Mokkerkalfe turned toward Alex. The clay man made a wet gurgling sound in his chest, like the growl of a carnivorous toad.
“Whoa there, boy,” Alex said. “I wasn’t actually fighting. I’m not your—”
GURGLE! Mokkerkalfe launched himself like a wrestler, more quickly than I would’ve thought possible, and Alex disappeared under three hundred pounds of wet clay.
“NO!” I screamed.
Before I could move or even process how to help Alex, T.J. screamed at the other end of the courtyard.
“HA!” Hrungnir raised his fist. Wrapped in his fingers, struggling helplessly, was Thomas Jefferson Jr.
“One squeeze,” the giant boasted, “and this contest is over!”
I stood paralyzed. I wanted to break into two parts, to become a duality like our ceramic warrior. But even if I could, I didn’t see how I could help either of my friends.
Then the giant tightened his fist, and T.J. howled in agony.
POTTERY BARN saved the day.
(And, no. That’s not a line I ever thought I would use.)
Our ceramic friend exploded from a third-story window above the payday loan office. They hurled themselves onto Hrungnir’s face, clamping their legs around the giant’s upper lip and whaling his nose with both their vase-fists.
“PFBAH! GET OFF!” Hrungnir staggered, releasing T.J., who landed in an unmoving heap.
Meanwhile, Mokkerkalfe struggled to get up, which must have been difficult with Alex Fierro imprinted on his chest. From beneath his weight, Alex groaned. Relief washed over me. At least she was alive and might stay that way for a few more seconds. Triage decision: I ran toward T.J., whose condition I wasn’t so optimistic about.
I knelt at his side, put my hand against his chest. I almost snatched my hand away again because the damage I sensed was so bad. A trickle of red etched the corner of his mouth like he’d been drinking Tizer—but I knew it wasn’t Tizer.
“Hang on, buddy,” I muttered. “I got you.”
I glanced over at Hrungnir, who was still stumbling around trying to grab Pottery Barn off his face. So far so good. At the other side of the square, Mokkerkalfe had peeled himself away from Alex and now stood over her, gurgling angrily and pounding his blobby fists together. Not so good.
I yanked the runestone from my neck chain and summoned Sumarbrander.
“Jack!” I yelled.
“What?” he yelled back.
“Defend Alex!”
“What?”
“But do it without actually fighting!”
“What?”
“Just keep that clay giant off her!”
“What?”
“Distract him. GO!”
I was glad he didn’t say what again, or I would’ve worried that my sword was going deaf.
Jack flew over to Mokkerkalfe, positioning himself between the clay man and Alex. “Hey, buddy!” Jack’s runes pulsed up and down his blade like equalizer lights. “You want to hear a story? A song? Wanna dance?”
While Mokkerkalfe struggled to comprehend the strange hallucination he was having, I returned my attention to T.J.
I put both hands against his sternum and summoned the power of Frey.
Sunlight spread across the blue wool fibers of his jacket. Warmth sank into his chest, knitting his broken ribs, mending his punctured lungs, un-flattening several internal organs that did not function well when they were flattened.
As my healing power flowed into Thomas Jefferson Jr., his memories backwashed into my mind. I saw his mother in a faded gingham dress, her hair prematurely gray, her face stretched thin from years of hard work and worry. She knelt in front of ten-year-old T.J., her hands tightly clasping his shoulders as if she were afraid he might blow away in a storm.
“Don’t you ever point that at a white man,” she scolded.
“Ma, it’s just a stick,” T.J. said. “I’m playing.”
“You don’t get to play,” she snapped. “You play-shoot at a white man with a stick, he’s going to real-shoot you back with a gun. I’m not losing another child, Thomas. You hear me?”
She shook him, trying to rattle the message into him.
A different image: T.J. as a teenager, reading a flyer posted on a brick wall by the wharf:
TO COLORED MEN
!FREEDOM! PROTECTION, PAY, AND A CALL TO MILITARY SERVICE!
I could sense T.J.’s pulse racing. He had never been so excited. His hands itched to hold a rifle. He felt a calling—an undeniable impulse, like all those times he’d been challenged to fistfights in the alley behind his ma’s tavern. This was a personal challenge, and he could not refuse it.
I saw him in the hold of a Union ship, the seas pitching as his comrades threw up in buckets on either side of him. A friend of his, William H. Butler, groaned in misery. “They bring our people over on slave ships. They free us. They promise to pay us to fight. Then they put us right back into the belly of a ship.” But T.J. held his rifle eagerly, his heart pumping with excitement. He was proud of his uniform. Proud of those stars and stripes flapping on the mast somewhere over their heads. The Union had given him a real gun. They were paying him to shoot rebels—white men who would most definitely kill him given a chance. He grinned in the dark.
Then I saw him running across no-man’s-land at the battle of Fort Wagner, gun smoke rising like volcanic gas all around him. The air was thick with sulfur and the screams of the wounded, but T.J. stayed focused on his nemesis, Jeffrey Toussaint, who had dared to call him out. T.J. leveled his bayonet and charged, exhilarated by the sudden fear in Toussaint’s eyes.
Back in the present, T.J. gasped. Behind his amber-rimmed glasses, his vision cleared.
He croaked, “My left, your right.”
I dove to one side. I’ll admit I didn’t have time to distinguish left from right. I rolled onto my back as T.J. raised his rifle and fired.
Hrungnir, now free of Pottery Barn’s affections, loomed over us, his maul raised for one final strike. T.J.’s musket ball caught him in the right eye, snuffing out his sight.
“RARG!” Hrungnir dropped his weapon and sat down hard in the middle of King’s Square, crushing two park benches under his ample butt. In a nearby tree, Pottery Barn hung broken and battered, their left leg dangling from a branch ten feet above their head, but when they saw Hrungnir’s predicament, they grinded their head against their neck with a sound like laughter.
“Go!” T.J. snapped me out of my shock. “Help Alex!”
I scrambled to my feet and ran.
Jack was still trying to entertain Mokkerkalfe, but his song-and-dance routine was wearing thin. (That happens quickly with Jack.) Mokkerkalfe tried to swat him aside. The blade got stuck on the back of the clay man’s sticky hand.
“Yuck!” Jack complained. “Let me go!”
Jack was a little obsessive about cleanliness. After lying at the bottom of the Charles River for a thousand years, he wasn’t a fan of mud.
As Mokkerkalfe stomped around, trying to dislodge the talking sword from his hand, I ran to Alex’s side. She was spread-eagled, shellacked in clay from head to foot, groaning and twitching her fingers.
I knew Alex didn’t like my healing powers. She hated the idea of me peeking into her emotions and memories, which just happened automatically as part of the process. But I decided her survival outweighed her right to privacy.
I clamped my hand on her shoulder. Golden light seeped through my fingers. Warmth poured into Alex’s body, working its way from her shoulder into her core.
I steeled myself for more painful images. I was ready to face her awful father again, or see how badly Alex had been bullied at school, or how she’d been beaten up in the homeless shelters.
Instead, a single clear memory hit me: nothing special, just breakfast at Café 19 in Valhalla, a quick snapshot of me, stupid Magnus Chase, the way Alex saw me. I was sitting across the table from her, grinning at something she’d just said. A little glob of bread was stuck between my front teeth. My hair was messy. I looked relaxed and happy and utterly dorky. I held Alex’s gaze for a second too long and things got awkward. I blushed and looked away.
That was her entire memory.
I recalled that morning. I remembered thinking at the time: Well, I’ve made a complete idiot of myself, as usual. But it had hardly been an earthshaking event.