correctly filled the niche between truck-stop and greasy spoon. The building was shaped like a barn, and the air in the parking lot was heavy with the smells of overcooked food and copious amounts of frying oil.

The view through the smudged windows showed Bob's was empty, and a girl with a red beehive was filing her nails behind the counter, but the flip-sign in the window said there were two more business hours to go. He nodded to Czernobog and Mr. Nancy, who pulled open the door and went inside.

Wednesday did not like the look of this place, but he did not have any other options. The House of the Rock was not exactly in the middle of a business district. The tourist brochure he picked up at the ticket window proclaimed there was another restaurant six miles down the road. It had the likely name of Mom's, but Wednesday was not going to press his luck. Bob's was closer to civilization, and he suspected 'Mom' was retired trucker with a bum knee and a suspicious cough.

He glanced inside the restaurant. Czernobog had settled into a booth along the wall that faced the highway. Mr. Nancy was speaking to the waitress with an apologetic smile on his face. His yellow-gloved hands gestured animatedly as he told her she would shortly be graced with a large party who had not called ahead.

A truck turned into the parking lot with a grating squeal of tires. It was sleek black with dark windows, and it pulled into a space a short walk from the door. The engine was shut off and the headlights were dimmed, but no one stepped out.

Wednesday ducked into the shadow of the doorway, waiting. He was expecting a visit from Loki's people tonight, but these new Gods were as self-centered and self-preserving as the old ones, and Wednesday didn't trust them. Their lackeys were brainless fools intent on impressing someone, and he trusted them even less.

Shadow drove up, stopping in front of the door. Wednesday smiled as the passengers stepped out, bowing to Mama-Ji and clapping Alviss on the back. Just as Shadow pulled away to park, four men in black suits climbed out of the black truck and started walking towards the restaurant.

Wednesday knew Loki and Shadow had been cellmates in prison, and he knew they had formed a kind of attachment. He didn't know the details of their relationship, nor did he want to, but he knew enough to know Loki would not let his men hurt Shadow too badly.

Wednesday started to hum, his breath clouding in the cold air. The approaching men paused, and Wednesday hummed louder, almost singing. The men turned slowly, woodenly, and walked the other way. Towards their truck, towards Shadow.

The son, not the father, but a sacrifice of himself to himself.

"I dedicate this battle to Odin," Wednesday whispered.

He walked inside the restaurant, ready to fight with the Gods.

12. A twelfth charm I know: if I see a hanged man I can bring him down from the gallows to whisper to us all he remembers.

When Zorya Utrennyaya opened the door, her face was as white as her nightgown. Fresh tears were rolling down her cheeks, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. She ushered Wednesday in silently. It was colder in the small apartment than it had been in the hallway.

He followed her towards the back of the apartment. A gray cat wound around her legs as she walked, meowing, but she ignored it. They passed Czernobog's room; the light was off and the door was open. Wednesday suspected he'd gone to the bar after quitting time at the slaughterhouse again.

Zorya stopped in front of the bathroom. She touched Wednesday's arm with a hand like ice, and gestured towards the door. When Wednesday opened it she started to cry. She slid down the wall to sit on the floor, her hands over her face, and the gray cat crawled in her lap.

The bathroom was colder than the rest of the apartment, and it was lit with a single, naked light bulb. Zorya Utrennyaya's father was hanging in the standup shower.

The rope around Dazhdbog's neck had been tied to the iron bars on the shower's high window. There was an overturned stool next to his right foot. His eyes were bulging and his face was bluish, and there were black marks on the shower's mauve tiles from the rubber soles of his shoes.

Wednesday stepped inside the shower. He whispered a rhythmic chain of words, and ran a finger over Dazhdbog's purplish lips.

"Why, Dazhdbog?" Wednesday asked quietly.

"I am not needed," Dazhdbog said. His voice was harsh, like table legs scraping across the floor. He did not blink, and his lips did not move. "The sun here does not need me to rise and set."

"I go home now," Dazhdbog continued. "This is a bad land for Gods."

Wednesday could only agree.

When Wednesday left the bathroom, the smell of brewing coffee had filled the apartment, and Zorya was no longer in the hallway.

Czernobog was smoking a cigarette on the living room couch, unaware of the ashes falling onto the gray carpet. His face was pale, and he had the slightly muzzy look of a very drunk person who was trying to sober up quickly.

The gray cat was sitting next to him, kneading its claws on Dazhdbog's peaked chauffeur's hat.

13. A thirteenth: if I sprinkle water on a child's head, that child will never fall in battle.

The hospital had the kind of empty, ghost-town look that said visiting hours were over. It was brightly lit, with large fluorescent lights like colorless suns, and the walls and floor were vicious in their pristine whiteness.

Loki hummed quietly as he walked, but Wednesday was silent, thoughtful. Hallways twisted in front of Wednesday like a white maze, but he knew where he needed to go. He did not slow, nor did he glance at the plastic arrow-shaped signs on the walls.

They passed a reception desk, and the young nurse behind it frowned, her face as crisp and pressed as her uniform. Wednesday ignored her. Loki leered a bit, mischief dancing in his eyes, but he kept Wednesday's pace. Wednesday grunted at him as the turned a corner, and Loki started to hum again.

Wednesday opened the door to the nursery quietly, and peered around before he walked inside. A nurse with bottle-blonde hair napped in a chair in the corner of the room, snoring softly. Her white, polyester uniform strained to contain her hefty build, and she wore one of those nursing hats that reminded Wednesday vaguely of a wimple.

The boy was a bit paler than his mother, but he had a soft tuft of his mother's thick, dark hair on the top of his head. He woke with a small infant-noise when Wednesday touched one of his pinkish cheeks, and he gazed up at Wednesday with the unfocused, slate-blue eyes of a newborn.

Wednesday considered the boy silently, and for a moment he was tempted to take him. He knew he could do it; between Loki's tricks and his charms they could walk out the front door with the boy on display and no one would notice. But he knew he shouldn't. The boy was only half, not whole, and he needed to be able to make his way in his mother's world before he could learn to make his way in Wednesday's.

Loki offered Wednesday a cup; the disposable kind from the hospital cafeteria. A blocky yellow and red rendition of the horizon curled around its waxy surface. The water inside was from the drinking fountain in the hallway, and Wednesday murmured quietly as he dipped his fingers inside. The water hit the boy's head in slow, fat drops, and he made another infant-noise, different from the last, but just as indecipherable.

Loki's hand snaked out, and a long, thin finger brushed the boy's forehead. The boy made another noise, distinctly fretful, and Wednesday favored Loki with a sharp frown.

"What?" Loki asked, his smile full of false innocence.

"Don't," Wednesday snarled.

The nurse in the corner stirred at his voice. Wednesday grabbed Loki by the arm, exiting the nursery before their timing failed and their luck ran out.

"What's his name?" Loki asked, on a stretch of desert highway an hour from the hospital.

"I didn't catch it," Wednesday replied, his eyes never leaving the road.

"You don't need it?" Loki asked.

"No," Wednesday said. "I could find him anywhere."

14. A fourteenth: I know the names of all the Gods. Every damned one of them.

Accommodations were the same all across America, whether it was Motel 6 or Super 8 or The Motorway Lodge. The rooms all had the same dark-patterned carpet that matched the curtains and bedspread, the same peeling ecru wallpaper, the same pastel cactus still-life over the bed.

They all had the same wobbly desk, next to the dresser and under the wall-mirror, with a maroon Gideon Bible in the bottom drawer and a personalized notepad and pen in the top. The chair always looked like it belonged in a coffee-shop dining room, straight-backed and thin-cushioned and about as comfortable as a brick ledge.

The notepad was too small, only a few inches long and less than that wide, and the motel name took up a good chunk of the space. Wednesday kept his writing small to compensate, his words crammed so tightly together they were barely legible. When the space ran out he tore off the top sheet, laid it neatly on the stack at the edge of the desk, and started again.

Wednesday listed the ones he'd already spoken with, and what they had said. He listed the ones he had not spoken with, with notes on where they were, where they were believed to be, or where they had last been seen. They were spread all across the country now, working shit jobs because offerings had stopped, dwindling because belief had faltered.

He also had another list, not on paper, but in his head. It was a list of the dead, many Wednesday's own kin, some his own children.

Thor, who'd swallowed the business end of a revolver one evening after a long day at the steel mill. Frigg, shot when the psychic bookshop she she'd owned was held up in a robbery she'd failed to predict. Tyr, mauled by a wolf at the zoo he'd worked at. Heimdall, stabbed seven times outside the club he'd bounced at.

The list went on: Freyja, Freyr, and Njord. Bragi, Idunn and Saga. They had all been brought here thousands of years ago, they had all been forgotten, and now they were dead.

Twenty-five years ago, he'd heard Freyja was still alive, but he'd never looked for her. Freyja had been the Queen of the Valkyries and the fairest Goddess in Asgard. He had not wanted to believe she was working the register at a lingerie shop in Hollywood.

Balder was alive, but Balder had been lucky. He'd never been brought here only to be forgotten. He'd been dead before the Leif the Lucky, son of Eirik the Red, had ever set sail for the Americas. He'd been nothing more a myth by the time the Vikings arrived, a memory prophesied to come back before the end of the world.

Shadow had arrived just in time.

15. A fifteenth: I have a dream of power, of glory and of wisdom, and I can make people believe my dreams.

Mama-Ji had a tiny house on the outskirts of a small Virginia town. She rented it from an elderly widow who rarely went outside and appreciated that Mama-Ji brought in both sets of garbage cans. The house was one room and horribly drafty, and Wednesday suspected it has once been the elderly woman's garage.

The room smelled of tea and exotic spices, and the only window was curtained with a black bed-sheet. Fat, red candles littered every flat surface; the only light in the room. A large collection of preserved heads watched Wednesday with empty eye sockets from a bookcase along one wall, and an oblong stone rested upright on a small table by the door.

A kettle whistled shrilly from where it sat on a hot-plate. She fixed herself a cup of tea, pouring it into what looked like a coffee mug that had once belong to a restaurant. She did not offer Wednesday any. She did not invite him to sit, and she did not speak until she was halfway through her tea.

"I do not know why you have come here," she said finally. She motioned vaguely in his direction, and her bracelet of hands and heads tinkled like bells.

"Yes, you do," Wednesday replied evenly.

"You are wasting your time," she said. "I want no part of your war."

"You should not have to live this way, Mama-Ji," he said, with a wide gesture. "None of us should."

"I do well enough," she snapped. She set her mug down on a small, badly varnished table with a thump.

"Not as well as you could," Wednesday ventured. "Not as well as you do in India."

"I've never done as well as here as I did in India," she said. "I should not have been brought here." She paused, toying with her necklace of silver skulls. "But I was. I do what I must, and I get by."

Wednesday knew what she was not saying. He knew she worked for a funeral home, dressing the dead for their services. He also knew the preserved heads in her bookcase had not been given as offerings. She had taken them from corpses of men and women scheduled for closed-casket funerals.

"How long can you get by, on the stolen heads of people three days dead?"

She bristled and that, and her eyes flashed, as wild and untamed as her salt-and-pepper hair.

"You go too far," she hissed, her tone dangerously quiet.

"I only speak the truth, Mama-Ji."

She frowned, but dropped his gaze. She rose, retrieved her mug, and walked back over to the hot-plate and switched it on.

Wednesday tipped one of the fat candles over, dripping red wax onto the table. He let it cool for a moment, then shaped the warm lump with the tip of a finger.

Mama-Ji returned. She frowned at him for a long time, then sighed.

"Sit," she said, pointing him to a chair. It was large and lumpy, and the stuffing was spilling out of one arm. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

16. A sixteenth charm I know: if I need love I can turn the heart and mind of any woman.

Odin was believed to be the Father of the Gods, but it was Heimdall who had created the classes of men. He had traveled the land when Midgard was new, and he had visited three men, staying in their homes for three days and three nights. During those days and nights, he had eaten their food, and slept in their beds. He had fathered children on their wives, children who grew to father the three classes of men: first, the thralls, second, the peasants, and third, the warriors and kings.

Heimdall had also told these men of their land, of the creation of Midgard and the history of the Gods. He had told them of Odin, the All-Father, the son of Bor and Bestla who had shaped the world from Ymir's body and fathered all the Gods. As Heimdall's tale spread far and wide, the people of Midgard created a vision of Odin in their heads. They pictured an older man, a fatherly man his late fifties who had gray in his hair and red in his beard.

The people of Midgard had passed these stories to their children, and their children's children and to every generation after that. When his people sailed to the Americas they had brought their Gods with them, and Wednesday had been formed in the image the Norsemen had held of Odin in their minds.

Wednesday had been a fatherly man in his late fifties with gray in his hair and red in his beard for over a thousand years. Physically, he had not aged a day since the first Viking set foot on the Northumberland shore.

Inside, he was dying.

Gods were vulerable; they needed other people to survive. They needed prayers and offerings as much as they needed food, and faith and belief was the fuel that got them out of bed in the morning. When the Christians came, Wednesday's kind was relegated to myth, but myths were still read and discussed and sometimes believed, and it had almost been enough.

These new Gods had changed everything, stealing people's attention from stories and books in a swirl of binary numbers and flashing lights. Too few knew Wednesday's name now, and fewer still believed. None offered sacrifice, not even as little as the first sip of their beer or a portion of their meal.

It was uncomfortably warm inside the convenience store. The Isley Brothers sang Twist and Shout into the thick, overheated air. The young man in line in front of Wednesday held a selection of snack foods and condiments that suggested he was incredibly stoned.

The girl behind the counter had bright pink false fingernails and a liquid southern drawl. She was chewing her gum like a cow, but she had long chestnut curls and a heart-shaped face. She could not have been more sixteen. Wednesday was willing to wager she was a virgin, and that was exactly what he needed.

Virginity itself was not so much. It was just a bit of membrane and a bit of blood, perhaps a little pain. But the idea of virginity had power. People had given it power through centuries of fussing over a girl's virtue. People had given it strength by pinning a family's honor on whether or not a daughter was pure and untouched when she went to her marriage bed.

People had turned virginity into something special. When a girl had sex for the first time, social standards and ideals said she was giving away a piece of herself. It was a relinquishment. A sacrifice.

She smiled when Wednesday approached the counter, the forced, plastic smile of someone who worked with the public. It was not sexual. It was not even friendly. Her wide hazel eyes said she saw Wednesday as just another customer, a kindly man bringing some snacks home for his wife and kids.

"Anything else?" She drawled, her garish fingernails clicking loudly on the register keys.

"No, thank you," he replied, handing her a twenty.

He jostled his cup when he took his change, and a healthy amount of coffee sloshed onto the counter. Her hazel eyes narrowed briefly, before she remembered her smile and reached for a paper towel. When she turned, Wednesday made a hasty sketch in the puddle with the tip of his finger.

She handed him the towel and this time her smile was wide, genuine.

"What time are you off, my dear?" He asked softly.

"Midnight," she replied.

Wednesday checked his watch. It was fifteen 'til.

"I'll just wait for you in the car."

17. A seventeenth, that no woman I want will ever want another.

She tasted of margaritas, and salt clung to her lower lip. She was soft and pliant as Wednesday kissed her, her mouth falling open easily, her arms winding around his neck. Wednesday hadn't caught her name, but it didn't matter.

She laughed, a clear sound like a bell. Wednesday spun her around, the mirror-ball showering fractured light over the path they cut across the dance floor. He pulled her close and kissed her again, and tequila and lime was heavy on her tongue.

She was not the prettiest woman in the room, but that didn't matter to Wednesday anymore than her name. Wednesday slid his fingers up the soft skin of her arm, and his blood sang in his veins. He hadn't felt this alive in some two hundred years, since Frigg walked away from him because she 'couldn't live this way anymore'.

There was something different about her, something that had drawn him to her as soon as he'd walked in the room. Perhaps she was one of his kind. Perhaps one of her parents had been brought here thousands of years ago, and had used hearth and home to fill the emptiness that came when belief and honor had failed.

Her hair was dark and full, and her face was slightly olive. She could have had Roman blood in her, or Greek. She could have had Slavic blood in her. Wednesday smiled at that thought. His people had been close with the Slavs and Rus once they had carved their dragon boats and learned to sail.

But Wednesday knew that didn't matter, either. What mattered was the light in her eyes, and the way her skin almost sparked under his touch. Perhaps she could give him what he wanted, the one thing he needed but had been unable to get from any other woman.

She swayed as she headed towards the bar, the tequila leaving her unsteady on her feet. He watched her a moment before following, appreciating the smooth line of her legs and the curve of her hips. She leaned on the bar as she ordered, and she spoke slowly, as if trying not to slur her words.

There was a man at her elbow before Wednesday reached the bar. He was tall and dark and a good fifteen years younger than Wednesday, and he smiled like a wolf as he offered to pay for her drink.

"I'm sorry," she said carefully. "I'm here with someone."

She turned, her margarita sloshing over the side of the glass, and reached for Wednesday's hand.

18. And I know an eighteenth charm, and that charm is the greatest of all, and that charm I can tell no man, for a secret that no one knows but you is the most powerful secret there can ever be.

Odin was the All-Father. He was the first and the greatest, the Lord of Asgard and the King of the Aesir. He was the creator of all things, and the father of the Gods.

He shaped the Nine Worlds from Ymir's body. He formed the earth from Ymir's flesh and the mountains from his bones. He made Ymir's skull the into sky, and let his blood flow into the ocean and seas.

His children were the greatest of the Aesir. Thor the Thunderer and Heimdall the Watcher. Vali and Vidar the Avengers. Tyr One-Handed and Bragi the Bard. His only daughter was called Saga. He hid her in a waterfall and tasked her with writing the history of the Nine Worlds.

His favorite son was Balder. He was the God of Light, and the Aesir's shinging star.

Asgard was the most beautiful of the Nine Worlds, and Odin set it aside for the Aesir to make their homes and hearths. Halls were built for each and every one, halls of gold and silver and water and light. On Idavoll, the Shining Plain, he built halls for the Aesir to meet, Vingolf for the Goddesses and Gladheim for the Gods.

The grandest halls his own. He built Valhalla for the warriors slain in battle, with five hundred and forty doors and a roof made of shields. Valaskjalf he built for himself, for him and his wife to call home.

From his high seat in Valaskjalf, Odin had a view of the Nine Worlds. He watched both Gods and Men, and he saw what had passed and what was to come.

He saw, and he knew.

He knew the name of every God, and he knew the heart of every man. He knew the outcome of every battle, and he knew the names of those who would die.

Odin knew Loki, his foster-brother, would fight against him in Ragnarok. He knew that Balder, who had been slain by Loki's treachery, would come back from the Land of the Dead before the end of the world.

He knew that in America, there was a man called Wednesday. Odin was not Wednesday, but Wednesday was him, and he knew that Wednesday was starting a war in his name.

There was one more thing he knew, something he had never shared, and never would. Not even with Frigg, his best beloved, or with Balder, his most favorite son.

From his high seat in Valaskjalf, we watched the Nine Worlds. He saw, and he knew how all things would end.

FIN

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