Runed

by Kendall Grey

  I pick off a small bit of the bar and flatten the wrapping to read it. “Omnom,” I say. “What does that mean? Besides ‘totally amazing’?”

  “A crumb, Loki?” Huginn begs quietly.

  I roll the wee nugget between my finger and thumb. A slick film of brown remains on my skin. I lick it off. “To die for,” I moan, closing my eyes.

  Scratching of chicken feet draws my attention down again. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you an entire Omnom bar in exchange for the honest answer to a single question. I’ll even make it an easy one that won’t get you in trouble with your boss.”

  I can practically smell his salivation.

  “What question?” he finally says after a moment’s hesitation.

  I squat down to get at eye level with him, resting an elbow on my bent knee while taking another bite of Omnom. Om, nom, good!

  “In the time since Ragnarok, how long has Odin been walking the Nine Worlds?”

  You may be wondering why I’d ask such a seemingly inane question, but I have a good reason. Allfather won’t let Huginn tell me anything specific about Odin’s location or whether he knows where my runes are. But, I can extrapolate a lot by knowing how long he’s been back in commission.

  According to my personal history book, Allfather died at the mercy of my son Fenrir’s canines some 1200 years ago. If he returned to Midgard shortly after Ragnarok, he’s had a Hel of a lot of time to gather information and plot his next moves. But if he’s only been back a short while, like me, I might not be as far behind him as I thought.

  Huginn seems to churn over my question for a moment. Then he says, “Allfather never stopped roaming the Nine Worlds.”

  Well, I’ll be damned. The old goat found a way to escape Fenrir’s jaws despite the prophesies. Maybe he slipped between realms when Ragnarok befell Midgard. Which means he’s been busy for 1200 years.

  Clever, clever, clever. Odin isn’t nearly as dense as I had him pegged. Many questions spin in the tornado of my mind. Was it an accident that he escaped? Surely not. Odin is a thoughtful, calculating god. Nothing he does is accidental. So why, then, am I here? If it’s as Huginn said, and none of the other gods are still around, how did I make it out of my snowy tomb? Odin would want me, of all gods, to remain buried. I’m the biggest thorn in his side.

  Unless he didn’t plan on me getting out. Unless something or someone Odin doesn’t know about helped me.

  Wake, Trickster. The voice echoes through the halls of my memory, bouncing on an endless loop. Still can’t place it, damn it.

  When I land in America, I will have to up my game. Drastically.

  I flick my wrist, tossing the crumb between my fingers to Huginn. He gobbles it up, tail feathers twitching with spasms of voracious joy. Then I pitch a whole Omnom bar in his direction. Out of spite, I don’t open it. Let the little shite figure it out. Like I have to figure out what to do about Odin.

  Chapter Ten

  Six and a half hours (lifetimes?) later, the wheels lower beneath the cargo hold, and forces of nature throw Huginn and me against the wall. A whine slips past my clenched teeth as I grapple with suitcases for handholds—anything to keep me from bashing my skull. I’m certain we’re going to die. For real this time.

  We don’t.

  The ear-splitting spinning noise decreases in volume as a screech signals the application of brakes to the huge tires underfoot. We bump along what must be the runway. I feel as if I’m trapped in the belly of a running chicken. At least we’re on the ground. Finally.

  I have no time to waste with the authorities on the lookout for a stowaway. When we roll to a stop, I get up, tuck the protesting Huginn under one arm, and grab my newly packed luggage, full of treasures I plundered from the cave of Icelandair. It’s the skull suitcase. You know I couldn’t resist.

  The cargo door opens, and I fling Huginn at the yellow-clad workers, catching them totally unawares. Yelps of alarm issue from the men and the bird. The engine still fuming on the runway masks the urgency.

  “Catch him!”

  “What the hell?”

  “Holy shit, did you see that? It was like a chicken grenade!”

  Scramble, scramble. Shout, shout.

  Perfect cover for Loki to swing off the ramp while they’re chasing after Huginn squawking and flapping and shitting and dropping feathers.

  I zip toward the building in my jumpsuit and new boots, dragging my suitcase and blending fairly well with the local clientele. The temperature is much warmer here than in Iceland, and I can’t wait to ditch this ridiculous disguise. I look so much better in black feathers.

  “Loki!” Huginn shouts.

  I duck my head and run faster.

  “Loki, I will find you! Arsehole!”

  Cluck, cluck! SQUARK!

  I smile as I follow a worker into the airport. He pauses to hold the door open for me, then lifts a brow at my suitcase. “We’re not supposed to waste human resources on single-item transport.”

  “What, this?” I glance to the skulls grinning behind me. “Oh, this is for royalty. I was told it’s a special delivery.”

  “Yeah? For who?” He speaks English, but he has a strange accent. I find it harsh and off-putting. I like it.

  I lean close, conspiratorially, and try to mimic the man’s accent. “It belongs to Damien Drakkar, the star of Asgard Awakening.”

  The man bends backward with loud laughter. “The drip who plays Loki? He’s hardly the star. More like the token ass clown.” More laughter. “And check out that wussy suitcase. Looks just like him.”

  Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha!

  Oh, shut up, ass clown. I bare my teeth in a fake smile. “I just started working here today. They asked me to bring his luggage directly to the baggage claim. How do I get there?”

  The man gives me quick directions. “Tell ‘Loki’ he better watch out. Brother Odin knows what he’s up to. No more Ragnarok for you!” His laughter follows as I storm onward, jaw clenched to keep the curses loaded on my tongue from flying out.

  Son of a whore. How dare he make fun of Loki! He’s the best character on that show. Well, he should be. If the producers wanted to do anything close to realistic, they’d make him much less of a sniveling turd and more of a full-blooded badass.

  I guess the worker is right. I sigh.

  After a few wrong turns, I wind through the innards of the airport, grumbling to myself the whole way. When I emerge outside of the area called “customs” that Gunnar Magnusson mentioned, my grumbles transform into full-blown fury.

  Nestled within the throng of people bustling in every direction, a child’s shirt catches my attention. It’s a picture of Damien Drakkar dressed as Loki. He’s on the ground, flat on his stomach, face turned up, wearing a vapid expression. The actor who plays Thor stands behind him looking smug and big and brave with Mjolnir resting casually against his broad shoulder. He’s laughing. His boot is angled up, heel on the ground, toes pointing to the sky as if he’s just tripped poor Loki.

  The words read: “Loki Derp.”

  I don’t know what “Derp” means, but I’m certain it has a negative connotation. And Thor laughing at my misfortune makes my blood steam.

  I stomp toward the offending small person and lean down into his round face. “You do realize Loki was the hero of that story, right? He was the one who dragged an entire world down to Hel. If not for him, you wouldn’t even have a show to watch. Loki is everything, you little Derp!”

  A gasp puffs up from behind the child. I follow the sound upward with my eyes until I reach the red face of a frazzled-looking woman. “How dare you speak to my son like that!”

  “I’ll speak to him however I like, Spreader of Lies!” I fire back.

  She gestures to my clothes. “Do you work here?” She looks angry. Well, join the damn club, lady.

  I glance down. I’m still wearing the ugly, bright yellow jumpsuit, which seems to be drawing attention from passersby. A couple people stop and stare.

  That’s w
hen I notice the monitor playing “the news” behind them. It has the words “Possible stowaway on Icelandair flight” underneath a fuzzy image of me—new me. Then the picture flashes to a shot of Huginn strutting around on the tarmac. The newscasters mention something about a loose chicken on the runway and have a good laugh at Huginn’s and my expense.

  “No. I’m on holiday,” I say to the offensive woman harassing me and lope away quickly.

  “Come here, bitch. I’m not done with you,” she screams behind me. Her sniveling child is crying now.

  Shite. I anxiously scan the crowd for an escape.

  Above an opening, a sign reads “Ladies.” It has a picture of a geometrically shaped human with triangle flares sprouting on either side of its waist and a poorly drawn toilet. This must be the women’s bathroom. A similar sign on the other side says “Men.” The humans on this picture don’t have triangle butt wings. I go inside that hall.

  It’s full of men with their backs toward me. The wall they face has partitions blocking off things that look like toilets, but they’re cut in half, cross-sectioned along the vertical plane. One of the men waves his hand in front of a black plate. A loud gurgle emerges from the mutilated toilet. He jerks his arm up—zipping his breeches, I assume—and walks toward the exit.

  “You forgot to wash your hands,” I call after him.

  He pauses. Looks at me. His eyes widen. Then he runs out.

  All movement in the room grinds to a halt as I strut front and center, my boot heels clicking proudly and wheels of my skull suitcase spinning loudly. The men who notice me drop their jaws. A couple rush out in a real hurry. Others turn back to the toilets and finish whatever business they’re negotiating between their hands and penises.

  I’m not going to ask questions about such things. I just discovered vibrators. Maybe they did too.

  Shrugging, I push open a stall door and go inside, the sole focus of every eye in the room. I slide the lock in place and unzip my uniform. Struggling out of it to the tune of men on the other side whispering in hushed voices, I plot my next move.

  Margret told me the luggage from the plane is removed and transferred to some place called “baggage claim.” That’s where the passengers pick up their checked items before leaving the airport.

  I must find baggage claim.

  After I make use of the toilet, I stuff the jumpsuit behind it and mosey out to the bank of reflecting surfaces mounted on the wall. I still can’t get over how beautiful I am.

  And judging by the looks from the many men in here, they can’t either. I receive quite a few appreciative glances. Some focus fearlessly on my hefty breasts. Others check out my plump arse. One has the decency to smile only at my face. Aww. That’s kind of sweet.

  I reach for a knob to turn on the spigot, but there isn’t one. I duck and inspect the underside of the faucet. Nothing. Then a guy a few places down waves his fingers under the tap. Water flows! I sweep the room, looking for a god or magician or elf. Someone in here made that water run, and I need to find him.

  I copy the man’s hand motion, and I get water too. I am awed. He holds his palm under a rectangular device attached to the wall. A pearlescent white blob squirts onto his skin. He rubs his hands together. Bubbles form. He rinses them under the magic waterfall and then steps right, chafing his palms together under a hard-blowing stream of air.

  I shake my head and grin ear to ear. “I love America!” I shout.

  Several men smile and nod their agreement. Someone behind me yells, “God bless the USA!”

  More murmurs of approval echo off the walls.

  After washing and drying my hands, I unwrap my hair from its band, shake it out, and re-pin it at the top near the back of my head.

  An older fellow fills in the space beside me at an adjacent basin. Without looking at me, he gruffly says under his breath, “You know this is the men’s room, right? You’re not one of those queer transgenders, are you?”

  I screw up my face at him, unsure how to respond. “What is ‘queer transgenders’?”

  He aims his judgmental gaze below my belt. “Do you have man parts or lady parts?”

  I straighten my spine, thoroughly offended he would ask such a question. “That’s none of your business, is it?”

  He gets all wound up, huffing and spitting, and stalks out of the room mumbling under his breath, “Damn queers steamrolling everything. Can’t even take a leak in public anymore.”

  I should think one wouldn’t want to “take a leak” of any kind. Leaking suggests the loss of something important. Seems counterproductive.

  Silence fills the bathroom again, and the men avert their eyes.

  They’re shunning me. Why are they shunning me?

  “Ignore him,” the man on my other side says as he washes his hands. “Some people just don’t get it. You’re not alone.”

  He’s shorter than most of the others. His voice is a little higher. His features have vaguely feminine curves, but his clothes look like the other men’s.

  “Yes,” I say. Then yell after the offensive grump, “Ass clown.”

  The man smiles privately and then side-eyes me. “You wear it well,” he comments and then leaves.

  I puff out my chest and study the badass woman staring at me in the mirror. Yes. I do wear it well.

  Suitcase in tow, I exit the bathroom and spot a throng of wilted-looking people fresh off a plane. Someone says something about “baggage claim,” so I follow them. I’m about to mount the stairs when I notice they’re moving. Like a giant serpent. A flashback of my son Jormundgandr stabs my brain like an icicle.

  I jump away with a squeal. Someone behind me says, “Move it, lady. You’re blockin’ traffic. I got places to be!”

  “I got places to be too,” I snap. “But I’m not going to risk life and limb to climb aboard this deadly snake. He might bring about the next Ragnarok!”

  “New York,” the man scoffs as he navigates around me. “Full of crazies.”

  Someone else yells, “Asgard Awakening!”

  I turn. A young woman wears a shirt with the name of the show written in the same style as on the television. Thankfully, this one doesn’t have Loki or Thor on it. The person who yelled compliments the shirt. I roll my eyes.

  When I return to the task of finding baggage claim, the writhing metal snake stares me down. I run away from it, triggered by flashbacks I’d prefer to forget. But the Midgardians don’t seem bothered by it. I watch from a distance, hiding behind a cylindrical receptacle that says “waste.” People keep dropping things into its swinging maw. I peer into the flap. Something smelly rises from its gullet. The people must be feeding whatever creature that lives inside. I dart away from “waste,” searching for someplace safe from which to continue my observations of this vile metal snake, and to hide from Margret or whichever authorities might be looking for me.

  America was supposed to be wonderful, but it’s full of monsters, and while I usually quite enjoy the company of monsters, I’m not sure whose side these are on.

  After several minutes of mute information gathering, I notice a man and woman with a small child between them, trying to get their apparent offspring to ride the snake. He stomps and fights and cries, terrified to get on it.

  Poor kid. I don’t blame him.

  But the man talks to the child in quiet tones, explaining that it’s only an “escalator,” and its teeth won’t bite if you’re careful. “Just step in the middle, avoid the big cracks, and hold on to our hands or the railing. When you get to the end, hop off before the step disappears.”

  The child nods, and miraculously, he doesn’t die when he reaches the bottom. Neither do his parents. Maybe they were just lucky. Or the snake isn’t hungry.

  Either way, if he can do it, so can I.

  I inhale a deep breath, wondering how the Hel to manage myself and also my suitcase. If I make the suitcase go first, perhaps the monster will eat it instead of me.

  Yes. That’s it. Feed the snake, free
Loki.

  I march over to the “escalator,” push the skull luggage in front of me, and then watch as the metal skin transforms from a flat plane into a boxy step. The luggage drifts away.

  “No!” I shout, hand out. The suitcase keeps going. I try to step, but it’s moving too fast. I yank my spiked boot backward.

  “Come on! You’re holding up the line!” someone shouts.

  People push around me, nudging me with their elbows.

  How rude!

  I grasp the necklace Gunnar Magnusson gave me and silently pray it will bring me the luck I need to prevail in this dodgy, potentially perilous situation.

  Someone gives me a shove. I wobble and stumble against my will onto the snake’s back. My legs quiver like a newborn fawn’s, and I flail, barely able to grasp the black railing. I clutch the raven amulet tightly with the other hand.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as panic wells deep within me. When I open them, the snake’s tail looms. I brace myself for a leap, but these boot heels seem to be stuck to the metal scales. I jerk my legs to no avail. When I finally break free, it’s too late.

  I tumble head over arse off the snake and slam face first into my skull luggage with a tailbone-bruising flourish.

  Heads from all around turn toward me. I lean on my suitcase to pull up, but the wheels move and the handle clobbers me in the face. Everywhere, people laugh. Just like they laugh at Loki on Asgard Awakening.

  I’m hurting, miserable, embarrassed. Possibly bleeding.

  My hand flies to my throat, and I check to see that the necklace is still there. Miraculously, it is. Maybe it prevented me from breaking my neck.

  Finally, a stranger with big hands stops to help me up.

  “Are you okay?”

  I look up into a pair of surprised, familiar blue eyes nested behind two black circular frames.

  I throw my arms around him.

  “Loki?” he exclaims with shock.

  Nobody helps Loki. Except Gunnar Magnusson.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Loki!” Gunnar Magnusson says with a huge smile. “I can’t believe it’s you! How did you get here?” Speaking Old Norse, he steps away from me and takes in my appearance, cheeks reddening the farther south his gaze travels. Then his brow furrows. He gently brushes the corner of my lip. I wince at the pain.