Jean took a noisy last sip of his milkshake, the way kids do - not so smooth, but somehow he got away with it - then called the waitress over, and Freya ordered.

When they were alone again, Jean lowered his head to look questioningly up at Freya from behind his shades, his expression grave. "I'm wondering what warranted getting a crotchety old man like me out of bed to fly all the way from New Orleans to the Hamptons in the middle of the night. Glad I know the shortcuts, by the way. If it weren't the goddess of love and beauty herself calling, I would have much rather snoozed."

Freya chewed her lip. "I'm sorry. I should have come to you."

Jean let forth a stentorian laugh that startled Freya, but she found herself laughing along lest she offend the god of memory and have her brain entirely swiped.

"I'm just f**king with you, kid. Truth be told, I've been rather bored lately, and I'd give up the alphabet - well, maybe just numbers - to gaze at your pretty face for a few minutes whatever the time of day or place."

Freya smirked. She hadn't seen Jean-Baptiste in several lifetimes, and she had been a toddler whom he'd bounced on his knee then. He looked the same. He wasn't someone anyone could easily forgot, unless he wanted you to, of course.

"As I said in my text, but I couldn't get explicit" - here she lowered her voice - "it's about the bridge."

He looked at her askance, cocking his head. "The Bofrir?"

Freya nodded.

Jean let out a whistle, staring incredulously at her. "You know we can't talk about that. What's done is done, and there certainly isn't any goddamn thing this old man can do about it. The bridge was destroyed; our magic is weakened as a result. Period." He lifted his eyebrows, his forehead creasing with several sideways S's, and suddenly he looked tired and much older. "I don't know what else to say, kid."

Freya pushed. "I want to know everything you know about that day, Jean, every detail."

Jean told her, but it was the same old story: Fryr, her twin, and Loki getting caught, Loki serving his five thousand years in the frozen depths, and Fryr biding his time in Limbo. It had been Fryr's trident that had destroyed the bridge after all, ultimately consigning the Vanir and Aesir to Midgard, save for Odin and his wife, Frigg. "Someone had to pay," Jean said. "And Fryr looked awfully guilty."

The waitress returned with a stack of steaming pancakes topped with a strawberry and served with eggs sunny-side up and perfectly browned sausage links. But Freya and Jean ignored the food. The waitress blew at a strand of hair falling in her face, straightened her apron, and then clip-clopped away.

Freya gave a sigh of frustration. "Well, I don't think that's how it happened, Jean," she said, finally turning to the heaping plate before her. She poured a thick stream of maple syrup on her pancakes, then dug in, talking while she ate. "I think the Valkyries might not have investigated thoroughly into the matter. I'm not saying they were lazy, but everything was so rushed when it happened." She rambled on, thinking out loud while she shoveled large chunks of pancake into her mouth. Yes, it was Freddie's trident they'd found, she admitted, but what if he'd been set up? Framed? What if someone wanted to make it look as if he'd done it? Who could have done that? she hinted. Who do we know is capable of such mischief?

Jean smiled as if he pitied her. "It can't be Loki. He served his time. Five thousand years is no small pittance, my dear. They were young boys. It was a dumb prank."

Freya shrugged. She still had questions. Jean patiently listened as if indulging a small child. If anyone knew anything, Freya thought, it would be the god of memory. He kept the records of history that the Council had determined were fit to be archived. Once a major event got the seal of approval, it was stored inside that large bald head of Jean's, in the endless Byzantine corridors of his brain. But Freya also believed that he could help her get Killian's memory back. She believed he possessed the power to help him recover the truth about his past, or at least could steer her in the right direction so she might retrieve it herself.

"Freddie says that when he and Loki got there, the bridge was already destroyed," Freya said.

The expression on Jean's face was something between a smile and a frown. "If that's true, then these questions you are asking are very dangerous. The bridge held all of our powers. They were entwined within it from day one," he said. "When it fell the gods were permanently weakened. Since Loki and Fryr appeared hapless and guilty, Odin believed that the power of the bridge disappeared into the universe - that it dissipated into the ether. But if what you're saying is true, then whoever destroyed that bridge is incredibly powerful, since he, or she, has those powers now, the powers of the entire pantheon. That is, if you're right and the boys didn't destroy it and someone else did. You don't want to go messing with that kind of god, Freya."

She leaned closer to him from across the table and whispered fiercely. "I know someone who might have been there, Jean. A potential witness. Another god, but I can't say who. Somehow he can't remember what happened that day - just bits and pieces. His memory is gone, or it might have been stolen from him, to keep him quiet. I need to help him remember, so we can know what really happened that day. My brother is innocent, and he's been punished for a crime he didn't commit."

For a moment, Jean appeared perturbed and said nothing. Finally he motioned her even closer so he could speak directly into her ear. The old warlock was relenting. "There is a way to help this ... person. This witness who has memories of the Bofrir's destruction. But to even attempt it is forbidden and dangerous," he said. "You don't fool around with this stuff; this is black magic we're talking about here. If you'll forgive the pun," he said with a smile. "But I'm serious. This is the real voodoo daddy. Could put you and this friend of yours in a lot of danger. Are you sure you want to go down that road?"

A chill slithered up Freya's spine. Jean was no longer joking or amused. He was dead serious, if not a little scared, which frightened her, too. If even the god of memory was intimidated by it, then what on earth was she doing messing around with that kind of devilry? But she knew she was also willing to do whatever it took to prevent Killian from going to Limbo.

Chapter thirty-six

Live Freegan or Die

Ingrid had to rise at dawn, before Joanna woke, to make the pixies breakfast in the morning. Their demands were very precise: soft-boiled eggs in individual eggcups, butter, ripe brie or some kind of gooey cheese, dried salami, orange juice (Kelda told her they preferred fresh squeezed, but this wasn't a five-star hotel for god's sake), chocolate (which made them hyper, Ingrid had noted, so she had eliminated it from their diet), and Joanna's homemade bread and pies as well as whatever else could be brought up to their lair.

She was glad to have the pixies to attend to. It kept her mind off what had happened the other day with Matt: every time she remembered it, she felt herself blushing throughout her entire body. Yet the memory was sweet, too - and hot - remembering the delicious feel of his skin against hers, and how much she had liked looking at him and letting him look at her that way. What was her problem? She'd been ready. She'd felt ready. She'd wanted him so much - but instead ... She couldn't think about it any longer. There was a reason she'd earned the nickname Frigid Ingrid. No wonder he didn't even bother to call her.

She tiptoed past Joanna's room, carrying the heavy tray, Kelda and Nyph meeting her in the stairway to help her as soon as she unlocked the attic door. The pixies, extremely active during nocturnal hours, tended to be famished in the mornings.

Ingrid didn't understand why Freya's potion hadn't worked on them, nor had any of her own spells or charms, little knots and pouches of edelweiss petals placed under their pillows. She still had no clue as to the whereabouts of their home save for the scattered cryptic details they had given her: tree houses and underground workers, something beginning with A. Ingrid didn't put it past them to have made it up just to placate her.

She set down the tray on the makeshift dining table, a door propped up with crates, and the pixies excitedly gathered around, fighting over who got what.

"Shh, not so noisy," she admonished. Irdick was behind her, pulling at her peignoir. "What do you want, Irdick? Don't tell me this isn't enough food. You've just got to be fast like everyone else or you don't get your share."

"It's not that, Erda. Something else," he said.

Ingrid raised a brow at his apple-round face.

"So last night, we were Dumpster diving like good freegans ..."

Ingrid laughed. "Freegans?" She was amused. "You guys have really assimilated."

At the table, everyone had stopped grabbing at the food, and they were all looking expectantly at Ingrid. Sven gave a smoker's cough before rasping, "Freegans shmeegans, Irdick is trying to tell you we saw someone."

"Who?" asked Ingrid. Then they were all talking at once, and she couldn't make out anything they were saying. She cleared her throat, and the pixies quieted. They were finally learning to be more obedient and this pleased her. It was like training puppies. They were coming along. "Okay, could one of you explain this clearly to me?"

Nyph raised her hand as high as she could, crying, "Me, me, me!" as Kelda stared up at her through the black mask.

Ingrid placed a hand on her waist and cocked a hip. "Okay, Nyph, shoot!"

The pretty raven-haired pixie's dark eyelashes batted, suddenly shy now that she was being singled out. She licked her lips then spoke. "We saw someone we thought looked extremely familiar, so we hid in the alley and watched him."

Ingrid was taken aback. "Who was it? Someone from your home?"

"No. It was the one who s-s-sent us away," said Val. Everyone looked to him. Val dipped a piece of bread in his egg yolk and took a bite. "We did a favor for that guy, whoever he is, then he banished us from our home. At least that's what we think happened. We recognized him."

"Hmm," said Ingrid. "What did he look like?"

"He's tall, big guy, good-looking," said Kelda.

These were vague descriptions, not helpful at all. "Can you please be more specific? What color was his hair? How tall? How big? Like, hefty? Or just overweight? What was he wearing?"

They all began shouting at once, and all of them had different opinions. Some argued the man had blond hair, while others said it was brown. It was dark outside, they all agreed, but they had definitely recognized him as a person they used to know. But now they couldn't remember at what exact Dumpster they had spotted him, which didn't help Ingrid at all.

Ingrid sighed, but at least she was getting a little closer to solving this enigma, however frustratingly piecemeal and slow the information came together. She needed to find out who exactly this man was, find out exactly what he'd done to the pixies to make them forget, and maybe she could finally send them back home.

Chapter thirty-seven

Blasphemous Rumors

After that one unseasonable sunny day, the temperature plummeted, and a morning mist now rose from the ground in the woods. Joanna had dressed warmly in rubber boots with thick socks, a wool hat, and a scarf. She stood at the foot of the burial mound and looked up into the sprawling oak. Was this the very same tree where her witch had hanged before being snipped down to plummet into her grave? Sometimes several witches were hanged from one tree at once, dangling from the boughs for days as putrefaction set in - setting an example for those who might think to consort with the devil.

Hanging was less violent than burning, but neither could be called humane, and now the memories of Salem and her own girls' hangings returned, as much as she tried to push them away: the townspeople jeering and celebrating, couples kissing and groping as the hangman fit the nooses around each of their necks. Some in the crowd were raising their fists, while others cried out in ecstasy or with smiles on their faces as the condemned swung off the platform. This was a part of humanity that Joanna would rather not have witnessed. It was the wrong way around; those with blackened hearts were in the crowd, not on the gallows. She wiped away a tear, remembering Freya's defiant stare and Ingrid's broken sobs. Joanna loosened the red scarf at her neck because she suddenly felt as if she were being choked herself.

There were several ways to die from a hanging. The neck could snap, but this didn't necessarily mean death came instantaneously. If the drop wasn't high enough and the spinal cord was not fully severed, the hanged could remain in the air, kicking and fully conscious for several minutes while asphyxiation took place.

If death wasn't caused by the neck bones breaking, or just plain decapitation if the body was catapulted with enough force, it was the occlusion of the carotid arteries and jugular veins that did it, causing edema followed by cerebral ischemia, or the heart slowing down enough to cause cardiac arrest.

Some claimed that the hanged experienced sexual excitement, but this was bunk, a myth, Joanna knew. There was only agony and suffering and humiliation. Men sometimes appeared to get erections, but that was only due to gravity, the blood surging to the torso and legs. It had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with pain.

This hanging, if it had been done from this tree, given the short drop, would not have been the quick kind but a slow one to ensure maximum torture. Joanna had watched her daughters' faces swell, turn purple and blue with cyanosis, blood marks spreading across their skin, their eyes, as the life was snuffed from them. Splotches of red crawled over their skin as veins and capillaries burst. Freya's tongue had protruded from her lips, as if in a final act of defiance.