by Evie Kent
“Whatever it is, I won’t do it without her.”
Skuld’s lips twitched, as if fighting back a grin of her own. “I know.”
Her sisters huffed and muttered to one another, their ire for Skuld bending the rules for me, of all creatures, abundantly clear. But the master of all our futures said nothing to them. Instead, she drifted toward the towering rowans, toward the intricate tapestries, and crouched at one tree’s base. I watched her, arms crossed, as she picked through the dirt, through the few exposed roots, until she plucked a black string from the ground. Thinner than a strand of hair, the slightest touch could destroy it. I stiffened. Nora’s strand. Her lifeline, there, in Skuld’s delicate fingers. The Norn pinched it between her thumb and forefinger as she ambled back to the group, holding it up for me to see, forcing me to squint at it.
With a snap of her fingers, a golden strand materialized in her other hand. In contrast to Nora’s, the string I assumed belonged to me pulsed with vitality. Gold and thick, long enough to pool and spiral at Skuld’s feet, it seemed impervious to harm.
“She will live, son of Laufey,” Skuld announced. She then licked the ends of each strand and began twining Nora’s around mine. “But she will live with no extraordinary gifts or powers. She is fragile. Nora Olsen is human. Ageless from this moment on, her life will be tied to yours, and yours to hers. Should something kill her—disease, destruction, injury—then you too shall perish.”
Doubt whispered across my skin, made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Humans were so painfully delicate; an accidental fall could kill them. Her. It could kill her—and then me.
Well. That simply couldn’t happen. She had a god to protect her, to care for her, to cherish her in her prime. From me, she would experience immortality, and even without all the bells and whistles, that was pretty fucking great. Never would she fall ill. I’d mend every broken bone, dry every tear.
For I had a debt to pay that would take an eternity to fulfill.
“Agreeable, wise ones,” I croaked.
With that, Urd and Verdandi joined their sister, assisting her with the sensitive work, and I drifted back to Nora. Settling on the well’s edge, I gathered her to me and tossed her jacket aside. Skin to skin, I held her, her forehead tucked under my chin, then patted her face down with the cool waters of the sapphire spring.
And there, where no one else could see, a god wept when a human moaned and finally drew a deep breath, her pulse quickening, the color returning to her cheeks.
Our fates entwined.
For the good times and the bad—we belonged to each other.
Bound together forever, my firebird and me.
32
Nora
Rain on a metal roof.
Rain on the windows.
I came to surrounded by a soft and serene pitter-patter, but somehow I was totally dry. Dragging in a deep breath, I shifted about in a bed saturated with linens and cushy pillows, a little too hot beneath it all. Before I even opened my eyes, however, I felt refreshed. An ease flowed through my limbs, each one relaxed, cozy, nowhere near stiff. Not sore. Not aching. No pain. Just—me in bed, listening to the rain.
Swallowing hard, I frowned and opened my eyes.
Easily—too easily. No struggling to lift my lids, no fighting to stay conscious. Dimness greeted me. Not quite darkness, but shadows and warm wood instead. A steeped roof overhead, exposed beams as far as the eye could see. Wood walls, reminiscent of the stacked logs used in frontier cabins that I’d once seen in a history textbook.
It should have hurt to swallow. Helga had…
She…
Slit my throat.
The pain of it—that was my last memory. Heart racing, I shot up in a huge square bed, nothing like Loki’s strange round one from the mountain. So… normal. Ordinary. The linens were a mishmash of soft pastels, while a white-and-blue checkered duvet topped it all off. The pillows stacked three deep. My chest heaved as I chased my breath, tried to slow the frantic drumbeat behind my ribs. To my left, a plain, curtainless window overlooked a forest.
My frown deepened. Maples?
Leafless maples and oaks and aspens…
No pines.
I rubbed at my forehead, then crawled out of bed, which nestled in the corner of what appeared to be the upper floor in a small log cabin. Without a stitch of clothing to be found, I dragged one of the baby pink sheets off with me, then padded to the open edge of the loft, peering over at what was maybe a nine-foot drop to the first level. Below, a potbelly stove worked hard, fire crackling inside and warming the space. Beside it stretched a kitchen reminiscent of Loki’s creation in the main hall, only pared down to accommodate the essentials: a fridge, an oven crowned with two electric burners, and then a few counters, one with a deep farmhouse sink. Near the plump woodburning stove was a two-seater couch, its cushions fat and inviting.
“Where the fuck am I?” My voice came out all gruff and strained, and I cleared my throat as I tiptoed to the thin iron ladder at the far right of the loft. Unsure if I was alive or dead, whether it would even matter if I fell, I took the rungs one at a time, mindful of the sheet draped over me, slow and steady until I touched down on a polished hardwood floor. It had a rustic charm to it, dark knots and deep whorls in the planks, and much to my surprise was pleasantly warm to the touch.
Heated floors. I nudged open a door next to the ladder, revealing a four-piece bathroom. Then I tiptoed into the dining area—look at that, a fully stocked fridge.
Three huge jugs of mango juice.
I poked at the lids. Felt… real. All of it felt a little too real, actually.
Seriously. Where the fuck was I?
Was this my afterlife? Alone in a cabin?
Had I come back as a ghost to haunt this place? You know—the wailing lady of the woods, a spirit who made the shutters shake, whose otherworldly screams sounded like the wind screeching through the rafters…
Yikes.
Depressing thought.
Sheet hanging over my shoulders, I speared my hands through my hair. It was loose. Fluffy. Clean? Like someone—not me, obviously—had taken the time to shampoo and condition it while I was out. Because it didn’t normally feel this glossy, but maybe this was just a perk of being dead.
Great hair.
Still accompanied by the dulcet beat of falling rain, I headed past the bathroom and down a short corridor to a door. Painted green, a windowpane up top, little white curtains obscuring the view—idyllic, all of this. While I found the door locked, it was easy to undo the dead bolt, to tap the little push button on the knob. As soon as I cracked it open, a rush of cool air flooded in, and I embraced it, stepping out and filling my lungs with a fresh crispness—no humidity, no thick wet in the air, like it wasn’t pouring rain.
Outside, a covered porch stretched the width of the cabin, two wood chairs arranged in front of what I guessed was the window into that bathroom. Ahead, a muddy clearing surrounded the building, the grass straddling the line between green and brown—like it was in the throes of early spring. Clumps of melting snow dotted the landscape, both in the clearing and the sparsely wooded area beyond. Maples. Aspens. Oaks. Teeny, tiny, fragile buds clung to the thin branches. Not a pine tree to be found.
It reminded me of upstate New York, not Norway.
Seriously.
What the fuck?
Was this where we went when we died?
Wrapping the sheet tighter around me, hoisting it up so it wouldn’t touch the mud, I crept down the front porch steps. As soon as I cleared the overhang, a dumping of rain hit, cold and so painfully real. I gasped, blinking the water out of my eyes and gazing up at a dreary grey sky.
Soaked to the bone in seconds, I should have gone back inside to the heated floors and the full fridge. Instead, I drifted around the clearing, memorizing every detail of the quaint log cabin with its silvery roof and its green door. A perfect circle enclosed the structure, cleared and flat and muddy, broken up only by a stack of
wood at the rear. By the time I made it back around to the front of the cabin, I had a fairly clear picture of it all—rustic, pastoral, comfortable. Something from a time gone by. Not at all what I imagined my afterlife to be, but it wasn’t so bad.
Crack.
I whipped around when something snapped in the woods, heart in my throat, drenched pink sheet fitted snug to my body like a glove. A figure emerged from between the trees, a hood drawn over his face—that figure had to be a man, so tall and imposing, broad and strong. I licked the rainwater from my lips when he too came to a halt just at the tree line.
Slowly, he tugged his hood down.
My knees almost gave out.
Loki.
He looked so… normal. Dark jeans. Brown hiking boots. A white tee poking over the top of his zipped black rain jacket. Shorter hair than the last time I’d seen him, trimmed and maintained, styled almost, so that his dark auburn waves had a bit of volume even slicked back over his head. Clean-shaven. Strong jaw. Dimpled chin. That mouth. All those months apart—I had missed his mouth, for all that came out of it, for all he could do with it.
In his huge hands was a crinkly blue tarp, the splintered ends of collected wood poking out on either side.
His eyes—were at peace.
My lower lip wobbled.
This had to be the afterlife. He looked so good, so healthy and vibrant. So calm.
It’s not real, you idiot. It’s a trick.
“Hello, firebird.” Fuck, that sounded real. His voice, so gravelly and deep, husky masculine perfection that tingled pleasantly between my thighs… It was just how I remembered. “Good to see you awake—”
“Am I dead?” I hated the way my voice cracked, but I didn’t want to be dead. Sure, I’d chosen it, but that didn’t make me feel any better now.
The sizable bulge in his throat bobbed, like he’d swallowed hard.
“No, you’re not dead,” Loki rumbled, stepping out of the trees and into the clearing, mud squishing under his boots. “You’re mine.”
All the butterflies in my chest rustled to life, shaking off the sleep and the quiet before taking flight. You’re mine. A year ago I would have dreaded the declaration. Now I welcomed it, felt it in my bones, in my racing heart.
He took a few noisy steps toward me, then stopped when I brought my hand to my throat. Nothing out of the ordinary there, the skin smooth beneath my fingertips. No scar, even though I vividly recalled the tinny, bitter agony of that dagger sailing across my throat. Slicing the flesh open, my blood spilling and spilling until there was nothing left. I’d gone numb at the time, but I had still been… aware.
Back then, that had been the worst part: the awareness. I’d thought I would have blacked out, but nope. I felt the rivulets of red oozing out of me. Heard Loki screaming my name. Cursing and bellowing and shaking the mountain.
No mountain here.
I glanced around, just to be sure. “Are we… out? Is this real?”
“Yes.” Loki tossed the armful of wood aside, the tarp splayed open as soon as it hit the ground. “To both.” He reached out for me briefly, then let his arms fall back to his sides, hands flexing in and out of fists. Vulnerability rippled across his features, exposed and raw, hesitant even, as he cleared his throat and burned a hole into my forehead rather than my eyes. “Thank you, Nora… for loving me.”
Warmth spilled down my face, tears intermingling with the rainwater, hot and cold colliding. I loved him back then—and that hadn’t changed. Wiping at my cheeks, I marched forward, and then a few long steps later broke into a run, crashing into him as he swept me up and hugged me tight.
So warm… Loki’s once chilled skin had such a delectable heat to it now, like freedom breathed life back into him. I couldn’t get enough of it, especially as my teeth chattered against the chilly rain, but I had no desire to head back inside—to be anywhere but here, in the arms of a god. Our mouths quickly found each other, and I cupped his face, lips parted, eyes shut, savoring the familiarity of a kiss I thought I’d never taste again.
When we tentatively broke apart, Loki did so with a soft chuckle, his forehead to mine, his arms locked snugly around my waist. His smile was everything, and my lips peeled back, mirroring it, feeling it in my heart.
“Come now,” he whispered. “Let’s get you inside.”
A quick grip adjustment had me draped over his arms, legs dangling, toes curled, my arm hooked around his neck. I stole a lingering kiss, nails raking up his cheek, desire soft and hot as liquid gold flaring in my core.
“Can’t have you catching our deaths out here,” Loki murmured against my lips as he carried me toward the cabin. I frowned, waiting for him to correct that—our deaths—and when he didn’t, I let out an incredulous laugh.
“Uh, what was that?”
“I’ll explain it all, I promise,” he told me, shoving open the cabin’s green door and whisking me inside. He kicked it shut without looking back, eyes locked on mine, a fire igniting between us that threatened to steal my breath away. Loki set me down and wrenched the soaked sheet from my body. Tossed it aside. Pressed me up against the wall. Boxed me in with his hands on either side of my face, his cock nudging at my center. His affectionate smile turned predatory, dangerous, and he cocked his head to the side. “I’ll tell you everything… after.”
My hands dropped to his jeans, undoing them with shaky fingers, and when he kissed me again, it was like he kissed clear through to my soul. He consumed every inch of me, hungry and harsh and mine.
You’re mine.
If I was his, then he was mine, too. Out of that mountain, we belonged to each other.
He could tell me his secrets later. After.
I knew he would. With great relish, Loki would talk and talk and talk, smug and proud and full of tall tales that I would call bullshit on.
And out here, together and free, wrapped in his arms as the rain pitter-pattered on the roof, as the fire crackled in the stove—I’d love every second of it.
THE END
Epilogue: Nora
Five Years Later
“And now we’re fairies!” I trilled dramatically, arms up, smile wide as I watched twenty little ballet dancers in their leggings, their baby pointe shoes, their delicate flouncy skirts, whirl around Studio C like a tornado. We always ended the Tiny Tots classes with free movement, allowing them to just do what kids did: run free. They had had forty minutes of keeping themselves in check, going through the motions, learning the most basic steps and positions, when all they really wanted to do—at least the majority—was lose their shit to music and bounce around the room.
I loved watching them let loose. Our two junior instructors were lost in the storm, taking some time to be silly alongside chubby-cheeked five-year-olds in tutus. Next week, we would put together a routine for the final show of the year, the one where most would choke on stage and barely do the movements they’d spent a month learning. But it was all worth it for their parents to take photos, to film their little darlings—sometimes little terrors—doing what they loved. From this batch, I estimated eight would carry on for more intensive work at the next level. From those, maybe five had the drive, the focus, and the desire to compete.
But who knew, really. In the three years that I had been running this place alongside Annabelle, a fellow former New York dancer who’d had enough of the competitive scene, kids had a way of surprising you.
Which meant my life would never be dull or routine again.
A wave of exhaustion suddenly pounded into me, and I caught Gwen’s eye, the senior of the two instructors helping run the Tiny Tots lessons. A slight quirk of my eyebrow was all she needed, and as I glided out of the eye of the hurricane, headed for my chair next to the unmanned piano, she took over.
“Okay, now we’re tigers,” she cried, and all twenty little ones dropped to the ground, their faces warping from beautiful to primal, roaring and growling as they crawled around. As soon as I cleared the chaos, my elegant, straight-backed
saunter turned into a waddle, and with one hand on my enormous belly and the other on my lower back, I sidled over to the chair that I’d been sitting on more and more these days, then plopped down.
Fuck my feet hurt.
So did my back, my knees, and my head, but that was nothing unusual after a Tiny Tots lesson. Cute little things, our youngest dancers, but holy shit could they ever get distracted over nothing. My condolences to kindergarten teachers.
Unfortunately, the aches and pains throughout my body were a given at this stage of my pregnancy. According to my doctor, I was healthy as a horse, progressing well and on track for my estimated due date in three months.
But carrying a demigod came with a lot of unknowns, and I was under the impression that things would only get worse before they got better.
Fun stuff.
It was totally manageable, however: being the co-owner of a thriving dance studio, surrounded by women day in and day out, meant everyone catered to my first-time pregnancy fears and needs.
And having a divine husband with power beyond measure helped a bit, too, I suppose.
The end of class song finally tapered off, and the littlest ballerinas erupted into our customary round of applause. First it was directed at me, then Gwen and Ericka, then to each other. With that, the door opened at the far end of the studio, and in poured the moms who had been watching class from the observation deck nearby, hidden behind a two-way mirror so the students didn’t get distracted.
Because as soon as Mom appeared, distracted they were, an explosion of screeches and laughter bouncing off the walls and amplifying my headache to the point that it was just sharp enough to make me wince. Normally I was in the thick of things, chatting with parents as the other instructors set up for the next class in about twenty minutes. Today, however, I hadn’t the strength to get off this fucking chair, so I waved instead, catching the eye of a few moms with sons and daughters in our more advanced classes. They flashed me sympathetic smiles, and I fired back an apologetic one of my own, genuinely upset that I couldn’t talk shop from all the way over here.
