Chapter 9. Dark elf

The sun was overhead, the wind stirred the grass, and in the distance, the famous San Francisco tram chimed.

[I need Thor.] John weaved his motorcycle through the tangled streets.

[Thor in San Francisco? No idea, but one thing’s for sure—I need to make a good first impression.]

The God of Thunder was the last sane idea and at least some hope. The functionality of his enchanted hammer was very similar to Zarathos’ Cross, yet Thor wasn’t dying.

[Maybe I’m clinging to false hope, and Mjolnir is simply enchanted better, avoiding soul decay. But even if Thor himself can’t help me, he can point me in a new direction. And Asgard’s library is far better than that of the Sorcerer Supreme.]

John had spent hours gathering information on Thor, but the internet knew very little about him. After his exile from the Avengers, people quickly lost interest.

The life of Earth’s former greatest hero had split into two equal halves.

Thor constantly moved around, drinking in every bar in the world and paying with Asgardian gold—this was when he ended up in footage displaying inappropriate behavior.

Thor constantly traveled the planet, helping people for free. Just yesterday, his hammer-wielding figure was seen in the sky when long-awaited rain finally fell in Africa. In moments of heroism, he was deeply embarrassed and avoided being seen—on camera, he was nothing but a blurry smudge.

A strange guy. Too shy to attend an official event and receive an award from the governor of Kansas for saving people from a hurricane. Yet not shy at all about vomiting onto a blackjack table in Las Vegas under tourist cameras.

[I’ve concluded that Thor loves drinking but has absolutely no tolerance for it.]

He parked in front of an unremarkable butcher shop. According to old intel, this was a front for the Dark Elves’ smuggling black market. They lived on Earth, sneaking all sorts of interesting things through their own channels from across the Nine Realms.

[I’ve never dealt with Dark Elves and don’t know their customs, but I need to strike a deal. I can’t come to Thor empty-handed.]

John got off his bike, adjusted the backpack on his shoulders, and, without removing his helmet, headed into the shop to engage in some cultural exchange.

The doorbell jingled as he entered. A mustached man behind the counter looked up from his smartphone, lazily eyeing John.

"What do you need?" The shopkeeper stepped toward a meat fridge. "How about some frozen turkey? Fifteen percent off today."

"I need something hotter." The Ghost Rider removed his helmet, revealing a skull wreathed in flames. "Show me the secret goods, elf."

"So, you're magically informed." A green haze peeled away from the shopkeeper, revealing his true form—a Dark Elf with white hair. "Who are you, skeleton?"

"I'm Ghost Rider."

"Got it," the elf showed neither surprise nor concern. "Where did you get this address?"

"Whispered to me in Hell."

"Demonologist, then." The elf pressed his lips together slightly. "Nothing but trouble from your kind. No deal. Get out."

"Want a taste of the Penance Stare?"

"What?" The elf frowned.

[Mm-hmm. This dumb foreigner probably doesn’t even know who the Sorcerer Supreme is. They just keep coming…]

The sound of fabric tearing. John turned—another Dark Elf had somehow crept up on him and stabbed him in the back. The dagger slid perfectly between his ribs, right where his heart should have been.

[Crafty bastard! I didn’t even notice him approach!]

Runic symbols flared with celestial light. Magic poured into the skeleton, trying to rip out his spirit… only to collide with something far older.

Zarathos growled deep within. The flames roared brighter, and the runes flickered out, as if someone had blown out a candle.

John slowly turned his skull. The assassin stared in horror as the runes dimmed.

"It didn’t work." The assassin yanked the dagger from John's back and took a combat stance. "You’re some kind of defective lich. Celestial magic was supposed to banish your spirit back to the afterlife."

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The assassin lunged with the dagger.

"Do you even understand who you’re trying to kill?" The Rider swatted the loser into the wall with a single blow. "I’m beyond liches and all those dark lords you read about in your little storybooks."

"You have proven your strength." The shopkeeper spoke calmly, arms crossed over his chest. "If you are weak, you can be killed and robbed. If you are strong, a deal can be made. That is our tradition."

His composure intrigued John. The flames on his skull dimmed slightly.

"Do Dark Elves do this with every new customer?"

"No, but we assess each one," the shopkeeper said coldly. "If a human, elf, or dwarf cannot defend themselves, they are prey. A Dark Elf may do whatever they wish with prey."

[Interesting traditions! Am I going to forgive a stab in the back just because of cultural differences? Of course not.]

"You wanted to know what the Penance Stare is?" The Rider suddenly grabbed the assassin and locked eyes with him. "Then see for yourself!"

It was just a light dose—a single week’s worth of sins—but it was enough. The man screamed, collapsed to the ground, and clutched his eyes.

The Dark Elf watched his apprentice’s agony with indifference.

"You don’t care if I kill him?"

"You have the right, Rider." The elf nodded slowly. "My apprentice was too reckless to attack a stranger. And too weak to win. By the laws of my homeland, his life now belongs to you."

He paused, giving John an appraising look.

"If he had waited, evaluated you, negotiated... if he had been more subtle, he might have gotten what he wanted. But he rushed. That was his mistake and your triumph."

"And you won’t avenge him?"

"No. You have not insulted me personally," the elf said coldly, watching the other elf writhe in agony. "I will simply find a new apprentice."

"If his life belongs to me," John picked up the rune-carved dagger, "then all his possessions do as well."

"That is correct."

"As for his life..." John aimed a flame-covered finger at the fallen elf but then got a better idea. He shifted his finger toward the teacher. "I gift his life to you."

The elf took a moment to consider, then slowly nodded.

"I accept your gift." The elven mage waved his hand, and a cloud of energy carried the apprentice away into the depths of the shop.

[Damn. His face didn’t change at all. I have no idea if he saw that as generosity or weakness. Dealing with Dark Elves is a pain...]

"What does the esteemed customer desire?" the elf asked, as if nothing had happened.

"What do you have?" John also tried to act as if everything was normal. "Show me everything."

"That’s not how this works," the elf crossed his arms. "We don’t provide anyone with a full inventory list. You ask, I answer whether we have it in stock. Attacking me is useless—the warehouse is elsewhere. Once I receive payment, I send a courier to retrieve the goods."

[A culture of bastards, but at least they know how to keep their stash safe.]

"My order is simple: I need a large quantity of alcohol—something that would impress even an Asgardian prince."

"I wouldn’t call that simple. Asgard is famous for its vast selection of spirits. Impressing them is no easy task." The elf tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the counter. "I do have one last jug of Tenth Realm liqueur."

"Just one jug?" John said doubtfully. "And it’s a liqueur..."

"The Tenth Realm does not trade with anyone, and breaching their fortress is extremely difficult. Even All-Father Odin has only been there once," the elf explained. "I can assure you that even a single jug will impress the most refined connoisseur."

"And what does it taste like?"

"A taste of paradise."

[Not sure if I can trust a Dark Elf’s words... Maybe I’m overthinking this. Thor seems like the kind of guy who’d drink anything.]

"Alright," John relented. "How much for your liqueur?"

"Depends on the currency you’ll be paying with. I accept artifacts, gold, alchemical ingredients..."

"Regular dollars." The Rider unzipped his bag, packed full of dirty money from gangsters. "And a rune-carved dagger for banishing liches."

[Easy come, easy go. Besides, I have no place to store it. Keeping a soul-affecting artifact on me at all times? No thanks.]

"Understood." The vendor showed no reaction, as if people sold him his apprentices’ belongings every day. "The dagger and twenty-five thousand dollars. No bargaining."

"Another one of your Dark Elf customs?"

"Yes. We do not haggle. The price is final."

For a while, they counted out the necessary sum from crumpled bills, still stained with blood and cocaine.

[It’s great when you can crack open a drug lord’s safe anytime you want. If I had to pay with my own money... twenty-five grand for a single bottle... my greedy heart wouldn’t survive it.]

"The deal is done," the elf said, stacking the money into neat piles. "Wait a moment."

The elven mage gestured with his hands, green magic swirling around his fingers. A portal flared at his feet, and out of it crawled a dog-sized spider. Its red eyes regarded John with mild curiosity.

The elf said something in an unfamiliar language and placed the money and dagger into the pouch on the spider’s abdomen. The creature waved its legs and clacked its mandibles as if replying, then vanished back into the portal.

"My courier will return with the goods in a few minutes," the vendor explained.

"Interesting magic." The flames around the Rider’s skull flickered slightly. "Did you make a contract with the spiders?"

"Elves do not share their knowledge for free," the vendor cut in sharply. "Either pay for the answer or become my apprentice."

[Like the one you handed over to me for execution a minute ago.]

"I just realized I don’t actually care that much," John said, drumming his fingers on the counter while waiting for the courier. "You’re willing to sell knowledge, right? Do you also sell services?"

"Tell me what you need first, then we’ll discuss the price."

"I need a meeting with Thor."

"Which one?"

"What kind of question is that? How many Thors do you know?"

"Plenty."

[Damn. Gotta break old habits. In the normal world, if you say ‘Thor,’ everyone knows who you mean. But here... tons of kids across the galaxy are named after the Asgardian prince.]

"I need the Thor who lives on Earth," John clarified, but that wasn’t enough. "The one who’s always saving the world and flies around with a hammer."

"Understood," the vendor finally said. "I can’t arrange a meeting, but I can give you the exact date and location where you’ll find him."

"And how much will that cost?"

"One hundred thousand dollars."

"Isn’t that a bit steep for just an address?" John crossed his arms. "You’re not even putting in a good word for me."

"One hundred thousand is a fair price for someone’s location," the elf countered calmly. "Because this Thor doesn’t want to be found."

[A hundred grand... Not pocket change. But also not so much that I’d rather waste time searching on my own. Hopefully, San Francisco still has some rich drug lords left.]