The Ship of the Dead by Rick Riordan

LEGENDS TELL USthat Valhalla has 540 doors, conveniently distributed across the Nine Worlds for easy access.

The legends don’t mention that one of those entrances is in the Forever 21 store on Newbury Street, just behind the women’s activewear rack.

It normally wasn’t the entrance I liked to use, but it was the closest to Uncle Randolph’s mansion. Nobody in Valhalla could explain to me why we had a gateway in Forever 21. Some speculated it was left over from a time when the building was not a retail store. Personally, I thought the location might be one of Odin’s little jokes, since a lot of his einherjar were literally forever twenty-one, or sixteen, or sixty.

My dwarf friend Blitzen especially hated that entrance. Every time I mentioned Forever 21, he would launch into a rant about how his fashions were much better. Something about hemlines. I don’t know.

I strolled through the lingerie section, getting a strange look from a saleslady, then dove into the activewear rack and popped out the other side into one of the Hotel Valhalla’s game rooms. There was a pool tournament in progress, which Vikings play with spears instead of pool cues. (Hint: Never stand behind a Viking when he shoots.) Erik the Green from floor 135 greeted me cheerfully. (From what I can tell, approximately 72 percent of the population of Valhalla is named Erik.)

“Hail, Magnus Chase!” He pointed at my shoulder. “You’ve got some spandex just there.”

“Oh, thanks.” I untangled the yoga pants that had gotten stuck on my shirt and tossed them into the bin marked FOR RESTOCKING.

Then I strode off to find my friends.

Walking through the Hotel Valhalla never got old. At least it hadn’t for me so far, and einherjar who’d been here hundreds of years had told me the same thing. Thanks to the power of Odin, or the magic of the Norns, or maybe just the fact that we had an on-site IKEA, the decor was constantly changing, though it always incorporated a lot of spears and shields, and perhaps more wolf motifs than I would’ve liked.

Even just finding the elevators required me to navigate hallways that had changed size and direction since the morning, past rooms I’d never seen before. In one enormous oak-paneled lounge, warriors played shuffleboard with oars for pushers and combat shields for pucks. Many of the players sported leg splints, arm slings, and head bandages, because—of course—einherjar played shuffleboard to the death.

The main lobby had been re-carpeted in deep crimson, a great color to hide bloodstains. The walls were now hung with tapestries depicting Valkyries flying into battle against fire giants. It was beautiful work, though the proximity of so many wall torches made me nervous. Valhalla was pretty lax about safety codes. I didn’t like burning to death. (It was one of my least favorite ways to die, right up there with choking on the after-dinner mints in the feast hall.)

I took the elevator up to floor nineteen. Unfortunately, the elevator music hadn’t changed. It was getting to the point where I could sing along with Frank Sinatra in Norwegian. I was just glad I lived on a low floor. If I lived somewhere up in the hundreds, I would have gone…well, berserk.

On floor nineteen, everything was strangely quiet. No sounds of video-game violence emanated from Thomas Jefferson Jr.’s room. (Dead Civil War soldiers love their video games almost as much as they love charging up hills.) I saw no signs that Mallory Keen had been practicing her knife-throwing in the hallway. Halfborn Gunderson’s room was open and being serviced by a flock of ravens, who swirled through his library and his weapons collection, dusting books and battle-axes. The big man himself was nowhere to be seen.

My own room had recently been cleaned. The bed was made. In the central atrium, the trees had been pruned and the grass mowed. (I could never figure out how the ravens operated a lawn mower.) On the coffee table, a note in T.J.’s elegant script read:

We’re at dock 23, sublevel 6. See you there!

The TV had been turned to the Hotel Valhalla Channel, which displayed a list of the afternoon’s events: racquetball, machine-gun tag (like laser tag, except with machine guns), watercolor painting, Italian cooking, advanced sword-sharpening, and something called flyting—all done to the death.

I stared wistfully at the screen. I’d never wanted to practice watercolor painting to the death before, but now I was tempted. It sounded much easier than the trip I was about to take from dock twenty-three, sublevel six.

First things first: I showered off the smell of Boston Harbor. I changed into new clothes. I grabbed my go bag: camping supplies, some basic provisions, and, of course, some chocolate bars.

As nice as my hotel suite was, I didn’t have much in the way of personal stuff—just a few of my favorite books, and some photos from my past that magically appeared over time, gradually filling up the fireplace mantel.

The hotel wasn’t meant to be a forever home. We einherjar might stay here for centuries, but it was only a stopover on our way to Ragnarok. The whole hotel radiated a sense of impermanence and anticipation. Don’t get too comfortable, it seemed to say. You might be leaving any minute to go die your final death at Doomsday. Hooray!

I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror. I wasn’t sure why it mattered. I’d never cared much about appearances during the two years I’d lived on the streets, but lately Alex Fierro had been teasing me mercilessly, which made me more conscious of how I looked.

Besides, if you don’t check yourself from time to time in Valhalla, you could be walking around for hours with raven poop on your shoulder, or an arrow in your butt, or a pair of yoga pants wrapped around your neck.

Hiking boots: check. New pair of jeans: check. Green Hotel Valhalla T-shirt: check. Down jacket, appropriate for cold-water expeditions and falling off masts: check. Runestone pendant that could turn into a heartbroken magical sword: check.

After living on the streets, I wasn’t used to my face looking so clean. I definitely wasn’t used to my new haircut, which Blitz had first given me during our expedition into Jotunheim. Since then, every time it started to grow out, Alex hacked it off again, leaving my bangs just long enough to fall in my eyes, the back chopped to collar level. I was used to my hair being much wilder and more wiry, but Alex took such glee in murdering my blond locks it was impossible to tell him no.

It’s perfect!Alex said. Now you at least look like you’re groomed, but your face is still obscured!

I slipped Randolph’s notebook into my pack, along with one last item I’d been trying hard not to think about—a certain silk handkerchief I’d gotten from my father.

I sighed at the Magnus in the mirror. “Well, sir, you’d better get going. Your friends are eagerly waiting to laugh at you.”

“There he is!” yelled Halfborn Gunderson, berserker extraordinaire, speaker of the obvious.

He barreled toward me like a friendly Mack truck. His hair was even wilder than mine used to be. (I was pretty sure he cut it himself, using a battle-ax, in the dark.) He wore a T-shirt today, which was unusual, but his arms were still a wild landscape of muscle and tattoo. Strapped across his back was his battle-ax named Battle-Ax, and holstered up and down his leather breeches were half a dozen knives.

He wrapped me in a bear hug and lifted me off my feet, perhaps testing to make sure my rib cage would not crack under pressure. He put me down and patted my arms, apparently satisfied.

“You ready for a quest?” he bellowed. “I’m ready for a quest!”

From the edge of the canal, where she was coiling ropes, Mallory Keen called, “Oh, shut up, you oaf! I still think we should use you as the rudder.”

Halfborn’s face mottled red, but he kept his eyes on me. “I’m trying not to kill her, Magnus. I really am. But it’s so hard. I’d better keep busy or I’m going to do something I’ll regret. You have the handkerchief?”

“Uh, yes, but—”

“Good man. Time’s a-wasting!”

He tromped back to the dockside and began sorting his supplies—huge canvas duffels no doubt full of food, weapons, and lots of spare leather breeches.

I scanned the length of the cavern. Along the left-hand wall, a river rushed through the canal, emerging from a train-size tunnel on one end and disappearing into an identical tunnel on the other. The barreled ceiling was polished wood, amplifying the water’s roar and making me feel like we were standing inside an old-fashioned root-beer keg. Supplies and baggage lined the dock, just waiting for a ship to be put on.

At the far end of the room, Thomas Jefferson Jr. stood deep in conversation with the hotel manager, Helgi, and his assistant, Hunding, all three of them looking over some paperwork on a clipboard. Since I had an aversion to paperwork and also to Helgi, I walked over to Mallory, who was now stuffing iron grappling hooks into a burlap sack.

She was dressed in black furs and black denim, her red hair pulled back in a severe bun. In the torchlight, her freckles glowed orange. As usual, she wore her trusty pair of knives at her sides.

“Everything good?” I asked, because clearly it wasn’t.

She scowled. “Don’t you start, too, Mister—” She called me a Gaelic term I didn’t recognize, but I was fairly sure it didn’t mean dearest friend. “We’ve been waiting on you and the boat.”

“Where are Blitzen and Hearthstone?”

It had been several weeks since I’d seen my dwarf and elf buddies, and I’d been looking forward to them sailing with us. (One of the few things I was looking forward to.)

Mallory grunted impatiently. “We’re picking them up on the way.”

That could have meant we were stopping by a different part of Boston, or stopping by a different world, but Mallory didn’t look like she was in the mood to elaborate. She scanned the space behind me and scowled. “What about Alex and Samirah?”

“Alex said they’d meet us later.”

“Well, then.” Mallory made a shooing gesture. “Go sign us out.”

“Sign us out?”

“Yeah…” She drawled the word to indicate just how slow she thought I was. “With Helgi. The manager. Off you go!”

Since she was still holding a fistful of grappling hooks, I did what she told me.

T.J. had his foot planted on a supply box, his rifle across his back. The brass buttons gleamed on his Union Army coat. He tipped his infantry cap at me in greeting. “Just in time, my friend!”

Helgi and Hunding exchanged nervous looks, the way they did whenever Odin announced one of his motivational staff retreats.

“Magnus Chase,” Helgi said, tugging at his roadkill beard. He was dressed in his usual dark green pinstripe suit, which he probably thought made him look like a service-industry professional, but only made him look like a Viking in a pinstripe suit. “We were beginning to worry. The high tide will be here any minute.”

I looked at the water raging down the canal. I knew that several subterranean rivers wove their way through Valhalla, but I didn’t understand how they could be subject to tides. I also didn’t see how the water level here could get any higher without flooding the entire room. Then again, I was having a conversation with two dead Vikings and a Civil War soldier, so I decided to give logic a rest.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was…”

I waved vaguely, trying to indicate reading mysterious journals, killing wolves, breaking my leg in Boston Harbor.

T.J. practically vibrated with excitement. “You got the boat? I can’t wait to see it!”

“Uh, yeah.” I started rummaging in my knapsack, but the handkerchief seemed to have fallen to the bottom.

Hunding wrung his hands. His bellhop uniform was buttoned wrong, like he’d rushed to get dressed this morning. “You didn’t lose it, did you? Oh, I warned you about leaving unattended magic items in your room! I told the cleaning ravens not to touch it. ‘It’s a warship!’ I said. ‘Not a napkin!’ But they kept wanting to launder it with the linens. If it’s missing—”

“Then you’ll be held responsible,” Helgi snarled at the bellhop. “Floor nineteen is your service area.”

Hunding winced. He and Helgi had a feud that went back several centuries. The manager welcomed any excuse to make Hunding work extra shifts shoveling garbage into the incinerators or hosing out the lindworm warrens.

“Relax.” I pulled out the piece of cloth. “See? Here it is. And, Hunding, this is for you.” I handed him one of my chocolate bars. “Thanks for keeping an eye on my room while I’m gone.”

The bellhop’s eyes turned misty. “Kid, you’re the best. You can leave unattended magic items in your room anytime!”

“Hmph.” Helgi scowled. “Well, then, Magnus Chase, I’ll need you to sign out.” He thrust the clipboard at me. “Read carefully and initial at the bottom of each page.”

I flipped through a dozen pages of dense contract language. I skimmed over phrases like In the event of death by squirrel attack and The proprietor shall not be held liable for off-site dismemberment. No wonder my friends preferred to leave the hotel without permission. The release forms were brutal.

T.J. cleared his throat. “So, Magnus, maybe while you’re doing that, I could set up the boat? Can I? I’m ready to get this regiment underway!”

I could tell. He was loaded down with enough ammunition pouches, haversacks, and canteens for a thirty-day march. His eyes gleamed as brightly as his bayonet. Since T.J. was usually the voice of reason on floor nineteen, I was glad to have him along, even if he did get a little too excited about full frontal charges on enemy positions.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure, man.”

“YAY!” He plucked the handkerchief out of my hand and hustled toward the dock.

I signed the release forms, trying not to get hung up on the clauses about arbitration in case we got incinerated in the fires of Muspellheim or got pulverized by frost giants. I handed the clipboard back to Helgi.

The manager frowned. “You sure you read everything?”

“Uh…yeah. I’m a fast reader.”

Helgi gripped my shoulder. “Then good luck, Magnus Chase, son of Frey. And remember, you must stop Loki’s ship Naglfar from sailing at Midsummer—”

“I know.”

“—or Ragnarok begins.”

“Right.”

“Which means our renovations to the banquet hall won’t ever be complete, and we’ll never get high-speed Internet restored on floor two hundred forty-two.”

I nodded grimly. I did not need the extra pressure of being responsible for an entire floor’s Internet connection. “We’ll succeed. Don’t worry.”

Helgi tugged at his beard. “But if you do start Ragnarok, could you please get back here as soon as possible, or send us a text?”

“Okay. Um, a text?”

As far as I knew, the hotel staff just used ravens. They didn’t know how to use mobile devices. None of them even had numbers. But that didn’t stop them from talking a good game.

“We’ll need to get everyone started on their checkout surveys before we march off to Doomsday,” Helgi explained. “To expedite their deaths. If you can’t make it back, you can also fill out your survey online. And if you wouldn’t mind marking excellent wherever it mentions the manager, I’d appreciate it. Odin does read those.”

“But if we’re all going to die anyway—”

“Good man.” He patted my shoulder. “Well, have a safe—er, successful journey!”

He tucked the clipboard under his arm and strolled off, probably going to inspect those renovations to the banquet hall.

Hunding sighed. “That man has no sense. Thanks for the chocolate, though, my boy. I just wish there was something more I could do for you.”

My scalp tingled with inspiration. During my time at the hotel, Hunding had become my best source of information. He knew where all the bodies were buried (literally). He knew all the secret room service menu items, and how you could get from the lobby to the observation deck above the Grove of Glasir without having to pass through the gauntlet of gift shops. He was a walking Vikingpedia.

I pulled out Randolph’s journal and showed him the last page. “Any idea what this word means?” I pointed to mjöð.

Hunding laughed. “It says mead, of course!”

“Huh. So it has nothing to do with cows.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. What about this name here—Bolverk?”

Hunding flinched so violently he dropped his chocolate bar. “Bolverk? NO. No, no, no. What is this book, anyway? Why would you possibly—?”

“Argh!” Halfborn yelled from dockside. “Magnus, we need you over here, now!”

The river was starting to surge, frothing and lapping over the edge of the canal. T.J. shook the handkerchief desperately, yelling, “How does it work? How does it work?”

It hadn’t occurred to me that the foldable ship, being a gift from my dad, might only work for me. I ran over to help.

Mallory and Halfborn were scrambling to gather their supplies.

“We’ve got a minute at most before the high tide comes flooding through here!” yelled Halfborn. “Ship, Magnus! Now!”

I took the handkerchief and tried to steady my shaking hands. I’d practiced this ship-unfolding trick a couple of times on calmer water, once by myself and once with Alex, but I could still hardly believe it would work. I definitely wasn’t looking forward to the results.

I flicked the handkerchief toward the water. As soon as the cloth hit the surface, the corners unfolded and unfolded and kept unfolding. It was like watching the building of a Lego model in a sped-up stop-motion video. In the space of two breaths, a Viking longship lay at anchor in the canal, the turbulent water coursing around its stern.

But, of course, nobody complimented me on its beautifully trimmed hull, or the elaborate Viking shields lining the rails, or the five rows of oars ready for service. No one noted how the mainmast was hinged and folded over so it could pass through this low tunnel without breaking apart. No one gasped at the beauty of the carved dragon figurehead, or praised the fact that the ship was much larger and more spacious than your typical longship, even boasting a covered area belowdecks so we wouldn’t have to sleep in the rain and snow.

Mallory Keen’s first comment was, “Can we talk about the color?”

T.J. frowned. “Why is it—?”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “I don’t know why it’s yellow!”

My father, Frey, had sent me the boat weeks ago, promising that it was the perfect vessel to use on our voyage. It would get us where we needed to go. It would protect us on the most treacherous seas.

My friends had been excited. They had trusted me, even when I’d refused to give them a preview of our magical ship.

But why, oh, why had my father made the boat the color of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!^®?

Everything about it was neon, eye-melting yellow: the ropes, the shields, the hull, the sail, the rudder, even the dragon figurehead. For all I knew, the bottom of the keel was yellow, too, and we’d blind every fish we sailed past.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Halfborn said, scowling at me like it mattered very much. “Load up! Hurry!”

A roar echoed from the upstream tunnel like an approaching freight train. The ship banged against the dock. Halfborn tossed our supplies on deck as T.J. hauled up the anchor, while Mallory and I held the mooring lines fast with all our einherji strength.

Just as Halfborn threw the last sacks, a wall of water burst out of the tunnel behind us.

“Let’s go!” yelled T.J.

We jumped aboard as the wave slammed into our stern, propelling us forward like the kick of a seventy-million-gallon mule.

I glanced back at the dock one last time. Hunding the bellhop stood knee-deep in water, clutching his chocolate bar, staring at me as we rocketed into the darkness, his face bleached with shock as if, after all these centuries of dealing with the dead in Valhalla, he’d finally seen an actual ghost.