To Love a God

by Evie Kent

  “Of course. Whatever you think is best.”

  Ugh. I’d have to rejig this whole holiday now—at least for a few weeks while my ankle healed and my brain decided how it wanted to feel. This would be my first official concussion; hopefully it settled over the next few days.

  Oskar offered me a sturdy arm to clutch as I hobbled out of the bed, kicking the sheets away with my good leg and putting most of my weight on it once I was upright. The world spun, which came with a rush of nausea and dizziness that had me careening straight into Oskar’s lean figure. He braced hard, supporting me as I tested out my sprain, putting most of my weight on my toes.

  A little smile tugged at my mouth: what had the doctor thought about my gnarly ballet toes? While I hadn’t been in the studio for over a month, my contract with the company put on hold for this season due to personal circumstances, my toes still reflected my life’s work, my deepest passion. Cracked nails. Swollen, warped joints. Ankles weren’t the only things we dancers destroyed in the quest for perfection.

  “I could probably do with something to eat,” I noted weakly as we crossed the room.

  “I’ll have a lunch prepared, not to worry.”

  What day was it? How many hours had that fall knocked me out? My stomach gurgled, unaccustomed to going more than two without food. There was this absurd notion in pop culture that ballet dancers starved themselves to get down to our peak season weights, but our profession was intensely athletic, both mentally and physically demanding, and if we didn’t eat, we didn’t perform—it was that simple. Healthy fats and lean protein and lots of both filled my days, and as I shuffled down a brightly lit corridor, Oskar supporting me through every labored step, I knew I’d been without for at least half a day, maybe longer.

  I needed something soon if I wanted to stay vertical. No getting around it.

  The stonework and dark hardwood carried throughout the rest of the building, which consisted of two separate exam rooms, both empty as we passed by, then a waiting room out front with leather sofas and a check-in desk like any other doctor’s office. Empty, though, not another person in sight. Maybe Friday had rolled into Saturday? Maybe they took weekends off?

  It could have been the next day, because as soon as we stepped outside, I was met by a glowering sun high in the sky—noon, most likely. I’d gotten to the park around nine for the tour, so it could have been a few hours later, but my stomach wouldn’t be this miserable if that was the case.

  “We go as slow as you like,” Oskar told me as we worked our way down the building’s front steps.

  “Thanks, man, I really appreciate it.” And I did. My ankle was a nuisance, but the rest of my injuries made it a nightmare to get around without him. Each step came slow and steady, but we stuck to a polished stone path that cut through the village—the empty village, again, not a person in sight. But that being said, it was absolutely breathtaking. Flower boxes sat in every window, overflowing with vibrant spring blooms. The grass outside of the paths was full and lush, stunningly green—greener than I’d seen elsewhere. In fact, the village actually felt warmer, almost like the beginnings of a gorgeous summer rather than the temperamental spring I’d experienced so far.

  While I had still yet to see any people, Ravndal’s housing situation suggested it ought to be full of them. Beautiful stone lodges with wood or thatched roofs lined the path, looking ancient but feeling like modern luxe chalets, each one two levels—at least—with detached garages. I frowned when I spotted the latest Audi Coupé sitting in one of the paved driveways; why have a luxury car out in the middle of nowhere? It wasn’t even an all-terrain model.

  Devlin had been such a car freak, always showing me what he wanted, bookmarking car ads online, going into detail about parts, relaying all his grand plans to fix something up someday, his need to collect classics…

  I fucking hated that I knew the make of that damn car.

  Ten houses down from the medical clinic and I was wrecked. Just—collapse on the ground after an eleven-hour studio day exhausted. But I pushed on, barefoot and broken, knowing my stuff was sitting somewhere inside that huge building dead ahead, in what Oskar had called the town hall. Three floors tall with stained glass windows, the biggest and brightest flower boxes… Yeah, that looked like the center of a village. Maybe they even had a pool. I mean, if someone had a luxury vehicle all the way out here, a pool wouldn’t be out of the ordinary—

  A thunderous crash nearly had me jumping out of my skin, the sound of metal hitting stone an assault to my concussion. I shirked away from it with a wince, stumbling into Oskar, the commotion coming from my immediate left.

  “Oh, sorry, Nora, I…” He tried to hurry me along, his patient shuffling upgraded to an insistent sidestep. Unfortunately, my body just couldn’t keep up, and I risked a glance to the left, hoping to finally see another goddamn human being in this place.

  And I found one.

  An old woman. At her feet, a huge tin watering can, the winding stone path from her home flooded a shade darker. Hunched, rounded shoulders met a long neck, then a withered face. Wrinkles, deep and set, spiderwebbed around her eyes, her thin mouth. While she had a crown of startling white at her hairline, it faded to grey, then a thick black mane—a stylish old-age ombre.

  Her eyes though.

  They were mine.

  Hazel green.

  Dressed in layers, from the flouncy floral blouse to her cotton shrug, down to an ankle-length navy blue skirt, she seemed somehow out of place in all this opulence. Like she didn’t quite fit—a puzzle piece you really had to jam into its spot.

  We stared at one another for a beat, my heart whumping between my ears, before her mouth fell open in a silent scream. Her eyes widened, catching the relentless sunshine, brightening to the yellowish brown that mine did under certain lights. She raised a trembling arm and pointed a crooked, bony finger at me, looking like a horror-movie hag come to life with her soundless but anguished screech, her accusatory point…

  “Oh my god—”

  “Yes, again, sorry,” Oskar muttered hastily, taking me by the shoulder and turning me away from the woman. “I hate to call anyone the village loon, but, you know… It would be accurate.”

  He urged me along as fast as my busted body could go, and although it killed my neck to look back over my shoulder, I did it. A sinking feeling washed over me as I watched a pair of men usher the woman back into the house, her watering can abandoned, her front door slamming shut with an unnerving sense of finality seconds later.

  What. The fuck.

  Time to get the hell out of here—stat.

  But how?

  I nibbled my lower lip, grimacing with every wonky step, hobbling along beside Oskar toward the town hall building with a knot in my gut. Would the hotel send a bus to fetch me? Was there a train out here? How far was I from the park? If I’d walked through the woods with a fucked-up ankle and a concussion, it couldn’t be that far… I bet Oskar could even drive me back to Skog.

  Maybe we’d take the Audi.

  He was still holding me—clutching me, more like, his arm snaked around my midback, fingers crushing into my tender ribs. The slight furrow of his brow worried me, but I pushed the feeling down. Growing up in what some might consider a rough city, I’d learned how to navigate every kind of situation. Sometimes, snark and sass and a bit of posturing got you out of trouble. Others, a sweet smile and a bit of submissiveness, just for a minute or two, sped things along.

  I could play the part in either scenario, but I was definitely more inclined to the former. Nothing like an alpha female to really put a loser wannabe in his place. Smiling pretty to coddle some asshole’s ego just wasn’t in my wheelhouse anymore, honestly.

  And Oskar hadn’t seemed like an asshole—until he started hustling me up the steep steps to the town hall, his previous warmth replaced by an unnerving spring frost.

  Maybe I would make use of that satellite phone after all…

  I could call… the hotel.
>
  Yeah.

  At least someone else in this country, someone who could realistically do something within the hour, would know what had happened to me.

  Plan.

  A balmy gust of wind cut through the village, lifting my strange hospital gown up to unsafe levels. You know. Considering I was naked underneath. Cheeks hot, I shoved it back down to cover my thighs, stumbling a little on the last step. Oskar let out a harsh breath, and I shot him an apologetic smile—one that he returned, but it was stretched a little too wide.

  Right.

  Strangely rich village in the middle of the Norwegian wilderness?

  Classic horror-movie witch cursing me from the front stoop of her cottage?

  Weird, too-wide smile from the guy I thought I could trust?

  Check. Check. Check.

  Fuckery.

  There was definite fuckery afoot.

  Time to get the hell out of here.

  “Uhm, about that phone call,” I started as Oskar walked me up to the huge arched main doors. Pine-green wood. Golden-brass knobs. Norse runes carved into the panels. Just the kind of architecture I had been looking forward to photographing. “I think I will call someone, actually… I should let the hotel know what happened, because, you know, they organized the hike, and I’m sure the tour guides are freaking out that I’m gone—”

  “Absolutely.” Oskar finally let go of me, stepping aside to grab one of the round doorknobs. When he twisted it, what sounded like eight individual locks creaked and thunked into place. “Let me just get the door for you…”

  Okay, smile and nod, smile and nod.

  Willing to see how far firm politeness got me, I thanked him with a grin and a pat on the arm. Air-conditioning whooshed through the open doorway, and I staggered in on my own, cool tile suddenly underfoot—

  Then came to an abrupt halt, the scene ahead knocking the wind right out of me.

  A grand foyer made of marble and gold and dark wood. Twin staircases winding up the walls to another floor. The stained glass windows gave the room an amber sheen.

  In the center of it all: eight figures in black robes, their hoods up, wearing white masks that completely covered their faces. Leather gloves. Standing in a silent semicircle around a…

  Wooden crate.

  An open wooden crate.

  Big enough to hold a person.

  Big enough to hold me.

  My heart plunged into my belly. The brain fog resurged with a vengeance, a painful, shrill whine screeching around my skull. Numb fingers. Sweaty palms. A spike of adrenaline made it hard to think, hard to hear—made me shake.

  “What the fuck?” I stumbled back into a solid body, and Oskar gripped my arms—hard—as the door clicked shut behind us.

  “Nora, I need you to stay calm,” he whispered in my ear, walking me into the room, shouldering me forward when I tried to plant my feet. The robed figures stared on blankly, and Oskar locked his arms around me when I jammed both elbows back into him, effectively clamping my arms to my sides.

  “I need you to stay calm, Nora,” he told me again, slowly but surely marching me onward, “and I need you to get in the box…”

  3

  Loki

  Men cut their hair short these days.

  They wore it slicked back and tidy, with a little volume over the forehead—like a lover had swooped it away from their face. Yes, yes, just like that.

  My eyes narrowed as I scrutinized the look in the mirror. Perfect. Just like all the magazine clippings Freida had dropped off this morning upon my request. I had copied it all exactly, leaving a touch of coarse auburn scruff on my cheeks, my chin, my jawline. Tidied up my brows. Swooped my hair. Men’s fashions hadn’t changed all that much from the early twentieth century, though trousers fit tighter, shirts looked crisper. I stepped back and buttoned the top onyx dot of my creaseless white shirt, the sleeves jerked up to my elbows, and then unbuttoned it, then buttoned it again. Open or closed? All the way up to the base of my throat, or a little more exposed?

  Perhaps she could decide for me, sidle in close with her elegant fingers, teach me a thing or two about how she liked her men.

  And that would be all this Nora Olsen would teach me, of course. What else could she possibly offer, this human who looked like her? Nothing.

  Although… She could attest to my efforts, tell me whether I had missed the mark completely with my new outfit, my haircut, my leather shoes that desperately needed breaking in. Beyond that, the rest of our living space had received a face-lift courtesy of another stack of magazines, my alterations going well beyond my appearance.

  All this—accomplished in a day. Funny what a bit of dulled magic and the proper motivation could do for a man.

  For a god.

  After giving myself one last appraisal in the mirror, standing tall, shoulders back, I left the lavatory behind—which was really nothing more than a small room in a vast series of rooms that I had made habitable over the centuries. Its primary function was waste elimination, the ceiling low but the opening in the ground dropping deep into the earth below. Hopefully Nora didn’t mind it; I hadn’t the desire to craft a toilet from scratch, even if they were in all the magazine bathroom spreads. I’d added a mirror and a sink, the simplest of appliances. Surely she could make do without a porcelain throne for a few weeks.

  Or however long this one lasted.

  Hands clasped behind my back, I drifted down the calendar corridor, encased in darkness, past the shadowy bedroom. No windows anywhere, not unless I either made them—I couldn’t imagine a duller task—or they were naturally occurring slits in the mountainside.

  Up the pair of smooth steps to the right, natural inclines in the stone that had been worn down under my feet these many centuries, and into the main hall. This was my first impression—a chance to really shine, to show her what I was capable of even in the depths of this wretched curse.

  What other cave had electricity, after all? Where else would you happen upon a totally modern kitchen, complete with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances? Dual ovens, a plunging farmhouse sink. Details, details, details… I’d always had an eye for them, so fucking critical to my survival in a world of Aesir and Vanir and churlish giants and tricky elves.

  This was my masterpiece, the space that always impressed the most.

  And, like me, it had to be perfect.

  I drifted over to the oak dining table, capable of hosting twelve warriors along its benches, and then flipped through the magazines scattered there one last time. Details. Details. All perfect, all meticulously studied in the last twenty-four hours. My charcoal notes, scribbled in runes so old no one here could decipher them anymore, denoted what I had found the most interesting. Under this bitch’s spell, I struggled to conjure something from nothing, to create with no background knowledge, but when I had a template to work from, I could still craft a few wonders.

  Exemplified here, of course. The pristine kitchen to the left, so much cupboard space the editors of this houseware magazine would shit with excitement. The table before me, ideal for dinner parties, soon to be filled with a gratuitous spread of the goods stacked high in my new refrigerator; usually I just stored it all underground, kept it cool and fresh the natural way. But the magazines were so particular about fridges that it seemed best to adapt—just this once.

  To my immediate right, a seating area I had copied almost item for item from another flimsy pamphlet, studying the glossy pages until my eyes crossed, conjuring late into the night. A rust-red couch able to accommodate three people, twin armchairs in a complementary deep blue, the coffee table with all the realm’s nations carved into its top, the script for each city elegant, cursive, far more beautiful than my own writing.

  And lights. It had been years since I bothered with artificial light—looking directly into them would have pained me had I not opted for a soft yellow. Little bulbs held together on strings seemed to be popular in the—quote—modern interior design spreads, so I’
d hung two matching strands over the couch. Plus the floodlight over the sink, the various strings over the cabinets. Like stars, they were, each one powered by my mere existence.

  No second-guessing things: I had gone all out for my newest visitor.

  Surely the effort wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  Because it was all for her. They were always so frightened when they first arrived, these pretty humans plucked from obscurity to entertain a god in his cage. Having a few modern comforts, in my experience, eased the transition, made them feel a little more comfortable.

  Of course, they were never truly at ease until I bedded them—until they learned what I could do without magic, what skills I possessed beyond simple tricks and illusions. Only then were they truly mine.

  The corners of my mouth quirked with some difficulty, my lips unaccustomed to the simple act of smiling. They felt out of practice, like the look wasn’t natural—forced. Strained. A struggle.

  It had just been so long.

  I’d been so fucking alone. Nearly seventy-five years had crawled by since the last one—

  Echoing footsteps stilled my heart, quieted the creeping darkness, and with a curt snap, the magazines, my guides to modern humanity, vanished from the long table. I pressed a hand to my chest, an old familiar giddy pleasure skittering through me, sparking the rusted, cobweb-addled gears in my brain.

  Time to switch on, you ancient bastard. Time to live again—just for a little while.

  Despite the energy pounding through every muscle, I took my time, ambled along. Over the centuries, extensive renovations had taken place inside my prison, no rock untouched by my hand. Initially, the mouth to this cave opened to a steep drop-off, the plunge precarious and laden with jagged shards at its base. In time, I had constructed a gentle slope, one that curved along the wall from the main hall up, up, slowly up, right to the barred entryway just inside the cave’s mouth. The little landing on my side of the bars, some twenty feet inside the mountain itself, was where the villagers usually deposited my demands—my offerings, my sustenance, my companionship.