Arthur Quinn and Hell's Keeper by Alan Early Read Free Book Online Page B

was the off-season so the park was closed now, but it was due to reopen in mid-March – in just a few days. She went straight to a fire escape in one of the side walls and banged the secret knock on the door. The youngest Viking, who’d been only seventeen or eighteen when he’d died, opened the door. Like the other dead warriors, he was tall with a slim, muscular physique. Unlike the others, his skin hadn’t receded as much but it was still quite brown and leathery. If he was going out in public, he usually covered it with layers of flesh-tone foundation. He was wearing a T-shirt and some jeans – being reanimated corpses, the Vikings didn’t feel the cold – that he had borrowed from the costume room. He looked at Ash with quizzical sunken eyes.
    â€˜Eirik,’ she said, ‘we need you. There’s no time for make-up.’
    He nodded, then disappeared into the complex, reappearing a moment later wearing a baseball cap pulled down low over his face and carrying a long-sword. It was rusted slightly but could still do a good amount of damage, especially with Eirik wielding it. He got into the passenger seat while the smaller pair of Ellie and Ash sat in the back. Then Ex sped off towards Heuston Station, where they were waiting now.
    â€˜Look – there he is!’ said Ellie, pointing at Arthur coming out of the building. He didn’t have to look around for too long before spotting the blue Beetle – it was hard to miss.
    â€˜Hi,’ he said, climbing into the back next to Ash. ‘Where are we headed?’
    â€˜To Dublin Harbour,’ Ash said, showing him the GPS display on her smartphone.

    Clontarf had once been a village north of Dublin city. Fenrir could still see it in his mind’s eye as it had been: just a row of little huts. Even though it had been swallowed up by the city spread years before, it still retained some of its former charm. He had been the one to suggest the café to meet in. The Bridge Café was the one place he’d visited every time he had gone fishing. That all seemed like another lifetime now. The café was exactly as he remembered it. It was situated just on the corner of Vernon Avenue, a little blue-faced building with one wide window and a wooden painted sign overhead. He’d once heard the term ‘greasy spoon’ used to describe a café or restaurant that tended to be a bit rough around the edges and specialised in quick, fried food, and he thought it was a very fitting description for The Bridge. Inside, the walls were covered in tongue-and-groove panelling and painted bright yellow, and waxy chequered tablecloths were draped over the tables, which were packed too tightly into the small space. There was a counter at the back of the café with crisps, cakes and sandwiches on display and an open stainless-steel kitchen behind. Everything was covered in a fine layer of grease. Fenrir loved the place.
    Drysi was already there when he entered. She was sitting at the small round table nearest the window, with a glass of juice in front of her. She looked up when he entered, a little bell tinkling over the door. The café was busy and every other table was occupied. She smiled at him shyly.
    â€˜Hello, Father.’
    â€˜Drysi,’ he said, taking the seat opposite her. ‘How are you?’
    â€˜I’m good. Thank you for coming.’
    â€˜Of course I came. You’re my daughter. I love you. I always hoped I’d see you again. And …’ He hesitated, the god’s name stuck in his throat. ‘And Loki?’
    â€˜He’s gone,’ was all Drysi said, looking down with what seemed to be genuine loss in her eyes. Fenrir reached out and laid a hand over one of hers. That hopeful part of him was winning over the logical side. His daughter was his once more.
    â€˜Gone,’ he said.
    She looked up at him with tears glistening in her eyes.
    â€˜He was awful, Father. So … so