by Kendall Grey
I remember the incident well. Memories of Thor’s horrified face when he saw Sif’s hair make me smile. I totally buzzed it, leaving her with a mess of sharp angles and mismatched sprouts in what would be considered “punk rock” style today.
Those were the days. I was wild and free and full of so much mischief back then. With no fears of growing old or dying, I was in the prime of life, despite Thor threatening me regularly. I enjoyed the thrill of his hunts because I knew he could hurt me, but he’d never kill me.
My smile fades. Mortality is a real downer.
Glancing at Darryl Donovan delighting in TV Loki’s misfortune, I swallow hard as a troubling question I hadn’t thought of until this moment occurs to me: If Thor is alive and well, where’s Mjolnir?
A crackle of heat lightning illuminating the window and distant, pleased thunder are my only answers.
Chapter Three
Surprisingly, the dreams Darryl Donovan wished me are sweet, indeed. So sweet, in fact, I wake up humping one of my pillows, apparently mistaking it for Gunnar Magnusson. He played the starring role in the graphic fantasies that besieged my subconscious the entire night.
Gunnar Magnusson must’ve given me quite a workout behind my lids. I haven’t slept this well since I woke up in Iceland after Ragnarok. One thing is certain. If I were still dressed in male skin, I’d be washing my trousers in the river right about now. That shite was a hot but cruel reminder of the lack of vibrators in my life. Freddie was supposed to take me to an “adult store” the other day, but we got distracted and never made it. I need to replenish my toy box before things get out of control.
Kenaz trills hypnotically from the top of my skull, smiling down like a sated king surveying his minions. My reinstalled rune of fire must’ve had something to do with the carnage in my sleepwear. An image of the rune smoking a cigarette comes to mind. I giggle.
Laguz coughs at my hip. How I wish I could have your full attention once again, the rune laments. I forgot how much I despise Kenaz.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I murmur, tossing the covers off my legs and stretching languidly. I’m drenched in sweat from the night’s exertions, but now that I’m reunited with Kenaz, I’m starting to feel like my old, haughty self.
And the grass is always greener on the other side, Laguz quips with distaste.
The push and pull waging war between my runes isn’t new, but Laguz is right. Things were much quieter before Kenaz returned home yesterday. And far more boring.
There’s no need to be rude, Laguz snipes. I’m not boring.
“Well … maybe a little,” I whisper, glancing over at the sleeping Darryl Donovan’s rising and falling shoulders. Too bad that guy is Thor. Imagine the adventures we could go on if he were someone interesting who wasn’t out to flatten me at every turn.
Kenaz doesn’t speak. Silence is part of its charm—and its seduction. You never know what Kenaz is up to until you’re standing in neck-high flaming water with a lard-coated whip in one hand and a naked Valkyrie virgin in the other.
It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch out for.
Huginn lifts his head and smacks his beak a couple times. He glances in my direction—I’m still invisible—and says, “Sleep well?” The amused note of levity in his voice isn’t lost on me.
“Oh, yes.” I hop out of bed and strip off my wet clothes. My nose twitches at the earthy scent tingeing the air. Is it coming off me? I sniff at my armpit. Yep. Definitely me. But it’s not sweat. Something darker. More primal. Reminds me of sex.
It’s Kenaz. I picture Laguz rolling its nonexistent eyes.
So, Kenaz is making me smell … sexy? Huh.
Good thing Darryl Donovan’s asleep.
That’s Thor you’re having suggestive thoughts about, Laguz reminds.
My grin transforms into a full-body shudder.
Blech!
Huginn says, “I’m gonna guess Gunnar’s the one who kept you going all night.”
I have no idea what you’re talking about translates to, “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
I sigh and throw double-barreled bird fingers to no one in particular. Stupid truth. Why must it stalk me so?
Huginn laughs. “You thrashed and shook the bed so much, I thought you got strapped to a rock and made into a feast for a serpent again.”
The lightness in my heart hardens with cosmic cement. The reminder of my son Narfi’s death is both unwanted and sobering. It strips away all the fun from the night’s subconscious romp through dreamland. “Not funny,” I say.
Huginn ducks his head apologetically. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was in poor taste. I’m sorry, Loki.”
I wave him off, though he can’t see me. It’s okay. “It’s not okay.” Damn it. I try again. “I know you meant it as a jest.”
A strange, oscillating whine emanates from outside. It sounds like a neutered polar bear crying with heavy vibrato.
“Ugh!” I cover my ears with my palms. “What is that infernal noise?”
Darryl Donovan rolls over, frowns, and sits up. He grabs his glasses off the nightstand between us and slips them on. “Good morning to you too. You mind making yourself visible so I don’t feel like an idiot yammering to myself?”
I ignore his request. “Do you not hear that?”
He turns toward the window, but the curtains are closed. With a shrug, he says, “Sounds like yodeling to me.”
Never having heard this term, I listen more closely. The repeated squall vacillates between a low pitch and a shrill falsetto. Over and over it goes until the “yodeler” hits a crescendo that lasts several seconds and tapers off into oblivion.
“Thank the gods,” I grumble under my breath.
Huginn belly laughs. A feather drifts off his plumage and lands on the matted carpet.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
He’s giggle-clucking so violently, he can hardly contain himself. “Freddie and Alex are at it again.” Cluck, cluck, squark!
I open my mouth to speak and think better of it. Huginn’s right. That was Freddie’s croon. Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Why is everybody around here getting laid except for me?”
Huginn and Darryl Donovan exchange looks. “I’m not,” they both say at once.
“Welcome to the lonely bed club,” I mutter. “I’m your president, the great god Loki, who looks much better in his new skin than he did in his old, yet he still can’t locate a leg to mount.”
“I’m sure it’s not for lack of trying,” Darryl Donovan says dryly.
He swings his feet to the floor and stands with a slow, agonizing stretch that hikes up the hem of his T-shirt just enough for me to glimpse the inviting wink of the hard abs beneath. I blow out an exhale in a steady stream of lazy appreciation until an image of him in his old, hairy Thor guise—courtesy of Laguz, no doubt—overlays reality. He stalks toward me with Mjolnir in hand and death sparking in his bloodshot eyes.
Having been on the business end of that hammer more than once, I shudder to think of being on the business end of his penis. I shake my head and cut loose a rapid-fire barrage of spit to purge the disgusting taste of Thor fantasies from my mouth.
“You good?” Darryl Donovan looks vaguely in my direction and tugs his shirt into place.
I sigh as his abs disappear behind the flimsy shield of cotton. Yeah. “I’d be better if I could score one more gander at that chest of yours.”
Gods damn it.
Huginn bursts into a jerky fit of clucking chuckles—or would those be cluckles? Darryl Donovan heads toward the bathroom, but I catch the grin he attempts to hide with the angle of his chin.
“It’s too bad you didn’t have this truth curse when we first met,” he says over his shoulder. “You’d still be in jail, and I’d—”
“Still be defending scumbags in court and wishing you had a life?” I finish for him. “Where, exactly, is the fun in that, old man?”
He pauses. “Touché.”
> The bathroom door closes.
I might not be getting sex outside of my dreams, but I can still have fun. Kenaz has put me in the mood for mischief. “Come on, Huginn. We have work to do.”
“Are you gonna get dressed?” he asks.
I look down at myself. Invisible. Naked. I’ve half a mind to pay a visit to Gunnar Magnusson in this state and “accidentally” drop my power.
Now’s not the time, Laguz advises.
Stupid rune. But there’s no reason I can’t say hi to Freddie and Alex. They’d probably appreciate my nakedness. Sure, I’ll have to initiate some verbal gymnastics to keep from spilling the Freya beans, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
I’ve got a hankering for playing with fire. It’s been far too long.
“Nope,” I tell Huginn. “It’s a nice day, and I’m going skyclad.”
He shrugs. “If you insist.”
What do I have to lose? Pride? I have none. Besides, what’s the point of having a bodacious body if you can’t show it off? Figuratively, at least.
I open the door and wait for Huginn to exit. We walk five rooms down the sidewalk on the left, and I rap on the door. It swings open. With a sucker stick protruding from his lips, a wet Freddie, wearing nothing but the towel encircling his trim hips, scours the parking lot in front of him.
Huginn clucks from the ground.
Freddie glances at him. A grin springs to life, smothering the confusion on his face. He removes the WeedPop and points the chicken inside.
“Come in, friend!” Freddie says, then looks around through heavy-lidded eyes. “Did you bring a Loki?”
“Yes,” I admit, waving uselessly. I lower my hand.
“Great.” Freddie nudges Huginn into the room with his bare toe. Wiggles darts out to join us. Freddie steps into the bright sunlight, squints, and shuts the door. A muffled, questioning squawk resounds from the other side of the wood.
Wiggles circles Freddie’s ankles and gazes up in my direction with sparkling green eyes. “Meow.”
Hmph. Yeah, right, meow. Poser.
Freddie curls his arms into a pretzel over his chest and lifts his shoulders. Droplets of water catch the sun and glisten on the plain of his tanned skin. He drops his voice. “So, about that god thing we were discussing …”
“Dude,” Sparky says. His voice sounds like a guy named Jeff Spicoli, whom I saw in a movie called Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I watched that one at the Nine Realms Resort and Casino the other night when I tried to drown my sorrows in a tub of goat cheese ice cream. It was the closest thing room service had to goat meat. “You gotta tell him. It’s your duty as an Asgardian.”
I expected such demands. I’ll talk to Sparky and Wiggles later. For now, I ignore the meddling cat and divert the conversation with Freddie elsewhere. “Were you just yodeling?”
Freddie straightens. The subtle scent of sex floats toward me. I purse my lips. My nostrils flare. The smell is not like mine, but it’s delicious. Rich. Heady. Provocative.
Curious, I lean closer and inhale. He can’t see me. What’s the harm?
“No, I was just climaxing. Big diff,” Freddie says.
I arch a brow. “I know. I can smell it.”
“What?” Freddie’s arms fly out from his chest and smack into me. I grab my left boob and stifle a grunt. A startled Sparky puffs up to twice his usual size and zips behind me while his master does a strange, twitchy dance I can’t decipher. I think he’s … embarrassed? Surely not. Nothing fazes Freddie.
Also, I probably shouldn’t have admitted I can smell his love perfume.
Damn it. A little help here, Laguz?
Oh, sorry, the rune says snidely. I didn’t realize you expected counsel from your boring chip of a sidekick.
Freddie settles down and whispers, “You can smell pheromones?”
“Are those like whores’ moans?” Freddie mentioned this term when I had my monthly blood a few weeks ago, but he never clarified its meaning. Something about emotional triggers? Pfft. Who remembers?
He shakes his head. “Not hormones. Those are signaling molecules in your blood that make you lose your goddamn mind. Pheromones are hormones someone else produces that make you lose your goddamn mind.”
“You just had sex,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Then why is my sense of smell a novelty?”
“Because we did it in the shower, and any trace of what we got up to should be down the drain and halfway to Salt Lake City by now.”
It’s Kenaz, Laguz groans. Whenever the slightest hint of lust is in the air, Kenaz finds a way to stick its … nose where it doesn’t belong. Remember all those women you bedded when Sigyn wasn’t watching? I can assure you, they weren’t after you for your looks.
Hey! I think, somewhat offended.
Damn rune is like a sex hound, Laguz laments.
This is true. I may have legitimate grounds for blaming my past indiscretions on Kenaz.
Jealous? I tease.
Yes, the rune confesses with a huff.
Kenaz does have an intimate connection with the ladies. I inhale another breath of Freddie. And men, apparently. The rune purrs pleasantly atop my skull.
I glance to room 196 and sigh.
“Powerful sniffer.” I tap my nose and shrug. “I’m hungry.”
Freddie stares at the space beside my ear for a long moment. With an index finger, I swing his chin an inch to the left so he’s looking through my invisible eyes instead.
“When are you not hungry?” he asks.
“When I’m asleep,” I answer. “Get dressed. Let’s eat.”
“I’ll take you wherever you want,” he says. “But first, toss me a bone. One clue about who I really am. I’ll even sweeten the deal and give you the juicy details of what happened between Gunnar and Saga before all hell broke loose at the resort last night. I saw them on the monitors when Freddie and I had our way with the security guy in his office.”
The jerk dangles this little snippet of gossip like a fish on a hook before a malnourished polar bear. I start to swipe my paw—claws fully extended—at it, but Laguz zaps my hip. I subvert the “oww” demanding freedom from my tongue and cover my mouth for extra protection against accidental truth bombing. Or truth hearing. I get the feeling a zap from Laguz would be preferable to whatever Freddie witnessed.
“Come on, Loki, you said I was a god,” Freddie begs when I don’t answer. “The least you can do is give me a hint.”
“He’s got a point,” Sparky chimes in.
I lift a halting finger no one can see. “I never said you were a god.” That’s the truth.
Freddie stomps his foot like a child throwing a tantrum. “You suggested it,” he grouses. “You have one of my runes, which means I’m a god. Don’t make me resort to thievery.”
Panic grips my throat in a chokehold. I left the bag of runes with Darryl Donovan. Unguarded.
“I have to go.” I turn toward room 190.
“You can’t hide from the truth, Loki,” Freddie calls after me. Tell me something I don’t know, arsehole. He rattles the door handle. “Great. I locked myself out.”
I flex my back muscles, prompting the familiar itch there to terrorize me. My rune stave Lásabrjótur flips Freddie’s lock. The door pops open behind me, and the scrabble of chicken feet over a metal threshold follows. I shout, “You’re welcome.”
Huginn rambles awkwardly after me. I don’t wait for him to catch up. When I reach Darryl Donovan’s room, a black-and-white shock of fuzz launches into the air in my peripheral vision. I turn my head just as Sparky leaps onto Huginn’s back, his fangs bared in a snarl of cruel delight. Huginn’s outward-facing eyes somehow split farther apart. His beak cracks open and emits a terrified scream.
“No, Sparky!” I shout and run toward the ball of feathers and fur. I grab Sparky by the scruff and yank him off my chicken. All three of us are invisible. A flurry of gray and white down falls around us like dirty snow.
Sparky kicks and s
cratches me with his back feet, gouging deep furrows into my skin. I drop him, and he rematerializes as he runs to Freddie’s open door.
For a Jeff Spicoli, that cat is not so chill.
I turn to inspect Huginn. “Are you okay, mate?”
“I need some feline-proof armor,” Huginn says unsteadily, shaking a foot. “Next time that cat comes after me, I’m busting out the spurs. No more holding back.”
Another door opens several rooms to the right, and Gunnar Magnusson steps out dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a collared polo shirt. His damp hair is tied at the top of his head and cascades down his back. If I weren’t about to wail over the trauma I just endured, I’d drool. He looks around, confused.
“Loki?” he calls, heading toward Darryl Donovan’s room.
“Over here,” I say warily. My arm throbs with stinging pain. It’s bleeding. I hold it up to assess the extent of the damage and accidentally let go of my shield. My black-and-white invisibility vision flips to vivid, naked color vision. In broad daylight. In the middle of a motel parking lot. On a busy Las Vegas street. In front of the man who preferred sleeping alone to sleeping with me last night.
Curses!
Literally.
Chapter Four
Gunnar Magnusson’s eyes bulge, and he starts to turn, but his gaze snags near my left shoulder. He marches into my personal space. The vague, earthy spice of arousal stiffens my nose hairs and nipples in equal measure, but it drifts away almost as fast as I smelled it.
Was that his scent?
Kenaz thrums its approval like a secret smile.
Gunnar Magnusson gently pushes Huginn—whom I’m using as a boob shield—aside and fixes his attention on the raggedy hole in my flesh that I tried to glue together last night. I crank my neck and glance at it too. The skin is angry red and oozing a faintly green substance, which I might’ve noticed if I hadn’t been living in a black-and-white world of invisibility these last several hours. I guess I could’ve done a better job with the glue.
