Chapter 789

The familiar background music started playing.

Their special operations team had been in London, handling the recovery of alien artifacts left behind by the events there, when a new report came in: a series of bizarre killings in a Norwegian forest.

And apparently, the only man capable of uncovering the truth was an unassuming middle-aged good guy who just happened to be a top S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

Phil Coulson.

Cue the dramatic music.

The story began in a protected forest in Norway.

One day, the area was suddenly rocked by the roar of a chainsaw. Several ancient trees had been cut down, their massive trunks hacked clean through.

A husband-and-wife ranger team rushed to the scene and found a young man and woman standing beside one of the fallen trees, each gripping what looked like a short metal rod.

One of the rangers, a large man who apparently believed in settling problems face-to-face, immediately approached them.

Illegal logging was bad enough. He was prepared to explain the relevant regulations, issue a fine, and send them on their way.

Instead, the woman struck him.

The blow sent the ranger flying more than ten meters.

He died on impact.

His partner stared in horror, then ran for his life.

Normally, that would have been a matter for the local authorities. But the woman’s strength had been so far beyond anything a normal human should possess that the incident eventually reached S.H.I.E.L.D.

Naturally, Coulson’s team got the assignment.

They arrived quickly and pieced together what had happened.

The metal rods carried by the murderers had not originally belonged to them. They had been found inside the trunk of the tree they’d cut down.

Apparently, the object had been embedded inside the tree for an extremely long time, leaving a deep impression in the wood around it.

Simmons scanned the remaining imprint and used a 3D printer to reconstruct a plastic model.

Unfortunately, the opposite side of the tree had been too badly damaged, so only half the object could be reproduced.

Still, half was enough to reveal something important.

Both ends of the metal rod appeared to have broken away.

Which meant there were at least two more pieces somewhere out there.

There was another clue, too.

Runes had been carved into the surface.

Asgardian runes.

"Jacob Nystrom, thirty years old. His girlfriend, Petra Larsen."

Ward gave the team the basic information.

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ability to track people down never ceased to impress.

"Nystrom is the leader of a Norwegian pagan organization."

Ward had been working particularly hard these past few days.

John Garrett had recently warned him that their superior seemed... different.

Garrett hadn’t said anything directly, but Ward had noticed a subtle change in the man’s attitude toward their operation.

He couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong.

After thinking about it from every possible angle, he’d come to one conclusion: perhaps the operation simply wasn’t progressing quickly enough.

Garrett had therefore contacted him privately and ordered him to integrate himself into Coulson’s team as thoroughly as possible.

Get close to them.

Earn their trust.

Produce results.

Fast.

Meanwhile, Skye added another piece of information.

"Thanks to the Greenwich incident and the Internet, their membership has been growing steadily."

She shook her head.

"Which is kind of ironic."

"Norwegian pagans?" Simmons frowned.

As a scientist, she had little natural interest in mythology, and she spent most of her free time buried in experiments rather than browsing the Internet.

Skye explained.

"They’re obsessed with Norse mythology. Asgard, the gods, all of it."

Ward carefully lifted the plastic reconstruction.

"So we’re dealing with a weapon. The immediate priority is finding the other pieces."

He turned the model over in his hands.

"But what exactly is this thing?"

Coulson and May approached.

"With our current technology, it’s difficult to identify," Coulson said.

Skye’s eyes lit up.

"You should call your thunder-god friend."

Everyone looked at her.

"His power comes from that hammer, right? Maybe this is one of the screws from it."

Coulson stared at the model.

The thing was nearly as long as Mjolnir itself.

"That is definitely not a screw."

Skye ignored him.

Thor had an almost absurd effect on her.

In her words, he was basically the human—or Asgardian—equivalent of a fantasy romance hero brought to life.

Getting an excuse to meet him again was therefore not an opportunity she intended to waste.

"I already tried," Coulson said with a sigh. "I can’t reach him."

"He left S.H.I.E.L.D. an email address, but apparently he doesn’t own a computer."

May’s expression remained as unreadable as ever.

"So S.H.I.E.L.D. is focusing on finding Nystrom and whatever he’s planning."

"We need to locate the remaining pieces before they do," Coulson said.

Ward nodded.

"They’ve got an advantage. They’re searching a hundred and fifty square kilometers of Norwegian forest, but at least they know exactly what they’re looking for."

"Guys..."

Skye suddenly raised a finger.

"Maybe it’s using magic to summon them."

May slowly turned toward her.

"Magic?"

"Summoning them?"

"I was actually thinking along those lines," Coulson said.

He set the model down.

"After we found Thor’s hammer in New Mexico, S.H.I.E.L.D. contacted a number of supposed experts. One of the leading specialists was Elliott Randolph, a professor at a university in Seville."

Skye’s expression brightened.

That sounded suspiciously like a government-funded trip somewhere interesting.

Then Coulson continued.

"The professor died in a car accident shortly afterward."

Skye’s smile vanished.

Coulson placed both hands on the table and sighed.

"Which leaves us with one option."

Everyone’s expression changed.

"Consultant..."

Skye immediately regretted mentioning magic.

She had basically summoned him herself.

Coulson nodded grimly.

"Exactly. Evenson."

"Oh, no."

The entire room groaned.

For a variety of reasons, Coulson’s team had developed a strong preference for not seeing Evenson unless absolutely necessary.

After they’d parted ways in Hong Kong, the team had completed several more operations.

One of them involved an 084—a Chitauri helmet.

Coulson had decided that since Evenson wasn’t an official member of the team, constantly asking him for help was unfair. More importantly, Coulson believed they’d already gathered enough information to handle the artifact themselves.

That decision had gone beautifully.

The alien microorganisms growing on the helmet infected Simmons and nearly killed her.

Evenson had warned them about the possibility of extraterrestrial biological contamination more than once.

So there was absolutely no telling how much he would enjoy pointing that out.

Skye’s situation was even worse.

After the previous leak, she’d been thoroughly frightened by Evenson’s proposed solution to her problem. She had practically sworn on her life that she’d learned her lesson and would never make the same mistake again.

Unfortunately, humanity had a long and proud history of learning lessons and then immediately forgetting them.

This time, Skye hadn’t acted alone.

She’d somehow convinced Simmons to help her steal information from a terminal in S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.

And when Agent Sitwell discovered them, they’d knocked him out.

Coulson had spent an impressive amount of political capital cleaning up the mess.

Skye remembered Evenson’s warning perfectly well.

If she screwed up again, he’d suggested killing her himself.

So she had absolutely no desire to discover what he’d do now.

The room fell silent.

Nobody wanted to be the first person to say his name again.

Finally, Skye broke.

"Maybe... we could try another approach."

Coulson looked at her.

"We might be able to solve this ourselves without contacting him."

"Hmm."

Coulson considered it.

"That isn’t impossible."

"Unfortunately, it isn’t going to work."

May handed him a tablet.

According to the latest intelligence, Nystrom’s group had recently acquired a small book.

And apparently, the book was directly connected to how they’d managed to locate the metal rod.

May gave Coulson a sympathetic look.

"You should see where they bought it."

Coulson took the tablet.

An Amazon product page appeared.

The category was fiction.

The price was two hundred dollars.

The title was:

Reincarnated as an Asgardian: The Badass Medieval Life of a Norse God.

Coulson stared at it.

Two hundred dollars?

For that?

Who paid two hundred dollars for a book with a title like that?

And somehow, the title itself gave him a terrible feeling.

He scrolled down.

Seller information:

Richter’s Curio Shop — Only Ninety Years Short of Being a Century-Old Business.

And beneath it was a photograph of Evenson standing beneath his shop sign, grinning like a man who had never once experienced shame.

Coulson’s expression changed.

"They bought the book from him."

Everyone looked at him.

"The novel contains real clues that can be used to locate alien artifacts."

He stared at the screen.

"Did he do this deliberately?"

If he had, Evenson had a serious problem.

At minimum, that could be construed as knowingly distributing dangerous information.

"Probably not," May said.

Everyone looked at her.

She thought for a moment.

"We all know the store’s business philosophy."

Coulson raised an eyebrow.

"Which is?"

"Never sell anything genuine."

There was a pause.

Then Coulson nodded.

"Fair point."

The others nodded too.

If Evenson had actually known the information in the book was real, would he really have sold it for two hundred dollars?

Probably not.

Unfortunately, that still didn’t solve their problem.

"We can’t get around him," Coulson muttered.

He rubbed his temples.

"Fine. Contact him."

Everyone looked miserable.

"Honestly, when it comes to Asgard, he’s probably the person with the most useful information anyway. And if he happens to know the author of this book, we could save ourselves a lot of trouble."

May made several calls.

Then shook her head.

"His landline’s been disconnected for nonpayment. His cell phone is off too."

Skye’s eyes immediately brightened.

"So... we can forget about him?"

"No."

Coulson slapped a hand against his forehead.

"We’ll go to him."

The team groaned.

Coulson turned to face them.

"One more thing. If Evenson asks how you’ve all been doing lately, what do you say?"

Everyone looked at one another.

Then, in perfect unison:

"Quiet. Extremely quiet. We’ve been taking time to rest and recover. We haven’t done anything."

"Excellent."

Coulson smiled.

"May, change our course. We’re going to New York."

Evenson had only turned off his phone. He hadn’t actually gone into hiding.

Finding him was therefore easy.

Coulson and May arrived at his location and looked through the entrance.

Both of them froze.

From inside came the booming sound of funeral music.

The place was filled with mourning banners, wreaths, funeral decorations, and enough paper offerings to stock a small warehouse.

A solemn chant echoed through the building.

Trupsi, one of Evenson’s employees, was wandering around with a large basket.

He reached inside, grabbed a handful of paper offerings, and scattered them into the air with practiced precision.

For someone so small, he had remarkable technique.

The paper fluttered down like a golden storm.

There was even a raised platform.

Sarah, the shop’s cashier, wore a long gray robe and a matching cap, looking remarkably like a nun.

Taylor, whose naturally intimidating face made him particularly suited to the role, had been dressed as some sort of heavily armored religious guardian.

Dumen was a different story.

Round, heavyset, and naturally solemn, he somehow managed to look dignified while dressed in ceremonial robes, holding a staff and sitting cross-legged atop the platform.

And then there was Evenson.

He had pulled a hat low over his head, hiding his blond hair. His eyes were closed, concealing their unusual green color.

He sat cross-legged before a small wooden block, tapping it rhythmically while chanting along with the funeral rites.

Coulson stared.

He had absolutely no idea what he was looking at.

May, meanwhile, looked as though she’d developed a sudden headache.

No wonder the man’s phone was off.

He hadn’t gone on vacation.

He’d found himself a side job.

And apparently that side job was working funerals.

Worse, wasn’t his business supposed to be a mysterious antiquities shop?

At most, he’d expected the man to dabble in fortune-telling, Feng Shui, or whatever other questionable services people paid him for.

But funeral services?

"What’s going on?" Coulson asked.

He lowered his voice.

"Can we even go in?"

May’s mouth twitched.

"I’m wondering whether we should still look for him."

She paused.

"Or whether we should pretend we don’t know him."

Unfortunately, they had a job to do.

Embarrassment would have to wait.

May glanced down at herself and Coulson.

Both were wearing black suits.

At least that was appropriate.

Then she noticed Coulson’s tie.

"Take off the red tie."

Coulson looked at her.

"Why?"

"If something happens, you’re going to stand out."

She sighed.

"And trust me, Coulson. We’re already going to have enough explaining to do."