Runed

by Kendall Grey

  “I’m wrapping up my studies at the archaeological dig outside of town,” Gunnar Magnusson says, turning the big wheel. “A precursor to an actual settlement, it’s believed to have originated in the early 800s. We’ve excavated a building that seems to be a longhouse. Several chalcedony tools were unearthed as well, which suggests a north Scandinavian influence.”

  I nod as if fascinated by this discussion. “You said you were from Amicera. How far is that village from here?”

  He smiles at my mispronunciation and corrects me. “America. And it’s not a village. It’s a country. Across the ocean. Far to the west of here.”

  “You traveled here by longboat, then.”

  He shakes his head. “No, by plane.”

  “What is this … ‘plane’?”

  The hulking monster’s wheels screech to a stop, testing the strength of my grip on the seat. Gunnar Magnusson shoves the gear shift, stands up, and stares me down. He’s tall. Very tall. A whole head bigger than me, rippling with thick, twitching muscles despite his kind eyes. A true Viking.

  I’ve faced bigger opponents. Before Ragnarok, Thor threatened me with violence on a regular basis. Odin too. Though he called me brother, we constantly quarreled. Always arguing, fighting, and trying to one-up each other.

  I may have been the runt of my adoptive family, but I never felt so physically small as I do right now with Gunnar Magnusson’s increased breaths charging the air between us with challenge, his usually soft eyes hardened by the fire of annoyance.

  But small’s not the only thing I’m feeling.

  I’m ashamed to admit it, but staring up into those angry orbs, absorbing the heat rolling off him into my cold skin, I’m kind of … turned on?

  I swallow and squeeze my legs together to quell the stoking flames there.

  “What do you take me for?” he demands. “I’m not a fool, Loki. Or whatever your name is. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but—”

  I lift up on tiptoes and press a kiss to his lips.

  I do this for several reasons. One, I need him to shut up. This conversation must remain focused on him, not me, if I want to trick him into doing my bidding. Two, flattery usually gets me what I want, so why not flatter him with a physical expression of my undying admiration? Men are suckers for attention from women, especially big-busted ones. Three, the heat bubbling in my lady cauldron requires either release or redirection—I’m not sure which. I am … curious. So, I err on the side of carelessness as I’m wont to do and plant a sizzler on his mouth.

  His eyelids slam wide open, but he doesn’t pull away. He merely stares at me, surprised or disgusted, I’m not sure.

  His lips are soft, embedded between swaths of thick, reddish-blond bristles above and below. His fingers jerk in my periphery as if he wants to touch me. I expect hands to land on my waist or on my hips any moment, but he keeps them at his sides and tightens them into balls. His nose is warm when it bumps into mine. I’m doing all the work while he just stands there, silent, still, and observant.

  I break the kiss. It was awkward. Partly because he didn’t respond. Partly because I kind of liked it.

  Why did I like it? I’m not opposed to homosexuality, but I’ve never considered it for myself.

  Then again, I’ve never been a true woman before. Transmutation into a mare or other animal of the female persuasion is one thing. Turning into an actual human female and staring up at a handsome human male has a wholly different effect beyond the basic instinct that drives most animals to rut.

  Biological mandates are in place for a reason: reproduction. Survival of the species.

  But I don’t want to reproduce with this man. I’ve been a parent many times over, and believe me, there’s no ticking time bomb of fatherly pride bouncing between my wanton loins, dying to forge new life. Kids are way more hassle than they’re worth, as Hel, Jormundgandr, and Fenrir’s suspect upbringings will attest.

  No. Feelings, rather than demands for the ejection of sexual effluvia, are plotting a course within me. They originate in my stomach—a slight, ticklish quiver centered in the pit of my gut. It’s a wild sensation. Something I can’t control. I’m okay without control. In fact, I’m great without it. It’s not like I have much of the stuff lying around anyway. It’s just that this particular lack of control feels extra good, and that … confuddles me.

  See, if you haven’t noticed yet, I’m bad. I do bad things. I can’t help it. Bad is in my blood.

  When I’m doing bad things, I love my job. Making mischief gets my brain off. Tell me I can’t do something, and I’ll do it for fun just to spite you.

  But if you tell me I shouldn’t do something, it becomes a challenge I’ll obsess over until I see it through to its conclusion. Shouldn’t implies a judgment against me before I even start. Shouldn’t has moral implications that lead to consequences. Sometimes those consequences are lasting injuries to a person or place (How’s the hand, Tyr?). Sometimes death (Sorry-not-sorry, Baldur, you whopping-great blister on the arse of godhood). On rare occasions, the end of the world (I started Ragnarok, and all I got was dead and this lousy man-sweater).

  Shouldn’t is my favorite word.

  So, in this moment, as a god-turned-woman, riding inside a metal beast with a big, handsome, bearded man whom I shouldn’t want anything to do with, all I can think of is how to extend the grift for maximum penalty to my newborn nether-petals.

  Why?

  Because I deserve it.

  Self-flagellation can be a wonderful thing, especially when you’re destroying lives alongside your own.

  I’m Loki. I can’t help myself.

  “Why did you do that?” Gunnar Magnusson says when I ease away from his lips.

  I can’t read his expression. He guards it too closely. But I don’t think he hated the kiss. If I’m honest, neither did I. It was just different from what I’m accustomed to. I’ve never been much of a kisser; that kind of deep connection isn’t my thing. I much prefer the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am approach. But this kiss was … nice.

  “I don’t know,” I reply, and settle into the seat behind his.

  “I don’t understand you,” he says, resuming his chair, staring at me from the looking glass hanging above his head. His cheeks are red. It’s kind of cute.

  He mumbles a long string of phrases I don’t understand. It’s some other language, slightly similar to mine, but not similar enough for me to make out his meaning. If the tone’s any indicator, he’s frustrated.

  We travel onward without further comment. I stare out the side of the beast while he diddles the donger I’m not supposed to touch and turns the big wheel in front of him.

  As the sea of white passes, I’m reminded of Viking longships sailing across a similar sea. Perhaps that’s what this “tour bus” is—simply a different kind of longship that travels on land.

  Sleipnir. Ha! But Gunnar Magnusson is on the right track. This iron-plated beast of burden is a bit like my octo-legged offspring.

  After countless minutes of silence, Sleipnir slows to a stop outside a small structure glaring at us with unnaturally bright lights. Signs flash strange symbols, hurting my eyes. I start to get out, but Gunnar Magnusson tells me to wait.

  “I have to get gas.”

  I frown. “Why would you want gas? Sleipnir doesn’t have enough?” I wave a hand in front of my nose.

  He shakes his head and descends the stairs. “Don’t touch anything.”

  A fjord to the south and jagged edges of mountains to the north sandwich the strange hut. This is eastern Iceland. I remember this area, though it has changed considerably with the influx of men and their metallic animals.

  I sneak down the steps of the monster/longship hybrid and look around. People are inside the hut. The lights aren’t coming from candles but something else, an unnatural source.

  I’m about to wander inside to chat up the humans for more information when I notice a scraggly chicken strutting across the strange, flat black ground. />
  Normally, chickens are of no concern to me aside from how they taste going into my mouth, but this one is different. It has one eye, which brings to mind Odin. Which conjures a swarm of gnats buzzing around in my memory’s orbit. Which makes me vaguely wonder again where my four very-important-to-my-continued-existence runes ran off to—

  SQUARK!

  I study the bird. Bowlegged with clumps of missing feathers, the ragged thing looks as if it got into a fight with a hurricane and won. Barely.

  On second glance, I realize it’s not missing an eye. That eye is just looking in the opposite direction from its mate.

  Wonders never cease. A cockeyed rooster. With no plume. And pitiful, clumpy, gray-and-white down instead of big cock feathers.

  I snort at it.

  “What’s so funny?” it asks.

  My spine straightens. I take another look. And scowl when its scent crosses paths with my sensitive nose.

  “You look like you lost four of your best friends,” the bird says smugly. “A penny for your thoughts?”

  Thoughts.

  Thoughts?

  And then I recognize him.

  “You,” I sneer.

  Chapter Four

  Huginn, a physical incarnation of Thought and one half of Odin’s far-seeing raven duo, peers out at me from behind the busted-ass Bantam chicken disguise.

  I sweep a hand down to try to grab him by the neck, but he struts away, faster than a bird of his size and dubious stature should.

  Squark! Squark! Squark! he protests, drawing attention from the people inside the hut. They shake their heads and go about their business.

  I scope the blacktop for eavesdroppers. Aside from Gunnar Magnusson, the area is empty. Huginn limp-runs. I chase him to the wall of the hut, cornering him.

  I grab for him again. This time, he nips at my fingers with sharp teeth. SQUARK!

  “Listen, you sneaky little bastard,” I threaten. “Tell me what the Hel is going on, or I’ll have you on a plate for supper. Raw.” My growling stomach backs up the warning. That granola bar was good, but I’m still famished.

  “Loki doesn’t look like he did a millennium ago. Did puberty finally catch up with you? My, what big breasts you have.” The bird ogles said breasts. A globule of chicken spit might’ve dropped from the corner of his beak.

  “What’s this ridiculous talk about a millennium? It hasn’t been that long,” I argue, casually covering my chest with folded arms and rechecking my surroundings.

  Gunnar Magnusson stands by Sleipnir, forcing a long black tentacle into its back end. Is he—? Never mind. I don’t want to know.

  “The past is Muninn’s realm of power. You’ll have to ask him for the details,” Huginn squawks. “But you’re not stupid, Loki. Look around you.”

  I glance to the hut again and marvel at the wonders within. Flashy colors stock shelves. I don’t know what the items are, but they are alluring. Bright lights fight off darkness. Behind me, metal beasts passing on the road move far faster than any horse—eight-legged or otherwise—I’ve ever seen.

  This is indeed a new world.

  “But I died in Ragnarok,” I say. “So did Odin, Thor, and all the others.”

  Squark! “Gods can’t die,” Huginn taunts, raking his cockeyed gaze over me in a most salacious manner. “Well, not as long as they have their runes handy.”

  My butt cheeks clench involuntarily, and it’s not because of the cold.

  If Huginn is here, who’s to say he’s not working? If so, there’s only one boss he could be working for. Odin.

  So, Odin is alive too.

  Which means the others might be as well.

  Which means I need to get my runes back before they come after me, seeking vengeance for Ragnarok and a whole host of other perceived atrocities I committed, not the least of which was the death of Baldur, who totally deserved it as far as I’m concerned, but I somehow doubt my fellow Asgardians feel the same. Stodgy old bastards have no concept of the word “fun.”

  “What do you know about runes?” I ask casually, conducting a visual body sweep of my own. The bird doesn’t appear to have any trinkets on him, but there’s no telling what might be hiding under those crusty feathers.

  “I know you lost yours,” Huginn brags. “And without them, you’re nothing but a silly human. No powers. No magic. No immortality. Just a pathetic shell of a god trapped in a woman’s body.” SQUARK! SQUARK! SQUARK! he bird-laughs.

  Grabbing him around the neck, I snap him up with ease and squeeze. “Look who’s talking. Odin’s mighty raven seems to have lost his regal black plumage in favor of soft down and a considerably diminished wingspan. I’ll bet you can’t even fly.” I tsk sadly.

  Huginn puffs out his chicken chest and flails, his wings shedding a feather or three. He goes limp as he hangs in my grip.

  “Tell me where my runes are, or I’ll end you permanently, you miniature cock wannabe.”

  SQUIRK! he chokes. More flapping ensues.

  The door to the hut opens, and a man wanders out, eyes on me. “You needing of help?” he asks in that strange other language Gunnar Magnusson used when we first met.

  Then it dawns on me. If I speak Old Norse, this must be New Norse. A variation on the ancient tongue. My brows knit together as I turn over the implications.

  My breath catches. It’s true. I was launched forward in time after Ragnarok. The year really is 2019, and I really have lost the runes that give me immortality and magical powers. And Odin really is alive somewhere, probably far, far away, watching me through Huginn’s wonky eyes. He must be laughing his arse off right now.

  I. Am. Screwed.

  “No,” I snap at the man staring at me with lechery in his gaze. “I don’t need your help.”

  He walks closer, and his expression changes. He casually surveys the grounds. Gunnar Magnusson is gone. He must be inside the hut.

  “Where your clothes are?” I don’t like the greed in his eyes as they take a casual stroll down my front and land on my bare legs. “You look for the sex.” He grins.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  Naturally, when I concentrate on my sternum and call on the rune Ihwaz to blast this toadstool to bits with death magic, nothing happens.

  Between my fingers, Huginn chortles jerkily, his squawks no longer powered by enough air to break the sound barrier.

  The brute reaches for me with gnarled, dry hands. His wide grin reveals the absence of several teeth. His wild hair is greasy, and for the first time since I woke from my tomb of ice, I am afraid for my miserable human life.

  With no runes and a fairly acute case of language barrier through which my silver tongue is having difficulty penetrating, I am helpless.

  I swing Huginn at him with all my might. The bird gulps a protest that I happily ignore.

  Talons poised for maximum damage, Huginn lacerates the oaf’s cheek with two outstretched feet, though I’m sure cutting the man is more a visceral reaction to being used involuntarily as a club than an intentional slashing on my behalf.

  Blood pools in the deep trenches carved into the man’s face, and his expression morphs from lascivious to furious. He pulls his lips back to reveal more holes in the line of jagged teeth. Hot, stinking breath penetrates my nostrils as I swing Huginn at him again.

  “Get your,” SMACK! “disgusting,” SQUARK! “filthy,” SMACK! “face away from me, vile peasant!”

  My attacker fends off the blows. Huginn’s feet tangle up and trip over themselves, fumbling the punch line of my joke of a swing. The man seizes me by the throat, lifts me off the ground, and shoves me into the wall.

  He’s almost as big as Thor and equally as brutish. I grasp his arms, hanging on for dear life—literally—my feet dangling several inches above the pavement. With one swift thrust, he cracks the back of my skull into the bricks. Hard.

  The light fades. My mind swims.

  I’m going to die. For real this time.

  I silently beg Ihwaz—wherever it
is—for strength. I receive none.

  “Whore get coming.” The cowardly goat’s free hand falls to his breeches and fumbles there.

  In need of all my limbs, I toss Huginn aside. He ducks and tumbles out of view. I kick and punch at my attacker, to no avail.

  It’s moments like these I wish I’d spent more time bulking up in battle, hurling spears or thrusting swords, instead of using my voice to inflict damage. Though, with this new, considerably weaker body, it wouldn’t have mattered.

  Strength flees like animals before an earthquake, and I spiral toward unconsciousness. My eyes close.

  I hear Huginn scrambling over the ground, his feet scratchy against the strange flat black rock. A bell rings. A knee comes up between my legs, pinning me in place. I have one last option. It might do more harm than good, but it’s all I have left. I go completely limp, hoping to lure the thug into a false sense of security.

  “Loki?” Gunnar Magnusson’s wobbly voice calls in my direction. Racing footsteps thunder toward me. Hope wells at the sound, but he’s far away.

  I sense the attacker opening his breeches and make my move.

  I rear back and head-butt him with all my might.

  As expected, the effect is worse on me than it is on him, but at least I surprised him. He drops me. I fall into a lumpy heap of former god at his feet. He stumbles backward. Through the vague haze of spotty vision, I see his barn door is indeed open, and the limp little cock flopping and squawking at its entrance looks not so different from Huginn.

  I smile. Try to get up. Slip back down, legs splayed wide open. Cold air hits my nethers.

  It was a good try, I tell myself and fade out.

  Sometime later—minutes or seconds, I’m not sure—a murderous CRACK! fills the air, snapping me into consciousness. I blink a couple times at the scene before me.

  Gunnar Magnusson’s wide, broad shoulders balloon with thickly muscled rage. He pulls back a fist the size of my head and launches it squarely into the man’s jaw. Spit and blood fly, spackling the wall of the hut with red slime. The man’s head swivels slowly to face front, but the lights behind his eyes have gone dim like mine did only moments ago. He slides slowly down the wooden planks buttressing his back side into a pile of smelly but soundly thwarted malfeasance.