Gilded

by Kendall Grey

  I frown. Maybe something did eat me in Hel. “Am I missing any body parts?”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “No, but you got some new hardware.”

  I start to sit up, but a shockwave of excruciating pain greets my left shoulder. “By Odin’s nut beard, that hurts!”

  Gunnar Magnusson jumps to his feet. “Don’t move. I’ll call the nurse.”

  He reaches for a button on the side of my bed, but I stop him. “No. Not yet. I have to tell you something first.”

  His concerned eyes round. “It can wait.”

  “It’s important.” I struggle to regain my breath. I can already tell I’m not going to enjoy the next few days very much. “I need to apologize to you.” For so many things.

  Gunnar Magnusson exhales heavily. “You have nothing to be sorry about. Except for lying about the Gunnar-Loki-Freddie three-way, which terrorized my every waking moment since you left Atlanta, thank you very much. Freddie set the record straight. At least I can look him in the eye now.”

  A playful smile lights on my lips. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. You should know by now, it’s my job in life to create mischief.”

  “Even for me, your repeat rescuer?” he jokes.

  “Especially for you.” I grin despite the ship of pain cruising my blood stream for an island to land on. “But seriously, I am sorry for what I’ve put you through. I’ll try to do better—to be better.”

  “I know how hard it is for you to behave,” he says, “but would it kill you—” he flinches over the last two words, pauses, and rephrases. “Would it be so hard to tell the truth every once in a while? Like, if you’re feeling woozy, say something? Or let the rest of us in on your plans instead of running around behind our backs, making trouble?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt you.” I close my eyes.

  “I’d rather you hurt me than watch you hurt yourself,” he replies.

  I snap my lids open and stare at him. “Been there, done that. I find it no longer suits me.”

  With a gentle sigh, he curls his hand tighter around mine and holds the ball of fists to his chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t call after you left Atlanta. I thought about you every hour of every day, but I just … I wasn’t sure how to deal with my feelings.”

  I hike a brow. Maybe Saga didn’t ensorcel him after all. “What feelings?”

  He shrugs and looks away. “Confusion.”

  “About?”

  “About us. And Freddie, which is apparently no longer an issue. But the us part … is. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You mean about the former male god stuck in a female body,” I say. “What does your heart tell you? I mean, mine’s obviously messed up pretty bad and can’t be trusted, but yours is fully intact, ready to battle to the death for whatever the Hel it believes in.”

  He laughs. “My heart thinks it was much easier to like you when it didn’t know who you really are.” He lowers his head. “And my soul wishes it could change the paradigm.”

  “So, do it. Rewrite the story,” I whisper. “When we first met, you said our souls don’t care what clothes we wear. I didn’t believe you at first, but I do now. I think this whole gender thing is simply a complication—a trick to trip us up, tangle our emotions in knots, when the truth is, we’re all just people. It doesn’t matter that our coverings bulge in different places. Because that’s all they are—coverings to protect what’s underneath. Who’s to say you weren’t a woman in another life?”

  I may have wandered too far into the realm of truth with this statement, but I desperately need to hold on to him. Her. Them.

  I sigh. “Maybe instead of trying to figure out what you’re ‘supposed’ to feel, you should just feel.”

  “Maybe.” He leans closer, parted lips hovering inches from mine.

  Is he going to kiss me? I hope he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t kiss me.

  But he doesn’t move away either.

  My thoughts drift to Saga Leifsdóttir and how she stared at Gunnar Magnusson in the bar. He looks at me the same way right now, like I’m an unexpected treasure he found hiding right under his nose. A surge of heat washes over me, and my entire world quakes off its axis.

  A little jumping jack of pleasure wheels through me at the sight of him. The strange sensation builds to a crescendo and tips off other jumpers. Elves mining for lust? Trolls looking for love? Maybe I’m on drugs. They do that in hospitals. Put people on drugs.

  A nearby machine rattles off its own series of antics, beep-beep-beeping like mad, its panties in a real twist.

  Gunnar Magnusson straightens, breaking the spell, his brow wrinkled with worry. “Nurse,” he calls and smashes a button on the bed rail with his thumb.

  “You really know how to ruin a moment,” I blunder as the door swooshes open with a clap against the wall behind it.

  A small army of men and women in green uniforms scramble into the room, checking monitors, lifting the blankets, palpating my—

  UNHOLY ONE-EYED SHITE-MUCKING GRANDMOTHER OF TROLLS AND GIANTS AND ELVES DRILLING FOR PAIN IN THE MIRE OF DEATH, my left shoulder feels like it’s been decimated by sword or spear, I know not which. I’ve been clipped by Mjolnir a time or two, and Thor’s hammer has jack shite on these so-called “doctors” with their “tools.”

  “What happened?” a nurse asks. “Was she agitated?”

  “No,” Gunnar Magnusson says, his cheeks plunging to an adorable shade of deep pink. “We were just talking. I was going to call you.”

  I’m not about to volunteer the embarrassing fact that Gunnar Magnusson makes my heart go pitter-patter in more ways than one.

  “I’m fine,” I say, though the searing in my shoulder hasn’t abated. I’ll blame my galloping pulse on the pain if they ask.

  “I’m going to give you some medicine to make you feel better,” the tallest nurse says. She rummages through a drawer on the cart and produces a syringe. She injects whatever’s inside into a plug digging into my hand, which is covered in tape and connected by a long tube to a bag of clear fluid hanging from a pole beside me. A burn like acid sizzles the skin at the point of entry.

  “When can I leave?” I ask weakly through gritted teeth.

  “You had an operation to fix your heart. If all goes well, you can go home tomorrow.”

  “How long have I been here?” I ask, alarmed.

  “Three days,” the nurse says.

  “What? No!” I say. “My runes will be gone by the time I get out. You have to let me go.” I try to push off the cover, but my sore shoulder stops me. “Gods, that hurts.”

  “Miss Jones, you have to be still. You had surgery, and your heart needs time to heal. Now, if you want to leave, do yourself a favor and rest.”

  “I need to get out of here. I have work to d—”

  A slow but building wave of calm permeates my entire being, lapping against the shores of my eardrums, lulling me into muted awareness. I look up at Gunnar Magnusson’s worried face and smile. “You’re so handsome,” I say. The words sound distant, as if someone else is speaking them. “What were you saying about three-ways?”

  His blush deepens to scarlet, and Gunnar Magnusson turns to the nurse, whose arched brow makes me giggle.

  I flinch. Ow. Giggling hurts.

  “She’s just kidding,” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  “A real comedian,” the nurse quips as she plumps my pillow, checks the machine, and writes something on a slab of papers bound by a metal clip.

  A tap sounds at the door, and it opens.

  “There’s my Loki—er, Astrid girl!” Freddie corrects when he sees the nurse flitting to the window to open the curtains. “Glad you’re awake.”

  I turn my head toward him and am grateful for the medicine that makes me calm. Freddie and Darryl Donovan, aka Freya and Thor, fill the space, their arms and shoulders bumping each other as they clear the door side by side in a comical fashion. Darryl Donovan pushes through first, leaving Freddie to stare after his tight arse wi
th an amused grin.

  “How are you feeling?” Darryl Donovan stands on the other side of my bed.

  Freddie joins him. “You gave us a hell of a scare.”

  “I’m very very very very happy,” I sing and swing my uninjured arm in the air.

  “Easy,” Gunnar Magnusson cautions and gently pushes my hand to the bed.

  “The stuff burning my hand is like your WeedPops, Freddie. But even better. You should mix this—” I turn to the nurse. “What’s the name of this medicine?”

  “Oxycodone,” she says.

  I return to Freddie. “You should mix oxycodone into your special recipe and make a million grands.”

  “She’s obviously talking crazy,” Freddie says to the nurse. He spins his index finger in a circle beside his temple.

  I laugh. It doesn’t hurt as much now.

  The nurse skirts the bed and heads for the exit. “The doctor will be in to see you shortly. Try to keep her off the rafters.”

  I look up to the ceiling. “There are rafters? Let’s go!”

  “Wow, and we thought you were distractible before,” Freddie says, squatting at eye level. “We missed you.”

  “Tell me what happened,” I say, wading through consciousness toward the stand of unconscious trees across the lake of my mush brain. “Where are we staying? Where’s Huginn? And what are we gonna do about my runes?”

  Gunnar Magnusson settles into his chair while Freddie and Darryl Donovan fill me in.

  “We got a hotel a few miles out of town,” Freddie says.

  “I lost the poker tournament?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Saga kicked you out of Nine Realms, remember?”

  “I remember,” I slur, inspecting Gunnar Magnusson’s guilty face. I want to say something about the spell Saga tried to cast on him, but maybe now’s not the time.

  “Who won?” I ask.

  “Some big-hatted guy from Texas.” Freddie waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Huginn and the cats are at the hotel.”

  “Oh yeah. The cats. They sure do like you, Freddie.” I start to play a secret game with myself. How much information can I divulge about the three men/gods in this room without actually revealing their identities? This should be fun.

  Dangerous, Loki.

  I startle at Laguz’s voice in my head. I poke at my ear. “Are you still in there?”

  Down here, it says from my hip.

  I giggle and redirect the poking to the scar through the linens. “I hear you. Shh, don’t tell them what we’re up to.”

  Laguz practically slaps its own face. You’re not making it easy. Go to sleep.

  “I don’t want to go to sleep,” I yell.

  Darryl Donovan steps beside the squatting Freddie. “Maybe you should. You’re not making any sense.”

  “You’re not making any sense with your wicked lightning and—”

  SHUT UP, Laguz bellows.

  I flinch. “Okay, fine, whatever. Sleep. But where does Gunnar Magnusson sleep these days? I’ll bet he got a permanent suite at Nine Realms from his new girlfriend Saga.” I say her name with a mocking lilt.

  Still not the time to bring her up, Laguz says. I ignore it.

  “Maybe they even share it like kissy faces with the special towels and robes for wading in the bathroom pools. La, la, la. How nice of her to do that for him.”

  Freddie and Darryl Donovan glance to Gunnar Magnusson, who looks like he’s being eaten by his chair.

  “She offered me a job as museum curator,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “I accepted. That’s the extent of our relationship.”

  Despite the fizzy bubbling in my head, I manage to swim to the surface of my thoughts long enough to assimilate this news. I ignore the parts about Saga trying to love-spell him into her slut web, and him having to stay in Las Vegas. I’ll deal with that fallout later. “So, you have full access to the antiquities.”

  “I will tomorrow.”

  “I’m ninety percent sure my runes are there,” I say.

  He exhales and lowers his head. “I’ve been in training this week, but that’s finished as of today. I’ll try to sneak into storage and see what I can find out.”

  The way he looks at me tells me if something between us doesn’t change soon, I’m going to lose Gunnar Magnusson to Saga, to his new job, or to my own selfishness. Maybe all three.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  According to the nice doctor lady at the hospital, my heart condition could, well, kill me. At least it explains some things, like the racing pulse, dizziness, and my tendency to pass out during scary situations, including but not limited to tires blowing out on the highway, car accidents caused by flying chickens smashing into windshields, and unscheduled dream trips to Hel. And I blamed this weakness on my female body. It appears I’m quite the sexist. I should remedy that presently.

  The doc says I have to keep the incision she made in my shoulder clean and dry. I can take pills for pain, but only one at a time, and I must swallow antibiotics like the ones Gunnar Magnusson took after his trip to the emergency room to keep infections at bay. She told me to keep my left arm movements to a minimum (hence the unfashionable sling I’m sporting), not to lift anything heavy, and not to exercise. No problem there. This wound feels like I’ve been impaled by a boar tusk. Exercise is the last thing I want to flirt with.

  Speaking of exercise and flirting, I miss my suitcase full of vibrators.

  I digress.

  I have to see a doctor every three months to ensure the cardioverter-defibrillator they installed is working properly, and under no circumstances should I be around strong magnets, which can rip my device right out of my chest. Yeah, it would hurt, but I’ll bet it would be cool to watch it fly out of my skin, spraying chunks of muscular shrapnel on the way out.

  Gods, it’s been a long several days, and I don’t even remember most of them.

  I’m sitting in a wheelchair in the hospital lobby with a young orderly who won’t shut up about Asgard Awakening after I made the mistake of telling him I got kicked out of Nine Realms. Freddie pulls the van up to the curb outside. He and Gunnar Magnusson get out and walk through the magically moving door that senses people. I wonder if it admits ghosts. Or chickens. Or hummingbirds.

  What little decorum I possess tips off kilter like a crooked hat when Gunnar Magnusson approaches me. Ooh, la, la, look at his getup. The top of his hair is gathered into a loose knot that merges with the rest of his locks in a cascade of blond yumminess down his back. The matching beard looks freshly trimmed. A navy suit hugs his broad shoulders, hard chest, and trim hips just right. His shoes are polished to a bright shine. And the gleam in his eye is unmistakable. He barely resembles the American student who rescued me in a tour bus on Iceland’s eastern shore, but I’m okay with it.

  He and Freddie exchange words with a young woman about payment for my treatment. Freddie hands over his credit card, and a pang of guilt pierces me between the ribs. While he talks to the lady, Gunnar Magnusson directs the annoying orderly to the van. He slides open the door, and Huginn squawks from within.

  “Huginn!” I yell, holding out my hands. I wince at the pain on my left side and lower the arm. I keep forgetting how fragile I am. Stupid Midgardian body.

  “Loki,” he says miserably. He flaps his wings and awkwardly hops up my legs into my lap.

  “You have a pet chicken?” the orderly says. “Named Huginn? Like Odin’s raven?”

  “Yes, you daft goat,” I snap. “Now quit going on about a silly television show and go save some starving children or something.” I realize how hypocritical that sounds once the words leave my lips. He probably thinks I’m an obsessed fan like him who named her chicken after a TV character. If only he knew the truth.

  Gunnar Magnusson and the kid help me into the van. Once I’m secure, the orderly wishes me well and wheels the empty chair into the hospital. Gunnar Magnusson shuts the door and settles into the passenger seat up front. Awfully quiet today. I assume he’s mad at me for being selfish. I’
m mad at me for being selfish too.

  I give Huginn a squish with my uninjured arm. He buries his head in the crook of my elbow. His body quakes.

  “There, there, mate. I’m okay. Everything will be fine,” I assure him.

  “No, it won’t,” Huginn moans. “Just because you slipped past death’s notice this time doesn’t mean it won’t come for you again.”

  With a swallow, I force down the memory of the dream with Hel and her parting words: I’ll see you soon, Pabbi.

  “You’re such a worry bladder,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, even though I’m steeping in a sludgy tea of dread.

  Huginn has a point. The longer Ihwaz is out of my possession, the greater the chance I’ll die horribly. This cardioverter-defibrillator may be designed to keep my heart pumping correctly, but Odin’s probably already found a way around it. My money’s on an electromagnet. I envision Allfather standing behind a boulder with a giant, U-shaped magnet like Wile E. Coyote did on the cartoon that played on my TV in the hospital room last night. Why can’t life be more like cartoons? Make trouble, die, come back to life, repeat.

  “We have to find your runes,” Huginn says.

  “And yours too,” I add.

  He flips his beak upward and stares at me. “You mean it?”

  “Absolutely,” I reply. “I told you I’d help you find them. A god doesn’t go back on his word.”

  “Thank you, Loki.” Huginn claws his way up to my good shoulder and tucks his head into my neck. He’s warm, and his feathers are soft. Feels nice.

  I pat him and frown. “I’m sorry for being mean to you at Gunnar Magnusson’s apartment. Are you okay? Odin didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “Not too bad,” Huginn says. “My pride more than anything else. But I’m not leaving you again. No more dirty work for this bird. Muninn will have to handle that. He’s better at playing the heavy than me anyway.”

  “We have to keep him out of sight.” I catch Gunnar Magnusson watching us in the rearview mirror. He looks away.

  Huginn follows my gaze. “I understand. You don’t want Gunnar to know the truth of his identity. Good plan, considering …” He trails off. What he meant to say was, Good plan, considering what a jerk you were to Sigyn.