The Lost Gods (17 page)

Somehow, thought Freya as she trudged home from the corner shop through the mounds of drifting snow, trying not to slip on the icy pavement, it wasn't going to plan. Thanks to her, the Gods had regained their bright fame, idolised and worshipped as never before. And yet they seemed in no rush to reveal their true selves. Or to return to Asgard. Or to stop the frost giants. Last time Freya had even seen the Gods – and that was a while ago – she'd noticed the glossy estate agent brochures strewn everywhere. What was
that
about, she'd wondered.

Since then, Thor had actually bought a
mansion with his massive football earnings, and she'd heard that all three Gods were living there, protected by 24-hour security guards, crash barriers, and Snot. When they'd left – okay, been kicked out of the Ritz – no one had said anything about her joining them in millionaires' row, so she'd returned home to find Clare still out clubbing every night and the house a tip and party central.

Why weren't the Gods doing anything, she thought, as hail and sleet pelted her. The world had shivered through the coldest autumn and winter on record. Now it was April, and the Thames was freezing over. Freya had tried phoning them on their bling-bling, diamond-encrusted smart phones, yet she always went straight to answerphone. Were they avoiding her, she wondered? Or just too busy with parties and famous friends and personal appearances?

They're our Gods, they must know what they're doing, thought Freya, her teeth chattering. I'm a kid. Shy. Funny-looking. Not
even near the top of my class. Picked last for team sports. What can I do?

She passed the bus stop, covered in images of Thor advertising running shoes, and the newsagent. A headline caught her eye. In fact, several headlines. She stopped, transfixed.

Oh no, she thought. Please no.

Veronica opened the papers. They did not make pleasant reading. Freyja, her new supermodel, was accused of cheating on several boyfriends. That's when she wasn't busy shoplifting. Thor, Veronica's new footballing superstar, was accused of having kidnapped two children and keeping them as virtual slaves. There was a lurid kiss-and-tell, in fact several kiss-and-tells, about her rock superstar Woden. The internet was buzzing with horrible gossip.

Where did all of these scandalous stories come from, she wondered? Where did these lie-smiths get their facts? Who was spreading these shocking rumours about the Gods? Who
wanted to destroy their reputation? And why?

Who was de-faming them?

Her phone rang, the piercing alarm tone she used for her most important clients.

Veronica grabbed it.

A voice screeched in her ear.

‘Sit tight, I'm coming right away,' she said.

Up in Asgard, beneath the vast, arching branches of the giant ash tree, Yggdrasil, was a circle of ivory-white stone thrones, their seats worn smooth. The Gods and Goddesses were gathered there in Council, around a glimmering pool of blue-black water.

‘
What
are they doing?' said Njord. ‘Every time I sit in Woden's High Seat to peer into Midgard I see them. The Terrible One, the Father of Battle, is singing and leaping about, or signing pieces of parchment for clamouring mortals. Thor is running up and down a field chasing an inflated pig's bladder, and my daughter Freyja is – I'm not sure what she's doing, strutting
up and down a walkway each time in different clothes, while people point flashing objects at her.'

‘Have they fallen under a troll's spell?' asked Woden's wife, Frigg.

‘And now the frost giants are on the march,' said Heimdall. ‘The Wolf Age and the Ice Age will be upon us.'

‘What are we going to do?' said Sif.

The Immortals sat in silence, heads bowed.

Above them the leaves of the World Tree shimmered in a sudden gust of wind. The great branches swayed and creaked.

The Gods shivered.

There were some advantages, thought Freya, as she let herself into the cold, dirty house, stomping the snow off her scuffed shoes, to having a mother who was rarely home. No one to make her go to school, clean her room, or stop her from going out. On the other hand, she was getting a little tired of eating cereal all the time and the milk being off and having to go through Clare's pockets for cash when she was snoring off the excesses of a hard night's partying.

The TV was blaring loudly in the sitting room. Freya walked in to find Clare with dyed pink and orange hair sprawled on the sofa in her filthy hobnail boots watching the
Shopping Channel, eating crisps, fiddling with her nose ring and listening to music on her headphones.

‘You still here?' said Clare, rolling her eyes. She looked absolutely ridiculous in laddered black tights, a silver sequin micro mini skirt and tight red T-shirt with a picture of a man sticking out his studded tongue.

‘I live here,' said Freya. She looked at Clare's arm.

‘Mum!' wailed Freya. ‘You haven't gone and got a … tattoo. Ick.'

‘So what if I have?' said Clare. ‘And stop calling me Mum.'

‘It's horrible,' said Freya, looking with distaste at the hissing snake wrapped round a wolf's skull writhing all over her mother's freckly wrist.

‘Then don't look at it,' said Clare. ‘Gods, I'm bored. Why is there never anything to eat in this stupid house?'

‘Because you haven't gone shopping and
I'm busy trying to save the world,' snapped Freya.

Clare rolled her eyes. ‘Oh yeah, Supergirl. Whatever. Wake me when it's over.'

When oh when would that apple wear off, thought Freya.

‘By the way something weird happened today,' said Clare, biting her nails. ‘This priest guy, Karl, came round, said I hadn't been to Fane in ages and he and the Throng were worried about me. I say,
me
, but I didn't have a clue what he was talking about. Why would I be hanging around a Fane? I mean, obvs, if Oski is making a personal appearance, then yeah, but otherwise …' she yawned elaborately.

‘Did he recognise you?' asked Freya.

‘What do you mean,
recognise
me? Like from
Crimewatch
? No. He asked me to tell Clare he'd stopped by. Like I said, weird.'

Freya looked at her mum, who for a moment seemed uncertain and disoriented.

‘The world is full of weirdos, including you,
loser,' said Clare.

There was a frantic pounding on Freya's front door.

‘Oh Gods,
him
again,' said Clare. ‘Tell him I'm out.' She plugged in her earphones and closed her eyes.

Freya opened the door, scrambling to think of a convincing lie.

It wasn't Karl. It was Alfi and Roskva. They looked pale and windswept, as if they had run all the way from Asgard to Midgard.

‘Thank Gods you're here,' said Freya, hugging them both. At last. She wasn't alone any more, trying to be the grown-up to a teenage mum.

Only Alfi hugged her in return. His face felt frozen. Roskva held back, stiff as always.

‘Where's Woden? Where's Thor? Where's Freyja?' they clamoured.

‘Probably being interviewed by
ICE
magazine or at a nightclub,' said Freya grimly.

‘What?' said Alfi.

‘The Gods have sent us to fetch them back
to Asgard immediately,' said Roskva.

‘The frost giants are coming,' they said in unison. ‘They've broken free.'

Freya breathed deeply. She hustled them into the kitchen past her mother and shut the door.

‘What's going on?' said Roskva. ‘The Gods are frightened. There's been no word from the All-Father for months.'

‘What's happened to them?' asked Alfi.

‘I don't know,' said Freya. ‘I thought fame would make them powerful again, and it has, but they are – changed. Drugged. I think I may have done something terrible.' She stopped speaking, horrified at the words escaping her mouth.

‘It's not your fault,' said Alfi.

‘Then whose is it?' said Roskva. ‘The frost giants—'

‘They wanted fame,' said Freya. ‘And I got them fame.'

‘And it's obviously gone completely to their heads,' said Roskva.

‘They're worshipped everywhere,' said Freya.
‘They're strong and powerful and admired again. But I think all they care about now is whose fame shines brightest.'

‘They never much cared about people before, you know,' said Roskva. ‘We worshipped them because they terrified us. Thor could have wiped out my family with a snap of his fingers.'

‘They created us, and then forgot about us,' said Freya.

‘We've always been the playthings of the Gods,' said Roskva.

‘But they need us as much as we need them,' said Freya. ‘I see that now. In fact, they need us
more
than we need them.'

Freya shivered at the thought. Alfi blanched.

‘Don't
say
that,' he hissed. ‘You're wrong. Just wait till the giants come, and see whether we need the Gods or not.'

‘Gods don't exist unless people worship them,' said Freya. ‘Well, they worship them now. But for how long? The Gods will soon be yesterday's news unless they do more to merit
their fame. Already the newspapers have started to tear them down. Don't they owe us
something
for our worship?'

‘The Gods can do what they like,' said Roskva. ‘They can help us or not. They can build. They can destroy.'

They looked at one another. Freya saw the terror in their eyes.

‘We've got to warn them the frost giants are coming,' said Freya. ‘They'll listen to you.'

The giants lumbered across Asgard's wide plains, roaring and howling, blasting the green lands with their billowing frost, their hissing breath.

Thousands of fans wearing woolly hats and winter coats huddled outside the high stone walls of Thor's gated mansion on Archpriests Avenue. The noisy crowd, though numerous, was smaller than the screaming hordes which had once gathered outside the Ritz.