Gilded

by Kendall Grey

  Freddie finishes shuffling and slaps the deck on the table in front of Gunnar Magnusson, who “cuts” the cards in half. I spy the bottom card (the eight of spades), run through my memory of which ones were there before the cut, and rearrange them in my mind’s eye. I may have a few cards out of place, but I think I have the gist.

  Eyeing the cat, Huginn takes his place to my right, away from Freddie and Sparky on the other side of the bar. Freddie deals us two cards each. Without looking, I know what mine are: seven of clubs and six of diamonds. I pick them up and study them. I was right. By my calculations, Freddie has the six of spades and the king of hearts; Gunnar Magnusson has the jack of clubs and the jack of hearts, and Huginn has the two of diamonds and the ten of spades.

  The next five cards in the deck should be the five of spades, the queen of clubs, the four of clubs, the ace of diamonds, and the ten of hearts.

  Once the deal is finished, I’ll be one card shy of a straight. Which means I got nothing. But Huginn has two tens and Gunnar Magnusson has a pair of jacks. Let’s see how they play this.

  I lean over to Huginn, who’s scratching frantically at his cards. Having two feet with only four talons apiece and no opposable thumbs makes it hard for him to pick them up. “Need some help?”

  “No cheating, Trickster,” he says. I note the playful tone in his voice and feel a pang of regret about Odin coming between us again.

  I make a show of looking away as I offer his cards to him. Standing on one foot, he clutches them awkwardly in his talons.

  We run through bids. Everyone remains in the game with two pennies each. No one raises. I help Huginn push his gold pennies into the pot. Freddie deals the flop. He ups his bid to three.

  “Getting cocky?” I ask.

  He nods to the bird at my side and points at him with his sucker. “I could ask the same of you.”

  Huginn squawks a laugh.

  We all match Freddie’s bid, and the turn card hits the table.

  I study Gunnar Magnusson’s face. He studies mine. Though I know what’s in his hand, I can’t read what’s behind his eyes. Here’s my guess: He lacks confidence in his ability to win, but he also wants to stay in the game to push me into staying. Or to push me into winning. That would be just like Sigyn. Always looking out for me.

  He’s not Sigyn, Laguz says. Not yet.

  Yet. There’s a word to ponder. Some might see “yet” as a portent of something bad to come. I see it as an unsure situation that could turn ideal if I play it right. If Gunnar Magnusson never finds out who he was, I have nothing to worry about. It’s simply a matter of keeping Muninn out of his line of sight.

  “I bid three,” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  Huginn agrees, “Three,” and I slide the required pennies from his pile into the middle.

  I call without a word.

  Freddie flicks his cards with a disgusted huff and slams them on the table. “Fold.”

  “So impulsive. So angry.” Gunnar Magnusson utters a playful tsk.

  “You’re an asshole.” Freddie stands and deals the river card, the ten of hearts.

  “And you’re a poor sport,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “Check.”

  Freddie wanders into the kitchen with the cats weaving between his feet. The bid passes to Huginn, who looks from Gunnar Magnusson to me. “Five,” he clucks.

  “Bold.” I lift an eyebrow and dole out five of his pennies along with most of mine. “I’ll see your five and raise you ten.”

  “Ten?” Huginn demands. “Are you out of your mind, fool?”

  I shrug and wait for Gunnar Magnusson’s move. He stares at me a long time. His shoulders hunch, and he drops his cards to the table. “Fold.”

  Oh, Sigyn. You’re such a sucker.

  I turn to Huginn. “It’s you and me, bird. What do you want to do?”

  “I think you’re cheating,” Huginn says.

  “You’ve been sitting right next to me the whole time. What have I done to make you think I’d cheat?”

  “Okay, then, you’re bluffing.” He presses his accusing gaze into mine. A silent showdown ensues.

  “Call me and find out.” I fold my arms over my chest and smile.

  He looks at his cards again. Then at the kitty. Then back to me. “Damn it, Loki. I can’t trust you.”

  “Feeling’s mutual.”

  He burps a wet-sounding cluck and tosses his cards down. “Fine. Fold.”

  My grin widens as I shovel my winnings into the growing mountain of paper pennies before me.

  “What did you have?” Huginn asks.

  “Does it matter?” I say, glancing to Gunnar Magnusson.

  “I just want to know how badly we got swindled,” Huginn replies.

  I laugh. “Bad enough. Another round?”

  And our card game goes on like that for the rest of the night. Gunnar Magnusson keeps letting me win, Freddie drowns his bad luck in WeedPops, Huginn gets his tail feathers ruffled by my increasing ability to read both cards and players, and I end up with all the fake gold pennies.

  Life is good. At least for a few more hours.

  Chapter Eight

  “I’m going to turn in. I have a lot of work to do in the morning.” Gunnar Magnusson stands and stretches. As his thick, good arm reaches for the ceiling, his T-shirt rides up. A smattering of reddish-blond hair sneaks across his abs and dives for cover under the waistband of his jeans.

  My mouth waters. Sweet baby goats in a barn. I redirect my attention anywhere but there.

  The witching hour looms. Freddie passed out on the couch thirty minutes ago. Huginn has been careful to avoid the cats, who are now splayed on either side of Freddie’s legs. He seems more relaxed with them out of commission.

  “You coming?” Gunnar Magnusson asks me. His cheeks pink. “I mean, you can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  That would probably be best, but I can’t resist the temptation of curling up with him one last time. Even if nothing happens between us, I want to lie beside him. I need to. Because I’m secretly hoping he’ll change my mind about leaving.

  “You take the bed,” I say, being purposefully vague. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  He presses his lips together and nods.

  The moment Gunnar Magnusson is out of sight, Huginn steps into my path and looks up at me with pleading eyes. They’re pointed in the same direction for once. “Don’t go, Loki.”

  That’s quite a change of tune.

  “Why not?” I hitch my hands to my hips. “Will my appearance in Las Vegas confound Odin’s grand plans, thereby depriving you of whatever prize he offered in return for keeping me in place?”

  “No,” Huginn moans.

  “Then why in the world would I stay? The Nine Realms is the only lead I have, and if I don’t find my runes … you know what happens.”

  Huginn inches closer, looks over his shoulder, and drops his voice to a whisper. “Odin wants you to go there.”

  Didn’t see that coming.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt it’s for altruistic reasons.”

  Yeah, me too.

  I shake my head. “This makes no sense. If one of my runes is there, why the Hel would he want me to find it?”

  “I fear—” Huginn’s small voice shrinks further. He smooshes his beak together. His eyes are glossy. “I think something bad is going to happen in Las Vegas. To you. I don’t know what or why. It’s just a feeling.”

  I kneel and gather him into my arms. “Why do you care what happens to Loki?”

  He fidgets. “You know why.”

  “Because we’re friends?” I ask gently and set him on the bar. I take a seat so we’re at eye level. Equal ground. “Friends don’t sell each other out.”

  He bows his head. “I know.”

  “Are my runes in Las Vegas?” I ask.

  “At least one of them is,” he replies. “I’m not sure which.”

  “And where are your runes?” I say.

  �
�Probably Las Vegas.”

  “Allfather promised you one, didn’t he?”

  “He promised me … everything.” Huginn looks miserable.

  “Then you understand why I need to go,” I say. “Because I lost everything too, and this may be my last chance to win it back. I don’t care what he has planned for me. I can beat Odin at his own game. I’m smart, and I learn quickly. I’ll dodge whatever he throws at me, and I’ll win. Just like I did at cards tonight.”

  “Not if you’re dead, you won’t.”

  I narrow my eyes and straighten. “Are you threatening me?”

  He shakes his head. “No, Loki. I’m trying to help you.”

  “As long as you’re working for Odin, you can’t help me. Do what you have to do, but understand this. I must find my immortality rune. There is no alternative plan, no way around it. If I have to roll over you or Muninn or Odin and all the Asgardians in the world to get Ihwaz, I will.” The vow with all of its horrible implications skewers my soul, but it’s past time to reclaim what’s mine. Cost is irrelevant. “I’m as good as dead without it.”

  Huginn’s eyes round sadly. “You’re as good as dead if you go.”

  I inhale a full breath and push out a heavy sigh. What else can I do? Huginn says I’ll die if I leave, but I’ll die without Ihwaz. If I can find the immortality rune before Death finds me, Huginn’s dark prophecy won’t be an issue. All clues point to Las Vegas. Until I get a hit on some other lead, I’m stuck.

  “I’m out of options,” I say. “I’ll take the chance.”

  Huginn launches himself at me, curling his healed wings around my arms tightly and tucking his head into my chest. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Loki, but he’ll kill me if I do. I need my runes too.”

  A rush of fury spikes in my blood, pounding an angry drumbeat against my ears. Gods damn Odin. I understand Huginn’s dilemma. Intimately. I can’t fault him for protecting himself. I’d do the same. I am doing the same.

  “It’s okay, you stupid bird. I forgive you.” I hug him for a long moment. I pull away and carry him to the big, comfortable chair by the television. “Rest now.”

  I unfold a blanket and make a squishy little nest for him to roost in. He pushes the lumps down, turns in a complete circle, and settles in.

  “Thank you.” He doesn’t look at me.

  I rub his bright red comb. “You’re welcome.” I pause. “And I’m glad you’re okay. Sleep well, friend.”

  A smile flits across his beak, and he closes his eyes.

  I return to the bar and open Gunnar Magnusson’s computer. It requests his password. I type “L0k1A^d9u^^@r.” Login, successful.

  Okay, so I peeked over his shoulder when he reset his password earlier. I found it rather sweet that he combined our names in alpha-numeric form to bar any foul intruders who might wish to gain access to his most private thoughts. Never mind that I’m the foul intruder. He doesn’t need to know.

  I snoop around on the computer, clicking things without really understanding what they are. I find folders labeled with titles like “Norse gods and myths,” “Nordic languages,” “Sociolinguistics,” and my personal favorite, “Runes.” I’ll save that one for last.

  I open the folder about gods and myths. Inside are hundreds of files. Many are documents Gunnar Magnusson appears to have written himself. I click through them all, reading, devouring his words. He and his teachers at the “university” got a few things wrong about us, but mostly, he’s right on target. Using the dates to put together the pieces of his academic puzzle, I’m entranced by his evolution from a timid “freshman” who struggled with the fate-based concept of seidr into a highly acclaimed academic with several published papers under his belt.

  Not only is Gunnar Magnusson a strapping, handsome lad, but he’s also a smart one. And modest enough not to flaunt it. I could learn a lot from him if I stuck around.

  I pore over the outline he worked on earlier today, noting key points, suppositions, and the direction he’s heading in based on the archaeological work he did in Iceland. The amount of detail he employs in these documents astounds me. I can tell how much he genuinely cares about Norse history and religion.

  Now I understand why his education is so important to him. Though he rarely talks about it, he takes his work seriously. As the minutes pass, I uncover a side of Gunnar Magnusson he’s never shown me in person.

  The man is brilliant.

  And he’s also much closer to gathering the data he needs for his thesis manuscript than he probably realizes. He’s missed a few key sources to prove his arguments, but aside from those, he’s spot-on.

  I open a web browser window like I’ve seen Freddie do on his phone. The computer version is different, but after a bit of clicking around, I figure out how to use “tabs” and which “key words” to type for my searches. I’d be hard-pressed to do any of this without Laguz.

  I smile as website after website fills the screen. After several hours of searching, I sit back, exhausted but happy.

  I dig through one of the drawers I opened in the kitchen this morning when I was hunting for food and pull out a small pad of “sticky notes.” I do enjoy these. I peel one off and stick it on my index finger. Middle finger. All the fingers and both thumbs. I make my hands talk to one another from mosaic-yellow mouths.

  “What say you, Thor?” my right hand says to my left. “Will Gunnar Magnusson strip away the veil of incomprehension to reveal the truths of our people?”

  “Whut?” Thor says, all stupid-sounding. The dolt.

  Right hand attacks left hand, ripping his yellow scales off and tossing them mercilessly to the floor. “You’re useless, Thor. A weak-minded fool. The entirety of your strength comes from a magic girdle, a hammer with a too-short handle, and iron gloves. You can thank the dwarves for your power. You certainly didn’t come by it naturally, you goat-shite-for-brains, hammer-headed nitwit.”

  Naked Thor hand says, “I am but an innocent simpleton. Why must you attack me?”

  SMASH!

  Naked Thor hand is dead, choked to death by the great trickster with one clutch of his devastating palm. I have mad strangulation skills.

  I peel off a fresh note from the pad and scribble the following: Forget the library. You just have to know where to look. –Loki. I stick the paper to his laptop and draw arrows pointing to all the tabs I left open in his web browser.

  Pleased with myself, I check on Huginn. He’s snoring without a care on his blanket, one claw sticking up in the air. On the couch, the cats pick up their heads in a synchronized, fluid movement. Their tired eyes study me with mild curiosity. Freddie grunts in his sleep. They lay their chins on his legs as if they mean to protect him. Or hold him down. I’m not sure which.

  Cats are weird.

  I tiptoe to the bathroom adjacent to Gunnar Magnusson’s bedroom and brush my teeth. Gunnar Magnusson says dental hygiene is very important for mortals. I agree with this statement. By comparison, hygiene was pretty shitty in the old days, though the Vikings were cleaner than many other people back then. Now that I’m card-carrying Midgardian who’s lost his natural godlike glow, I have to take care of myself, something the Æsir didn’t worry about. So, I brush in small circles like Gunnar Magnusson taught me, spit, rinse, and spit again. I floss. Brush my hair. Braid my hair. Take the braids out. Swig some mouthwash and squirt it in the sink. I reach for the toothbrush again.

  What the bloody Hel are you waiting for? Laguz asks.

  “You can never brush too much,” I whisper.

  Yes, you can. You’ll make your gums bleed. Stop procrastinating and go to bed. He’s asleep. He won’t even notice you.

  Laguz is right. But I’m anxious, and my stomach feels off, and I probably won’t be able to sleep.

  The card game earlier was … well … perfect. The four of us were together, not fighting, and having a good time. I truly enjoyed it, and now I’m not so sure I want to leave tomorrow. Too many questions swirl in my mind. Am I doing the right thi
ng? Why does everything feel so out of whack? Maybe Huginn had a point about not going to Las Vegas. Maybe Odin is betting on me heading that way, and he laid a trap to ensnare me. Maybe this pilgrimage is penance for my past crimes.

  Odin is a dick, but he knows things. If he’s rediscovered Mímir’s head in a well somewhere, the bodiless seer might be filling his ears with knowledge that could harm me. Or perhaps the Norns—the goddesses who spin fates—are on Odin’s side, whispering to him about destiny and retribution. Odin’s own wife Frigg could be a source of predestined information, although, the old lady never shared her prophecies in the past.

  But things have changed since we were gods. I glance through the open door to Gunnar Magnusson’s sleeping form, and something stirs a tornado of want low in my gut. I rub my stomach, but it doesn’t ease the tightness there.

  I look at myself in the mirror. The lines of conflict etched into my face confirm I’ve lost my nerve. It was kidnapped by contentment, something I rarely felt in my previous life.

  Contentment is almost as addictive as mischief making. I wish my raging soul knew how to settle.

  I’m drawn to the rise and fall of Gunnar Magnusson’s soft breaths. I turn to the bedroom, afraid of these feelings coursing through me. They are too powerful. They overwhelm me.

  Go to him. Laguz urges.

  So, I do. I slip a finger under the sheet, lift it, and climb in beside the sweet, intelligent man I’ve come to appreciate over the last week. Facing him, I tentatively lay my arm across his waist and study his sleeping face, hidden in shadows. I press my forehead gently to his and close my eyes. Something from inside him calls to something inside of me. I know what it is.

  Our souls don’t care which clothes we wear.

  No, Gunnar Magnusson. They don’t.

  Chapter Nine

  The dream is back, but this time it’s a full-blown nightmare.

  Because it’s the truth. About bloody Baldur.