Gunnr groaned at the hope on her roommate’s face and nearly shut the front door before making her way into the townhouse.
“Svava,” she warned. “I could feel you getting ready to pounce the second I turned onto the street. And unless you have a horn of mead, you’ll hear nothing.”
A faint hmph came from the footsteps heading toward the bar. A few moments later, her sister pressed a long-familiar carved horn into her hand.
Gunnr took a moment to savor the exquisite carvings that commemorated a battle long forgotten. “They don’t make them like Magnus anymore.”
Svava raised her own horn. “To fallen heroes we carried to Valhalla.”
“Hail,” Gunnr echoed, and let the blueberry-orange blossom sweetness flower over her tongue before dropping her head back onto the soft pillows.
“So?” Impatience seeped into Svava’s voice. “This dating app is the most entertainment I’ve had since television was invented.”
“Disaster, as usual,” she replied, and let out a yawn.
“Oh, no,” came the fierce reply. “I’ll take your mead away if you try to fall apart on me before paying story tribute. Now spill.”
“Well,” Gunnr said, “I can’t tell you how the steak is, because we never made it to dinner.”
“And yet you’re not home early,” Svava noted, and pulled her tangle of braids and limbs off the couch. “Refill?”
Gunnr tipped her horn back and held it out. “Please. After tonight, I need it. This is getting ridiculous.”
“But it’s so amazing to hear.”
“Less fun to live through.” She yawned again. “The guy shows up, and suddenly it’s obvious why we’re at the one Western-themed steakhouse in town. I could have lived with the clearly just-purchased leather cowboy hat—”
Svava handed the drinking horn back with a snicker and rolled her eyes in salute at the horned helmet they kept hung in pride of place on their shared trophy wall. The helmet was an inside joke between the Valkyries, made of pink and purple plastic.
“—but I had my doubts about the string tie. But he tried, you know? Only too hard, because he went all macho and annoying. Even Magnus never called me ‘little lady.'”
“Ooof,” was Svava’s only commentary.
“That’s it? No tirade on feminism or how you’d have dropped him before reaching the great hall?”
She grinned, her face framed by two blonde braids that shone in the dimly lit room. “You’re clearly not done yet.”
“No,” Gunnr admitted, and stretched her legs before pulling herself into a comfortable ball on the overstuffed couch. “As it turned out, the steakhouse was located next to a bank.”
“Now we’re getting started.” Svava’s grin grew impossibly wider.
“As it turns out, Cowboy Jon soiled himself when the bank robbers blew the wrong wall. And then he ran, but bounced right off the server.”
Gunnr took another sip of mead, wistfully longing for the sizzling steak with its crisp diamond char pattern. It had looked delicious, even lying on the floor next to Cowboy Jon’s hat.
She flashed teeth at her sister. “He knocked over the food, the server, and abandoned his hat, but he fled so fast, he was the only one who made it out before the bank robbers turned it into a hostage situation.”
Svava waved a carefree hand. “Presumably, you took care of that.”
“Obviously.” Gunnr stroked the sword tattoo on her arm. “Though the ravens still need feeding. Anyway, I got caught by the police wanting witness statements.”
“Was anyone was about to admit they saw a sword-wielding Valkyrie?”
“The waiter suggested the bomb, and everyone basically nodded along and said they didn’t see clearly.”
Laughing, Svava drained her horn. “I love the power of suggestion.”
“Anyway, I grabbed spaghetti from that takeout place on the drive home, because the steakhouse’s kitchen shut down once the cops arrived. Which reminds me.” Gunnr dug into the pocket of her skinny jeans and pulled out a small card in a white envelope. “We have a gift card, if you still want to know how the food tastes. The waiter’s a believer. He saw everything and didn’t wish it away like the others.”
“The cops must have known the explosion didn’t kill the would-be robbers.”
“They chalked it up to little green men, I believe,” Gunnr said. “Though I’m starting to be concerned about how many of these stories are circulating around town. Someone will take notice of blondes wielding swords. I don’t want to move again just yet.”
“Maybe,” Svava mused. She stopped playing with the end of her braids and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “But can you imagine Cowboy Jon’s reaction when the cops show up to interview him?”
Gunnr’s smile was vicious this time. “I can’t wait.”
Her sister smiled as sweetly as the mead they’d been sipping. “Sister-mine? You might as well go get your trophy from where you left it on the porch.”
“You know me too well.” Gunnr untangled her legs from the pile of pillows and headed for the front door.
By the time she returned, Svava had already cleared a spot on the trophy wall, just under the shining plastic helmet. A spot just large enough for a brand-new leather cowboy hat.
***
This week’s MOTE prompt was inspired by Becky Jones’ spaghetti western suggestion. My prompt went back to Becky: “Castle doesn’t do any good if you forget to draw the bridge.” Check it, and more, out at More Odds Than Ends!
