by Kendall Grey
Well, I didn’t get a phone, a passport, or a plane, but maybe 10,000 króna will help.
“How are you doing in there, Huginn?” I whisper as I wander inside the airport. If anyone asks, I’ll say it’s a goiter that migrated south.
I get a muffled yap in reply.
I stand up and scope the busy walkway for women who look like me.
“What can I buy with these króna?” I ask as I walk inside the airport.
“How about a knuckle sandwich?” Huginn snarls, his voice muted.
“Don’t tempt me, bird.”
“Let me go, Loki,” he says.
“I’ll let you go soon enough. I just need a few more moments of your time.”
“What are you up to, Trickster?”
I grin. “I’m not sure yet. Give me a minute. It’ll come to me.”
Just then a woman about my height sashays through the moving door, dragging wheeled luggage behind her. She walks with a confidence I’ve rarely seen on the fairer sex. I stand straighter to match her imposing posture.
She wears all black. And it looks damn good on her. My mouth waters as I drift closer.
Long blond hair swings from a leather-bound knot at the top of her head. The yellow spills over her shoulders in a most glamorous fashion. Circles of black kohl trap a pair of light-colored, vacant eyes.
Black leather boots with spikes under the heels make her extra tall. Her “pants” are barely pants. The front of her breeches, from the tops of her thighs down to the boots, is sliced horizontally in a series of nicks that expose the fair skin below. This is positively scandalous! And utterly delicious.
A belt slings low over her trim hips. The bottom half of her top is made of a sheer fabric that hangs over her arse. Her breasts are covered by a short coat of iridescent black feathers. She wears gloves that expose the last few knuckles of her fingers.
She’s perfection.
I need her. I want her. I must become her.
The woman stands by the bench I sat on moments ago, looking at her phone. What is it with these Midgardians and their phones? Everywhere I turn, phone, phone, PHONE.
A thick strap crosses one shoulder, ending in a rectangular leather satchel bumped against her hip. Leaned against the bench, her luggage has a spider web painted on it. In my day, I was known for creating word-webs in which to entrap my foes.
I take it as a sign.
Her brows furrow slowly as she taps the phone. She wipes her nose a couple times and sits down absently, as if she just realized sitting was an option. I seize the opportunity and beat a man to the empty spot beside her, curling my lip at him in threat. He holds up his hands and backs away.
I casually glance past her arm at the words she types. They’re written in Icelandic, which is difficult for me to decipher. As best as I can tell, she’s asking someone for “high.” She wants to climb high? I don’t understand.
The other person writes something about króna. Twenty thousand. That I do understand.
She shakes her head when she reads the part about the money. Rubbing her forehead, she suddenly looks defeated. And very tired.
I discreetly check my stash of papers.
Whatever this “high” she wants is, I have the means to help.
I tap her on the shoulder and point to her feather coat. “I like your outfit,” I hope I say. “May I trade for it?”
Her distant, watery eyes try unsuccessfully to fix on me. “What?”
I slide the papers out of my pocket and lay them on the bench between us. Now her eyes find some light. She looks from the króna to me and back at the króna. “For clothes?”
I nod emphatically.
She snatches the money and stuffs it in her pocket. Then she stands, grabs my arm, and pulls me to my feet. Huginn squawks, but the woman either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She shuttles me inside the airport and escorts me into a white room with a toilet and faucet like the ones at Gunnar Magnusson’s hut.
She props her luggage against the wall and drops her long strappy bag on top of it. Then she shrugs out of the feather coat, yanks up the sheer top, toes off the boots, shimmies out of the cut-up breeches, and lays the resulting ball on the countertop. A black tangle woven with shimmery stones crosses her breasts, and a triangle of matching fabric covers her nethers. She looks good enough to eat.
I lick my lips. She anxiously flips a finger upward at my shirt. “Trade.”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice. Huginn drops out of the bottom of my shirt and struts around, squinting. Then he spies the beautiful woman and freezes. While the two of them shore each other up—her through dull, mildly interested eyes, him with a little spittle leaking from the corner of his beak—I strip down to nothing.
I’ve secured the perfect outfit, but I need the rest of what she’s got on. I hold up another paper that says 5,000 and point to her chest and crotch.
“Bra? Panties?” she says.
I nod.
She grabs the 5,000 paper and removes the rest. My jaw drops at the baldness between her loins. I start to ask what happened, but I don’t want to keep this grift around any longer than I have to. Plus, it’s rude to point out one’s physical defects.
She doesn’t seem to notice my mouth or Huginn’s beak hanging open as she quickly redresses in my clothes. I slip the “panties” on without incident, but the “bra” is difficult to wrangle. Straps. Hooks. Gemstones. How does this thing work?
She takes my hands and threads them through the straps, then clasps the back together. I adjust my breasts, but there’s no comfort to be found here. I shrug. Ah well, the things we do for beauty.
When I tug the tight-fitting and quite airy breeches into place, I notice something in the back pocket. I casually run my fingers over the nearly square, flexible object with what feels like pages along the top edge. With a silent nod of thanks to the lucky necklace Gunnar Magnusson gave me, I keep my amusement to myself and finish dressing.
“Takk,” she says, hefting the flat bag over her shoulder and grabbing the luggage. She struts out of the room, her air of confidence restored.
Shoving a hand in the feather coat pocket, I unleash a grin of my own. Not only do I have her passport, but I also have the 10,000 króna I gave her. She forgot to take it out before trading clothes.
She may be sizzling hot, but she’s not the brightest star in the sky.
“What in the Nine Realms was that?” Huginn chirps.
“That was the first of many great hustles perpetrated by post-Ragnarok Loki.” I snatch Huginn up and stuff him into my feather coat under protest.
Objective 2 = COMPLETE. Now to find a phone and a plane.
I walk out of the white room and wander around the place, watching people for signs of weakness or confusion. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice flat screens like the one in Gunnar Magnusson’s hut, but much larger. They say things like “Oslo,” “Amsterdam,” “Toronto,” “London Gatwick,” “Copenhagen,” “Boston,” “Hamburg.”
“What do these words mean?” I wonder aloud.
A SQUARK! emerges from my coat.
“What is ‘Boston’?” I ask Huginn.
“Let me out and I’ll tell you.”
I can’t risk him running around. Not yet. I squeeze him tighter to my bosom. It keeps him quiet, though I don’t want to think about why. Little pervert.
I walk up to a man wearing some kind of uniform with his hands behind his back. “Where is New York?” I ask in my best Icelandic.
He tilts his head to the side.
I repeat the words in English. He seems to understand.
“The next flight to New York leaves in three hours,” he says, and points toward a bank of boxy tables with people standing behind them. Why is everything in this time made of boxes? “You can book your flight over there.”
I march up to the man behind the box and say in English, “I must go to New York.”
“Of course,” the well-dressed fellow says. He taps something that ma
kes fast clicking sounds. “I have availability to JFK on the five o’clock flight.”
I shake my head. “No. New York.”
“That is New York.”
“You said JFK.”
“Which is in New York,” the man says. “Shall I book this flight for you? I just need your passport and credit card.”
I present the passport and pat down my pockets for the other thing he asked for. I have no idea what a “credit card” is, so I wave the remainder of the króna I stole at him.
He stares at it. “We don’t accept cash, only credit cards. I’m sorry.”
“This is money?”
“Yes, it’s money, but we don’t accept cash.”
“You don’t accept money?”
“Do you have a credit card?” he asks very slowly, as if I’m old and hard of hearing.
What the Hel is “credit card”? I glance around at the other Midgardians in lines nearby. Behind me are more boxes—these are red and gray and freestanding. People crowd around them, jamming flat rectangles into their tiny slots.
A chicken claw grazes my side as Huginn bids on an escape. The bloke seems to notice the feathers of my jacket moving. I squeeze the bird again, silently willing him to settle.
The man levels me with a skeptical stare. I flash him a bright smile. “I will go get credit card.”
He returns my passport, and I stuff the money in the folds of my feathery coat. I glance over my shoulder as I walk away. The man is holding a phone to his ear and watching me suspiciously.
I duck and insert myself into a gaggle of travelers, following them until he’s out of sight. Turning my alertness up to maximum sensitivity, I do my best to stick close to clumps of people. A woman bumps into my chest—ow, these damn boobs!—and mumbles an apology. When I tuck my hand in my pocket, the króna are missing.
Son. Of. A. WHORE!
That bitch stole my money! I turn to track her, but she seems to have employed the same disappearing skills as I did. Apparently, Loki isn’t the only hustler in the modern world. Curses! That smarts. I spend far too much time looking for the thief, but she’s long gone by now.
Feeling a bit sorry for myself, I commit to dusting off and trying again. I notice a person wearing a brightly colored yellow uniform. She’s talking to two men in similar dress. I follow them to a door. They slide a card—Oh! So this is a credit card!—into a slot. The door opens. They go inside.
I stand beside the portal, waiting for someone to come out. As soon as it opens, I step in front of the man, bumping into him. “Excuse me,” I say in English and peer up innocently into his face.
He’s tall and lanky, and his pocket is at just the right level for my hand to slip easily into it.
Empty. Damn.
He smiles appreciatively at me. “No problem.”
Just then another man exits. He stops to check me out under the guise of talking to his similarly dressed friend.
“Nice outfit,” the second man comments, giving me a once-over.
I look down at myself and smile. I do have a stunning sense of fashion. And I wear it well. “Thanks.”
I sidle up close, pat his elbow, and snake my hand into his jacket pocket while making hard-core eye contact. I bat my lashes a couple beats. Something hard and thin flexes between my fingers. I slide it out and deftly tuck the card up my sleeve. Then I strut away, shaking my arse. I look over my shoulder. The two men watch after me, walking backwards toward the opening to a great hall. As soon as they’re gone, I meander back to the door, zip the card through the divot (this takes me several tries), and dart inside.
This room is stocked with clothing similar to what the men were wearing. The garish yellow makes my eyes hurt, but it’ll have to do.
A woman wearing the same costume approaches me. “Not you Emma? New is not right?”
Damn Icelandic. I still don’t understand it.
I start to say no, but I think better of it and nod instead. “Yes. Emma.”
“Margret.” She points to her clothing. “This uniform will cause mess of storm on ground crew.”
She has a uniform? That will help me blend in. Perfect. I follow her. She sizes me up, hands over a folded, bright yellow garment, and opens a door to a little closet. “Dress of the styles to be waiting in the back room.”
Mentally shaking my head, I go in, shut the door, and immediately drop Huginn with a splat. He squawks.
“Injured in the toboggan?” Margret asks on the other side of the door.
“Yes,” I say. “I just stubbed my toe.” This language barrier is going to be a problem. Oh, the irony of being able to speak a language that’s not the native tongue, but not being able to speak the modern version that spawned the native tongue.
I decide to feign a speech impediment. Yes, that will help.
I quickly tug the baggy, ugly yellow garb emblazoned with the word “trainee” on the back over my clothes. I reclaim Huginn by the neck and draw him up to eye level. “I’ll let you go once I find a plane, but you have to keep quiet.”
“Or what?” Huginn says. “You can’t kill me. You swore an oath not to.”
“I can’t kill you, no,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t let someone else do the job.”
He trembles in my grasp. “You wouldn’t.”
I smile. “I would.” I look up toward the ceiling. “Did you hear that, Odin? Your precious bird is gonna be someone’s dinner if he messes this up for me.”
Huginn’s eye goes blue and swirly. He snaps his beak tight. A feather falls from a thinning spot on his back.
I’m sure he wants to argue, but he knows I won’t break the letter of our agreement—only the spirit of it, which is not a punishable violation in the Norns’ eyes.
I love technicalities.
“Do we have a deal?”
SQUARK! he reluctantly agrees.
“Stubbed my toe again,” I call. I shove Huginn inside the baggy suit. At least there’s plenty of room in here.
When I exit the closet, Margret waits for me. She follows the line of yellow down to my dagger-heeled feet and says, “Shoes to be worn light fires on the runway.”
“I’m sorry. I have a speech problem.” I offer a self-conscious smile, force a blush, and point to my mouth. “I left my other shoes at home. I can do the job in these. I promise.”
In that moment, Margret passes judgment on me. I can tell by the stern position of her pursed lips. She’s thinking I will mess this up. I’m thinking she’s right, but not for the same reasons. None of it matters, though. As long as I get on a plane to America, I’ll be fine.
“You work in those for the falling and dancing,” she argues slowly, enunciating every syllable.
I have a speech issue. I’m not stupid, I want to say to her condescending attitude.
“Hurt on the face.” She gestures to her face and draws a circle around it. “Our employees risk this workplace of damages and horrors of the doctors.”
Whatever.
I’m pretty sure she wants me to take off my footwear. Though these boots hurt my ankles and squeeze my toes, I love them. My calves look amazing in them. They lend me extra height. I won’t give them up.
Margret opens a box and rummages through its contents. She digs out a pair of thick, ugly black boots and thrusts them in my hands. They weigh at least as much as a pickax. “For yours for today. Shoes of this indeed are strong security for tomorrow.”
I return to the closet to put them on and stuff my old boots into the legs of this ridiculous suit. Now I’m packing two spiky boots and a spiky chicken. Locomotion with all the extra awkward weight is a bit of a challenge, but I pull it off. Thank the gods Huginn is a runt.
Margret eyes me suspiciously when I return but doesn’t comment about the strange way I’m moving. She straps around my hips a belt laden with holsters full of wondrous tools I’m unsure how to use.
“Walk to me,” she says, and guides me into the belly of the airplane underworld.
; Chapter Nine
After “training” on the ground among the giant, winged ships, I’m acutely aware of the pressing need to find a plane to New York. The man I spoke to earlier said one would leave at five o’clock. According to its current position in the sky, the sun will set in about four hours. If my calculations are correct, I have less than an hour to locate and board the plane.
Margret has shown me how to check in baggage using a “scanner.” This device is incredible, though she shrugs it off as rudimentary. I’d love to inspect a more sophisticated device, but there’s no time.
The workers around me endlessly check bags and load them into the cargo holds of planes. I am awed by the sheer size of these ships and eager to get aboard one to see what the inside is like while in flight. But the one I’m packing now isn’t the one I need. My coworker says it’s going to “Washington Dulles.” The last plane I helped with was heading to “Chicago.”
Frustrated, I say to Margret, “What about New York?”
She pauses her scanning. “What about it is New York there?”
“Do any of these crafts go to New York?” I try again.
Her eyes dart behind me. She shakes her head. “It is stuffed.”
Translation: The plane is packed up. That’s all I needed. “I have to use the toilet.”
She points to the building, swerving her hand to the left. “On the door of the left hall.”
I nod and walk toward it, careful to avoid the “food trucks” (the Midgardians have learned how to mobilize food. Imagine that!) and segmented snakelike luggage carts winding this way and that. When a long train of luggage separates Margret and me, I dart behind it, running alongside it for cover.
A lighted sign on the wall high above the airport windows says “1770, New York JFK, 1615 Icelandair.”
Yes!
I zigzag through a maze of cart congestion toward the plane. The workers finish unloading the last of the luggage when I arrive.
“This is where we say goodbye, Huginn.” Hidden between carts, I unzip my “jumpsuit,” as Margret calls it, and drag the bird out by the neck. (Zippers are another marvel, by the way. The things you people come up with stun the senses!)
