The Irascible Immortals Short Story Series Volume 1-3: Irascible Immortals

By Ronel Janse van Vuuren

Immortals + Boredom = Catastrophe.

 

Something old and dangerous is waking, making the immortals act out on their crazier instincts.

 

Odin used to have it pretty good: whole nations worshipped him, named a day of the week after him, believed him to be wise. These days, though, not even the pets of other immortals respect him.

 

Odin goes off to Midgard to live in a retirement home.

 

Anubis has never had it great. Not even in the heyday of Egypt. And though his job has never become obsolete, it's not like anyone ever thanks him for guiding the recently dead to their Egyptian afterlife. But then they want to outsource his job to a no-name brand.

 

Anubis leaves his job to go on a beach vacation.

 

Mab is the queen of dreams. And nightmares. But when thinking up dancing unicorns for humans to dream of fail to amuse her, she knows that she needs a break.

 

Mab takes off to New Orleans for Samhain fun.

 

They are all so busy with their own stuff, they don't even realise what is really going on…

 

Scroll up to buy now and enjoy the hilarity that ensues when bored immortals let loose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronel Janse van Vuuren
• Release date: Apr 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215521854

Book preview

Breaking the Habit

Odin woke up to someone yelling his name.

He groaned and fell back on the mattress. Wednesday. Wodin’s Day. His day. He rubbed his hands over his face and grimaced. Back in the day he had been honoured when the mortals had named a day of the week after him. Now... each time someone said the name of that infernal weekday, it was as if they called out to him.

He massaged his forehead. Like having warlords and berserkers constantly calling out to him wasn’t irritating enough. He was not a war god, he was not a benefactor to a specific day of the week: he was a tired old man seeking a bit of solitude and peace.

Cawing ravens and hissing cats made his one eye snap open. The birds circled above him and the felines ran over him, scratching him with their sharp claws. Roaring, he threw the quilt off him. The animals scampered. He had had enough. If he found Freya’s cats near his ravens again... The dark thought left him as quick as it came. Odin fell back onto his mattress. He didn’t have the desire or energy to lead the Wild Hunt, much less to run after the animals in Asgard and putting them in their place.

He settled back into the comfort of his bed, trying to sleep again. What he needed, Odin realised, was to find joy in living.

He could hear Freya and Frigg scream at each other, the sounds the ravens and cats were making amplified their argument. He didn’t need to hear them properly to know what they were disagreeing about again: cats and their place in a peaceful household. It was an old argument; one they could run with if not stopped. He pulled a pillow over his face.

Battle cries and the clanging of metal came through the open window. The warriors of Valhalla had stormed into the streets of Asgard, despite knowing they weren’t allowed to. He needed a tranquil place to catch up on much needed sleep. His eye shot open and he threw the pillow aside. Midgard had places for men his age to find joy and tranquillity. Grinning, he got out of bed.

––––––––

Odin entered the building marked ‘reception’, checking his reflection in the window once more to make sure that he was properly dressed for Midgard. Earth. He liked the eyepatch – it made him look rakish.

‘Yes?’ the stern woman behind the counter asked as he stepped up.

‘I’m Woody Hunt.’ He felt quite proud on the play of his Germanic name and title as leader of the Wild Hunt.

‘And?’

‘I’m moving in.’

She gave an exasperated sigh and looked at him. ‘Where are your forms?’

Odin quickly read her mind and presented her with leaves glamoured to look like what she wanted.

‘That seems to be in order. Wilson!’ A young man came scampering in at the bark of his name. ‘Take Mr Hunt to number thirteen.’

Odin followed Wilson from the building to a bungalow surrounded by flowerbeds in bloom and identical little houses all around.

‘Here you are, sir. Number thirteen.’ Wilson held open the door, the keys in his outstretched hand.