The Ship of the Dead (Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard #3)

“Ouse,” T.J. corrected, breaking into a grin. “It rhymes with moose. I read about it in a travel guide!”

I shuddered. Nothing good rhymes with moose. Excuse. Noose. Caboose. I also found it disturbing that T.J. had done so much research on England. Then again, a hundred and fifty years is a long time to hang around Valhalla, and the hotel library is impressive.

I glanced over the port side. Murky green water curled and swelled around our hull, the rain stippling the surface of the river with overlapping bull’s eyes. The current seemed too alive, too awake. No matter how much Percy Jackson had trained me, I did not want to fall in there.

“You sense them, don’t you?” Halfborn gripped his ax as if ready to cut loose on the Ouse. “The vatnavaettir.”

Halfborn said the word as if he found it truly awful—like cowardice or beard trimmer. “What are they?” I asked.

“And do they have a more pronounceable name?” Alex added.

“They’re nature spirits,” Mallory said. “We have similar legends in Ireland. We call them each-uisce—water horses.”

Halfborn snorted. “You Irish have similar legends because you got them from the Norse.”

“Lies,” Mallory growled. “The Celts were in Ireland long before you louts invaded.”

“Louts? The Viking kingdom of Dublin was the only power worth mentioning on your miserable island!”

“Anyway…” Samirah stepped between the two lovebirds. “Why are these water horses dangerous?”

Halfborn frowned. “Well, they can form a herd and, if they get riled up, stampede and destroy our ship. I imagine they’ve only held off this long because they’re not sure what to make of us being bright yellow. Also, if anyone is foolish enough to touch them—”

“They’ll adhere to your skin,” Mallory said, “drag you under, and drown you.”

Her words made my stomach clench. I’d once gotten myself adhered to a magical eagle that proceeded to take me on a demolition-derby tour over the rooftops of Boston. The idea of being dragged into the Ouse sounded even less fun.

Alex threw her arms around Mallory and Halfborn. “Well, then. It sounds like you two are the water-horse experts. You should stay on board and defend the Big Banana while the rest of us go giant hunting!”

“Uh,” I said. “I can just turn the ship into a handkerchief—”

“Oh, no!” Halfborn said. “I have no desire to set foot in Jorvik again. I wouldn’t be of any use to you, anyway. Place has changed a bit in twelve hundred years. I’ll stay on the ship, but I don’t need Mallory’s help defending it.”

“You think not?” Mallory glared up at him, her hands on the hilts of her knives. “Do you know any Gaelic songs for calming water horses? I’m not leaving this ship in your care.”

“Well, I’m not leaving it in your care!”

“Guys!” Samirah raised her hands like a boxing referee. She’d never been much of a curser, but I got the sense she was struggling with the Ramadan no cursing rule again. Funny how that works: as soon as you’re told you can’t do something, you have the overwhelming desire to do it.

“If you both insist on staying aboard,” she said, “I’ll stay, too. I’m good with horses. I can fly if I get in trouble. And in a pinch”—she flicked her wrist, telescoping her spear of light into existence—“I can blast anything that attacks us. Or I can blast the two of you, if you don’t behave.”

Halfborn and Mallory looked equally unhappy about that arrangement, which meant it was a good compromise.

“You heard the lady,” Alex said. “The landing party will consist of me, T.J., and Blond Guy.”

“Excellent!” T.J. rubbed his hands. “I can’t wait to thank the British!”


T.J. wasn’t kidding.

As we walked the narrow streets of York in a cold gray drizzle, he greeted everyone he saw and tried to shake hands.

“Hello!” he said. “I’m from Boston. Thank you for not supporting the Confederacy!”

The reactions of the locals ranged from “Eh?” to “Leave off!” to some phrases so colorful I wondered if the speakers had descended from Halfborn Gunderson.

T.J. wasn’t deterred. He strolled along, waving and pointing. “Anything you guys need!” he offered. “I owe you.” He grinned at me. “I love this place. The people are so friendly.”

“Uh-huh.” I scanned the low rooftops, figuring that if there was a giant in this city, I should be able to spot him. “So, if you were a jotun in York, where would you be hiding?”

Alex stopped in front of a collection of street signs. With her green hair sticking out of the hood of her yellow raincoat, she looked like a punk spokesperson for frozen fish sticks. “Maybe we could start there.” She pointed at the top sign. “The Jorvik Viking Centre.”

It sounded like as good a plan as any, especially since we had no other plans.

We followed the signs, winding our way through narrow crooked streets lined with brick town houses, pubs, and storefronts. It could have been the North End of Boston, except York was even more of a historical patchwork. Victorian brick butted up against medieval stone, which butted up against black-and-white Elizabethan magpie, which butted up against a tanning salon offering twenty minutes for five pounds.

We passed only a few people. Traffic was light. I wondered if it was a holiday, or if the locals had heard about the bright yellow Viking ship invading the Ouse and had run for the hills.

I decided it was just as well. If there’d been more English folk to meet and greet, T.J. would have really slowed us down.

We made our way down a street called the Shambles, which struck me as an honest description but poor branding. The road itself was just wide enough for a bicycle, assuming the rider was skinny. The houses overhung the sidewalk at fun-house-mirror angles, each story a little wider than the one below it, giving the impression that the entire neighborhood would collapse in on itself if we took one wrong step. I barely breathed until we emerged onto a wider avenue.

Finally, the signs led us to a pedestrian shopping area, where a squat brick building was festooned with green banners: VIKINGS! LIVING HISTORY! THRILLS! FULL INTERACTIVE EXPERIENCE!

All of which sounded pretty good, except for the sign across the front entrance: CLOSED.

“Huh.” T.J. rattled the door handle. “Should we break in?”

I didn’t see what good that would do. The place was obviously a museum for tourists. No matter how good this interactive experience was, it would be a letdown after actually living in Valhalla. I didn’t need any Viking paraphernalia from the gift shop, either. My runestone pendant/talking sword was as much as I could handle.

“Guys,” Alex said, her voice tight. “Did that wall just move?”

I followed her gaze. Across the pedestrian plaza, jutting from the side of a Tesco Express grocery store, was a crumbling section of rough-hewn limestone blocks that might have been part of a castle or the old city walls.