by Kendall Grey
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “But it might be a wise precaution to pay a visit to Skuld after all. I’m not sure this cardioverter gadget is working properly. I’d like to have some backup.”
“Didn’t that chick say whatever you pick from her little juju bag of mayhem is what you’re stuck with, even if it’s bad?” Freddie asks.
“She did,” I confirm. “But I have something she doesn’t.”
“Which is?” Freddie, Darryl Donovan, and Huginn ask at once.
“A rune of intuition to guide me.”
Lovely, lovely, Laguz says. No pressure at all. I can almost hear its eyes rolling out of its head. If it had eyes. Or a head. At least it’s talking to me again.
I’ve been busy. Contemplating, it defends.
Fair enough.
“Freddie, pick out an outfit for me to wear,” I say. “I need a quick nap, and then I’ll be ready to go.”
Exhaustion bears down on my shoulders. Something still isn’t right with my body, but I don’t have time to go to the hospital. If I can just relax for an hour, maybe two …
Wiggles and Sparky hop onto the bed and curl up on either side of me like little sphinx protectors. Huginn settles above my head on the pillow. Freddie tugs the covers over me and nods to Darryl Donovan. Wearing twin expressions of concern, the two of them slip outside.
My sleep is restless, which doesn’t help my already agitated state, but at least I don’t have any nightmares this time. Just a sense of foreboding when I wake up a couple hours later.
Darryl Donovan is gone. Freddie sits beside a tacky outfit he laid out on the other bed. “Morning, sleepy head. Feel better?”
With a yawn, I wipe the dust from my eyes. “A little. It’s morning?”
“In Australia,” Freddie cracks.
“Is that for me?” I nod to the knit khaki pants and the withering pink shirt sprayed with gaudy flower vomit.
Freddie laughs. “It’s exquisitely disgusting, isn’t it?”
Then I notice what he’s wearing: jeans, a tight-fitting brown and blue flannel shirt like Gunnar Magnusson’s—though nowhere near as stylish— boots bearing garish stitches down the sides, and a huge cowboy hat that could provide adequate sunscreen for a family of four plus a dog.
“That is … spectacularly nauseating,” I say with a shiver.
“I know, right?” he beams.
Accepting Freddie’s offered hand, I climb out of bed and head for the bathroom with the ugly clothes.
“Holler if you need me. Your arm is gonna be a bear.”
“I haven’t seen any bears aside from the polar variety at Nine Realms.”
“On second thought …” Freddie stops me and takes the clothes out of my hands. “Don’t tell Gunnar I did this, but I’m gonna help you get dressed.”
“Why wouldn’t I tell him?”
“Are you blind?” He grabs my good arm and pushes it through the shirt hole, then gently repeats with my bandaged side amid protests, hisses, and grunts. My shirt comes off. If he notices the amazing boobs spilling out of my bra, he doesn’t comment.
“He likes you, Loki. And you … Well, you hurt him. You’re selfish, girl. You know it. I know it. Everybody knows it. I’m gonna give you a spot of advice, and you can take it or leave it. Instead of overanalyzing your sexuality and gender identity like the god Loki would never have done, why don’t you try going with the flow? If it feels right, it probably is.”
“So, even though I identify as a man most of the time, I should just be a woman?”
He quits fussing with the clothes, cups my chin, and looks me in the eyes. “Stop. You’re approaching this all wrong. Take male and female biology out of the equation. Take Saga and your past as a god out too. Now, close your eyes.”
I lick my lips and shut my eyes.
“What do you feel about Gunnar right this minute?” he asks.
Behind my lids, I see Sigyn after the birth of Narfi. Her face beams pure love, pure pride. She turns to me, and the expression doesn’t dwindle. It amplifies.
I open my mind enough to allow the memory to settle in.
Soon, I feel the same love and pride. My wife. My son. A perfect, happy little family in this microscopic slice of time. It’s only a second among millions and millions of other seconds, but it’s real and raw and … right.
Gunnar Magnusson is right for me just as Sigyn was right for me in that lone blink of an eye all those years ago. Gods, how had I forgotten such an important moment?
“I feel sad I let him slip away,” I say and open my eyes.
Freddie leans close. His face is genuine, sincere. “So, what are you going to do to bring him back?”
“Start appreciating him,” I reply.
“Good girl. Now let’s get these nasty-ass, old-lady stretch pants on.”
At seven o’clock, we sit in the van in the Nine Realms parking garage, reviewing our plan. Darryl Donovan is going to create a distraction on one of the high floors that will require a security intervention. Alexander and Freddie will then slip into the monitoring room and do a blowie (whatever that is) with the guard who’ll be left behind to monitor the surveillance cameras while the other security men deal with Darryl Donovan. Our phones are set to silent mode (yes, mine’s on, thank you). We’ll communicate via text.
The cats’ tails swirl around my legs. Huginn paces the floorboard nervously. Gunnar Magnusson expects to be done with dinner in two hours. There’s nothing to do until then.
A sign by the stairwell advertising Runemaster Tattoo calls to me every time I look up. It seems to whisper my name over and over. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I wrangle the door open and say, “I’m going in for a bit.”
Freddie looks up. “You’re getting the tattoo, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Also, I know I said you could have all my grands, but can I borrow a Ben Franklin?”
Freddie reaches into his wallet and thrusts several hundred-dollar bills into my hand. “Don’t spend ’em all in one place.”
“But I am spending them in one place. The tattoo place.”
He laughs and shoos me away. “Get out of here.”
I lower my sunglasses over my eyes, fluff my big, beehive wig, and take the elevator down to Hel and my destiny. I march up to Runemaster Tattoo. Several artists are working tonight, but I don’t see Skuld. Six customers wait inside. I consider circumventing them, but I can’t afford to be kicked out again. So, I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Eight o’clock rolls around, and finally my turn comes. Skuld emerges from the back of the studio and waves me over with a knowing grin. “I expected you sooner.”
I rub the site of my surgical incision. “Ran into some trouble. I’m better now.”
Her eyes wander to the bandage peeking out of my shirt collar. “Are you?” She doesn’t sound convinced.
She’s messing with you, Laguz says, but it doesn’t sound convinced either.
“I thought about your offer, and I’ve decided to take it.” I sit on the big chair and swing my feet up.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Skuld says. “Your rune staves are going on your back.”
“But I can’t see them on my back. And I’m injured.” I gesture to the sling. “I’m not supposed to jostle anything from the waist up.”
“You don’t need to see them,” she argues, “and jostling is half the fun.”
I blink. She opens her drawer of secrets and produces the same leather pouch as before. Dangling it by the drawstring from her index finger, she says, “Pick three. Choose wisely.”
Licking my lips, I dip into the sack. Hot skin meets cool bone. Using the sensitive pads of my fingers, I search for indentations or bumps that might betray the shapes of the images affixed to the chips, but they’re completely smooth.
Laguz? I ask. A little help?
I’m trying, but I can’t decode them, it replies.
Shite. There must be hundreds of runes within. The bag seems to
be full of extradimensional space that shouldn’t exist, which makes the task of choosing three helpful ones even harder.
“What are you waiting for?” Skuld asks, impatient. “Choose.”
The word comes out as a command, and I cannot resist its power. I pull out one rune. Two. Three. She snatches the lot before I can look at them and spins me around with a painful twist to my shoulder. I stifle a cry.
My shirt tugs upward, and time stops as it did when I last came here. Skuld works quietly with her thorns and small hammers, dipping the “needles” into Urd’s Well. Clear fluid drips from the hollow point. She taps patterns I cannot decipher into my skin. The pain is intense; the company unpleasant.
After what must be hours of worry and second guesses, she whispers in my ear, “It is done. You have chosen your own fate, my gift to you. May it please you as it does me.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Are you at least going to show me your art? Have you got a mirror?”
“My work is not seen,” she says as she wipes her blue-dyed hands on a cloth.
Invisible ink? Seems rather pointless and also a lie, but okay.
“Then tell me my fate,” I plead. “What have I chosen for myself?”
Skuld’s dark smile returns. “You’re a clever trickster. Figure it out.”
The world lurches back to its normal pace, and everything paused moves again. I stretch my good arm to kickstart my circulation. When I turn around, Gunnar Magnusson stands a few feet away. Damn, if his tight body in that glorious suit doesn’t make my mouth water. And the hair up? Freya’s fickle fingers of fornication!
One of the spots Skuld just worked on itches like mad. I swipe at it, but I can’t reach it with this stupid sling restraining me. With an awkward wiggle, I march over to him, tip my head back, and blurt, “If we weren’t surrounded by a mean Norn and a line of people waiting to get in here, I’d drop your arse to this floor and spread myself over you like honey on hot-spring bread.”
Gunnar Magnusson’s brows shoot up.
Shocked by my mouth’s utter lack of control, I slap a hand over it. “Oh my gods,” I mumble between my fingers. I did not mean to air my wanton desires in front of all these people, least of all, Gunnar Magnusson.
Skuld’s discordant cackle fills the air, and I know I’ve been had.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What the Hel have you done to me?” I yell at Skuld.
“Ah, the irony of a trickster tricked,” she ekes out between body-bending giggles.
“This is a load of steaming butt nuggets,” I mumble.
Skuld shrugs. “You chose your staves. Now you must live with them. Forever.”
I don’t even want to know what humiliation the other two tattoos are planning to lead me into. I was a fool to trust a Norn. Never again.
I grab my oversized purse and stomp to the door where a stunned Gunnar Magnusson has yet to retrieve his jaw from the floor. “Come on,” I say.
He follows me wordlessly out of Runemaster, which is a sick joke of a name, by the way. It should be “Dickmaster” or “Screwmaster.”
Gunnar Magnusson hurries to catch up. “What happened in there?”
My back itches anew as I say, Her magic tricked me into lying. But the words come out as, “Her magic tricked me into telling the truth.”
It takes me a moment realize my brain, mouth, and new tattoos are experiencing some sort of disconnect. I halt my steps, and Gunnar Magnusson runs into me from behind. He catches me midstumble.
Now it makes sense. One of the rune staves she slapped on me is sannleikur, aka, “truth teller.” The itching must be a signal that the tattoo’s magic is working.
I moan miserably. “No. Please, Norns, no!”
Skuld’s pealing laughter reaches me from afar. I feel sick. I’ll never be able to lie again as long as I’m in this body. A truthful trickster? Who ever heard of such a thing? I’m ruined!
“I’m sorry, Loki,” Gunnar Magnusson says, but he doesn’t sound very apologetic. He probably thinks this is funny too. He pitches a glance over his shoulder and takes me by the arm. “Let’s go somewhere quiet. We need to talk.”
Great. Sounds like more bad news.
I follow him up to Midgard level. We find a nook outfitted with wooden benches and sit. People shuffle past in a constant whirl of activity. Will this place ever settle down? I need to catch my breath and think.
“Freddie sent me to fetch you.” Gunnar drops his voice to a low whisper.
“What am I? A wolf pup who wandered away from the pack?” I snap. I shouldn’t take out my frustrations on him, but damn it, I’m mortally wounded with this arsehole curse burned into my back.
“Nailing you down is like trying to herd cats,” he says, then winces at his phrasing.
“I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience. How was dinner?”
He sighs. “Are we really going to fight when we’re this close to finding your runes?”
Some of the tension locking my shoulder up ebbs. My gaze collides with his. “Are you serious?”
“I found a box in the storage room. I only had enough time to glance inside, but I’m almost positive it’s full of runes. They’re old, Loki. Really old.”
Finally. “How do I get in there?”
“You don’t. I will.”
“I can’t let you do my dirty work anymore. You’ve done enough. If you get caught, you’ll lose your job. Or worse.”
He stares at me for a long moment. “What you said in the tattoo parlor. Was it true?”
I sigh. Sannleikur won’t let me lie, but I don’t have to answer the question directly, either. “I’ve said a lot of things I shouldn’t have. I’d rather not comment further. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
Gunnar Magnusson lowers his head. “I understand how important your runes are, but I need to know something.” He speaks slowly as if choosing his words. Restrained sadness pervades his blue eyes. “How far will you go to find them?”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Is there a limit to what you’d do to get them back?” Pain lashes creases into his handsome face. I feel it too.
“I would do anything,” I say.
My entire existence hangs in the balance. I will kill for my runes if I have to. The cardioverter thingie is little more than a Band-Aid. The threads holding my mortality together are already fraying under the threat of Odin’s approach. If I don’t retrieve the runes soon, he will unravel me, and I’ll be lost to the winds. Forever.
“I can get them,” he says, “but I may have to do … unpleasant things.”
I close my eyes. The sting in my heart has nothing to do with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy or fresh surgical incisions.
Saga wants him—whether for her own gratification or to get back at me, I’m not sure. The situation between them is out of my control. I’m damned if I try to intervene (I’ll look like a petty, jealous git) and damned if I don’t (Saga could entangle Gunnar Magnusson in a love spell that makes him forget all about me).
“I’m living on borrowed time, Gunnar Magnusson. Without Ihwaz, I will die. Only question is when. Whatever you’re willing to do …” I straighten and pretend to be unflappable. “It will be appreciated.”
His brows pinch together, and I read the torment in his expression as clear as an incoming storm.
“But, remember. You don’t have to do anything,” I add gently. If there’s any hope of winning Gunnar Magnusson to my side after the mountains of crap I shoveled on top of him, I can’t pressure him. Helping me has to be his choice, his way. “You’ve already done enough to last several lifetimes.”
“I won’t let you die. You drive me nuts, but you’ve … grown on me.” He stands and studies my face.
“Like a wart?” I ask, keeping up the playful façade.
He just smiles.
“Someday, I’m going to be the one who saves you, Gunnar Magnusson.” The rune stave didn’t muddle my words. That means they’re true.
>
He cups my chin as twin waterfalls stage a mutiny and plunge down my cheeks.
“I should hope so.” Carefully engineered contentment replaces the heartbreak in his face. At least he tried. “I’ve saved you, like, six times already.”
“At least six times,” I agree.
Our phones buzz in sync with a text from Freddie: Get in positions. Security will be offline from 10:00 – 10:05, assuming he’s not a marathon man. Alex or I will text if he shoots first and asks questions later.
I shake my head. “Such enigmatic talk. What does it mean?”
Gunnar Magnusson’s cheeks redden. “Don’t worry about it. Are you ready?”
I nod.
Darryl Donovan texts, Thor and his army are heading to Vanaheim. Give us a few minutes to wrap up the show there. Will text when in position.
Wow, he’s taking his job very seriously.
“You’d better go,” I say. Never have I wanted Gunnar Magnusson to stay more than I do now.
He grabs my hand as I turn to leave. He winds his fingers between mine. “Are we good?”
Focusing on his touch, I stare into the blue pools of his eyes and let myself drown a thousand times. I could almost drown for real for him. Almost. “Yeah. We’re good.”
After a brief squeeze, he lets me go and walks away, puncturing my already damaged heart with a fresh hole.
There’s nothing to do but wait and see how the men fare while trying to keep my mind off whatever Gunnar Magnusson is doing.
A twinkle of gold in my periphery catches my attention. I wander over and marvel at the World Tree’s shiny magnificence. Scores of tourists wearing Asgard Awakening garb surround the massive trunk.
“I heard they were going to call the resort Yggdrasil,” a man with a twangy voice and a too-small shirt says, butchering the pronunciation. He plucks the baseball hat off his head and resets it. “Can you imagine? Sounds like some kind of hemorrhoid cream.” The dolt and his companions laugh their stupid laughs.
Ignorant insults. None of these people have a clue about the significance of this ancient ash.
Hel understands. What did she say about the similarities between parenting and nurturing trees such as Yggdrasil?
