Runed

by Kendall Grey

  “Wait a minute,” he protests.

  “I don’t have a minute.” I zip back up and emerge on the blacktop, casually dropping Huginn along the way.

  Scared and disoriented from being cooped up in my pants all day, he skitters around blindly, bumping into legs. The workers’ heads pop up in unison. One shouts, “Poultry!”

  Everyone in the vicinity stops what they’re doing and converges on Huginn in a circle. Margret joins the fray and says something into her walkie-talkie, her sharp eyes scanning 360 degrees around her. I wave a toodle-oo to Huginn and sneak up the ramp into the cargo hold where my temporary new home awaits.

  “So long, suckers,” I say quietly. “And good riddance.”

  I navigate the many rollers embedded in the floor and hide behind a towering stack of luggage, waiting with excitement for what’s to come. I’ve been watching planes take off and land all day. This trip will be magical. I shall to fly to New York, find my runes, and use them to get back at Odin for that whole snake-drizzling-poison-all-over-me incident leading up to Ragnarok.

  I pause for a moment, remembering how awful that time in my life was. If not for my devoted wife Sigyn catching most of the poison in a bowl and tossing it aside when it filled up, my incarceration would’ve been far worse.

  Dear old Sigyn. I wonder what happened to her. As wives go, she was probably one of the better ones. She stayed by my side in sickness and near death. She did her best to protect me from that nasty serpent. I wasn’t always as kind to her as I could’ve been. I don’t regret much, but her? I shouldn’t have treated her so badly.

  There’s my favorite word. Shouldn’t. This is a rare occasion on which I don’t like the word so much.

  I shake away the memories. No need to dwell on the past when there’s a whole, open-ended future ahead to make mischief in.

  A commotion outside the open cargo door catches my attention. The workers are yelling to one another. I pull out my “earplugs” to track their conversation better.

  “It went where?” one asks.

  “Lost in pavement,” another answers.

  “How the Hel did a poultry find this stage?” Margret demands.

  Mumbles of denial.

  “Loki!” comes a hoarse whisper just beyond the door.

  Gods damn it. I sigh.

  “Go away,” I tell Huginn. “By Odin’s shriveled carrot and cabbages, I’ll kick you in the face if you mount that ramp.”

  “Please, Loki,” he begs, his little chicken breath wheezing in and out. “They’re coming!”

  I unzip my suit again and remove my preferred black footwear. “I’m putting on my spiky boots, Huginn.”

  “Help me!” he shrieks.

  “I’ll bet the spikes will fit perfectly up your arse. If extreme force is applied, of course.”

  “Have you not an ounce of empathy to save a poor, helpless creature from death?” His voice is desperate. A pitiful squawk of resignation follows and then sounds of a scuffle.

  “Sounds of him,” someone outside says and orders, “Night silence.”

  Quiet falls, highlighting the smell of Huginn’s fear in the air. It ruffles my feathers—the real ones on my coat and the ones picking at my conscience.

  I should help him.

  But I really don’t want to.

  He’s spying on me for Odin, and that shite is unacceptable.

  Let them have Huginn. Pluck his feathers. Put him over a spit. Eat him.

  I didn’t break my promise not to kill him. I can’t control what other people do.

  A plane engine powers up nearby, destroying the few seconds of relative quiet.

  A head needled with splayed feathers and two cockeyes pointed in opposite directions pops sideways into the cargo door. I clutch my chest as the spasming muscle within takes off at a sprint.

  “Odin says he’ll go easy on you if you save me,” Huginn chirps fast, looking over his wing behind him.

  “No, he doesn’t. Odin would sacrifice you in a heartbeat if he had to.”

  He might not like it, but Allfather would indeed let Huginn die before offering me any further truces or concessions. He bargained for the bird’s life once, but he can’t afford to do it again. He’s not in the business of owing anyone anything. Besides, he must still have Muninn’s eyes in the sky elsewhere, doing his dirty work.

  While I’m committed to getting back at Odin for the serpent debacle, he surely has his own plans for revenge against me too. I doubt he’s forgiven me for, you know, destroying the world.

  Huginn sighs sadly. “You’re right. I suppose I’ll surrender peacefully.”

  Footsteps grow louder. The voices are more urgent and animated. They’re coming up the ramp. Margret says something about “Emma.”

  Shite.

  I really hate this bird. If he doesn’t shut up, Margret will be on me like steam on a hot spring.

  I shoot out of my hiding place, snatch Huginn, and bound over a pile of luggage, breaking the spike of one of my beautiful, priceless boots in the process. Huginn and I tumble head over heels and crash in a pile of bruises and flying feathers.

  “Ramp climber is here?” a worker asks just outside the hold.

  Another trudges inside and tosses suitcases around, making his way toward us. I pinch Gunnar Magnusson’s lucky necklace between my index finger and thumb and brace for impact.

  “Finding Emma with help of hands,” Margret says.

  The only good news in this mess is that I’m starting to understand Icelandic a little better.

  Stomping of annoyed feet ensues. Sounds like there’s some pushing and rearranging of bags near the door. I clutch Huginn tightly out of fear of getting caught. Me. Not him. If they come this way, I’m tossing the bird at them, no regrets.

  “Gone has bird. Bags of row higher to fly wingless.”

  “Yeah,” another sighs, “but havoc in road for vessels.”

  I wince. I’m the one who should be wreaking havoc right now, yet here I sit, in the cargo hold of a plane, rescuing a stupid spy bird who’s gathering intel on me for my archenemy. What the Hel was I thinking?

  Static from a walkie-talkie crackles. Then I hear something about a pilot and on-time departure. I think.

  “Emma notify New York sneak aboard,” Margret says. “They’ll find her.” That last part was icy clear.

  A couple beats of silence follow. I hold my breath until I think the ground workers are gone. Then I peer over the suitcase in front of me. My heart nearly stops as Margret, standing with hands on her hips in the mouth of the door, surveys the cargo and looks right past me. I freeze, terrified that if I move, she’ll notice me. Her shoulders hitch with disgust, and she turns to leave.

  The door closes. The lights go out.

  I release a huge sigh of relief. We made it.

  “Thank you, Loki,” Huginn breathes. He’s trembling against my chest. “I won’t forget this.”

  “You owe me.” I keep my tone low and threatening.

  Before you start up with the “Oh, Loki, you’re such a softie” drivel, allow me to explain my justification for the daring rescue mission. Aside from keeping Margret and friends from hearing Huginn or me, my actions were all about collateral. As long as I have Odin’s bird, I have a small bargaining chip. And if, by some lucky coincidence, I can talk this bargaining chip into switching sides, my ingenious plan will work that much better.

  See? Every challenge can be turned into a hustle. You just have to find the right angle.

  I do have a potential other problem now, however. If the authorities in New York now know there’s a possible stowaway on board, I’m in deep polar bear shite.

  Loud rumbles rock the platform under us. It sounds like the plane is about to take off. Huginn eases out of my grip, bounces to the floor, and clucks. I can’t see him in the dark, but I suddenly remember the tools Margret attached to my work belt. I pull out the long-shafted one with a big bulb on the end. She called it a “flashlight.” I fumble around until I find
its switch.

  SQUARK! Huginn protests the sudden light smiting the cavern’s darkness.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, I realize I’ve stumbled upon a gold mine of treasure. The belly of this plane is full of luggage, which is full of clothing and who knows what else. Maybe I can find another boot!

  I start to get up, but movement holds me in place. The plane is easing down the runway on its wheels. It’s moving faster. Faster. I grip the nearest metal bar framing the suitcases. Holy Mother of Chaos, this is terrifying.

  And I love every exhilarating second.

  Tremendous force shoves me backward, pinning me against a wall of bags and cases. I try to lift a hand, but I can barely move. This steel monster-bird is real, and far too strong to fight. In front of me, Huginn grasps unsuccessfully for purchase, tumbles backward, and flies straight into my face, arse-first.

  Yes. I am sitting in the cargo hold of a plane with a chicken’s arse glued to my face, its sharp claws scratching my skin, and I can’t even lift a hand to peel him off.

  Score one for Odin.

  This is gonna hurt in the morning.

  The pressure flattening my face lessens—or I get used to it, I’m not sure which—and Huginn drops unceremoniously into my lap. I bat him away like a horsefly. He smacks into the wall of luggage, dead center of a suitcase with a picture of an open-mouthed skull. Appropriate.

  Deafening mechanical sounds echo all around, and for a brief moment, I am afraid. This plane is a beast no different from Jormundgandr or Fenrir. It is huge and terrifying and uncontrollable and soulless. But the thrill of squaring off with such a creature is also empowering. If I survive this trial, I am sure to find success in America.

  Under us, the wheels roll up into place, tucked under the beast. My stomach drops as I’m overwhelmed by the same feeling I had when I transformed into a falcon and flew Idunn and her precious apples back to Asgard after she went … missing.

  Oh, stop looking at me like that. I admit the Idunn thing was my fault. But Thiazi the giant would have killed me if I didn’t turn her over to him. I had to protect myself. The survival instinct in me is strong.

  Even stronger now that I’m mortal and survival is no longer a given.

  Which brings me to Huginn. I need to know what he knows. He’s the physical manifestation of Thought, after all. Though, depth of thought seems to be an issue for him.

  Maybe it’s the stupid chicken brain working against him. Which could work for me.

  Once we stabilize and I’m acclimated to the heavy pull of gravity exerted upon my person, I get up. Leaning on the luggage to keep me vertical, I spill illumination from the flashlight over my new kingdom. Or queendom, as it were.

  I snatch the nearest suitcase and open it.

  SQUARK! “What are you doing?” Huginn asks.

  “Pillaging. Got a problem with that?”

  “No.” He ventures closer and looks up at me. “If you happen upon any food, I could use a few crumbs. It’s been ages since I ate.”

  His wonky eyes, bald spots, and gnarled talons are an insult to his former sleek black raven’s body. I almost feel sorry for him. But not quite.

  “You’re mortal too,” I casually surmise.

  He looks away. “That’s a matter of perspective.”

  Not a denial.

  So, let’s run through the facts. Odin sent Huginn to spy on me. I might’ve very well strangled the bird to death yesterday if Odin hadn’t intervened.

  Which makes one wonder: Is Odin now mortal as well? Are all the Æsir wandering Midgard as mortals? If so, then good times most certainly lie ahead. Imagine the fun I could have hunting them down one by one, paying them back for all the awful things they’ve done to me.

  I continue rummaging through the suitcase, but this one offers little of interest. The clothing within is made for a man. I prefer such clothing, but if I wish to fit in here, I’ll need female attire. I toss the shirts and breeches aside and search for another suitcase. The skull one looks promising. I unzip it and begin excavating.

  “If you possess the ability to die by choking, then it’s not a matter of perspective. It’s truth,” I say as I drag out a thin, wispy black outfit. It’s see-through and rather sexy. I hold it up to my shoulders. If I strip down to my skivvies, it will fit.

  Excellent. I create a “keep” pile, starting with this girly item. Never know when you might need to seduce someone.

  Huginn struts over and kicks at the black pool of fabric. “He promised to restore me to my former appearance.”

  “Appearance. But not godliness?” I find a zippered bag, sit down, and open it. A long, rubbery, horn-like thing falls out. I pick it up and hold it near the light. It’s purple with a white end.

  Are those some kind of buttons? I look closer and push.

  The horn vibrates. “Ah!” I scream and drop it in my lap.

  Buzzzzz

  Buzzzzz

  Buzzzzz

  I start to leap to my feet, but …

  OH.

  MY.

  That’s … kind of nice. I recline against the suitcases stacked behind me and stretch my legs as this wild horn jitters and jumps atop my crotch.

  “You found a vibrator,” Huginn says.

  “Yes. This vibrates.”

  SQUARK, SQUARK, SQUARK! he chuckles. “It’s for sexual pleasure, you fool.”

  Ah! I thought the thing seemed vaguely phallic. This body responds to the frantic motion the same way it did to Gunnar Magnusson when he looked at me a certain way.

  I remember his broad shoulders. Big hands. The long hair.

  Buzzzzz

  Buzzzzz

  Buzzzzz

  Blue eyes. Soft lips. Scruffy face.

  I trace the edges of my top incisors with my tongue. Erotic pressure mounts within me. I recognize it, yet I don’t. As a male god, I had my fill of sexual adventures. The time I spent with giantess Angrboda was especially intense. She produced three monstrous children—Hel, Jormundgandr, and Fenrir—from our unions. Despite her intimidating appearance, she was a Hel of a lay. Pun intended. Even boring old Sigyn proved a fun toss in the bearskins.

  I had a healthy libido, as any good Norseman does, but I never stopped to think Norsewomen might be driven by similar appetites. Now that I’m living it, I must admit, the instinct is strong on both sides of the equation. Different, but equally compelling.

  Buzzzzz

  Buzzzzz

  Buzzzzz

  I shouldn’t do this with Huginn so close. With Odin so close.

  Shouldn’t.

  I flick off the flashlight, fist the horn tightly, and settle it just so. My teeth itch. My stomach flutters. My body writhes at the mercy of a pleasure wave too big to fight.

  I plant Gunnar Magnusson front and center before my mind’s eye and find myself approaching the pinnacle of the mountain with barely a few steps of climbing.

  Let’s go to bed. Gunnar Magnusson’s words from last night echo inside my head, louder and louder, spoken with a deep, dark voice that piles on another layer of richer, heavier vibrations to the existing vibrations until—

  Snap!

  Something inside me breaks. My womb? It must be. I never got a chance to use it on a man, but if this is what it feels like from the female perspective, I plan to repair it and reopen for business immediately.

  The pleasure sinks its teeth into my core and drags me down like the jaws of a different monster—the kind that barters and trades in temptations and indiscretions. I shouldn’t be doing this with Huginn (and Odin by default) close, but I don’t regret it. Not one brain-spinning second.

  I release my breath in a long stream as the amplitude of the waves reduces to smaller wavelets and eventually dissipates.

  “Was it good for you?” Huginn jabs. SQUARK! SQUARK! SQUARK!

  “Gods, yes,” I breathe heavily. I’m hot all over even though it’s getting colder (Margret explained during my training that the cargo hold is “pressurized
” and heated for transport of pets, but it can still be a little chilly) inside the cabin.

  I struggle to my feet, knees wobbly, and survey the piles and piles of luggage. I must find all the vibrators. Every. Single. One.

  Holding the flashlight between my teeth, I open the nearest suitcase and fumble through it, looking for a bag within the bag. Nope. So, I go to the next. And the next. And the next.

  While I plunder, I casually toss out little word-worms, hoping to lure information from Huginn. “So, where is Odin these days? Hitched up his goats to the old chariot and traveling the countryside to mingle with the Midgardians, I presume? He always did have a soft spot for commoners.”

  “Allfather finds the sun and surf where he dwells now to be much more agreeable,” Huginn replies.

  “In America,” I say.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Hoarding his power, I’ll wager.”

  Still quiet.

  “And what of the others?” I ask. “Have you seen Thor? Freya? Baldur?” I try to contain my snarl over the last of the three, but it’s hard. I really hate Baldur.

  “I have not seen any of the others.”

  I arch a brow as I unearth a box full of granola bars—or something that looks like them—and rip open the wrapper the way Gunnar Magnusson did. I sink my teeth into a rectangular slab that smells divine. Crunchiness and saltiness blend perfectly with the sweet brown coating.

  My stomach growls its appreciation, and my taste buds erupt with pleasure nearly as potent as that which the vibrator provided. “By Tyr’s missing hand, this is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  Huginn ventures forward, one pleading eye staring up at me while the other wanders off somewhere in the vicinity of the skull suitcase. He opens his beak and pokes his tongue out with a pant.

  I stare down my nose at him, chewing noisily to make my relish hurt. “Hungry, are you?”

  “So very hungry.” His chicken voice sounds scratchy and parched.

  I chomp into another bite of whatever this sweet delicacy is. It’s better than a bucketful of honey. Better than Idunn’s age-defying apples. Better than sex.

  Well, maybe not sex with Angrboda or Gunnar Magnusson, but close, I’d wager.