Divine Misfortune

26

There was a time, centuries ago, when Lucky had loved blowing off the day to watch the latest round of good, clean carnage Valhalla had to offer. But that was before Odin put in the stadium seating and the concession stands and started selling tickets to the show. Back before the warriors were all divided into teams and the play-off system was instituted. Back when warriors battled for the love of slaughter and the promise of a resurrection and feast at the end of the day.

Things had changed. Things always did. But not every change was for the better. Lucky couldn’t blame Odin for selling out. He had to pay the bills somehow. It wasn’t enough to get by on tribute anymore. Any god with a real operation had to have some cold hard cash in the bank, too.

But Lucky did miss the days when the fields of Valhalla were a little more exclusive, before any mortal with a few hundred bucks to spare could buy a season ticket, paint his body red, and scream at the top of his lungs like a moron while blocking Lucky’s view.

It was battle-ax giveaway day, and Lucky considered planting the weapon right in the mortal’s back. But this was frowned upon, and it was bound to get him kicked out.

He glanced around the shrieking mortal, but the battle raging below was a distant chaos of tiny combatants. Balder had promised to hook Lucky up. The short notice wasn’t supposed to be a problem. Apparently that meant the cheap seats in the nosebleed section, seated among a throng of mortals. Lucky hadn’t expected a skybox, but something behind fort hill wouldn’t have been too much to ask. He couldn’t even hear the cheerleaders as they banged their shields and swords together to work up the crowd.

A Valkyrie vending refreshments walked up the aisle. Lucky tried to catch her attention, but her back always seemed to be turned. He struggled to get comfortable in the cheap plastic seats, but if there was a trick to it, he hadn’t figured it out.

The guy next to Lucky said something. Rather than admit that he hadn’t caught it, Lucky nodded, forced a polite smile, and hoped the man would take the hint.

“I’m Bob,” he shouted above the din. “Bob Saget. Not the actor and comedian, though I have been told I look like him.”

“Uh-hmm,” said Lucky, intently watching the Valkyrie to avoid missing his chance.

“It’s why I grew the beard,” said Bob. “The wife isn’t crazy about it, but I told her that it was her own fault for marrying a man named Bob Saget who resembles Bob Saget.”

The Valkyrie turned. Lucky raised his hand.

“Guess what she said?” asked Bob.

Lucky glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

“Guess what she said? My wife.”

“I don’t know.” Lucky looked back, but the Valkyrie had wandered in another direction.

“She said that was why she married me. Because I looked like Bob Saget. Someone actually married me because of my resemblance to Bob Saget? Can you imagine that?”

“Can’t say that I can.” Lucky slid back into his seat with a sigh.

“You gotta like the Barbarians this season,” said Bob. “They’ll never make the Battle Royale, of course. Not until they get a few guns in the lineup. Swords and axes will only get you so far these days.”

Catapults launched several flaming projectiles that sailed across the field and exploded. A dragon roared its hideous death rattle as soldiers riddled it with semiautomatic machine gun fire. The Legionnaires pushed closer to the Barbarians’ fortress, but it was still anyone’s battle. The crowd cheered.

And Lucky couldn’t care less.

This was supposed to help get his mind off of his problems. But fate was conspiring against him. Fate, cheap seats, Valkyries that were deliberately ignoring him (he was pretty sure). And Bob. He couldn’t forget about Bob.

“I’ve heard rumors they’re considering letting the Joes field a Sherman tank next year.”

Lucky jumped out of his seat without excusing himself. Bob was probably still talking. Lucky didn’t look back to check. He approached the Valkyrie.

“One mead lite, please.”

She glared at him with stern judgment, but that was a standard expression among Valkyries. Especially Valkyries in miniskirts, stuck selling hot dogs and turkey legs.

“Sorry, sir. We’re all out.”

“One regular mead then.”

“All out of that, too.”

“Fine. I’ll take that.” He pointed to the last mug on her tray. “Whatever it is.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I just sold it.”

“Sold it? To who?”

“This gentleman.” She handed the mug to a customer sitting within arm’s reach.

He said, “Excuse me, but I didn’t ask for-”

“Yes, you did.”

“But-”

“On the house. Enjoy with our compliments, sir.” She turned and walked away.

He shrugged, then took a drink.

Lucky ran after the Valkyrie.

“What was that about, lady? Do you know who I am? I’m close friends with ol’ One-Eye himself. I could have you fired-”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked.

He swore under his breath. “Sure I do.”

She covered her name tag. “What’s my name?”

“Brunhilde.”

The Valkyrie snarled. “Lucky guess.”

She was right, and he felt guilty getting caught.

“Does the Hundred Years’ War mean anything to you?” asked Brunhilde.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Rainy night. Hayloft.”

“Can’t say it rings a bell,” he said.

“You said you’d keep in touch.”

“Yeah, well, I meant to, but…”

He stopped.

“You know what? I’m not doing this. I really don’t care about whatever wrong you think I’ve done to you. It was one night. I was just being polite. And that’s that. So get over it, baby.”

Ass.

She walked away. Lucky visited the concession stand and tried to forget the encounter. If some leggy blonde couldn’t let it go, it wasn’t his problem. But he couldn’t stop thinking of her withering scowl. Even after he bought his mead and turkey leg and returned to his seat, he couldn’t enjoy them. And it wasn’t because of Bob or the uncomfortable plastic seat or the dirty looks all the vendors were giving him now. Maybe driven by Valkyrie solidarity. Maybe because he’d shared a barn with several of them. He couldn’t remember. They all looked alike, so it really wasn’t his fault.

But they really weren’t the problem. It was the combination of disgust and disappointment that got to him. And though they were blond and muscular and looked nothing like Janet, he kept seeing her face.

And Janet’s face led to Teri’s face led to Phil’s face led to Gorgoz and Syph and Quick and the whole tangled mess.

He’d gotten involved. Standard protocol was to keep your distance when it came to mortals. It’d been so easy a thousand years ago. Gods above, mortals below. It’d been so simple. When the hell did it all get so complicated?

Lucky handed off his snacks to Bob and found Brunhilde.

“I just wanted to apologize. I don’t know if it counts for anything, but that’s all I wanted to say, Brunhilde.”

“My name is Sonja.”

“Oh, well, could you do me a favor and pass the message along? I’d do it myself, but I’ve got some mortals to save.”