Hexed_ The Iron Druid Chronicles - Kevin Hearne [47]
But why did Fortune seem to be pushing me into a street fight with Thor? Stealing the golden apples of Idunn would rouse him as surely as would sitting down on a porcupine.
“Have you been talking to my lawyer, Leif Helgarson?” I asked Laksha. “Pale, spooky bastard with blond hair and an English business suit?”
“No.” She shook her head and frowned. “I thought your lawyer was the werewolf we rescued in the mountains.”
“He is. I have two lawyers, but they both hate Thor. Did either of them put you up to this?”
“Most of the world hates Thor.” Laksha smiled. “But, no, they have not spoken with me about this.”
“Is this your way, then, of getting me to fight him? It seems like everyone wants to put us in the Thunderdome and buy front-row seats.”
“No, this is my way of preserving this body so that I avoid further karmic debt.”
I sighed to release some of the tension in my muscles and rubbed my eyes with my knuckles. “All right. Let’s think this through. If your goal is to grow your own apple tree with the super-duper fruit of eternal youth, you don’t actually need all of Idunn’s apples, right? You only need one for the seeds.”
“No.” Laksha shook her head again and tapped the table repeatedly to emphasize her point. “I want them all, in case I get a dud.”
“Well, I want to have a chance of living through this if I’m going to consider it. If I steal one apple, I might be able to get away without anyone noticing, because the mythology says she keeps her apples in a basket and it’s always full. But if I steal the whole lot, every single Norse god will be after me—and after you too, I might add. Be reasonable. One apple will suffice.”
“How can I be assured the apple you bring me is Idunn’s?”
“Well, it’ll be golden, for one thing, and after you take a bite of it you should feel pretty fucking good, if reports are to be believed.”
Laksha laughed. “All right. You have proven to be as good as your word in the past. Twelve dead Bacchants tonight in exchange for one of Idunn’s golden apples before New Year’s Day.”
We shook hands on it while Granuaile shook her head in wonder. “I’ve listened in on some pretty weird conversations while tending bar,” she said, “but I think this is the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard.”
Chapter 12
People who don’t live in Scottsdale like to sneer derisively and call it “Snotsdale.” People who do live there tend to call everyone else “jealous.” Both groups have a point.
Scottsdale has more plastic surgeons per capita than anywhere except for Beverly Hills; some high school kids get procedures from their parents as graduation presents. Its wide residential streets of custom homes compete with one another to be featured in architectural and design magazines, and the sleek luxury autos in the garages are testosterone boosters for middle-aged men taking once-a-day Cialis to please their sleek luxury girlfriends. It’s a resort town with much of its real estate occupied by golf courses and egos.
Many of the young and beautiful egos habitually crammed themselves into Satyrn, one of the city’s hotter nightclubs. They would be dressed expensively, scented with something French, scrubbed and primped and teased and pushed-up and bedecked in just the right amount of bling. They were the sons and daughters of affluence, accustomed to excess and looking for more of it—in other words, excellent prey for the Bacchants.
After sending Granuaile home, Laksha and I took a taxi to a Target so that I could buy a couple of wooden baseball bats. The cashier almost cringed as she rang them up, keeping her eyes down and casting only furtive glances at me. She was probably doubting my emotional stability, since I had a sword strapped to my back and I was buying sporting goods at night. Store security belatedly realized I was carrying a weapon around their place of business, so as the cashier held out my receipt in a trembling hand, they showed up and escorted me to the exit