Hammered [3] by Kevin Hearne

just fine. His problem was that he didn’t know if he could take me in a fight, and neither did his wolves. Since I was also a shape-shifter and centuries older than he was, they might follow me as an alpha if circumstances were right. Gunnar wanted to make sure those circumstances never occurred. He had declared me a Friend of the Pack years ago and then done everything he could to avoid me so that his wolves would have few occasions to compare us side by side. We’d always been cordial to each other, but some of that cordiality had chilled after he lost two pack members in the Superstition Mountains while trying to rescue Hal, who’d been drawn into the fight only because of me.
    “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said, nodding to each of them in return. “I’m honored by your visit. May I invite you inside for a beer—and some blood?” I gave Leif a goblet full of my blood every so often, and now I wondered if that had something to do with him surviving an attack he shouldn’t have survived.
    They made noises of graciousness and gave Oberon a friendly scratch or two behind his ears, and then we all went inside.
    I got a couple of bottles of Ommegang’s Three Philosophers ale out of the fridge for Gunnar and me, then I grabbed a goblet out of the cupboard and a steak knife out of the cutlery drawer and stabbed myself in the arm, allowing the blood to drip freely into the goblet. A small exertion of power shut down the pain.
    “I’m told by others that you’ve recovered fully, Leif,” I remarked. “What’s your own assessment?”
    “Snorri has practically glutted me on bags of donated blood,” he replied, referring to the werewolf doctor who worked in a Scottsdale hospital. “And while it has been nourishing, it has also been less than satisfying. There isnever the heady aroma of fear or the succulent scent of desire when you feast on a blood bag. Plus, they were refrigerated,” he added with a shudder.
    “This should be pleasant, then,” I said, watching the level of blood rise in the glass. “Though I’m afraid I can’t help you with the smells of fear or desire. Would you say that you’re as strong as ever, then?”
    “Not precisely,” Leif said. “Your blood helps tremendously, however. There is something about it, as we have discussed in the past.”
    “Yes, I’d be curious to know precisely what it is,” I said. The goblet was nearly full, so I bound my torn tissue and skin back together to cut off the flow. “You’re welcome to as much as I can afford, of course, in the coming days. I owe you at least that much, since you came to such harm on my account.”
    I wiped a couple of stray drops off my arm with a washcloth and then handed him the goblet. He thanked me and said, “Helping me kill Thor will settle that account quite nicely.”
    “The same goes for me,” Gunnar chimed in. Presumably he was referring to his dead pack members, but they had come to the Superstitions on their own. I’d never asked them to come. If their deaths were on anyone’s head, it was Gunnar’s, but I let the comment slide. If he’d consider his imaginary account settled by something I was already going to do anyway, there was no need to dispute him.
    “A toast, then,” I said, raising my bottle. “Perhaps one of you should offer it, since you have stronger feelings on the matter than I do.” My feelings were that I’d already done more than enough damage on the Norse plane.
    Leif and Gunnar spoke at once as though they’d rehearsed it in stereo: “To killing Thor!” I think one or both of them spit on me in the process, their vehemence was so strong.
    “Hear, hear,” I said, attempting to sound hearty about it, and we all clinked our drinks and drank deeply. Leif looked visibly healthier almost immediately.
     Oberon said.
    Would you like a treat as a