Read Magnus Chase and the Sword of Summer Pdf

The Sword of Summer, p.1

Part #1 of Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard serial by Rick Riordan

To Cassandra Clare

Cheers for letting me share the excellent name Magnus

1

Practiced Morn! You're Going to Die

Aye, I know. You guys are going to read about how I died in desperation, and you're going be like, 'Wow! That sounds cool, Magnus! Tin can I die in agony, too?'

No. Just no.

Don't go jumping off any rooftops. Don't come across the highway or prepare yourself on fire. It doesn't piece of work that fashion. Yous will not finish up where I ended up.

Besides, you wouldn't want to deal with my state of affairs. Unless you've got some crazy desire to run into undead warriors hacking ane some other to pieces, swords flying upward giants' noses and dark elves in snappy outfits, you shouldn't even think about finding the wolf-headed doors.

My name is Magnus Chase. I'm 16 years former. This is the story of how my life went downhill afterwards I got myself killed.

My 24-hour interval started out normal enough. I was sleeping on the sidewalk under a bridge in the Public Garden when a guy kicked me awake and said, 'They're after y'all.'

By the style, I've been homeless for the past two years.

Some of you may call back, Aw, how pitiful. Others may think, Ha, ha, loser! But, if you saw me on the street, xc-nine per cent of you would walk right past like I'thou invisible. You'd pray, Don't permit him ask me for money. You'd wonder if I'm older than I await, considering surely a teenager wouldn't exist wrapped in a stinky erstwhile sleeping bag, stuck outside in the eye of a Boston wintertime. Somebody should help that poor boy!

Then you'd go along walking.

Any. I don't need your sympathy. I'm used to existence laughed at. I'm definitely used to being ignored. Let's move on.

The bum who woke me was a guy called Blitz. Every bit usual, he looked like he'd been running through a muddied hurricane. His wiry black hair was full of paper scraps and twigs. His face was the color of saddle leather and was flecked with ice. His bristles curled in all directions. Snow caked the bottom of his trench coat where it dragged effectually his feet – Blitz being about five feet five – and his eyes were so dilated the irises were all pupil. His permanently alarmed expression fabricated him await like he might beginning screaming any second.

I blinked the gunk out of my eyes. My rima oris tasted like day-old hamburger. My sleeping bag was warm, and I really didn't want to get out of it.

'Who's after me?'

'Not sure.' Blitz rubbed his nose, which had been broken and then many times it zigzagged similar a lightning bolt. 'They're handing out flyers with your name and picture.'

I cursed. Random law and park rangers I could deal with. Truant officers, community-service volunteers, drunken college kids, addicts looking to roll somebody modest and weak – all those would've been as easy to wake up to as pancakes and orangish juice.

But when somebody knew my name and my face – that was bad. That meant they were targeting me specifically. Maybe the folks at the shelter were mad at me for breaking their stereo. (Those Christmas carols had been driving me crazy.) Maybe a security camera had caught that last bit of pickpocketing I did in the Theater District. (Hey, I needed money for pizza.) Or perhaps, unlikely as information technology seemed, the police were still looking for me, wanting to ask questions about my mom's murder …

I packed my stuff, which took about three seconds. The sleeping bag rolled upwardly tight and fitted in my backpack with my toothbrush and a modify of socks and underwear. Except for the wearing apparel on my back, that's all I owned. With the backpack over my shoulder and the hood of my jacket pulled low, I could alloy in with pedestrian traffic pretty well. Boston was full of college kids. Some of them were even more scraggly and younger-looking than me.

I turned to Blitz. 'Where'd you run into these people with the flyers?'

'Beacon Street. They're coming this way. Heart-anile white guy and a teenage daughter, probably his daughter.'

I frowned. 'That makes no sense. Who –'

'I don't know, kid, but I gotta become.' Blitz squinted at the sunrise, which was turning the skyscraper windows orange. For reasons I'd never quite understood, Rush hated the daylight. Peradventure he was the earth's shortest, stoutest homeless vampire. 'You should go see Hearth. He'southward hanging out in Copley Square.'

I tried non to feel irritated. The local street people jokingly called Hearth and Blitz my mom and dad considering one or the other ever seemed to be hovering around me.

'I appreciate it,' I said. 'I'll be fine.'

Blitz chewed his thumbnail. 'I dunno, child. Not today. You lot gotta exist actress conscientious.'

'Why?'

He glanced over my shoulder. 'They're coming.'

I didn't see anybody. When I turned back, Rush was gone.

I hated it when he did that. Merely – Poof. The guy was like a ninja. A homeless vampire ninja.

Now I had a choice: go to Copley Foursquare and hang out with Hearth, or head towards Beacon Street and try to spot the people who were looking for me.

Blitz's clarification of them made me curious. A middle-aged white guy and a teenage girl searching for me at sunrise on a biting-cold morning. Why? Who were they?

I crept along the edge of the pond. Almost nobody took the lower trail under the span. I could hug the side of the hill and spot anyone budgeted on the higher path without them seeing me.

Snow coated the footing. The sky was center-achingly blue. The bare tree branches looked like they'd been dipped in glass. The air current cut through my layers of wearing apparel, but I didn't mind the common cold. My mom used to joke that I was half polar bear.

Dammit, Magnus, I chided myself.

Later ii years, my memories of her were still a minefield. I'd stumble over one, and instantly my composure would exist blown to bits.

I tried to focus.

The human being and the girl were coming this manner. The human being'south sandy hair grew over his collar – not like an intentional way, but like he couldn't be bothered to cut it. His baffled expression reminded me of a substitute teacher's: I know I was hit by a spit wad, simply I accept no thought where it came from. His smart shoes were totally incorrect for a Boston winter. His socks were dissimilar shades of brown. His tie looked like it had been tied while he spun around in total darkness.

The girl was definitely his girl. Her hair was merely as thick and wavy, though lighter blonde. She was dressed more than sensibly in snow boots, jeans and a parka, with an orange T-shirt peeking out at the neckline. Her expression was more determined, angry. She gripped a sheaf of flyers similar they were essays she'd been graded on unfairly.

If she was looking for me, I did not want to be found. She was scary.

I didn't recognize her or her dad, but something tugged at the back of my skull … like a magnet trying to pull out a very old memory.

Male parent and daughter stopped where the path forked. They looked around equally if simply now realizing they were continuing in the middle of a deserted park at no-thank-you o'clock in the dead of winter.

'Unbelievable,' said the girl. 'I want to strangle him.'

Assuming she meant me, I hunkered down a fiddling more.

Her dad sighed. 'We should probably avert killing him. He is your uncle.'

'But ii years?' the girl demanded. 'Dad, how could he not tell us for 2 years?'

'I can't explain Randolph'due south actions. I never could, Annabeth.'

I inhaled so sharply that I was afraid they would hear me. A scab was ripped off my brain, exposing raw memories from when I was 6 years old.

Annabeth. Which meant the sandy-haired human was … Uncle Frederick?

I flashed dorsum to the last family unit Thanksgiving we'd shared: Annabeth and me hiding in the library at Uncle Randolph's town business firm, playing with dominoes while the adul

ts yelled at each other downstairs.

You lot're lucky y'all alive with your momma. Annabeth stacked some other domino on her miniature building. It was amazingly skillful, with columns in front end like a temple. I'm going to run away.

I had no doubt she meant information technology. I was in awe of her confidence.

Then Uncle Frederick appeared in the doorway. His fists were clenched. His grim expression was at odds with the grin reindeer on his sweater. Annabeth, nosotros're leaving.

Annabeth looked at me. Her grey optics were a little too fierce for a first-grader's. Be prophylactic, Magnus.

With a flick of her finger, she knocked over her domino temple.

That was the last time I'd seen her.

Afterwards, my mom had been adamant: We're staying away from your uncles. Specially Randolph. I won't requite him what he wants. Ever.

She wouldn't explain what Randolph wanted, or what she and Frederick and Randolph had argued about.

You have to trust me, Magnus. Being around them … information technology's too unsafe.

I trusted my mom. Fifty-fifty after her decease, I hadn't had any contact with my relatives.

At present, of a sudden, they were looking for me.

Randolph lived in boondocks, but, as far equally I knew, Frederick and Annabeth even so lived in Virginia. Yet here they were, passing out flyers with my name and photo on them. Where had they even got a photo of me?

My caput buzzed then badly that I missed some of their conversation.

'– to find Magnus,' Uncle Frederick was saying. He checked his smartphone. 'Randolph is at the city shelter in the Due south End. He says no luck. Nosotros should try the youth shelter across the park.'

'How practice we even know Magnus is live?' Annabeth asked miserably. 'Missing for two years? He could be frozen in a ditch somewhere!'

Function of me was tempted to bound out of my hiding place and shout, TA-DA!

Even though it had been ten years since I'd seen Annabeth, I didn't like seeing her distressed. Only afterward so long on the streets I'd learned the hard fashion: yous never walk into a situation until you lot understand what's going on.

'Randolph is sure Magnus is alive,' said Uncle Frederick. 'He'due south somewhere in Boston. If his life is truly in danger …'

They set up off towards Charles Street, their voices carried away by the wind.

I was shivering now, simply it wasn't from the cold. I wanted to run later on Frederick, tackle him and demand to hear what was going on. How did Randolph know I was notwithstanding in boondocks? Why were they looking for me? How was my life in danger now more than on any other day?

But I didn't follow them.

I remembered the last thing my mom ever told me. I'd been reluctant to apply the fire escape, reluctant to go out her, merely she'd gripped my artillery and made me look at her. Magnus, run. Hide. Don't trust anyone. I'll notice you lot. Whatever you lot do, don't get to Randolph for help.

Then, before I'd made information technology out of the window, the door of our apartment had burst into splinters. Ii pairs of glowing blue eyes had emerged from the darkness …

I shook off the memory and watched Uncle Frederick and Annabeth walk away, veering e towards the Mutual.

Uncle Randolph … For some reason, he'd contacted Frederick and Annabeth. He'd got them to Boston. All this fourth dimension, Frederick and Annabeth hadn't known that my mom was expressionless and I was missing. It seemed impossible, but, if information technology were true, why would Randolph tell them about information technology now?

Without confronting him direct, I could think of only ane way to get answers. His town business firm was in Dorsum Bay, an easy walk from here. According to Frederick, Randolph wasn't home. He was somewhere in the South End, looking for me.

Since zippo started a day better than a lilliputian breaking and entering, I decided to pay his identify a visit.

2

The Homo with the Metal Bra

The family mansion sucked.

Oh, sure, y'all wouldn't think then. Y'all'd run into the massive six-storey brownstone with gargoyles on the corners of the roof, stained-glass transom windows, marble forepart steps and all the other blah, blah, apathetic, rich-people-live-here details, and you'd wonder why I'1000 sleeping on the streets.

Two words: Uncle Randolph.

It was his house. Equally the oldest son, he'd inherited it from my grandparents, who died before I was born. I never knew much about the family soap opera, but there was a lot of bad claret between the three kids: Randolph, Frederick and my mom. After the Great Thanksgiving Schism, we never visited the ancestral homestead again. Our apartment was, similar, half a mile away, merely Randolph might every bit well take lived on Mars.

My mom only mentioned him if nosotros happened to be driving past the brownstone. Then she would point information technology out the fashion you might point out a dangerous cliff. See? There it is. Avoid it.

After I started living on the streets, I would sometimes walk by at nighttime. I'd peer in the windows and see glowing display cases of antique swords and axes, creepy helmets with face masks staring at me from the walls, statues silhouetted in the upstairs windows like petrified ghosts.

Several times I considered breaking in to poke around, simply I'd never been tempted to knock on the door. Please, Uncle Randolph, I know you lot hated my mother and haven't seen me in x years; I know you care more about your rusty old collectibles than yous do almost your family, just may I live in your fine business firm and eat your leftover crusts of bread?

No cheers. I'd rather be on the street, eating 24-hour interval-erstwhile falafel from the food court.

Notwithstanding … I figured it would exist uncomplicated plenty to break in, look around and meet if I could find answers about what was going on. While I was there, maybe I could grab some stuff to pawn.

Sad if that offends your sense of correct and wrong.

Oh, await. No, I'g non.

I don't steal from just everyone. I choose obnoxious jerks who have too much already. If you're driving a new BMW and you park information technology in a disabled spot without a let, then, yeah, I've got no problem jimmying your window and taking some modify from your cupholder. If you lot're coming out of Barneys with your bag of silk handkerchiefs, so busy talking on your telephone and pushing people out of your way that you're non paying attention, I am there for you, ready to pickpocket your wallet. If you can afford 5 k dollars to blow your nose, you tin can beget to buy me dinner.

I am approximate, jury and thief. And, as far as obnoxious jerks went, I figured I couldn't practice ameliorate than Uncle Randolph.

The house fronted Democracy Artery. I headed effectually back to the poetically named Public Alley 429. Randolph's parking spot was empty. Stairs led downward to the basement archway. If there was a security system, I couldn't spot information technology. The door was a simple latch lock without fifty-fifty a deadbolt. Come up on, Randolph. At least brand it a claiming.

Two minutes later I was within.

In the kitchen, I helped myself to some sliced turkey, crackers and milk from the carton. No falafel. Dammit. Now I was really in the mood for some, but I plant a chocolate bar and stuffed it in my glaze pocket for after. (Chocolate must be savoured, non rushed.) And so I headed upstairs into a mausoleum of mahogany furniture, oriental rugs, oil paintings, marble-tiled floors and crystal chandeliers … It was simply embarrassing. Who lives like this?

At historic period six, I couldn't appreciate how expensive all this stuff was, just my full general impression of the mansion was the same: dark, oppressive, creepy. It was hard to imagine my mom growing upwardly here. It was piece of cake to understand why she'd become a fan of the great outdoors.

Our flat over the Korean BBQ articulation in Allston had been cosy enough, but Mom never liked being inside. She always said her real home was the Blue Hills. We used to go hiking and camping there in all kinds of weather – fresh air, no walls or ceilings, no visitor but the ducks, geese and squirrels.

This brownstone, by comparison, felt like a prison house. As I stood alone in the vestibule, my skin crawled with invisible beetles.

I climbed to the next flooring. The library smelled of lemon smoothen and leather, simply like I remembered. Along one wall was a lit glass instance total of Randolph'southward rusty Viking helmets

You're smarter than either of your uncles, Magnus, my mom in one case told me. With your grades, you could easily become into Harvard.

That had been back when she was yet live, I was notwithstanding in school, and I might have had a future that extended past finding my side by side repast.

In ane corner of Randolph's office sat a large slab of rock like a tombstone, the front end chiselled and painted with elaborate red swirly designs. In the centre was a crude drawing of a snarling beast – maybe a lion or a wolf.

I shuddered. Permit'due south not think virtually wolves.

I approached Randolph'south desk. I'd been hoping for a reckoner, or a notepad with helpful information – anything to explicate why they were looking for me. Instead, spread across the desk were pieces of parchment every bit thin and yellow as onion pare. They looked like maps a school kid in medieval times had made for social studies: faint sketches of a coastline, various points labelled in an alphabet I didn't know. Sitting on top of them, like a paperweight, was a leather pouch.

My jiff caught. I recognized that pouch. I untied the drawstring and grabbed one of the dominoes … except it wasn't a domino. My six-year-old self had causeless that's what Annabeth and I had been playing with. Over the years, the memory had reinforced itself. But, instead of dots, these stones were painted with blood-red symbols.

My center pounded. I wasn't sure why. I wondered if coming here had been such a proficient idea. The walls felt like they were endmost in. On the large rock in the corner, the drawing of the beast seemed to sneer at me, its red outline glistening like fresh claret.

I moved to the window. I thought it might aid to await outside. Along the eye of the avenue stretched the Republic Mall – a ribbon of parkland covered in snow. The bare trees were strung with white Christmas lights. At the finish of the block, inside an iron argue, the bronze statue of Leif Erikson stood on his pedestal, his mitt cupped over his eyes. Leif gazed towards the Charlesgate overpass every bit if to say, Look, I discovered a highway!

My mom and I used to joke nearly Leif. His armour was on the skimpy side: a brusque skirt and a breastplate that looked like a Viking bra.

I had no clue why that statue was in the heart of Boston, merely I figured it couldn't be a coincidence that Uncle Randolph grew upwardly to study Vikings. He'd lived here his whole life. He'd probably looked at Leif every day out of the window. Maybe as a child Randolph had thought, Someday, I want to study Vikings. Men who article of clothing metal bras are cool!

My eyes drifted to the base of operations of the statue. Somebody was standing there … looking up at me.

You know how when you encounter somebody out of context and it takes you lot a second to recognize them? In Leif Erikson's shadow stood a tall, stake human being in a black leather jacket, black motorcycle pants and pointy-toed boots. His short, spiky pilus was and so blond it was virtually white. His but nuance of colour was a striped red-and-white scarf wrapped effectually his neck and spilling off his shoulders like a melted candy pikestaff.

If I didn't know him, I might've guessed he was cosplaying some anime character. But I did know him. It was Hearth, my beau homeless dude and surrogate 'mom'.

I was a little creeped out, a little offended. Had he seen me on the street and followed me? I didn't need some fairy god-stalker looking after me.

Hearth made a gesture like he was plucking something from his cupped hand and throwing it abroad. After 2 years of hanging around him, I was getting pretty good at reading sign language.

He was saying Go out.

He didn't look alarmed, but it was difficult to tell with Hearth. He never showed much emotion. Whenever nosotros hung out, he mostly simply stared at me with those pale grayness eyes like he was waiting for me to explode.

I lost valuable seconds trying to figure out what he meant, why he was here when he was supposed to exist in Copley Foursquare.

He gestured again: both hands pointing forrad with two fingers, dipping up and down twice. Bustle.

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