Sessi and the Gate to Hel (Sessi Nilsson Series Book 1)

  Sessi and the Gate to Hel

  Copyright © 2019 Jack Lugar

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, events or locals, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Published and Distributed by The Jackodile Press

  Book Design by J.R. Lugar

  Cover Design by germancreative

  Graphic Assistance by Samantha Yoo

  Author’s photo by J.R. Lugar

  Editing by Judy Lugar & Jill Johnson

  Please visit www.JackLugar.com for updates

  To Elisabeth - Who inspires me

  Chapter 1 Park Sessions Prep

  Chapter 2 A Reputation

  Chapter 3 Yggy

  Chapter 4 Professor Paul Bunyan

  Chapter 5 How Does Your Garden Glow?

  Chapter 6 The White Wolf

  Chapter 7 Good Morning, Sunshine

  Chapter 8 Don’t Harm the Clutterbuck

  Chapter 9 No Peeking

  Chapter 10 Rule Breakers

  Chapter 11 Haven’t I Been Here Before?

  Chapter 12 The Gray Wolf

  Chapter 13 Stark

  Chapter 14 Rescued

  Chapter 15 Catacombs

  Chapter 16 Sneaking Out

  Chapter 17 An Open Gate

  Chapter 18 At the Top of the Stairs

  Chapter 19 Desperately Seeking Sebastian

  Chapter 20 Race to the Catacombs

  Chapter 21 Over My Dead Body

  Chapter 22 Hello, Helen Hardy

  Chapter 23 Niflheim

  Chapter 24 Devoured Soul

  Chapter 25 Half Alf

  Chapter 26 Imposter

  Chapter 27 Pin the Wolf on the Wall

  Chapter 28 Into the Woods

  Chapter 29 The Way Around a Jotun

  Chapter 30 Sfevnthorn Tree

  Chapter 31 Bad Girl

  Chapter 32 This School Sucks

  About the Author

  1

  Park Sessions Prep

  This school sucks.

  I can’t speak highly of any school I’ve attended recently, but this one is the worst. Actually, school has been pretty bad for me ever since my dad died. When that happened, I had to move to a foster home which meant I had to go to a new school, and suddenly every one of my friends acted like they’d never met me. They didn’t return my texts or Snaps and stopped inviting me over. Of course, even if I had been invited, I doubt I would’ve been able to get a ride.

  That was three schools ago.

  Now I’m stuck here at Park Sessions Prep, which is probably the most elite private high school in Washington state. I know, you’re thinking that must be super cool because it’s like the school for the rich and famous. Some of these kids don’t even live in the state, so their parents pay a fortune to board them in the dormitories on campus. And let me tell you, these aren’t your normal, concrete block wall, boxes with bunks. In this dorm, if you could call it that, every room is a suite with a private bath. Students typically bring in their own furniture, paint the walls whatever color they want, and even bring their pets. What’s crazy to me is that the school has a pet care service that stops by to walk dogs, change cat litter, and even provide general grooming for the students’ pets. They call the dorm, Percival Hall, which was apparently named after the school’s first headmaster back in the mid-1900s. I call it my “personal hell” because I think it’s funny… That’s where I live now. Figuratively and literally.

  Yeah, I live in Percival and attend Park Sessions Prep, and it’s miserable. My dorm room still has the bland putty walls and a rented full size bed because I have no money. Most kids bring their king-sized beds and matching furniture sets. When a kid leaves the school at the end of the year, if they don’t reserve their room for next year, the maintenance crew comes in and repaints everything a color that reminds me of weak, yellow barf. The same color as my room.

  You’d think the school is a lot older by looking at the main building. It’s like a castle on the outside with spires and turrets like they are preparing for a siege. Of course, the campus is built in the hills off the 101 near Olympia National Forest and Dabob Bay and tucked away deep on the property hidden by the trees and rock formations. So even if someone were planning a siege, they probably wouldn’t be able to find the school anyway. Most people in Washington don’t even know the school exists; and if they have heard of it, they don’t know where to find it. It’s kind of like an urban legend, where people tell stories about the school, most of which are made up, but they don’t even really believe the story they just told.

  It should be pretty clear by now, that I’m not one of those elite, silver-spoon-in-my-mouth pricks. No, after being torn from my school in Redmond, I’ve made stops at the public schools in Bellevue, Issaquah, and Mercer Island. Now I’m rubbing elbows, mainly because some of the hallways are narrow, with the upper crust at Park Sessions Prep.

  Did I mention, this school sucks?

  2

  A Reputation

  I’ve only been here three weeks, and already I’ve been called down to see the headmaster – they don’t call him the principal – four times. His last name is Wermlinger, but I call him “Wormslinger” or “The Slinger” for short because he’s such a creep. I think he calls me to his office just to check me out because I haven’t done anything wrong… yet. I do have a bit of a reputation based on my three previous schools, which is the main reason I’m here at Park now; but me being tardy to a class or two shouldn’t be cause for alarm. I mean, that’s why I’ve been late. I never hear my alarm.

  My dad used to say that when I’m sleeping so much it’s because I’m growing. He was probably right because when I was in seventh grade, I couldn’t get enough sleep and that was the year I grew six inches. By the end of that school year I was already 5’ 6” and now I’m pushing 5’ 11”. My height made eighth grade awful because I looked like some blonde haired giraffe. I towered over the boys which only made me the target of their insults and name calling; skyscraper, stork, Yeti, Bigfoot. You’ve heard them all; I’m sure.

  One kid would call me “Melman” from the movie Madagascar. My dad always said that kid was just jealous or more likely, liked me. Seventh graders are that way when they like someone. Instead of just saying it, they have to be insulting and rude. I guess I wasn’t much better because I always called him Mort. You know, the little mouse? I did that to get back at him. He was such a runt and kind of cute.

  Of course, when I was in seventh grade, it didn’t matter how much my dad told me I was more beautiful than a swan, all I could see in the mirror was that long neck and pale, white skin. That’s fine for a swan but not for an insecure preteen. But nothing is more comforting in my mind than a little ugly duckling cuddling up with her daddy for comfort after a long day of dealing with prepubescent boys with squeaky voices and beauty pageant prima donnas. Of course, that’s all gone now. The kids and my dad.

  I enter the waiting area outside Headmaster Wormslinger’s palatial office and see the smiling face of Mrs. Hardy. She’s one of the few people around here that I enjoy seeing and can somewhat endure conversing with. It’s probably because she reminds me of my grandmother with her blonde hair turned silver, sparkling water-blue eyes accented with a little too much complimenting blue eyeshadow.

  “You look radiant today, Sessi,” she says like she has the few other times I’ve had to stop in the office. I’m sure she says that or something like it to everyone who comes by, but it still makes me feel good. I like the idea of being “radiant”.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hardy. You look nice today.”

  She smiles at me before looking down at her outfit. “Oh, you’re too sweet. This is just something I threw on.” She then looks over her shoulder like she’s making sure no one can hear and pretends to tell me a secret. “I’ve had these old rags for a decade. Besides, I have no need for the newer styles. Mr. Hardy would think I had a boyfriend if I started looking too fancy.”

  “I think Mr. Hardy better pay more attention to you or pretty soon you will have a new boyfriend.”

  Mrs. Hardy blushed lightly. “Nilsson… Is that Swedish?”

  She was referring to my last name. “Yes,” I replied, “my parents came here when I was a baby.” And at the mention of my parents, the conversation ended. Not intentionally on my part. It’s just that when people know my story and how I lost both my mom and dad, they usually don’t know how to respond. I guess I wouldn’t either.

  Fortunately, the awkward silence is broken quickly when we are interrupted by a man’s cracking voice over the intercom. “Mrs. Hardy, can you send Miss Nilsson in?” Wormslinger has a hard time not sounding like a pompous ass. Just the tone of his voice makes me gag. And the silly game of calling all the students Mister or Miss instead of by their first name only adds to his pompous assness.

  “Yes, sir,” she r
eplies as she presses a button and a mechanical lock on the massive ornately carved mahogany door makes an emphatic clanking sound indicating that it’s unlocked. Mrs. Hardy says nothing more to me but gives me a look of sympathy through a faint smile.

  I say, “Thanks,” to her, but I’m not sure even in my mind whether it’s for unlocking the door to Wormslinger‘s office or for the sympathetic look. I choose the latter.

  Entering his office, I’m always mesmerized by the soaring ceilings, wood-paneled walls, and stockpile of Viking weapons and artifacts hanging on the walls and behind glass cases throughout the room. I’m sure The Slinger has no clue how to use any of the weapons or even their significance, but they’re wicked cool. Actually, as much as I hate being called to the headmaster’s office, I love seeing all the weapons because they remind me of my dad. He would always tell me stories of how my family descended from the Vikings, and he would show me some of his collection of swords and short axes. It was also when I turned 10 that he started training me in how to use them. I could never get the upper hand on my dad when we would train, but I was pretty good with the sword and got to a point where I never missed when I’d throw my axe. My dad would always remind me that knowing how to throw an axe was good, but I’d better have a plan after throwing it because I’d be left without a weapon. My response was always to laugh. When would I ever need to throw an axe?

  I think the Viking short axe is my favorite. My dad would call it a skeggox which literally means bearded axe in Old Norse. He said they called it that because the six-inch blade looked like a beard. I always liked how the balanced weight between the blade and the handle, which was only about two feet long, felt in my hand.

  Every time I enter Wormslinger’s office that’s where I look first. Right over his head at the two bearded axes hanging on the wall behind him. It’s kind of funny because it feels like they are talking to me. Not audibly. I’m not crazy, but I feel words of encouragement go through my mind every time I enter the office; and then I don’t care that I’m having to listen to The Slinger drone on about respect and timeliness.

  It’s probably a little weird to think that my only real friends at Park Sessions are two inanimate axes used as decoration.

  “Have a seat, Miss Nilsson,” I hear as I stare at my two friends. It’s usually his arrogant voice that brings me back to the reality that I’m really all alone in the world. “This is beginning to be a regular appointment. Should we just put it in our calendars?”

  I imagine myself bypassing the overly ornate chair across the desk from him and jumping onto his desk, leaping over his head and grabbing both axes off the wall. Before I return to the ground I swing one axe in the direction of Wormslinger and nick his ear. His eyes flash with fear as a single drop of blood falls the floor. I smile with a glint in my eyes.

  Of course, what I really do is sit, saying, “I’d hate to put you out like that. I’m sure you have much more important things to do than meet with me regularly.”

  The Slinger nods. “In fact, I do,” he responds as he checks out my legs.

  Eyes up here perv. I try to pull the hem of my skirt over my knees unsuccessfully as his eyes move north, but not far enough. Not that there’s anything to see with these uniforms we’re forced to wear. The skirts are a little short, but I always wear shorts under my skirt because I don’t trust anyone; including Mother Nature and her nasty gusts of wind. And I don’t show cleavage, but I could. Especially, when I’m called to Wormslinger’s office.

  “So what are we going to do about this tardiness, Miss Nilsson?” I see the letter opener on his desk and imagine grabbing it and pinning his hand to the desk. Apparently this brings a little smile to my face because he gets more stern with his tone as he continues, “You think it’s funny?”

  “No, sir. I’ll try harder to be on time.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, choking on the word “sir.”

  “Isn’t that what you said last time?”

  “I don’t remember, but it would make sense that I did.”

  “Are you being insolent?”

  While things weren’t going very well already, I think this was the moment everything took a turn for the worse. I already suspected that he was looking to bait me into talking back, so when I respond, “I don’t know,” that isn’t the answer he’s looking for.

  “You don’t know if you’re being insolent?”

  “Not really because…”

  “What you need is a little time with Professor Hulder.”

  What I wanted to say to the fat gasbag was that I wasn’t sure what “insolent” meant, but he was just looking for a fight. Yeah, I know that insolent isn’t a compliment and I should have just replied with a simple “no”; but his tone was so rudely arrogant, which is ironic because I’m pretty sure that’s what “insolent” means, and I really didn’t want to let him have his way. It doesn’t make much sense, I know, because now I’m forced to hang out with some guy named Professor Hulder.

  “Who’s he?” I ask.

  “He cares for our grounds.”

  “And you call him professor?”

  “He’s a PhD. In forestry.”

  “Forestry? Where’s the forest?”

  “We have more than the large white ash in the courtyard.”

  Wormslinger is referring to the giant ash tree that’s called Yggdrasil. People claim it’s over a thousand years old. I’m skeptical about the age, but it is huge. I didn’t participate, but yesterday my botany class had ten students join hands and form a circle around the tree, which meant they all had their faces planted against the bark just to be able to keep holding hands because of its massive size. Other than that tree which everyone calls, Yggy, our campus is surrounded by a thick woods with all sorts of trees, plant life, and the typical “foresty” creatures. I guess this is the forest he’s referring to. My botany teacher prefers to say “flora and fauna.” She must think it sounds scholarly.

  I can only imagine Professor Hulder is an aging, Duck Dynasty greenie with a thick beard filled with remnants of twigs and leaves and maybe even a little mouse nesting in there somewhere.

  Anyway, the thought of spending an afternoon with some tree hugger doesn’t sound appealing. I can’t stand pulling weeds and planting flowers isn’t any more appealing. I don’t really care about getting dirty, but having to kneel down for hours kills me. Oh well, I guess I was destined to be pulling some type of hard labor in detention. Every school I’ve been to has had their own style of punishment. I just thought that I might avoid something like this here at Park.

  When I came here, I told myself I was going to make a change. That I was going avoid the trouble and stop being so angry about everything. Of course, who wouldn’t be angry after losing both their mom and dad? I know I should just be grateful for the time I had with them, but that just sounds like some stupid saying I’d read on one of those motivational posters. The more I think about it; the more pissed I get.

  “So what am I going to have to do? Meet him after class sometime this week and pull weeds?” I asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  “No, you’ll get to join him this Saturday.”

  “All day?”

  Nodding, he responds, “Starting at 6:00.”

  “In the morning!?” I’m outraged that he would steal my Saturday, and on top of that, not let me sleep in. It’s right of passage for teens to get to sleep in on Saturdays. This is cruel and unusual punishment. What the hell are we going do all day on Saturday starting at 6:00 a.m.?

  “No.”

  My mind was still racing when his “no” registers and I mentally pause. “No?”

  “You’ll meet him by Yggdrasil at 6:00 p.m.”

  “So not all day? What, like only for a couple hours?” I said, hopeful.

  “Well, Miss Nilsson, I wouldn’t say all day, but I would say all night.”

  I guess he could see by the look on my face that I was baffled by the punishments that this school doles out.

  “There is special work that Professor Hulder has to do once it turns dark. I can assure you that it is completely safe and as some students have said in the past, somewhat fun.”

  I couldn’t imagine what might be fun about hanging out in the woods in the middle of the night where bears, wolves, and mountain lions prowl. Maybe Hulder is some type of Dr. Doolittle who can talk to the animals. I couldn’t decide if that was better or worse.