Gilded

by Kendall Grey

  A pause.

  “You want to talk to her when she gets back? … Okay. I’ll let her know. Later.” He pushes the button to end the call and turns to me. “Gunnar said to tell you thanks. I’m not sure what for.”

  I know what for, but I don’t elaborate. “Did he ask to speak with me?” I try to hide the hope creeping into my voice, but I fail miserably.

  “He asked how you were, but he said he had to go. Something about school work.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders hunch.

  He opens the box lodged in the dashboard in front of my knees. “I got you this.”

  Freddie removes a plastic bag and holds it out to me. I take it and tear through the contents: three new chocolate bars, a pair of dark glasses, a deck of cards, a black wallet that matches my purse, and a phone like his.

  My eyes light up as I examine each item. “Whoa.”

  I lower the glasses in place, marveling at how well they shield my eyes from the sun’s rays. I tear open the wrapper of one of the bars and practically melt alongside the chocolate when it hits my tongue. I gobble three quick bites of sweet Valhalla and replace the candy in its wrapper for later.

  Then I carefully unbox the phone. I’ve been wanting one of these since I first saw Freddie’s in New York. I turn to him and throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, Freddie.”

  He grins. “Don’t get too excited. I’m spotting you the money until we get to Vegas. After that, you’re on your own.”

  “What money? It has spots?”

  “No spots. I’m offering you a loan.” He nods to the wallet. “Open it.”

  I do. Inside are lots of American dollars. My jaw drops.

  “I expect you to clean house at Nine Realms,” he says.

  “Well, if cleaning will earn me money, I suppose I can do that. Will they provide a broom, or do I have to bring my own?”

  He laughs. “No, ‘cleaning house’ means you’re gonna win all their money.”

  “Of course, I’m going to win all the money. That’s a given. But don’t you need to keep some for yourself?”

  Freddie smirks. “Babe, I’m rich AF—and don’t ask what the ‘AF’ stands for. Loaning a friend a few grand is nothing to me.”

  I like that Freddie referred to me as his friend. It makes me feel better about leaving Gunnar Magnusson and Huginn behind. Who needs them, anyway?

  “Grands are dollars,” I say.

  “Grands are thousands of dollars,” he corrects.

  I return to the wallet and pull out the bills. Each one says “100.” I count fifty of them, which seems like many more than a few. “Oh,” I say, nodding. “I will give these grands back once I clean the house, friend.”

  “Technically, those are Ben Franklins, but I get your drift.” Freddie turns his attention to the steering wheel and operates the vehicle. We roll out of the parking lot into traffic.

  “I’ll show you how the phone works when we stop for the night,” Freddie says. “Meanwhile, let’s develop a plan for when we arrive in Vegas.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Plans are good. I’m going into the casino to play poker, and I will remove all the money from my foes. Then we will buy the hotel and scour it from top to bottom for my runes. I have a hunch they’re somewhere within.” I pat the spot on my hip where Laguz resides. Warmth flares there.

  Freddie lifts a cautioning hand. “Nice goal setting, but let’s work on finessing. First of all, you need a disguise, which is in those bags.” He gestures with his head to the back of the van. “And you’ll need identification with a new name. You gotta have ID to claim your winnings. I know a guy who can make you a fake one.”

  “What name should I take?”

  “Hmm. Maybe something Icelandic to go with the accent.” Freddie stops at a red light and considers me. “What about Astrid? I knew an Astrid once. She was something else.” He smiles with a twinkle in his eye.

  I try it out on my tongue. “Astrid. Yes. It means divine strength, which I soon will reclaim. It’s a good name.”

  “You should have an American-sounding last name.”

  “Like what?”

  “Smith or Johnson or Williams or Jones—”

  “Jones,” I say. “Astrid Jones.”

  “I like it.”

  Surprisingly, Wiggles rounds the seat and settles into my lap. I pet him and smile. Maybe this won’t be such a bad trip after all.

  Hours later, after many laughs, new music (Freddie used his smart phone to introduce me to EDM, and we discussed the differences between techno, trance, dubstep, and house music. I’m still not exactly clear on these forms, but I enjoy them), and more lessons on the use of modern idioms and phrases, we pull into a motel off the highway in a small city called Ft. Smith, Arkansas.

  Freddie rents a room for us. It has two beds. I’m afraid of the nightmares that are sure to come. If my body weren’t in such a dilapidated state, I’d ask to sleep beside Freddie, but as it is, the Ragnarok bloody massacre hasn’t let up downstairs, and I feel icky despite a long, hot bath, two more chocolate bars, and cuddles with Wiggles, who has warmed up to me. The cat jumps onto the bed and curls into a ball at my side. He’s no Huginn, but he’ll do.

  The lights are off. Gathering Gunnar Magnusson’s flannel shirt around me and inhaling his fading scent, I stare through the darkness at the ceiling. “Freddie?”

  “Yes, Astrid?”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  “I know,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You’re fun to hang out with.” He pauses and shifts positions, his mattress creaking with the movement. “And you’re gonna be okay.”

  I blink a few times in quick succession.

  “Yes. I will,” I say, but the words lack faith.

  I roll over, reaching for a big blond Viking who isn’t there. My fingers trail longingly over the pillow. I imagine its lumps and creases are the grooves of muscle that sculpt his chest. Has he thought of me today? Does he miss me at all?

  When Freddie and I left in the wee hours this morning, I felt confident about my direction. Now, everything is skewed and out of place. Pieces of reality are missing. Dissonance rings in my ears.

  I want to go home.

  I close my eyes, curl around the extra pillow, and brace for whatever the Norns decide to throw at me in my sleep.

  And throw, they do.

  Tonight’s dream is another cruel playback of actual events that happened centuries ago, but the scene unfolds on the set of Asgard Awakening. Don’t ask me why. Dreams are strange things.

  I stand outside a bad replica of Ægir’s great hall after having been evicted from it earlier for a totally justifiable homicide. The victim in question was a servant—a lowly, ignorant, and very mouthy mortal—yet, the gods lavished praise on him for insulting me. ME! The infamous god Loki! Can you imagine the injury I endured? It was too much disrespect to bear.

  In my drunkenness, I may have possibly probably definitely killed this servant.

  But seriously. The insolent fop deserved it.

  Naturally, the Æsir got pissed, even though I didn’t do anything, and they kicked me out of Ægir’s hall. Soon, I became bored and lonely, so I returned. That’s where this dream starts.

  I lift my hands. They’re big and manly. My outlandish, shimmery green costume belongs to Damien Drakkar’s Loki, not me, which confirms my present situation isn’t real. Good. I have nothing to lose in a dream.

  I crack open the door and peek inside.

  Bearing the faces and finery of their modern actor counterparts, the gods within the hall feast, carry on, and tell salacious stories. I swig another gulp of mead from my drinking horn and eavesdrop. The Æsir, Vanir, and elves in attendance are laughing.

  At me.

  “Thank the sun and moon Loki’s not here to ruin things,” Freya says breathily, the jiggly tops of her breasts eager to escape the confining red silks of her dress. “He’s such a drama queen, always demanding everyone’s attention. Gods, the male fragility on him reek
s of desperation. So needy.”

  “Loki is a selfish fool who only cares about himself,” Heimdall adds.

  “Besides his unfortunate wife, the only woman who’d sleep with him is a giantess who spawns horrible demons. Par for the course,” Frey says, flipping his luxurious blond locks from his pretty-boy eyes.

  “He’s not right in the head. Even his human children hate him,” Frigg says as she shines her nails on her tunic. “You were right to toss him out of here, Ægir. The Æsir welcome the peace and quiet left in his wake. Let us fill it with hateful secrets about him and revel in his absence.”

  Nods and uproarious laughter circle the table as the gods lift their drinking horns and cheer.

  Rage suffuses me. Since they love their secrets so much, perhaps I should share a few of the ones I’ve collected through the years.

  “What do you say we kick off Ragnarok early? I’ll bet I can trick these idiots into waging war on each other. Then we’ll see who’s ‘fragile,’” I say to Laguz.

  The truth hurts, the rune hums. Those who stir the shite pot should have a lick of the spoon.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  The hypocrisy in the hall swells like a giant’s fart under a blanket. A whiff of truth may damn-near kill them all.

  Smiling, I swagger inside, drunk and eager to launch my barbs and set my traps.

  Bragi, the pompous and inane god of poetry, stops me. His face is pale. “You’re not welcome at our table, Loki. Turn away from this place and do not come back.”

  I scan the immortals within the hall, and my simmering blood ratchets up to boiling. Almost everyone is here: Odin, Vidar, Idunn, Gefjun, Frigg, Freya, Frey, Njord, Tyr, Heimdall, Skadi, Sif—even Frey’s lowly servants are in attendance. I find Odin’s gaze and hold him in contempt. Some brother.

  I shove Bragi’s stupid arse aside and amble to the table. I slash my arm across its surface, sending food and mead flying. I return my attention to Odin and sneer. “How soon you have forgotten, brother, about the flesh we sliced and blood we mixed with honeyed mead in the horn. The day we met, we shared that divine elixir, and upon the sacred brew, you swore you would only drink at tables where I was welcome.”

  Odin turns to his son Vidar and nods for him to get up. Vidar stands and pours a drink for me, which I accept. I sit and toss my booted feet upon the table with a crash.

  “A toast to you gods of Asgard,” I slur, holding my horn aloft. “Well, except for war-weary Bragi, who is shy of shooting arrows and swinging swords. He’s a miserable poser—a flashy table ornament who values words over actions.”

  Bragi’s fingers tighten on his horn. “Mind your tongue, trickster. If we weren’t sitting at Ægir’s table as friends, I’d be holding your head instead of my drink right now.”

  “Bragi, this table is set for camaraderie, not insults,” Idunn says.

  I toss my head back and hurl a laugh. “What do you know of insults, whore? You spend all your time on your knees with your mouth full, staring up at gods and men, not the least of whom is your own brother’s killer.”

  Idunn gasps, her ivory cheeks reddening with shame.

  “Stop it, Loki,” Frigg says. “This is not the time or place to bring up your squabbles from the past.”

  “Ah yes, listen to Frigg, who took her husband’s brothers into her bed when Allfather was away,” I seethe.

  Frigg’s eyes cool as they level on me. “I’ll remind you that if my son Baldur were here, you wouldn’t escape this hall with your head still attached.”

  I tap my chin as if in thought. “You mean the Baldur I tricked Hod into killing?” I flash a wide, vicious smile.

  “You are mad, Loki,” Freya protests. “As Odin’s wife, Frigg should be respected. Why must you always yelp lies like a kicked dog? You’ll leave this hall a mockery, assuming you leave it at all.”

  “Will I get to watch as you take the gods and elves assembled here before I go, Lady Freya?” I hiss the title. “Everyone knows you’ll lay your thigh over anything with three legs. You’re an incestuous slut who rides her own brother when she can’t round up anyone outside the family to mount. All the gods remember the day they caught you in flagrante with Frey. Your surprised fart when we doubled over with laughter was honey on the fruit of our delight at seeing you brought so low.”

  “You will not speak to my daughter thusly, disgrace of gods and men,” Njord shouts. “There is no shame in taking a lover who is not one’s spouse. The only shame I see is you, the perverted god, sitting at this otherwise lovely table.”

  “Shut up, Njord,” I say. “The daughters of Hymir once used your mouth for a piss pot, and you fathered your son Frey with your sister. You have no claim to speak of ‘perversion.’”

  “You are out of order, Loki,” Tyr, the moron booms.

  “You fancy yourself the right hand of justice. Ha!” I say. “Hard to live up to your own hype when the hand in question is currently dissolving in the pit of Fenrir’s stomach.”

  Tyr clenches his jaw. “I may have lost an appendage, but you lost your evil son, who remains shackled until Ragnarok comes upon us.”

  “Quiet your yammering, cuckold,” I retort as heat rises in my face. “I took your wife as well and fathered a child with her. You never received a penny of recompense for my offense. I made you look like a pantywaist, and I relished every moment.”

  “Loki, you are the worst of the gods,” Frey chimes in. “I have seen the future. Your son lies bound at the mouth of a river. Unless you cease your insults, you will find yourself strapped similarly to a rock and tortured until Ragnarok comes upon us.”

  I turn to him with glee. “Oh yes, Frey, tell us how you bought your wife with gold because you had no sword. You gave it away like a lovesick child. Some warrior you are to put the value of what lies between a woman’s legs above your own life. When Ragnarok arrives, you’ll be completely defenseless. Go back to your dog house and lie down. The adults are speaking.”

  “I hear thunder.” Freya interrupts my tirade. Brow furrowed, she tilts her head as if listening to something outside, and smugness settles into her features. “Thor approaches. He will bring peace to the table.”

  I burp loudly and fling the crystal horn at her. She ducks. The glass shatters against the wall, leaving a mess of glittering fragments on the flagstones.

  The heavy door at the end of the hall slams open with a crash. Thunder answers. I shudder and lift my gaze. Thor fills the frame, wielding Mjolnir. His footsteps thud, echoing off the golden walls. He stops in front of me and smacks the hammer on his open palm, which looks more like a polar bear’s paw than a god’s hand.

  “I don’t know what mischief you’ve made in this sacred hall,” the god of thunder bellows, “but I shall put an end to it presently as Mjolnir and I relieve your neck of its useless burden.”

  “Why are you angry, earth shaker?” I do my best to hide my fear, but it’s hard. Judging by the tic under his bloodshot left eye, Thor is on the verge of a berserker’s rage. Still, I find strength in words. “You won’t be so eager to engage in battle when my son Fenrir devours your father at Ragnarok. Or when my other boy Jormundgandr crushes you to death with his glistening, muscled scales.”

  “Shut up, slanderer of the gods, or I shall flatten you and leave your corpse upon the eastern roads.”

  “You mean the place where you hid inside the thumb of a giant’s glove, hero?” I goad. I’m on a roll now. No stopping this fool.

  Thor spins Mjolnir on his finger and growls. The air around him crackles with electricity. “If you don’t shut your gods-damned mouth, I will break every bone in your body and reunite you with your daughter Hel, ruler of the underworld.” The threat froths from his lips like curdled milk. Lightning flickers across Thor’s reddening skin.

  I’ve pushed him too far, and my jabs at the Æsir lost their potency when Thor walked in and shook up the place.

  No Ragnarok for me. Not yet.

  Damn Thor to Hel.

  I s
traighten my tunic and address the Æsir. “I spoke as my spirit directed me this eve, but since Thor wishes me gone, I shall leave.” I pause, curling my lip and making eye contact with every god and goddess in the hall. “One last thing before I go. After tonight, Ægir will never hold another feast in this place. Every possession within will soon burn to ash. May you all perish with it.”

  With that, I grab various horns strewn across the table and hurl them, streaking the walls with sticky mead. I stalk out of the vile palace, leaving a stream of concentrated hatred wafting like a giant’s fishy belch behind me.

  My bridges to the Æsir are officially burned. I’ve destroyed any friendships that might’ve existed and cleaved the blood bond I shared with Odin using the sharp sword of my words.

  With nowhere else to go, I start toward my home atop Franang’s Falls. A voice catches me off guard.

  “Loki,” Sigyn says softly.

  I halt my steps but don’t turn around. “What do you want?”

  She doesn’t answer for a long moment. With a gentle rustling of garments, Sigyn rounds my rigid form to stand before me. She reaches for my hand. I snatch it away and snarl. I am a wounded wolf without a pack. Not an alpha. Not even a beta. Just a lone, broken wolf.

  “Please, husband,” she says meekly. “Allow me to accompany you.”

  I point toward Ægir’s hall. “Go. Laugh with your so-called friends and share secrets about your husband. Tell them how horrible I am to you and enjoy my absence alongside them. I don’t want your pity, your company, or your love. I am Loki. I need no one but myself.”

  A tear slips past her eyelid and blazes a trail of moon-reflected blue down her cheek.

  Except she’s no longer Sigyn. She’s Gunnar Magnusson. And the devastation in his expression is heavy enough to crush me.

  A painful swell of sorrow rises, threatening to drown me. Tears of my own gather at the corners of my eyes. Damien Drakkar’s Loki costume slips off my shoulders and fades into the darkness, revealing the slender arms, genteel hands, and feminine curves I’ve been forced to accept in the modern age.

  “You let me go. You care more about your manuscript than me. I needed you, and you let me down.” I pummel his chest with shaking fists. He weathers the blows, making no effort to stop me.