Millie Thatcher had been doing just fine for herself before a literal god took an interest in her.

As one of the last living Runeskalds, she’d been perfectly happy carving out a little life for herself by smacking ghosts upside the head. But then the big daddy of rune magic, Loki Laufeyjarson himself, decided she had potential. Suddenly, her chill life of kicking ghosts up the backside is changing into something more, something with actual stakes.

And that’s hardly fair, is it?

Something has been munching on students at one of the country’s elite private schools, and apparently this is now the sort of thing Millie is suited to deal with. Couple this with the unexpected arrival of a handsome German with all the skill and talent she never bothered to develop, and things are threatening to unfold into something altogether unexpected and, worst of all, motivating. Seems like it’s finally time for Millie Thatcher to grow up.

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One

‘So, I was thinking. When this is all over, how would you like an evening out on my boat?’

Somehow, he hadn’t picked the exact worst time to try and chat me up, but it was pretty bloody close. A tip for all of you out there trying to get in a girl’s knickers: at least wait until after she’s finished reciting the most menacing fucking Latin.

Oh, introductions. Hi, I’m Millie Thatcher – ghost hunter, sort of a wizard, and a runeskald. Those are all loaded terms, so I’ll get into them later, after I’ve finished getting my hooks into you with a bit of dramatic action. All the good books start in medias res.

There’s that Latin again.

Anyway, he was trying his luck with me, and I was soul-deep in some rather infernal incantations. About ten metres ahead of us, something was trying to claw its way out of a crypt. It was the family repose of the horny shit who was accompanying me, though I had made it my mission to refuse to learn his name. It was something pompous and double-barrelled, filling their name full of vowels to make up for the conspicuous absence of a chin.

The creature in the tomb had been scratching at the heavy stone for hours without rest, and while I was pleased to find out it didn’t have the strength to lift the damn thing – ruled out most of the more dangerous critters that pop up in graves – it was only going to be a matter of time before it carved its way through. The Latin was supposed to re-sanctify the tomb, but it didn’t seem to be working.

I snapped the book shut and frisbeed it across the room. ‘Right. Fuck that. Hand me that bag, Pugwash.’

The little cogs in the guy’s brain crunched against each other as he awkwardly tried to change gear. He froze for a moment until I snapped my fingers in front of his eyes. ‘Bag. Yes. Of course. This one?’

‘There’s only the one,’ I said, yanking a weathered leather satchel from his grip. Rooting around inside, my fingers plucked up a couple loose poker chips that were laying at the bottom. ‘Family history pop quiz, Pugwash. As precise as possible, please, or we’ll probably die horribly. How long has this guy been dead?’

‘Uh,’ he stalled. ‘Three hundred years, maybe?’

‘Three hundred?’ I asked, counting out six poker chips. ‘You sure?’

He shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘I need you to be sure here, mate.’

‘Uh, give me a second,’ he said, whipping out his phone. He tapped at the screen a few times. ‘Three hundred and twenty-nine years, according to Wikipedia.’

Of course, he had a Wikipedia page. His family probably owned half of Hertfordshire.

Three hundred and twenty-nine. I counted out a seventh chip just to be safe, then set about arranging them atop the sarcophagus. One chip went on each of the four corners, with the remaining ones placed in a stack in line with where the dead bastard’s heart should have been. Helpfully, the family had been unable to resist having some bored stonemason carve some flowery sigil onto the thing, at more or less exactly where I needed to put the chips. May as well have carved a bloody great bullseye into it.

As the last poker chip clicked into place, they each began to glow blue with sharp and angular designs – runes – letting me know everything was set. Again, I rifled through my bag until I found a pig iron nail and a broad-headed mallet. Carefully, I held the nail on top of the stack, point aimed at the centre of the glowing rune, and took a deep breath.

‘Ok, Pugwash, important information coming up,’ I said. ‘Hold your breath, close your eyes, and try not to shit yourself if you feel something touch your face.’

He opened his mouth to protest, but I was already hoisting the mallet up and ready to strike. Seeing this, he gulped down a breath and screwed his eyes shut. I did the same, then brough the mallet down hard onto the nail.

The air turned cold. I could feel something delicate crawling over my face, that same horrible feeling you get when you walk into a spiderweb you didn’t see. Fighting the urge to swipe it away or worse, open my eyes, I let it waltz up my face and into my hairline, then down my back. Then it was pulled away suddenly, the wispy threads trying in vain to find some purchase on my skin. Everything went still.

There was a loud crash as the lid of the sarcophagus slammed down hard, fusing with the sides on which it was resting. Slowly, I opened one eye to survey the scene. A huge crack ran corner to corner across the stone lid, passing directly underneath the stack of chips. All the chips had been obliterated as I had expected, blackened and scorched discs that were unrecognisable apart from the one I had driven the nail through. That one was still intact, the nail glowing red hot in its centre.

I picked it up gingerly and gave the nail a little wiggle. It was secure.

Turning around, I clapped Pugwash hard on the shoulder. ‘You can breath again, mate. Job’s done.’

He blinked his eyes open. ‘It… It is?’

‘Yep. And this is for you,’ I said, handing him the pierced chip along with a folded piece of paper. ‘Keep that safe. That nail comes out of that chip, whatever’s trying to scratch its way out of that coffin gets back to scratching, understand?’

‘I think so,’ he said. ‘And the paper?’

‘My invoice,’ I said. ‘Two grand. My PayPal. One week. And no, I don’t want a trip on your fucking boat.’

*

The money was already in my account by the time I reached my hotel.

The woman on reception – barely older than me but with a resting bitch face that matched my own – barely acknowledged me as she slid the key across the desk. I snatched it up with equal grumpiness and made for my room.

I was tired. I’d spent the best part of the day underground and breathing in the dust of rotting corpses – I needed a shower. The water was mercifully warm, which was a far cry from how things tended to be at home.

There was a lot of dust to wash off, so I took my time before finally climbing out of the shower and into a warm towel. It wasn’t just the dust, mind – I knew what would be waiting for me when I left the bathroom.

I wrung as much water as I could out of my hair, taking some of the dye with it, and readied myself to meet a god.

Loki Laufeyjarson was sat at the room’s small desk, his feet on the tabletop, leaning back. His chair was balanced on its hind legs, and he was rocking it back and forwards with impatience. ‘Another fine job, Millie. I don’t mind telling you, you’re fast becoming my favourite.’

‘Great,’ I said, walking right past him and pulling another towel from a cupboard. ‘Because I live for your approval.’

His expression darkened for a moment. ‘You should. After all, without me, I wonder what path your life would have ended up following. Besides, you’re really taking to being a proper runeskald! That little sealing ritual? Inspired!’

I shrugged. ‘Yep.’

‘Always so confident,’ he said. ‘Even when you’re not. Keep up the good work. I’ll pop by again next time to give you the praise you deserve.’

He didn’t even have the decency to snap his fingers and disappear in a cloud of smoke. Irritating bastard just vanished the moment I blinked.

You’re probably more than a little confused. I did sort of dump you in at the deep end there without much in the way of context, but now my hooks have well and truly dragged you this many pages into the excellent book, I guess I can get you up to speed.

First off, magic is real – in case you didn’t work that out from using rune-inscribed poker chips to destroy an undead horror. I’m technically a wizard, but I’m very shit at that sort of magic. My training was sort of interrupted by the British Government getting all authoritarian and making my mentor’s heart explode like an overstuffed sausage. If you want to hear all about that stuff, go track down Jameson Parker’s longwinded rants.

Luckily, I’m not totally useless. I suck at your standard fireballs and fairy dust sort of magic, but I’m a fucking hero at rune magic. That’s the runeskald bit, building spells and rituals out of runes used by ancient Norsemen, taught to them by Loki Laufeyjarson. Yeah, the same one kicking up his heels in my hotel room.

It’s a whole thing. Upshot is I have a god borderline stalking me, but it’s kind of ok? He doesn’t do much beside point me in the direction of stories that will make me a stronger runeskald. Got to be good at stories to make the magic work for you, apparently.

There, you’re all caught up. More or less. Anything else will become apparent in time, I think. Or, Christ, read the other books or something.

Anyway, Loki gets some credit for being the one to lead me to Pugwash and his haunted crypt. I’m a London girl, born and bred, but we’re talking inner London. I didn’t run in the sort of circles that would drag me out to Hereford, and yet here I was.

That’s as much credit as he’s getting though.

I wrapped the fresh towel around my damp hair and threw myself on the bed. For a moment, I let myself sink into the soft sheets, then shuffled over to the far side of the bed and fished around in the bedside cabinet. My journal was taped to the underside of the drawer, and I tore it free before setting about adding Pugwash’s job to the tally.

Slim pickings. I was building a reputation – a good one this time, not the drunken disasterpiece I had been known as until recently – but it was slow going. There were a couple of good jobs, some freelance work for the chief partisan of the magical world, helping to hobble the government’s Orwellian system of controlling mages, that sort of thing. I’d kicked more than my fair share of ghosts in the bollocks too. But jobs like this one, paying jobs, were not coming in as regularly as I’d like.

I fought off the sadness by wasting a chunk of my hazard pay on a disgustingly greasy pizza, then checked my emails and went to sleep.

Come the morning I’d have a train to catch early if I wanted to get back to London in time to do fuck all with a good portion of my day.