Gilded

by Kendall Grey

  Gunnar Magnusson’s clicks seem to be taking him in a different direction from the topics he said he needed to research. The internet is a wonderful thing, but it’s also big and uncontainable. I know of some old, obscure texts that might help, if only he’d let me.

  “Did you find what you’re looking for?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says shortly.

  The liar.

  “Good. Then you have time to take a walk with me.” I ease around to his side and offer him a hand up.

  He stares at it for a long moment and finally accepts. When he gets to his feet, I clench my thighs together at the sight of his huge form towering over me. What a Viking he would’ve made. If only he’d been born a millennium earlier.

  Huginn struts out from under the stool and peers up at me.

  “No,” I say. “This is private business. No Odin spies allowed.” Then I turn to Freddie. “We’ll be back in a bit. Keep your eye on Huginn.”

  He holds up a thumb. I do not know what this means. Is he suggesting I bum myself with my thumb? Freddie’s a hedonist, but he doesn’t usually make rude gestures at me, and Gunnar Magnusson didn’t blush this time. I’ll assume the thumb is some sort of acknowledgment. I shrug and drag Gunnar Magnusson out the door.

  We descend the stairs into a green-tinged early spring day. There’s a slight chill in the breeze, but everything else is warm and inviting. I squint at the bright blue dome above cradling the yellow orb of the goddess Sol. I picture the shining horse Skinfaxi riding across the sky, pulling the god Dagr behind him, his mane scattering daylight in every direction.

  Gunnar Magnusson’s mane reminds me of that light. Penetrating, kind, and way too good for me.

  “You’re wearing my shirt,” he says as we skirt the parking lot and head into a grassy space behind the apartment complex.

  “I stole it.”

  He nods. “It’s my favorite shirt.”

  “Then why didn’t you bring it to Iceland?” I ask.

  “Didn’t want to mess it up. I knew it would be waiting for me when I got home.”

  “And now a Norse trickster god has purloined it from your closet. I shall give it back—” I undo the top two buttons, but he pushes my hand down to stop me from unbuttoning more.

  Something passes between us at the contact. It’s heavy and deep, filling an emptiness inside me that longs to be filled. His closeness tempts me to say hard things like, I’m sorry.

  “Keep the shirt. It looks better on you than it does on me.”

  “Will you be waiting for me if I ever decide to come home?” I ask with a cautious glance at him. It’s a bold question, I know.

  He straightens and looks away. Blinks a couple times. Lowers his gaze to study his feet. “I’ll always be here for you, Loki. No matter who you are or how you’re dressed.”

  I inch a little closer. I feel the heat rolling off his skin and want it on mine so badly. But I don’t touch him. I can’t. If I do, I might lose my nerve and stay here.

  “We said goodbye once before. In Iceland.”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “Somehow, with you, I think ‘farewell’ might be a better parting word. It doesn’t sound nearly as final as ‘goodbye.’ And it gives me … hope. Like maybe you’ll pull another trickster job and pop back into my life and throw everything out of whack when I least expect it.”

  “And most need it,” I tack on.

  He smiles and meets my eyes. “And most need it,” he agrees.

  “I know you don’t have many dollars,” I say, “but if I find some, I will send them to you through the email. For Huginn.”

  “I thought he was spying on you.”

  “He is.”

  “But you’re still protecting him.”

  “In my own way.”

  “Are you getting soft in your old age?”

  “I am.” Though, I blame my newly found X chromosome for the softness more than my age. “He may be Odin’s lackey, but I owe him a debt for helping me. He doesn’t eat much, and he’s well trained. If you section off an area of your bedroom and put some old rags down, he’ll know what to do.”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “That’s my line.”

  “True,” he says. “You always do figure it out, don’t you?”

  I pat Laguz at my hip. “Now I have help.”

  He reaches for my hand. I allow him to take it, and that rush of warmth fills me again, like molten gold flowing from his fingers into mine, snaking through my blood, merging with it, taking it over with the essence of him. He makes me feel like I’m the goddess Sol. The sun.

  “I hope you’re not angry with me,” he begins slowly. “This is a lot to digest. You’re a god. I’m a … student.”

  “You mean you’re a man student.”

  “I’m not like Freddie,” he says with a note of regret.

  “It would be awfully unoriginal if you were.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I nod. Muninn’s parting words echo between my ears. Not all that glitters is gold.

  “If I were a goddess, would you feel differently about me?” I blurt. I’m not sure why I asked, but it turns out to be a valid question.

  He eases closer. “I honestly don’t know.”

  We’re inches apart. Staring up into his handsome, sad face, I don’t see a man. I don’t see my former wife. I see a simple, sweet soul that has no gender, no ties to anything other than itself.

  Is it possible to undo thousands of years of evolution? Of learned behavior ingrained in us by our forebears? Of collective unconsciousness? Can humans—or gods—truly look past one’s outer shell to what lies beneath? Are we capable of seeing the spirit despite its covering?

  I want to believe we can. But history makes it hard.

  When Gunnar Magnusson first found me in the snow in Iceland, he gave me his sweater to warm me. I protested, angry that I was stuck in what I thought was a feeble woman’s body. The countless generations that solidified the foundation of societal norms told me from now on, I’d be treated differently than I had been before. In my time, most women were possessions, bangles to dangle off a powerful man’s wrist. I didn’t want to wear Gunnar Magnusson’s sweater because I thought I deserved women’s clothing as some kind of punishment for all the wrongs I committed. But then Gunnar Magnusson said, “Our souls don’t care which clothes we wear,” and everything changed.

  That sentence has haunted me ever since. It terrifies me. Because I fear he was right.

  My soul is inching toward acceptance of who and what I am. Gunnar Magnusson’s world has been turned upside down with the unveiling of my true identity. He’s going to need time to process his feelings about it. And if he ever finds out who he really is … Well, I suppose I’ll blow up that bridge when we come to it.

  I cup his cheek and trail my fingers through his scruffy beard. It is much like the beard I used to have. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Gunnar Magnusson. Whether it be finishing your thesis manuscript or earning a job as a Viking archaeologist or finding a comely woman to keep your bed warm at night.”

  “Kinda feels like you’re saying goodbye.”

  I shake my head. “It’s a farewell. Until our ships meet again.”

  “You know, if you’re leaving tomorrow, we should spend our last night together doing something fun.”

  I perk up. “Ooh, I like fun. What do you have in mind?”

  “Since you’re going to Vegas, you have to learn how to play the games there.”

  “Like hnefatafl?” I ask. I was a master at that one. A precursor to chess, hnefatafl featured a latticed plane with uneven numbers of playing pieces on each side.

  He laughs. “I wasn’t thinking of board games. More like card games. Poker.”

  A chance to hone my trickster skills and get poked by Gunnar Magnusson? I’m not exactly sure what kind of poking he means, but sign me up!

  I offer him my most twisted grin. “Show me.”

  Chapter Seven


  “Straight flush, four of a kind, full house, flush, straight, three of a kind, two pairs, and one pair,” Freddie says as he transcribes the words onto a piece of paper. He and Gunnar Magnusson have spent the last thirty minutes explaining the rules of this “poker” game, which apparently, does not involve any actual poking. Curses! These two really know how to spoil a god’s fun.

  “Got it,” I say, wiggling my arse onto a bar stool.

  Huginn is hiding under the chairs. He hasn’t said a word to me since Gunnar Magnusson and I got home from our walk. Hmpf. Fine with me. Stupid bird.

  Wiggles curls into a ball in Freddie’s lap, and Sparky sits on top of the bar. Gunnar Magnusson has shooed him away three times, but the cat is having none of it. This is his realm, and he won’t be overthrown by something so infinitesimal as a mere human. Or, goddess-turned-human—whatever.

  I like this cat’s style.

  “The game is Texas Hold ’Em. The ante is one gold penny.” Gunnar Magnusson retrieves a torn piece of paper that says “1 GP” from his little pile and slaps it in the middle of the table. We created “chips” based on Viking currency out of pages from a legal pad he had lying around.

  Freddie and I donate a gold penny apiece into the kitty, which is being either guarded or threatened—I’m not sure which—by Sparky’s swishing tail.

  With an awkward stretch of his good arm, Gunnar Magnusson leans around the cat and deals us each two cards from the hand in the sling. “Everyone gets two in the pocket.”

  Freddie pops the sucker out of his mouth. “That’s what she said.”

  Gunnar Magnusson strangles a sprouting grin and shakes his head.

  I look around. “Who is this woman you keep referring to, and why are you repeating everything she says?”

  Freddie and Gunnar Magnusson roar with laughter. Huginn chucks in a few amused clucks from somewhere in the vicinity of my feet. Though I don’t understand what’s so funny, the light mood is a welcome diversion from the day’s earlier dramas.

  “It’s a joke, Loki,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “From a TV show. It’s just innuendo.”

  “Sexual innuendo,” Huginn clarifies. Those are the first words he’s spoken to me in hours.

  “Huh.” I still don’t get it.

  “Since you’re sitting on the dealer’s left, you bid first,” Gunnar Magnusson says to me.

  I look at my cards. The ace of hearts and two of hearts. This bodes well.

  With a swing of his meaty arm, Gunnar Magnusson pushes Sparky out of the middle of the table. The cat protests with a condescending glare sharp enough to cut bone as he takes his time relocating to the edge. I’m beginning to feel a certain camaraderie with this haughty beast.

  “I bid five gold pennies.” I pluck the appropriate number of paper coins and lay them on the table.

  “Five?” Freddie whistles appreciatively.

  “You’re surprised?” I ask.

  “Five is a lot to start off. It’s a quarter of your entire stash. You must have a great hand.”

  “I do.”

  Gunnar Magnusson smiles. “This is where bluffing comes into play.”

  I arch a brow and finger the raven hamingja pendant Gunnar Magnusson loaned me. “I’m the best bluffer I know.”

  “Not so much, big guy,” Freddie says. “A good poker player never lets anyone know he’s bluffing.”

  “Did you just call me a man?” I ask.

  “Well, you’re a god, aren’t you?” Freddie says. “And—hey, wait a minute.” He turns to Gunnar Magnusson. “Loki’s a god. How is this remotely fair? Doesn’t he have powers?”

  I do, but I’m not flaunting them. For now. I’m more interested in the gender question hanging in the air between us.

  Gunnar Magnusson turns his skeptical gaze on me. “It isn’t really fair, is it? Your whole schtick is tricking people. And now that you have one of your runes, we’ll never beat you. We probably should’ve thought this through better.”

  Freddie’s face lights up, and he suddenly changes his tune. “No, it’s brilliant! We’re heading to Las Vegas. Casinos galore. That means poker tournaments. And what do you win at poker tournaments?”

  “Cards!” I shout, holding my arms up in victory.

  “No!” Freddie replies with the same volume and victory formation.

  “Paper gold pennies!” I try again.

  “Still no! How about money?” Freddie says.

  Gunnar Magnusson’s ears prick up. “You’ve got a point there. But if you get caught cheating in Vegas, they’ll kick you out and ban you. After they break your legs behind the casino.”

  I lean closer and do a little shoulder shimmy. “Who says I’m cheating?”

  Freddie, Gunnar Magnusson, and Huginn groan.

  “Okay,” I backtrack, “who says I’ll get caught?”

  Freddie points his WeedPop at me. “That’s more like it. Don’t get caught. Now, where were we?”

  “Loki was just bragging about her great hand,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “And it’s your bet, Freddie.”

  Freddie studies me for a long moment. He squints at my hand as if trying to peer through my skin like the x-ray machine at the veterinarian’s office and into my cards. He slides five gold pennies into the pot. “Call.”

  “Too rich for me,” Gunnar Magnusson says and lays his cards face down on the table.

  “You always play it safe,” Freddie moans. He gestures with an index finger to the deck. “Flop us.”

  According to my poker mentors, the flop is where the dealer lays down three cards, face up. I am allowed to combine my cards with those on the table to form my hand.

  Gunnar Magnusson deals the next round, flipping the cards up one by one. The queen of spades, four of hearts, and queen of clubs appear. He turns to me. “Your bid, my lady.”

  I chuck another five gold pennies into the growing pile in the middle of the table. Sparky stands, arches his back in a lazy stretch, and wanders over to Freddie, settling sphinxlike beside his arm. If I didn’t know better, I might suspect Sparky was helping Freddie. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Huginn venture out from under my stool. He treks around the table in a wide arc, pecking at the carpet here and there. Wiggles, hanging like a gargoyle from Freddie’s lap, hisses at him as he passes Freddie’s chair. Huginn clucks and runs for cover under the table.

  He’s up to something.

  “Call.” Freddie pushes five more pennies into the pile of paper.

  “Here’s your turn card,” Gunnar Magnusson declares. He reveals the five of hearts and looks to me.

  “Freddie has two queens,” Huginn says.

  Doesn’t matter. I have Laguz.

  Five more gold pennies leave my stash, and Freddie again matches them.

  “Last community card is called the river,” Gunnar Magnusson says. He flips it. The three of hearts appears.

  I corral my excitement into a flat expression that I hope looks like disinterest as I give up my last five pennies. Freddie’s lip barely curls. He silently indicates his call with his remaining paper circles.

  “Let’s see ’em,” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  I turn my cards over and smile. Ace, two, three, four, and five of hearts.

  Freddie throws his pair of queens on the table and jumps out of his seat, cursing. The upended Wiggles flies to the floor in a tangle of hissing fur and claws. “You cheated! You must’ve cheated. The odds of you getting a straight flush are, like, 70,000 to one.”

  “I believe it’s actually 72,192 to one. Regardless, I win the pussy!” I shout and lurch forward to scoop all the gold pennies into a pile in front of me.

  Freddie and Gunnar Magnusson swing their heads toward each other in unison. The instant their gazes collide, they bend over with laughter.

  “That’s what he said,” Huginn squawks, chuckling along with them.

  Shoulders heaving with a serious case of the giggles, Gunnar Magnusson wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s called the kit—”
>
  Freddie throws out an arm over Gunnar Magnusson’s chest. “No, man. Don’t ruin this moment.” Laughter envelops them both and drags them into oblivion.

  I smile at Huginn, who’s looking up at me like he used to, before Muninn came in and bargained with him for his soul or whatever the Hel Odin offered. I miss these looks.

  I reach down and offer him a hand up. He hesitates. I wave him over. Watching me closely—for signs of turning on him, I suppose—he tentatively steps onto my open palm, and I hoist him into my lap.

  “What do you say? Wanna play?” I ask him.

  He grins shyly. “I’d love to.”

  Before you start in with the Loki’s-waving-his-wussy-flag taunts, allow me to explain my motives. Even though Huginn’s been brainwashed by Odin, he could still prove useful. Now that I’ve cooled down from this morning’s freak out, there’s no reason for us to part on bad terms. The bird has a habit of showing up when I need him. If he enters my life again after today, I’d rather our shared past reflect back to my previous kindnesses, which might shape future negotiations more positively. For me, that is.

  “I wish I could understand Huginn.” Freddie resettles onto his perch atop the bar stool and tears some fresh pieces of paper to stand in for gold pennies. He divides them equally among us.

  “I wish I could understand humans,” the bird quips.

  “Me too,” I murmur under my breath and hold up a palm for Huginn to foot-slap.

  Gunnar Magnusson passes Freddie the cards, which he shuffles several times, making an arched bridge with his fingers and thumbs. The pictures combined with the fluid motion is like art. I watch his hands closely, eager for my turn to deal, but I also pay attention to the cards themselves. Even though they’re flying past his thumbs, Laguz slows my vision down enough to mentally log the locations of the cards. Each shuffle produces a mini movie projected onto the theater of my mind.

  I tug on Gunnar Magnusson’s raven necklace again. He notices, opens his mouth to say something, and promptly shuts it.

  He wants to see if the hamingja really works. He’s probably thinking the first hand we played was beginner’s luck. If I win again, he’ll attribute it to the necklace. Little does he know, luck won’t help me win. Intuition will. And no one can take it away from me without disassembling me from the waist down. Not that I encourage anyone to do so.