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"I wonder if the nasty old broad who was so horrible to Garmr ever recovered from that horrible case of the clap. Probably not. After all, penicillin hadn’t been invented, but then again, I couldn’t care less if I tried.

” With a snort of sarcastic laughter, she went on, “Wonder if any of the men she slept with were cured. Probably, since none of them showed up here. And I know that wench was hatin’ her life when menopause hit at the ripe, young age of thirty, in the middle of a sweltering summer heat wave.

Talk about hot flashes from Hel.” Another shrug and she added with the slightest of chuckles, “Get it?”

She couldn’t help but ask the Dragoness Queen with whom she shared her soul if she appreciated her joke. It only seemed fair since Carys had been listening the whole time.

“Yes, I get it,” the Dragoness chuckled.

“What was that old saying? All the planning in the world can’t beat dumb luck. Or is it, it’s not what you do but who you know that ultimately gets the job done? Maybe it’s a little of both.” She snickered snidely. “Who knows. I never can keep all those adorable human sayings straight.”

“You do just fine, my girl. Just as Garmr will surely attest.”

If only that had been enough. Sadly, that horrible woman had spread lie after lie about Garmr and the assholes of her village repeated the worst of them to anyone and everyone who would listen.

When that didn’t make the other villagers fetch their torches and pitchforks, they went so far as to say that the Wolfman was cursed by the Vanir goddess, Gullveig, but that was just another load of bullshit.

Gullie never cursed anyone, especially not the Wolfman who saved her life, and most assuredly not for making unwanted advances.

Garmr would never do anything like that.

He had too much respect for everyone–especially females.

Talk about the pots calling the kettle black. Those villagers were the worst of the worst–liars, thieves, and adulterers, one and all. That pretty much ninety percent of the adults got a raging case of the clap was little consolation, but Hel took it as a win.

The Wolfman’s only saving grace, like hers, was the Vikings. Because so many had died at sea and not on the battlefield, Hel had judged their hearts upon their deaths. She knew who they were. She knew they lived and died by a code handed down from generation to generation.

They were loyal. They were steadfast. They were true to hearth and home and would give their lives to protect their families.

And, sadly, they were well acquainted with being misjudged and misunderstood. It was one of the many things the Vikings and Hel had in common. It was the tie that bound them together just as much as the blood running through their veins that soaked the soil they called home.

Just like they knew her truth, those Norsemen knew the facts about Garmr. They were the only ones who ignored the rumors and judged everyone, especially the Wolfman and the goddess, by their actions.

They revered Garmr because he was the bravest and the strongest and had never backed down from helping those in need.

Those Warriors also knew that the only reason the ten-foot Wolfman and Tyr, the Norse god of War, Justice, and Law ever had a beef was because the puffed Deity stuck his nose where it didn’t belong while he was drunk or hungover or both.

It was just another reason why people had been so scared of gods and goddesses throughout history.

Most of the idiots Blessed by the Great Goddess to be a Deity judged people unfairly and for their own ill-gotten gains.

And when they weren’t doing that, they caused wars over stupid, petty shit–usually their own damned egos–left dead bodies and devastated cities in their wake, and never offered to lift a finger to help clean up the mess.

Hel would take the Wolfman over almost every god or goddess she’d ever met any day of the week and twice on Sunday. He’d never let her down, never been cruel or spiteful, and had always had her back.

“And, most importantly, Garmr is the only person in Helheim who doesn’t flinch when I ask for a Diet Coke over crushed ice in a cup with a lid and a straw, and that makes him a frikkin’ prince in my book,” she grumbled under her breath.

“He never once asked me why I don’t drink mead, or how I see out of the glowing Eye of Metis.

He hasn’t ever even mentioned my ‘patchwork’ visage or not looked me right in both eyes when we’re talking.

And I know he thinks I’m not aware that looking me in the eye makes him queasy, but he doesn’t say a damned word and just keeps focusing on me like nothing’s wrong.

He treats me like a regular chick when I’m in his bar.

He treats me like any other customer who does not want to be bothered. ”

“That’s because he adores you like a little sister,” Carys lovingly responded.

“Even though we’ve all been sworn to secrecy by Odin himself, everybody who’s anybody knows that Garmr is at the very least your half-brother.

” Tsking, the Dragoness added with a hiss, “Just another thing I’d like to kick your mother in the shins for…

Or better yet, set fire to one of those long, crimson, snaky braids she loves so much.

You know damn good and well that she had an affair with one of the úlfr somewhere along the way, then dropped poor little Garmr off at the gate of their Pack Lands to keep him a secret from Loki.

How else did our Wolfman get those dark red highlights in his pelt?

They are a perfect match for Angrboda and her Giants.

That hue of red is theirs and only theirs–The Jotnar, that wily Magical Giant, whipped it up when they were created.

He knew they were bad news from the start.

Of course, you already know all of this.

So, excuse this old Dragoness for repeating herself.

” Without waiting for Hel to respond, Carys continued, “You are also well aware that the only reason you and your brothers don’t have any of that mangy crimson hair is because your dad is a god, and his DNA trumps most things. ”

“Yeah, well, neither of my parents is a prize, but mom truly takes the cake for being one hell of an asshole and spiteful above all else.” Hel’s response was lackluster even to her own ears.

Usually, she could go on an endless tirade about the woman who’d given birth to her, but on that occasion, she just didn’t have the inclination or desire to do anything but sit on her patio, look out over her rose garden, and drink Diet Coke until her eyes turned brown.

Reaching to the left, she let the condensation dripping off the cup sink into the tattered skin of her dead side.

With the straw just barely touching her bottom lip, she snickered sarcastically, “Sadly, this might be my last sip before Liv and her Familiar, the Lupine of Legend, Dade get to the front door.”

Savoring the cool, bubbly liquid as it trickled down her throat, Hel remembered she needed to respond to Carys. If she didn’t, the Dragoness would go on and on, and that would just not do.

“We’ll never know all the things Angrboda’s done, and frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. If I never have to lay eyes on her again, I’ll call it Good Luck and consider it a gift from Prue. After all…”

Hel’s Mind’s Eye burst to life halting their conversation midsentence. There was Liv placing the sole of her boot on the first of the twenty-one stone steps that led to Hel’s front door. Any other time, she would’ve jumped up, fluffed her hair, and raced to the door.

Not this time.

No, on this occasion, she returned the straw to her lips, focused on the statue of Hope she’d commissioned as a gift to herself for her five hundredth birthday and smiled. “Damn, that man is good-looking, isn’t he?”

“Yes, yes, he is,” Carys agreed. “ So, how about we bring the sculpture up here front and center? Make it a focal point. I’m sure Liv and Dade would love to see it.”

Rolling her eyes as she took a drink of ice cold soda, Hel mentally growled, “Will you ever stop giving me a hard time?”

“Yep, I sure will.”

So shocked that she almost choked on her drink, Hel cleared her throat and gasped, “No way! When?”

“Just as soon as you go to that Mate of yours and make him yours forever.”

“Arrrrgh,” Hel grumbled. “I just had to ask.”