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cigarette.
    “Ouch!” said Vivienne and drew back. Loki had bitten
the skin on her neck. She put her finger there and looked at the
speck of blood, then she put her finger in her mouth and smiled
around it. “You’re kinky,” she said.
    Loki and Vivienne kissed again and Thor looked down
at the table. He’d fallen victim to Loki’s charm. Tyr was
absolutely right.

CHAPTER
SEVEN
     
    “What day is it?”
    “It’s Christmas Eve. In fact, you know what, it’s
just after midnight. Merry Christmas.”
    “One more week.”
    Eva was weak now. She only got out of bed a few
minutes a day and wasn’t interested in talking. Tyr stayed by her
side when he could and fought to fix the relationship, but she
mostly ignored him. He was convinced she hated him, but Eva didn’t
have the energy for hatred anymore. The fact was she felt almost
entirely indifferent to Tyr’s presence, other than for a second
here or there when she either wanted him gone or wished he’d say
something less tedious than ‘I love you.’
    She thought she’d fallen out of love with Tyr, but
every now and then her eyes caught his in the way they had six
months ago the night she was told of the cancer, the night her life
turned to hell and Tyr pulled her back, and she wondered if there
was an ember of love still glowing in the recesses of her
heart—glowing dimly, it would seem, since her health took a
downward turn when the abundance of love had faded.
    Still, she held on for the millennium. It was less
for Tyr now and more for herself, but she’d come this far and
didn’t see the point in giving up. The arbitrary finish line was
coming into view, and she meant to cross it. Then, on the first,
she planned to surrender to the comfort of death.
    “Do you want something to eat?”
    “No.”
    “Something to drink then?”
    Tyr hovered over her bed like a nurse who’d spent
the last ten centuries caring for the dying, which on some
fucked-up level was exactly what he was. The sympathy in his voice
and in his facial expressions was almost enough to kill her this
instant. It never felt feigned or exaggerated, but it was more, she
thought, than she ever deserved to be loved—and more, at the
moment, than she cared to be loved by Tyr.
    “Why do you love me, Tyr?”
    He looked taken aback, probably because she had not
spoken of anything personal for some time, ignoring his pleas for
forgiveness and responding only to conversation about food and
water and exercise. She’d said it now without realizing it was the
first real thing she’d said to him in days.
    The way Tyr lit up when he heard the words, she
feared she’d prompted another flood of apologies and professions of
admiration. It was fine though. She’d taken her medication and was
barely conscious at the moment and if he got boring she could drift
off without being blamed. One of the advantages of terminal cancer
is nobody gets pissed at you for falling asleep when they’re being
boring.
    He sat on the bed next to her and put her hand in
his. She allowed it, though she hadn’t much strength to
protest.
    When Tyr talked he talked in clichés. “Because
you’re so good. And strong. Of all the people I’ve met, you’ve had
the most undeserved rotten luck but it never made you bitter.
You’re so… pure. You’re wiser than your years. One would think you
were a lot older than nineteen.” Blah, blah, blah.
    “How old… do I act?”
    “Maybe two or three hundred?”
    Eva had to laugh. It was a compliment she’d never
been paid before and his flat sincerity gave it an unintended
humor. “How old are you, Tyr?”
    “Not sure. A thousand or so?”
    “How did you die?”
    “Murder, I’m told. Some Vikings sacked an English
village where I lived and killed me and a bunch of other
people.”
    “Mmm…” she said sleepily. “Fucking Vikings.”
    “They got theirs in the end.”
    “Will you tell me a story about them?”
    “About Vikings?”
    “And you, when you were