by Kendall Grey
“Then we better hurry,” Freddie says. “Everyone needs to pick a persona so we can plan hair, makeup, and outfits. We can grab clothes at the shop I saw down the street and head directly to the audition from there.”
“What about routines?” Alex asks.
“That’s your department, magic man.” Freddie pecks Alex on the cheek. “I’m only good for making guys beautiful. Hustling is your gift.”
“How about me? What will I do? Will I be beautiful too?” I ask and shovel another forkful of eggs into my mouth. Yellow bits tumble from the corners of my lips onto the table. I swipe them up with a licked finger and eat them. Ahh, I love eggs.
Freddie cocks his head judgmentally. “First of all, we need to teach you some manners, young lady. Chew with your mouth closed.” He smooshes his lips between a thumb and index finger.
“What?” I defend. Another egg nugget falls and splats into the pool of syrup flooding my plate.
“Gross,” Freddie says. “Really gross.”
I frown and try shutting my mouth while chewing. It’s not as easy as you might think.
“Since she’s not participating, Loki could pose as our manager,” Darryl Donovan suggests. “If we get past the first round, she can take advantage of her time backstage to snoop for her runes.”
“Yes!” Freddie’s face lights up. “Astrid Jones, managing the Mint Juleps.”
Astrid Jones is a name I go by when I don’t want people to know my real one.
“What is ‘Mint Juleps’?” I ask.
“A scrumptious Southern cocktail made with bourbon, sugar, and fresh mint.”
“Why are we naming ourselves after a liquor drink?”
“Because it’s cute and Southern, bless your heart,” Freddie declares.
The door to the suite opens, and Gunnar Magnusson enters. His damp hair is twisted into a knot and piled on top of his head. Perspiration slicks his face. His shirt and shorts are soaked through. He wasn’t wearing those clothes when I fell asleep.
“Where have you been, Mr. Sweaty Pants?” Freddie asks.
Gunnar Magnusson lingers near our room. He glances at me. “I went for a run. I’m gonna grab a shower.”
“Eat first and hurry up,” Freddie tells him. “We’re going dress shopping, and then we’ll sashay away to the venue.”
Gunnar Magnusson snatches a few pieces of bacon from the middle of the table and chews them while our discussion continues. I’m finding it hard to focus with him standing there all drenched and yummy looking.
“Are we entering as a group or individually?” Darryl Donovan asks.
“The more entries we have, the better the chances of at least one of us progressing beyond the initial auditions,” Freddie says.
“What are we expected to do?”
“The performance is most important. They score based on overall appearance, stage presence, glamor, and energy. They expect to see dancing and singing or lip syncing, and they want you to be fabulous while you’re doing it.”
“One of y’all better have some solid ideas about how to make me look not like myself.” Darryl Donovan waves a fork with an impaled strawberry on its end. He wears the threatening expression he used to don when he casually flipped Mjolnir head-over-arse in the halls of Asgard before battle. I shiver as a drop of red juice drips onto the table. “I’m taking a sabbatical from the law firm, but I plan to go back eventually. If anyone at my office gets wind of the fact that I was in a drag show, I’ll never work again.”
Alex’s coal-black eyes glitter. “I got tricks for days. Leave the finer points of styling to me.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, avoiding Darryl Donovan and trying not to stare at Gunnar Magnusson. Wonder if the latter needs help washing those hard-to-reach places in the shower.
“Lip syncing,” Freddie says with two staccato claps to steer us back on track. “What songs do you want to do?”
“Give me anything by Amon Amarth,” Darryl Donovan says.
The only Amon Amarth song I know is called “Twilight of the Thunder God.” It’s a heavy metal screamfest about Thor, of course.
“You don’t think that would be a little obvious?” I say and instantly scold myself.
“No. Why?” he asks.
“The Viking connotations,” I stammer, trying to cover my gaffe. “If someone who was involved in stealing my runes recognizes the context, it could expose us all.”
Good coverup, Laguz says. You’re starting to get the hang of this honesty thing.
Thank you, I beam.
Darryl Donovan grunts. “What do you propose, then? The Pointer Sisters?”
“What do they point at?” I ask, confused.
Freddie ignores me. “The Pointer Sisters do have a lot of great tunes. Do an internet search and pick whichever one is the most over-the-top or suggestive. In the meantime, we also need names. That’ll be the first thing they ask at registration.”
“How about Frances for Freddie?” I say.
“Drag queen names have to be funny, unique, evocative. They make you think and then laugh. Something like … Anya Nees.”
Alex smirks. Darryl Donovan shakes his head. Gunnar Magnusson looks away, covering his smile.
“I don’t get it,” I say.
“Listen to how the words sound. Ahhhn yuh nees,” Freddie enunciates the name slowly.
I squint at him.
He straightens. “Anya Nees. Like, ‘on your knees.’ Get it?”
“‘On your knees’ doesn’t seem like a very good name to me. Why would you want to be on your knees in front of a million people? Sounds rather degrading.”
There’s no answer.
“How about Rainbow Tite?” Alex offers.
“Bewbs McGillicuddy,” Darryl Donovan adds.
“Anita Tuckwell,” Wiggles meows.
“Ivana Bang,” Sparky hisses.
“Bobbie Sux,” Huginn squawks.
“Maye Hemm,” Gunnar Magnusson chimes in. “Though, I think that one works better for you, Loki.”
All right. I got that one. Mayhem. Ha, ha.
Everyone laughs except me. Feeling left out, I huff, regret it, and slam my chicken wing of an elbow over the stitch in my side. A few shallow pants later, I stand up and take my plate to the sink, pushing Gunnar Magnusson out of my way.
“I was teasing,” he says. “Though, if the shoe fits …”
I scold him with a scowl, which only makes him laugh.
Freddie lifts his hands. “Shit, shave, shower. Let’s reconvene in fifteen.”
The party dissipates, and Gunnar Magnusson slips into our room.
I pick up Huginn. “Did you get enough to eat?”
“Yeah. Freddie cooks a mean breakfast.”
“I didn’t find the food ‘mean’ by any measure,” I say. “I thought it was excellent.”
“Figure of speech,” Huginn says. “We really need to accelerate your idiomatic learning, Loki.”
Then it hits me. Ivana Bang. I wanna bang. It is rather funny.
Alex approaches and says, “Can we talk outside?” He nods to the balcony jutting behind a sliding glass door.
“Sure.” Huginn and I follow him out. It’s a lovely spring day—a little cool, but I love the cold. The sun is climbing. The air is heavy with the scents of flowering cherry trees and Japanese blueberry. The streets below buzz with cars that look like ants marching food home to their queens. Gunnar Magnusson would love it out here—
I remember the terror in his eyes at my mention of climbing to the roof at the doctor’s office and his clenched jaw as he spied the Golden Gate Bridge last night.
On second thought, maybe I won’t show him the balcony.
Alex slides the door closed behind us. “I can cast another spell to alter everyone’s appearance for the drag show, but I’m not sure how it’ll work with the cloak I already have in place over us.”
“You think there might be complications?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never overw
ritten one spell with another.”
“This would be much easier if you told me who you really are.”
“How would knowing my identity make things easier?”
“It might give me a reason to trust you, which I’m having a hard time doing presently.”
He lowers his head in deference. “Apologies. But like you, I must protect myself.”
“From Odin?” I pry.
“From everyone.”
Does he recognize Freddie? I want so badly to ask, but doing so could expose too much. If Alex doesn’t know who his bed buddy is and I tell him, he’s sure to share the information with Freddie. It’s getting harder to keep the truth buried. And the longer it stays hidden, the more negative the reactions will be when it does come out.
I can’t fret about this. Time is too short.
“You can make us look completely different, like Darryl Donovan said?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes. I’ll be able to assess the damage to the blanket cloak spell once everyone’s been altered. Assuming there is damage.”
“And you can return us to our normal appearances when we’re done?”
“Yes.”
For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he can make me look like my old self. I miss my beard and not having menstrual periods.
I push the thought away. I’m not sure why.
Yes, you are, Laguz muses smugly. Compatibility.
“Shut up,” I tell it.
“Sorry?” Alex asks.
“Never mind. At least one of you has to make it to the second round. Do whatever tailoring it takes to keep us in the contest. While you’re entertaining, I’ll try to get an audience with Damien Drakkar.”
He nods curtly and slides the glass panel, nodding for me to go through. I leave Huginn in the living area and open the door to my bedroom. A shirtless Gunnar Magnusson is lying face down on the floor, pushing himself up and down in a vigorous manner. Shock searing me from head to toe, I avert my eyes and stumble out of the room. “I’m sorry!”
Kenaz tightens under my scalp as if to say, No, go back. I wasn’t done with that.
“Loki?” Gunnar Magnusson calls. “Hold on.”
What the Hel was he doing, humping the carpet like that?
Movement follows behind me, and I turn slowly. Toweling off his face and hair, Gunnar Magnusson says, “I needed to let off some steam.”
“That’s one way to put it.” I can’t look at him with such lascivious thoughts racing through my brain, so I focus on a spider web in the corner near the ceiling.
“Huh?” He cocks his head. “You thought I was—” His face flushes red. “Oh, no, it’s not—I was doing pushups.”
I don’t need to ask what “pushups” is since I just witnessed it with my own eyes. “You do you.”
Freddie said that in the van yesterday after Darryl Donovan proclaimed he was a firm believer in the colorectal health benefits of imbibing in something called “kombucha.”
“No, you misunderstand,” he said, his cheeks scalding. “Pushups are a form of exercise.”
“Uh-huh.”
He sighs. “Pushups work the pecs, deltoids, triceps, and abs.” He points to each muscle group in turn.
I arch an appreciative brow at those last ones and drawl, “I don’t think you need to improve anything.”
“Thanks, but it was more for—never mind.” His eyes slip from my face to my chest, and he quickly turns away. His exotic scent fills the air again, Kenaz grins, and suddenly everything clicks.
“Oh,” I say with a small voice. I back up two steps. He’s trying to work off his sexual frustration. Now I’m embarrassed.
Why? For weeks, I’ve wanted to be the hurdle to his leapfrog, yet every time there’s a hint of opportunity, I clam up and shut down. And it’s not just because I’m grievously injured, though that’s a significant issue.
I’m scared.
Of the closeness I crave so deeply. Of the emotion I fear will crawl out of the black hole of my soul. Of accidentally hurting Gunnar Magnusson like I did Sigyn.
And maybe of how to make things work in a female body when you’re used to piloting a male one.
“I’m just gonna …” He points a thumb toward the bathroom.
“Yes, go ahead.” I trip over my own feet as I scuttle out into the living area.
Freddie catches me as I spin into his chest. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
I look down at my clothes. “What’s wrong with pink Thor booty shorts and a flannel shirt?”
“Girl, you need to slay. Let’s find you a sassy power suit, preferably in crushed, fire-engine-red velvet.”
“What is a power suit? You mean like chain mail? Oh, I’d definitely wear armor.” Good protection in case Odin, Frigg, or Heimdall comes calling.
“This isn’t a Viking raid. A power suit is an outfit that makes a woman look like she owns the place.”
“I like the sound of that,” I say, “but I don’t have anything powerful other than the sexy Sif costume I wore at the Asgard Awakening convention.”
“Yeah, about that,” he begins. “If you’re gonna slay, we need to discuss hair removal.”
I grab a hank of blond from my shoulder and wind it protectively around my neck. “You can’t cut my hair! I’ll look like a man.” Not that looking like a man would be bad, but I’ve grown attached to these locks.
Arms crossed over his chest, he aims a pointed glance below my waist. “I’m talking about downstairs. All of downstairs.” He makes a circular motion with his upraised palm like he’s cleaning a window.
I follow his gaze. My legs are covered in fine blond hair, but it’s not terribly obvious.
“Would you prefer shaving, which you’ll have to maintain daily or every other day,” he asks, “or waxing, which will knock shit out for a longer time?”
I shrug, unsure what he means, but if the latter lasts longer, it seems the obvious choice. I only have a few days left in Midgard, after all. Ain’t nobody got time for extra work when facing a deadline like mine. “Waxing?”
“Great,” he says. “I’ll drop you off while the guys pick out dresses. Now go find something classy from the suitcase full of costumes I bought.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure how to interpret Freddie’s restrained grin. It gives me the feeling he’s up to something.
When I hear the shower turn on, I return to the bedroom and search through the clothes for “classy.” I don’t even know what the word means, but I assume it’s the opposite of what I’m wearing.
With effort, I tug on a pair of knit black pants. Getting my shirt off is much more difficult, but with a little patience and a lot of care, I manage to wriggle free and put on a simple, wide-necked orange shirt.
The dueling pains in my side and shoulder are still intense, but they feel better this morning. That, or I’ve gotten used to it. I’ve trained myself to take small, shallow breaths when my side flares up and bigger, deeper ones when the pain ebbs. I definitely don’t want the pneumonia Gunnar Magnusson told me about. I pop my antibiotic pill, nearly choke on it as I swallow, and stuff a few extra WeedPops in my purse. Just in case.
Soon Gunnar Magnusson, Alex, Darryl Donovan, and Freddie are ready to go. We climb into the minivan and head to a place called Brianna’s Brazilian Wax. Conversation in the van halts when Freddie parks. The guys exchange anxious glances. Freddie opens my door and helps me out.
“Good luck,” Darryl Donovan calls through the window and follows up with a guffaw.
“Why is he laughing?” I ask.
Freddie offers his elbow and pats my hand as he escorts me inside. “He probably ate too many WeedPops.”
I’ve never seen Darryl Donovan eat a WeedPop. I think Freddie is lying.
When we get inside the small store, Freddie speaks privately with a lady behind the counter. She nods, glances to me, nods some more. “We’ll take good care of her,” I overhear the woman say.
“Astrid,” Freddie says, “this is Brianna. Sh
e’s gonna get you settled. I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up.”
He darts toward the exit as if the place is under a frost giant squash alert.
“Wait, why so long?”
“You got a lot of hair, girlfriend,” he remarks, and then he’s gone.
I frown, again assessing my situation. “It’s not that much,” I grumble.
Brianna hooks her arm through mine and leads me deeper into her den. “Oh, honey. Yes, it is. But we’re gonna get you all cleaned up for your boyfriend. What’s his name again? Gunz?”
“Gunnar Magnusson,” I correct, though Gunz has a nice ring. Sounds dangerous.
She guides me into a small room and says, “Remove everything from the waist down and lie on the table with your knees bent and legs parted.”
“Uh … Why am I naked with legs parted?”
She snaps on a pair of latex gloves. “So we can weed-whack your bikini area. I need clear access to clean up your lady garden. And if it’s anything like those legs, we’re gonna require the entire hour.”
Fear trickles through me from the top of my head to my nervously wiggling toes. “Is it too late to get a refund?”
Brianna smiles and pats my arm. “Don’t worry, Astrid. It only hurts for a little while.”
Oh gods, Freddie will pay for this.
With a whimper, I do as she instructs and lie down on the table. Another woman enters the room and dons a pair of gloves.
Brianna swabs my lower deck with a wet towelette. “This is a cleansing solution. Next I’ll apply some pre-wax oil to protect the top layer of skin from the wax.”
My nose twitches at the slight scent of coconut drifting on the air currents. Fingers probe my nooks and crannies with professional efficiency, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling totally exposed and, quite frankly, a little violated.
I can’t see what’s happening down there, but suddenly, searing hot liquid pours over my crotch. I gasp, which causes me to grab my side, which almost tumbles me off the table. Brianna grabs my arm to steady me.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“By Freya’s frigging fanny, that hurt.” I pant for a couple breaths as the wax cools.
While I’m distracted, the other woman grabs the pat of dry wax and yanks it off.
