by Kendall Grey
“I care more than you’ll ever know,” he says, “but my decision to stay wasn’t about you. It was something I had to do to better myself. Just as you need your runes to fulfill you, I need my work. I can’t live in your shadow. I need light.”
The inferno blazing within my rib cage overwhelms me. I lash out. I can’t help it. It’s the only way to release the pressure smothering me from the inside out.
“Selfish!” I scream in his face. Misery eats holes into his skin, carving out sunken cheeks and drooping eyes full of grief, regret, and anguish.
The power behind the word reflects back at me, tilting my perception off kilter.
He wants me to be like him. To fit in. To assimilate. To change.
I can’t. I won’t.
I grunt with disgust and run away.
Distant sobs haunt me all the way home.
I jerk upright in the present, bathed in sweat and straining to catch my breath. Ears pulled back, Wiggles hisses and leaps off the bed. My pounding pulse trips into an urgent tattoo, beating my eardrums to the brink of pain. Mortality weighs heavily on my soul.
I catch the rich scent of Gunnar Magnusson—of Sigyn—wafting off his flannel shirt, and I am ashamed.
Chapter Thirteen
Over the next two days, the landscape evolves from plush, green-carpeted farmland touched by the first breaths of spring to bustling cities flooded with cars and smog. Eventually, the highway deposits Freddie, the cats, and me onto an endless expanse of dry, dusty desert peppered with mighty, imposing mountains. This United States is a vast country, and we haven’t even reached the other side. I wonder how much farther it goes.
I haven’t slept more than an hour or so at a time since the last nightmare, and then, only during daylight hours while Freddie drives. In a word, I’m terrified. The dark conjures frightening images of looming death that pin me in place with needles forged in the fires of my own fear.
So, I cling desperately to consciousness.
Though the trip has worn me down emotionally and physically, it hasn’t been entirely bad. The bleeding has almost stopped, and I’m feeling much more like myself, panic-inducing dreams notwithstanding. Freddie has been an entertaining companion. Our journey reminds me of those I used to make with Odin, Thor, and the other Asgardians before things soured between us.
I yawn after emerging from a restless nap. The sun is close to setting behind a distant mountain range that spans as far as the eye can see. The road ahead drowns under an ocean of tail lights. On the floor near Freddie’s foot, Wiggles stretches and licks a paw to wash his face. He’s been avoiding me ever since the nightmare on our first night. Sparky hops into Freddie’s lap, turns three times in a circle, and settles into a perfectly shaped orange ball protecting Freddie’s privates.
Freddie gives me a playful punch in the arm. “Welcome to Las Vegas.”
“Really?” I scrub the sleep from my wide eyes and sit up straight, staring out the window at the lines of cars stretching both ways.
“Traffic is a bitch,” Freddie continues, “but at least we’re close.”
“This is Nine Realms?” I ask.
“It’s farther down the strip. Looks like everybody and their brother is trying to get there.”
Must be a big family.
“We might have to sleep in the van tonight.”
“But I thought we were going to play poker so I can win a room?” I protest.
“If we can find a spot within walking distance, we’ll head down there,” he explains, “but it’s not looking good. Keep your eyes peeled for parking.”
Pressing my face to the window, I scan the streets, but I’m too busy being awed by the flashing colors, seizure-inducing lights, graceful fountains, top-heavy trees, and glitzy edifices to notice any parking signs. Barely dressed women wearing stilts for shoes talk on their phones and drag wheeled luggage over the sidewalks like a parade of colorful ants. Horns honk, sirens wail, pedestrians stagger.
We pass a massive black pyramid reminiscent of the ones in Egypt. Beyond that is a red, blue, and white castle. How did the Midgardians create such things? It must’ve taken them centuries.
“It’s like New York,” I marvel. As if in answer, a giant Statue of Liberty looms like a sentinel. I gasp. “It is New York! How is this possible? I thought we were many miles away from there.”
“This is a city of imitation,” Freddie says. “Sometimes Vegas developers build better monuments than the originals did.”
“Show me more. Show me everything!” I kick my feet and squeal with delight.
“Wait till you go inside these places,” Freddie says. “The casinos, the shows, the clubs—the clubs are my faves—everything is designed to blow your mind, and they deliver.”
I start to ask why anyone would blow on my brain, but Freddie simulates an explosion around his skull with his fingers, and I understand. He means these places overwhelm the senses. I believe him.
I rub my arms to settle the goosebumps rising under Gunnar Magnusson’s flannel. I must see Nine Realms tonight. I can’t wait another day.
Laguz vibrates at my hip. Patience, it hums.
“You should put on a disguise,” Freddie says. “We can’t have anyone noticing you, especially since you stole that passport.”
Ooh, I love disguises. I unhook the seat belt and climb into the arse end of the van. After digging out a glittery red “wrestling mask” as Freddie calls it, a pair of trousers, and a T-shirt that reads “Nirvana” with the faces of three scraggly white men on it, I don the clothing and top it off with Gunnar Magnusson’s flannel.
“What do you think?” I ask when Freddie hits the next light.
He turns around. “Lose the mask. They won’t let you in with it. And grab a wig from the trunk. I keep them around in case of drag emergencies.”
“Why must you must drag things urgently? Seems oxymoronic.”
Grinning, he shakes his head. “Drag, as in wearing women’s clothing.”
“Why would you wear women’s clothing?”
“To look like a woman.”
“You said you were not transgender.”
“I’m not. I’ll explain later. Just trust me.”
I shrug and adjust accordingly, trading the mask for a black wig and slipping on my sunglasses. Ahead of us looms a huge, brightly lit tree forged of golden neon climbing up the wall of a nine-story building. Swarms of people surround the place. My heart goes pitter-patter. “Whoa.”
I don’t have to see the huge sign above the entrance to know it’s the Nine Realms Resort and Casino. The sheer size and design of the structure tells me everything.
“Thar she blows,” Freddie murmurs as he makes a right turn. “And there’s some parking. The gods must’ve smiled upon you, Astrid.”
I smile and silently thank Laguz.
Minutes later, Freddie parks and gets out. He stretches his arms. Then he herds the cats into a fabric carrier, which he slips over his shoulder.
“You guys have to keep quiet,” he tells them as if they understand English. Their faces side by side, Sparky and Wiggles look up at him as if thoroughly bored.
The street leading to Nine Realms is so crowded, we can’t move. So, I do what a good trickster does. I pick pockets. Freddie strikes up conversations with random people, asking how long they’ve been in line (two hours), where they’re from (Florida, Colorado, New Jersey, Maryland), who their favorite Asgard Awakening characters are (Thor, Thor, Thor, and Thor—grr!), and how long they’re staying (answers range from two days to a week). I use this last bit of information to guide my sneaky fingers.
I “accidentally” bump into men and women who match my height and build, snatching their credentials as I smile and suck up like we’re old friends. By the time we reach the entrance, it’s near midnight, and I’ve collected a small cache of identification and credit cards, some of which belong to gamblers who grew weary of the line ages ago and left. Other IDs belong to vacationers who are staying at the hotel.
All items have been separated into various pockets based on Laguz’s intuitive guesses as to the person’s purpose for visiting Nine Realms: casual gambler, hotel guest, or avid Asgard Awakening fan.
Laguz’s vibrations have been growing stronger since we left the van, and now that we’re almost inside, it feels like it’s about to burst out of my skin.
Where are my runes? I ask Laguz.
I feel Kenaz, it sings. It’s somewhere inside.
Excitement pours over me. Finally! Though I’m disappointed all of the runes aren’t here, I’ll take what I can get.
Freddie whispers in my ear, “Let’s take a few minutes to wander around and scope things out. It’ll give the folks you swindled plenty of time to fail at checking in.”
So, he noticed me dipping my hands into people’s pockets. Very perceptive, Freddie is.
I nod and hook my arm through his as we step across the threshold, out of the dry heat of the desert into the cool wonder of a surprisingly accurate replica of the World Tree.
Holding my breath, I spin in a circle and take in the wonders. Gold covers everything. It’s so bright, it hurts my eyes. The walls, floors, and accents sparkle with a chromatic ferocity I’ve never witnessed. Not even the Bifrost—the rainbow bridge connecting Asgard to Midgard—compares. Every color is hyper vivid, every scent irresistible, every sound seductive.
Though the resort is supposed to represent each of the Nine Realms, its nod to Asgard’s finery dominates every aspect, at least from this vantage point. I tilt my head to take the rest in and gasp. There’s so much more to see.
A stylized mosaic composed of gold-tinted stones, rocks, and metal spans the lobby floor, depicting Yggdrasil—the World Tree—in its glory. A massive, gilded ash erupts from the floor, spanning all nine levels. It looks about a hundred feet in diameter; its branches reach toward the walls in every direction. Upon closer inspection, I notice the leaves near the top aren’t leaves at all. They’re boxy, freestanding rooms designed like mini halls, and the branches connecting them are actually tubes with clear sideways elevators that return to the trunk.
Freddie whistles. “Holy Jotunheim. This is incredible.”
“Is the tree real?” I ask, awed by its sheer size.
“Can’t be,” Freddie replies. “The biggest tree in the world is only about thirty-five feet in diameter. This is way bigger and plastered in gold.”
I’m not so sure it’s fake. The vaguely sweet smell it exudes is reminiscent of the ash tree I remember from centuries past. But surely, this cannot be Yggdrasil. It’s not even on the same land mass.
A deep voice booms through hidden speakers, and I jump. “Ladies and gentlemen, gods and goddesses, welcome to Nine Realms Resort and Casino. It is our pleasure to present a sneak peek of our nightly show Gullveig, an intense drama depicting the sacrifice of the Vanir goddess Gullveig by the Æsir, who feared her shamanistic magic. Surviving death by spear and by fire, Gullveig was reborn three times. Her resurrection sparked war between the gods of Asgard and their counterparts in Vanaheim. After years of fighting, the Æsir-Vanir War ended with a truce that merged both groups into one and ultimately led to Asgard’s awakening. Please turn your attention center stage to Yggdrasil, the World Tree. If you like what you see, you can purchase tickets to Gullveig at the box office. Enjoy!”
A fertility cultist and a practitioner of seidr, the ancient art of prophecy, Gullveig, aka Freya, came to Asgard from Vanaheim, blabbering like a drunkard about futures we didn’t understand. Is it such a shock that we killed—or at least tried to kill—her?
Death didn’t take kindly to Gullveig. The psycho seer kept coming back, so eventually, we gave up and let her stay.
A hush falls over the crowd as people face the imposing tree. Nestled within its lower branches are a dozen acrobats tied to harnesses. Dramatic music floods the building. Lights dim to focus on one of the performers. She’s dressed like the Vanir goddesses from Asgard Awakening. She lifts her arm, offering a gleaming gold spear to an old man who appears to be Odin.
Odin throws out a hand, simulating a blast of electricity, and Gullveig flies backward, tumbling out of range. Other Æsir suspended from the branches sneak out of the shadows and surround her. They fling imaginary spears, which pop out from Gullveig’s costume. Arms and legs flung wide, she looks like a pincushion.
The onlookers gasp. But Gullveig recovers and flies through the air, plucking the spears out one by one and jabbing them into the tree’s bark. The Æsir then lift their hands in sync around her. She ignites with simulated fire in the form of red, orange, and yellow silks that burst from her costume as she ricochets upward.
“How does she bounce like that?” I ask Freddie.
He murmurs, “Bungee cords. They stretch like rubber bands.”
I watch wide-eyed as the climax approaches. Gullveig burns three times. With each iteration, she grows more powerful until the Æsir finally bow their heads in acceptance. All the performers launch upward, disappearing into the trees as a new day dawns under a giant yellow spotlight.
Cheers and claps explode from the onlookers. The music fades, and people return to their business.
“That was something,” I say, suitably awed. I’ve never been a fan of Freya, but the performance was thoroughly entertaining.
Freddie nods. “These actors really know how to deliver. Maybe we’ll find some time to catch the full show while we’re here. Assuming it’s not sold out, which I’m sure it is.”
I must see everything.
I grab Freddie’s arm and plow through the crowd toward a sign that displays a diagram of the place. After waiting impatiently behind a gaggle of tourists wearing Asgard Awakening T-shirts, I step up to the map and run my fingers along each world, starting at the bottom and ending with Asgard, nestled in the tree’s highest branches.
“We’re on the Midgard level,” Freddie says. An orange tabby head peeks out from the bag slung over his shoulder. Freddie gently pushes it down.
I compare the map to the scene around me. Bordering the edges of the rounded walls enclosing the tree is a massive painting of Jormundgandr, spanning the “globe” and biting his own tail. His scales are iridescent black. I find his eye, which looks remarkably similar to the real deal. It stares at me. Judging.
I arch a brow. Hello, son.
Signs high up on the walls indicate branch-like exits to Svartalfheim, Muspelheim, Niflheim, Jotunheim, and Hel.
A man dressed in a regal blue cape over lightweight armor approaches Freddie and me. I subtly examine his hardware. It isn’t decorative. “May I direct you to your destination?” he asks.
“The casino. I want to win many grands,” I reply.
He steps back and gestures to an archway lit up in gold with the words “Jarl’s Luck” above it.
“And where’s the club?” Freddie asks.
The man indicates a darkened passageway behind us. “Hel, level one.”
Freddie nods his thanks. I watch the servant as he ambles away. He keeps looking at me as if he doesn’t trust me. Smart man, but what signals am I throwing off to raise his alarms?
Freddie leans close. “What do you say we hit the casino, play a few hands, spin some slots, and then check out Hel?”
I nod, curious about what’s down there.
“You see the cameras?” He lowers his voice and flicks a sly glance upward to the small black dome above the map.
With Laguz guiding my way, I follow Freddie’s gaze and hopscotch from orb to orb nestled in various nooks. “Damn, there are a lot of eyes in here.”
“It’ll be five times this in the casino,” Freddie says. “Keep on the straight and narrow path tonight. We don’t want to draw any attention. Lose a few hands, win a few. We’ll come back tomorrow and play again.”
“Got it,” I say. “Shall we buy some chips?” I dip my fingers into my pocket and withdraw a credit card I stole from someone who left the line outside earlier.
Freddie grins and escorts me to the casino
where we chip up. I toss the credit card in the nearest trash can once I’ve secured my treasures. The carpet, walls, and ceiling in Jarl’s Luck are gold like everything else. Loud electronic pings from hundreds of slot machines echo through the cavernous room. The ever-present, high-pitched hum of activity makes it hard to hear. It’s too crowded. I wave a hand in front of my nose. Some of these Midgardians need to invest in a stick of deodorant. Sheesh.
A cocktail waitress dressed in a skimpy black leather dress sashays past as Freddie and I flank a poker table to watch a game unfold. Her outfit boasts a laced bodice that barely wrangles the profuse boob spillage. The thick flaps around her waist that serve as a skirt reveal more than they cover. Gold thigh-high boots with spiky heels top off her feet, and two obligatory but historically inaccurate drinking horns sprout from either side of her head. Catching a glimpse of butt cheeks and blatant cleavage, I absently nudge my nonexistent trouser tent down.
The dealer wears a black vest over a gold button-down shirt with a spade, heart, club, and diamond trailing down the middle. At least she’s less distracting than the serving wenches. The table is packed with players and observers alike. A thick layer of smoke hangs high in the room. My throat burns with each breath.
Already bored, I face Freddie. “When will it be my turn?”
“Once everyone who was here before you has their turn.”
I survey the table. There are twenty people standing around it. The other tables nearby are no better. How am I supposed to win grands if I can’t even play the game?
“This casino sucks,” I mumble under my breath.
Freddie steps on my foot.
“Ow!” I glare at him.
He blinks twice, then shifts his eyes to the guy who directed us here from the lobby. He’s standing beside the table, staring at me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Freddie’s bag bounce. “You have a pussy problem,” I say between my teeth without moving my lips.
