by Kendall Grey
I’m sensing something in here, Laguz says, its voice distant. It’s probing the room’s nooks and crannies. A ray of hope breaks through the cloud of despair hovering over my head. I need to buy Laguz time to find what it seeks.
“Finally got you alone,” I say and spit on the floor by Saga’s foot. “Like you’ve been trying to get Gunnar Magnusson alone.”
She conjures a patronizing scowl and stares down her nose at me. “We’ve been alone plenty.”
The medallion dangling between her breasts glitters. Faint black lines mark the skin there, as if the gold feather bears traces of ink that rubbed off on her. Cheap jewelry? Maybe Saga Leifsdóttir isn’t as rich as she appears to be.
I don’t want to push too many of her buttons on the topic of Gunnar Magnusson. I may not like what truths they yield. Plus, if she senses I’m enamored of him, she’ll go after him even harder just to spite me. So, I change direction and hope I’m wrong about the two of them.
“This has been a misunderstanding,” I say.
“Misunderstandings usually don’t end with people handcuffed in my storage room, Miss Jones.” She pronounces my name like it offends her. “We don’t tolerate aggressive behavior at Nine Realms. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
“But I haven’t found what I’m looking for yet.” I stare at her stunning face. How many times has Gunnar Magnusson kissed her pouty red lips? Where have his hands roamed on her fit body?
Laguz says, We’re here for your runes, remember?
Yes. I remember.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing to find. You’ve overstayed your welcome. Time to check out,” Saga says. She unclips a device from her belt. It looks like the one the security guard used when they kicked Freddie and me out on our first night in Las Vegas. She pushes a button on its side and speaks. “Gonzales, clear the Settlement of Iceland section of patrons. We need to remove Miss Jones discreetly. She’s already made enough of a commotion.”
“Ten-four, Miss Leifsdóttir,” a male voice replies. It sounds like he’s in a tunnel.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Don’t like problem people? Nine Realms is sanitized for visitors’ comfort. No messes. No bumps. Everything must remain neat and pretty and golden. Can’t forget the gold.”
“We maintain order,” she answers. “Our guests must feel safe, and you crossed the line with your little fit.”
I toss my gaze around the room, looking for anything I can use to distract her. The space is small and packed full of cabinets and drawers. I notice a wooden box labeled “runes” on the counter and get agitated in the guts.
Not them, Laguz says. Keep her talking. We’re close.
“What’s in the box?” I ask, gesturing with my chin toward the fake runes.
“You’ll be eliminated from the poker tournament,” she continues as if I never spoke. “Our staff will pack up your suite momentarily. You can have someone retrieve your possessions at the front desk tomorrow, but do not set foot on the property again, or I’ll press charges.”
“You can’t do that,” I blurt. “I haven’t done anything!”
“You disrupted the museum and caused a scene. We have a zero-tolerance policy where our guests’ safety is concerned. Destructive and vulgar behavior are not allowed. There are children present.
“As soon as the museum is cleared, security will escort you out via the employee exit. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“What do you get out of it?” I ask. “Who are you?”
She stares coldly at me.
“We both know you’re working for Odin.”
Her narrowed eyes barely twitch at the mention of Allfather.
“What’s he paying you?” I continue. “I promise whatever it is, I can do better. I just need my runes. Help me find them, and I’ll give you anything you desire.”
She stiffens as if I struck her and severs eye contact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, though I must agree with Gunnar about the precarious state of your mind.”
I swallow my fury at her familiar tone regarding my former wife and try a different angle. “You know how to read runes?” I ask, glancing to the box.
“Yes.” Her fingers play lovingly over the wood.
Are you sure those aren’t my runes? I ask Laguz. Because I’m getting some strong signals they might be. The way she stares at the box with such admiration isn’t fake. Whatever’s inside means something to her.
Not yours, Laguz insists.
Damn it.
Saga picks up the box and skims her hand across its surface, sloughing a flurry of dust motes into the air. She sits in the chair across from me, opens the lid, and stares at its contents.
They may not be my runes, but what if they’re hers? A chill darts up my spine. Who is she?
I have no idea.
I smirk. Some rune of intuition you are.
A powerful layer of magic covers this entire city block, Laguz says. It oppresses signatures that would normally blare like bee-stung cattle. I require time to filter through the mess of it.
I don’t have time, I complain.
If you want me to find Kenaz, you’re going to have to shut up so I can concentrate.
I huff. “Since I’m about to be booted out of here, the least you can do is tell me my future.”
Saga startles, sits up straighter, and seems to consider. After a long moment, she says, “Why not?”
She gently shakes the box, reaches in blindly, and withdraws three runes, which she sets on a table. I stretch my neck for a closer look and swallow at what I see.
Thurisaz. Ansuz reversed. Hagalaz.
Shite, Laguz and I echo at once.
Saga tilts her head as she examines the outcome. A satisfied smile inches the corner of her lips up. “Thurisaz, the ‘giant,’ Christianized to the ‘thorn.’ Either way, not good for you. Something bigger than yourself blocks your path. Thor is associated with this rune—his hammer in particular. Perhaps you should invoke his name for assistance in your struggle.”
Barf. Thor can bite my arse.
Saga’s fingers slip across the next rune, and her voice takes on a whispery, ghost-like tone. “Ansuz is the rune of Odin and of breath. Reversed, it’s another ominous portent. Miscommunication, misdirection, and trickery await you on your journey.”
In other words, lies. Which normally wouldn’t bother the trickster god, but paired with the other two runes, it can’t be good. Odin’s hand has been in everything I’ve encountered, and if Saga is telling the truth, that won’t change.
“And finally, Hagalaz,” Saga says with a hint of malevolent pride, “the rune of disruption.”
I swallow hard. In the old language, Hagalaz was the term for hail, something neither gods nor mortals want to encounter, with or without protection.
“Hagalaz signifies a change or delay in your journey that may prove catastrophic,” she continues. “If you believe in runes, then you’re in for a rough future, Miss Jones. A blocked path burdened with misdirection and crisis. You must’ve really pissed off the Norns.” The cruel lilt in her laugh sets my teeth on edge.
“Yeah, I’m a regular pariah where they’re concerned,” I grumble.
“Miss Leifsdóttir, the room is cleared,” the voice from before says through the black device.
“I’ll send her out,” Saga replies.
I need more time, Laguz intones.
“Who are you, Saga?” I demand. My voice grows louder. “Who are you really?”
Her head jerks, and she seems to snap out of whatever trance the runes had her under. “I’m the general manager of Nine Realms. And as the manager, I’m kicking you out.”
“Are you Thor?” I ask. My volume increases with each name I throw. “Idunn? Tyr? Are you Bragi? How about Baldur?”
She wrenches open the door and nods to the two men wearing armor outside.
Did you find Kenaz? I ask Laguz urgently.
Not enough time, the rune replie
s.
“No!” I cry.
The security men step in and wrangle me to my feet. I shout for Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie, but they’re gone. I’m alone, fending for myself once again with no help, no way out. I writhe against my bonds and my captors like I did on the rock in the cave with the snake. There is no escape.
My thrashing heart threatens to burst from my chest. Frustration peaks, and I snap.
I throw myself at the guard on my left, biting his neck in a fit of fury. The other guy tightens his grip on me and shouts, “That’s it, bitch! We’re calling the cops.”
The one I bit grabs at the angry, slightly bloody spot, and another man steps in to take his place without so much as a pause in forward motion. Saga flits in my periphery, her eyes fixed on me with twisted pleasure as she barks directions into the tiny box.
The gold of Nine Realms spirals into a maelstrom. Words like “police” and “arrest” fly as they push me into an elevator, but I no longer care. I have reached the melting point for an eruption, and nothing can reel me in now. Without my runes, I’ll be dead before long.
It’s over.
When the doors open, more security guards join the fray, manhandling me toward an employee exit where a black and white car with spinning blue and white lights slows to a stop. A pair of officers gets out. They drag me to the vehicle. I dig in my heels, but they’re too strong to resist.
“I didn’t do anything!” I scream. “Let me go!”
No one answers. No one talks to the crazy woman. They shove me into the back seat, slam the door, and drive me to the “detention center” where I’m charged with breach of peace and assault and battery.
While I’m sitting there as they process me, I keep asking myself why I did it. I have no good answer. Fear of never finding my runes rose to its climax, and I couldn’t control it, so I did what I always do. I lashed out at the nearest available victim.
My thoughts turn to Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie. Sigyn and Freya. Once again, my temper got the better of me, and once again, I am incarcerated. I close my eyes. I’m not calm, but I am penitent, which is new for me.
I jeopardized Gunnar Magnusson’s shot at his dream job. I lost the suite as well as my chance to win the poker tournament. Worst of all, I’m walking away empty-handed after coming so close to locating my runes. Hunched over my bent knees, I run my fingers over the indented scar on my scalp, wishing Kenaz were there to give me enlightenment I so badly need.
What have I done, Laguz?
You screwed up. Big time, it answers. Maybe Gunnar and Freddie will post bail for you. Then we’ll figure out how to get back into that storage room and find your runes.
But, what if they don’t? I say. I stepped over the line this time. How many second chances will I get? I burned my bridges with the two of them centuries ago. Eventually, they’re going to tire of my foolishness. Assuming they haven’t already.
They don’t remember the past, Laguz reminds me. You’re safe until they do.
A uniformed officer urges me to my feet and slings a hand around my elbow. He escorts me to a holding cell. Three women in various states of degeneration sit on a bench. Another curls her hands around the metal bars and shouts obscenities at the policemen as they pass. She locks her wild eyes on me and licks her lips.
The officer turns to me. “You got a lawyer?”
I shake my head.
Then I pause.
Remember.
Smile.
“Actually, yes. I do.”
He changes direction and walks me to a phone stuck to a wall by a cord. “Make it fast, toots.”
Luckily, Laguz has a photographic memory and rattles off the number. Unluckily, I’m not sure how to operate the phone. It’s different from mine. After several tries, the officer intervenes and shows me which buttons to push. Dizzy and wobbly, I hold my breath and wait as the tone chimes once, twice, three times.
“Darryl Donovan,” comes the voice I’ve been hoping to hear.
I exhale over a laugh. “Darryl Donovan, this is Loki. Er, Miss Constantine. You were my lawyer about a week ago.”
He sighs. “How could I forget? You stole your uncle’s truck along with an Icelandic woman’s passport, and then your buddies concocted an elaborate story about you escaping from a mental hospital. Did you make it out of the Asgard Awakening convention without getting arrested again? You know, it’s my legal and moral obligation to report you and your friends for that shit.”
“Really?” I say innocently. “Well, can you do it after I retain your services once more?”
“What have you done this time?” he groans. I imagine him rubbing his forehead in that disgusted, sexy way of his.
“I’m in Las Vegas.”
“And?”
“And a mean lady here had me arrested.”
“For?”
I shrug, though he can’t see me. “I dunno. Something about disturbing peace at the Nine Realms Resort. They obviously don’t have any respect for people airing their grievances in public places here. It’s insulting, really.”
The police officer arches a condemning brow at me as if to say, Tell him the rest.
I obey the eyebrow. “And I might’ve gotten a little carried away when they … well, carried me away.”
“You resisted arrest.”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“Did you hurt anyone?”
“Minorly.” I’m not sure minorly is a word, but if not, it is now. “But whatever happened was deserved.”
“I’m flattered I’m the first person you thought of to call—”
“Honestly, I couldn’t remember Gunnar Magnusson or Freddie’s numbers,” I confess. “Freddie programmed them into my phone, so I never saw them.”
“Yet you somehow remembered mine,” he says dryly. “Look, Miss Constantine, assuming that’s your real name—”
“It’s not.”
“Go figure,” he quips, though I don’t understand what he means. “I’m licensed in the state of Georgia. Not Nevada.”
“So?”
“So, I can’t help you. I can’t practice law there.”
“But, you’re a lawyer. And you said you thought you knew me from somewhere, remember?”
“Just because I might’ve met you before doesn’t mean I can help.”
I cup the speaker with my fingers and whisper, “I can get you into the resort.”
A long pause follows. Darryl Donovan is a huge Asgard Awakening fan. He loves it so much, he went to the convention in Atlanta too. He even dressed as Thor, which I won’t hold against him if he rescues me from this so-called “detention center.”
“That resort is sold out through the end of this year. How are you gonna get me in there?” he asks suspiciously.
“I have a key to one of the suites in Asgard,” I say. Come on, it’s not a lie. I do have a key to the suite. It may not work anymore, but I have it.
“One more minute,” the guard interrupts with a judgment face.
“Please, Darryl Donovan,” I beg. “You’re the only person who can help me. The policeman is going to hang up the button on this phone.”
“What happened to your friends?” he asks.
“They’re not—” I start to say my friends, but I change my mind, “here.”
Darryl Donovan heaves another lengthy sigh. I wait. He says nothing. I’m certain the officer has reached the limits of his patience. He looks beyond irritated. Just as I’m about to beg for my life one last time, Darryl Donovan says, “Don’t make me regret this, Loki.”
I gasp and clench the phone tighter. “You’re going to help me?”
He grumbles as if arguing with himself. I understand self-debate. And I’m glad he won. Whichever he was victorious. “I’ll see you in six or seven hours.”
I smile. “Bring Amon Amarth.” Swedish death metal is not my favorite kind of music, but I’ll happily enjoy it with him if he’s coming to get me.
Another grunt, and the line
clicks dead.
I stare at the phone, wide-eyed. Amazed at my luck.
Move over, Gunnar Magnusson. Darryl Donovan is Loki’s new hero.
Chapter Twenty-One
As promised, many hours later, I am free.
Darryl Donovan escorts me out of the detention center. He looks handsome in his dark gray suit, despite the dry heat. It’s even hot at night in Las Vegas, though, the steaminess outside makes me long for the icy cold of my suite.
My poor, sweet suite.
Darryl Donovan hasn’t said a word since he signed the paperwork to spring me from jail, but behind the circles of his glasses, his honey-colored eyes are saying a lot. They’re judging me with side glances. His mouth makes a lot of smirks when his head turns my way too.
“Say what’s on your mind,” I tell him.
He stops in the middle of the parking lot and rests his hands on his trim hips. Biceps flex, testing the seams of the suit, and I suddenly want to see what’s under there. “Why can’t you stay out of trouble?”
Is that what he’s mad about? Pfft.
I shrug. “It’s what I do.”
He swipes his nose and shakes his head—a combination that’s oddly alluring in its casualness. He centers his gaze on his feet. “I know you think you’re some kind of throwback to the god Loki, but seriously, girl, you gotta get your shit together. You’re accumulating quite the criminal record with these antics. It doesn’t look good, and eventually, the law will catch up with you.”
“Not if I’m faster than it is,” I reply.
He nods. “Point taken. The wheel of justice does turn slowly.” He taps my elbow and says, “Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”
Darryl Donovan leads me through the parking lot to a sleek, red vehicle similar to Freddie’s Porsche. He opens the passenger-side door. I slip inside, and he shuts me in. He settles into the driver’s seat and turns on the car. Amon Amarth blasts through the speakers. I smile at him and nod to the raucous beat the way Gunnar Magnusson used to when Van Halen came on the radio. Darryl Donovan shakes his head and laughs as he drives away.
We settle into a speechless calm with the loud, thrashing music, and for the first time in hours, I’m happy. He spots a diner down the road and pulls into the lot. The car shuts off, and in we go. The name on the door reads “Vegstasy.” I’m not sure what it means, but the “veg” part makes me think I won’t be imbibing in any goat tonight. I pout.
