Runed

by Kendall Grey

“It’s okay, Loki, this is just for storage,” he says as he snaps the upper jaw closed. His suitcase won’t fit in the mouth, so he wheels it around and stuffs it behind the seat with the wheel. Then he settles in beside it.

  Freddie pulls the stick out from between his teeth and flicks some switches. The red ball on the end of the stick is smaller than it was before. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “A sucker. Want one?” Freddie says, digging in his shirt pocket.

  “Yes.” I accept the apparent food and shove it between my teeth. It doesn’t taste very good.

  Gunnar reaches around, removes the sucker from my mouth, and peels back the crinkly membrane covering the ball. Now it’s red like Freddie’s. I reinstall the sucker between my lips. It tastes sweet and spicy like the sun. My eyes widen at this miracle.

  “When did you get the Porsche?” Gunnar Magnusson asks as Freddie drives away.

  “Birthday present from my folks,” Freddie says. “She’s got 450 horses. Zero to sixty in 3.5 seconds, and the babe magnet in it is strong.”

  I look around for a herd of horses and a baby but don’t see either.

  “It’s beautiful,” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  “So, how long are you in town?” Freddie asks, skillfully zipping us through traffic between cars.

  “Just tonight,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “I—” He looks at me. “We have to get back to Atlanta. I have a lot of writing to do before graduation.”

  “Thesis, huh?” Freddie shakes his head. “I never understood why you went the academic route. To each his own, man.”

  “What have you been up to?” Gunnar Magnusson asks. “Last time we talked, you were breaking down barriers in the robotics development business and experimenting with frozen marijuana pops in your free time.”

  “Yeah, WeedPop is going great. It’s a nice respite from the tech work, which is also good, but not as fun. We’re getting everything set up to start selling in DC. Should be ready to launch by the end of the year. Now, if the feds would just make it legal everywhere, that would be awesome. When they do, I’ll be ready. With my dad’s money and my connections, I intend to build an empire of pleasure for the citizens of this great nation. They’ll be calling me His Royal Highness in no time.”

  Freddie veers arounds slower cars and adds, “I should probably mention that the WeedPop business has also extended into the lollipop arena.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s leather seat creaks as he straightens suddenly and leans urgently between Freddie and me. “You didn’t.”

  Freddie bursts into laughter. “Of course, I did. Gotta welcome your Icelandic girlfriend to the United States properly.”

  “Don’t eat that, Loki. It has drugs in it.” Gunnar Magnusson reaches around my armrest for the sucker, but I bat his hand away.

  “I don’t know what ‘drugs’ is but it tastes good, and I’m starving,” I say, swirling my tongue around the delicacy.

  Irritation filters into Gunnar Magnusson’s face like ice water from freshly melted snow over rocks. Freddie hitches an amused eyebrow.

  “Come on, man, you can’t do that while you’re driving,” Gunnar Magnusson says to his friend.

  Freddie waves him off. “It won’t kick in till we get home. I’m fine.”

  Tension has replaced the friendly atmosphere between the two men. It seems like Freddie crossed a line, but who am I to stand between friends? I continue sucking my sucker, watching the other cars and their funny American drivers while the two of them talk with considerably less animation than before the lollipops. I hear bits and pieces about school, work, and old times, but I’m not paying much attention.

  More than a few cars we pass bear rectangular signs on their arses that mention Asgard Awakening. Every time I see one, I’m simultaneously elated and deflated. These people are enamored of a show that depicts Asgard accurately on all counts except where I’m concerned. Why would the producers go to such lengths to make me look like a fool?

  There’s only one answer. I glance down at Huginn, asleep on my lap. Odin must be involved.

  I’ll add this slight to a host of others currently on the old goat’s tab.

  By the time we reach our destination, it’s dark and my senses have taken to playing tricks on me. The world has morphed into a harmonious, happy place wherein my hands look like they belong to someone else. I can’t quite feel my feet. Everything moves slowly, and I’m perfectly fine with it. Gives me a chance to appreciate all the new wonders bombarding me. The buildings in New York are magnificent—some so tall, I can barely see their tops. In my wanderings across the Nine Worlds, I have never seen such riches as these. What a wonderful time to live!

  The door beside me opens. I look up into a pair of concerned blue eyes shadowed by surrounding darkness. “Where are those circle things you usually wear on your face?” I ask.

  He seems stumped for a moment, then he glances guiltily to Freddie, who’s skipping up some stairs to another grand building. “My glasses? I took them off.”

  “You’re handsomer without them,” I say. My tongue is dry. I smack my lips to try to rouse some saliva from wherever it sleeps, but it’s nowhere to be found.

  Red-cheeked Gunnar Magnusson offers me a hand. I take it. He helps me out and steadies me when my legs wobble. “Don’t eat any more suckers, okay?”

  “Why not? It was delicious. Speaking of, can you scrounge up some goat meat or a sacred cow or something? I am so hungry.” My stomach growls, backing me up.

  Huginn squawks in my arms. I didn’t realize I was holding him.

  “Oh, hey, little chicken. Maybe we could eat you.”

  SQUARK! SQUARK!

  Huginn flaps his wings excitedly. A couple feathers drift to the ground. I notice people wandering the street. I wave at them. When none respond, I throw out the middle finger. Gunnar Magnusson forces my hand down. “Not here.”

  He ushers me inside a new place. It’s grander than Valhalla. Stained wood accents, high ceilings, intricately woven rugs, candle-less lights hanging from the ceiling, a glass case full of small treasures. And little mechanical people, about three feet tall, made of iron. What witchery is this? I turn in a circle, taking it all in.

  “Like it?” Freddie asks. His eyes are glazed, and his words come more slowly than they did earlier. I can’t tell if he’s speaking slower or I’m hearing slower.

  “Yes,” I say. “I love it. Fit for a god. But what are those people doing?”

  Freddie wanders over to one and pokes it. The person lifts its metal gray head expectantly but says nothing, like it’s waiting for him to do something.

  “These guys?” Freddie asks. “They’re my robots. I make them for my real job. This one is an early prototype. He’s a simple servant that executes delivery tasks for me. If I need a beer, he gets it. Help moving furniture? No problem. He’s stronger than a full-grown man. I’m developing another one to prepare meals, but he needs a lot of work. He keeps burning my eggs and undercooking the bacon.”

  My eyes widen. “A non-person person. Who does chores. At your beck and call.”

  Freddie nods, then points to my suitcase. “Jobs, fetch Loki’s suitcase and bring it upstairs.”

  Jobs the robot splays his iron fingers wide and grasps the skull luggage. Mechanical hisses and whirs accent his motions. He walks with a steady gait to the stairs and mounts them, dragging my treasures behind him with a bump-bump-bump.

  “Amazing,” I marvel.

  “Rooms are up here,” Freddie says over his shoulder, a fresh sucker sticking out of his mouth as he traipses up the elaborate staircase. I run a hand over a stunning carved wooden banister at the bottom. It’s so ornate, it could’ve served as the figurehead of a Viking longship.

  “I assume you’ll be sharing,” Freddie says suggestively.

  Gunnar Magnusson tenses. “Yeah,” he replies, taking his suitcase by the handle and lifting it effortlessly.

  “Ooh, sharing a room,” I say with a grin. Then I lean up to whisper in his ear. “W
ait till you see what’s in my suitcase.”

  His lips clamp shut with a pop, and he barely shakes his head.

  I drop Huginn to the floor. He lifts a foot once, twice, three times trying to climb the step. He squawks his frustration and beseeches me with his eyes to help him. I snicker and follow the lads up, leaving Huginn to figure it out.

  When we reach the landing, Gunnar Magnusson says to Freddie, “This brownstone is awesome, man.”

  Freddie bows low and removes his sucker. “It’s way too conservative for my tastes, but I put a ton of cash into renovations. I plan on flipping it as soon as my place in DC is ready.”

  He shows us to our room, which is narrow but long. Bricks buttress one wall. Windows overlook the street on the opposite side. There’s one bed facing a huge flat screen. An adjacent door leads to the toilet and shower.

  I point in that direction. “I want a shower. With you, Gunnar Magnusson.”

  “I thought you were hungry,” Gunnar Magnusson deflects, his cheeks reddening.

  Freddie’s already wide grin widens further. “I’ll order some pizza while you take advantage of the amenities.” He winks at Gunnar Magnusson. “Afterward, we can work out our plans for the night. There’s a club not far from here—”

  Gunnar Magnusson lifts a hand to stop him. “We have an early flight tomorrow. We can’t be out late.”

  Freddie removes another sucker from his shirt pocket and waggles it in my direction. The spit I’ve been searching for floods my mouth, and I snatch the lollipop from his fingers. “Gimme!”

  Gunnar Magnusson grunts and tries to steal it from me. “Loki, I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Cut her some slack, Gunnar. She’s had a long flight,” Freddie says. “Let her relax.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s arm drifts protectively around my shoulders. “She’s never had weed before, man.”

  “All the more reason for her to enjoy herself as my guest.” Freddie claps his hands. “Now, you two clean up,” he arches a pointed brow at Gunnar Magnusson, “and I’ll see about that pizza.”

  He leaves us, shutting the door behind him.

  Loose and pliable, every muscle in my body wants to stretch, to feel. A wild brand of warmth filters down, down, down, drenching my nethers in expectation and desire. The ecstasy coursing through my veins reminds me of Jotunheim, the realm of the frost giants from which I sprung, the realm of wilderness and chaos. Anything goes there. When I get in this kind of rowdy mood, the possibilities for fun are endless. I’m a hunter who won’t stop until he’s brought down his quarry.

  If history’s any indicator, there’s only one thing for it.

  I turn to Gunnar Magnusson, paw at his shoulders, and lunge up to kiss him. Caught off guard, he grabs my arms and forces them down. “No, Loki. What are you doing?”

  “Trying to take your clothes off. I thought it was obvious.”

  His face is a neutral, red-tinged mask hiding whatever he truly feels. “You don’t want this.”

  “Oh, Hel yes, I do,” I say. The more I stare at his square jaw, blue eyes, and broad shoulders, the emptier the space inside me feels. I need him to fill me.

  “That’s the drugs talking.” He backs away to sit on the bed.

  “You mean like mead,” I say, swaying to the music playing in my head.

  “Much stronger than mead,” he replies. “This stuff will make you completely lose your inhibitions.”

  “Then, you should try some,” I advise. “You’re too wound up. Relax, Gunnar Magnusson. I’m your girlfriend, after all.” I wave my sucker in front of his mouth, but he refuses to taste it. So, I push him down to the mattress and straddle him just below waist level.

  His wavy hair splays around his handsome head, fine strands of blond interspersed between light reddish browns. He’s so big. Muscles bulge from every appendage. Even—

  Oh.

  Yes.

  There.

  I narrow my eyes. Pressing my hands to his chest, I wiggle my arse. Just a little.

  Target acquired.

  His face turns fully red, and he rolls me off. Swinging his feet to the floor, he shakes the hair out of his eyes like a wet dog trying to dry off. “You’re not my girlfriend, Loki. I only said that to impress Freddie.”

  Now that the moment has passed, I realize what I’ve done. And I immediately regret jumping on Gunnar Magnusson’s loins.

  He’s a man. I’m a man. This shouldn’t feel right.

  So, why does it?

  My swirling mind grabs futilely for answers to questions I’m not ready to confront. My head is too messed up for this. It’s just as well Gunnar Magnusson doesn’t want me.

  But the hollow place within feels a little emptier with his rejection.

  “It was wrong of me to make that claim. I’m sorry,” he says. “I was trying to protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “Freddie. He’s a good friend, but he’s also a manwhore.”

  “What is ‘manwhore’?” I ask, though I have a pretty good idea.

  “Someone who sleeps with a lot of women. Or men. Or both.”

  My ears prick up. “Freddie sleeps with men?”

  “I’m not positive, but I think so.”

  “And this is acceptable?”

  “Being gay or bisexual?” He shrugs. “Of course.”

  Well, I’ll be damned. I mean, by my very nature, I’m already damned, but how about this? Men and other men. Like Gunnar Magnusson and me. In a weird, roundabout way.

  I have much to think about. When I get sober. For now, the shower awaits.

  Gunnar Magnusson stands up, adjusts his undercarriage with a subtle kick (I recognize the move—I’ve done it myself countless times), and jerks a thumb toward the door. “I’m going to talk with Freddie. Come down when you’re ready.”

  I nod. When he leaves, I open my suitcase and snatch the first vibrator I see. It and I head for the shower.

  Gunnar Magnusson is having quite an effect on my girl parts. I’m going to have to do something about that soon. For now, I’ll take out my frustrations on this vibrator and his friends. Maybe these feelings for Gunnar Magnusson will go away in time.

  When I get downstairs, Huginn is pecking at a sucker Freddie holds out to him. The bird’s outward pointing eyes seem to drift farther apart. Let the bird have some fun too. I grudgingly suppose he deserves it after the beating I gave him these last twenty-four hours.

  Freddie turns to me. “I love your chicken!” he shouts, slurring the words.

  Gunnar Magnusson walks into the room with a plate full of something that smells delicious. It’s some kind of meat but there’s an underlying scent of bread too. And spices. A sea of spit raids my mouth.

  He takes in my clothing—another black outfit like the other one, but these breeches have no holes. Their tight curves accentuate my arse, and the stretchy shirt looks painted over my breasts. I drop my eyes to his crotch to see if it’s still as happy as it was on the bed upstairs, but I can’t tell in the dim light.

  He holds out the plate for me. “Pizza?”

  I accept and inhale the divine scent. The “pizza” is triangular, steaming. A yellowish substance layers the top, dotted with small red circles and hints of a different shade of red underneath. I ball it up, shove the entire thing in my mouth, and nosh with great relish.

  “You’re not supposed to eat the whole slice at once,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “Slow down before you choke.”

  I spit some of it onto the plate to make room for chewing. “Iss so goo,” I mumble orgasmically around the food. I quickly devour the rest and hold out the empty plate to Gunnar Magnusson. “More.” Swallow. “Pizza.”

  Huginn stumbles toward me, eyes glazed over, clucking.

  “I know how you feel, buddy,” I say, stroking his crooked feathers. “More pizza and more suckers!”

  Freddie whips out a lollipop from nowhere and presents it to me with a bow and a flourish. “My lady.”

  I accept the gift a
nd pat him on the head. I’m wobbly, but my body, mind, and soul feel amazing. I look Freddie square in the eyes and say, “Tonight, I want you to show me everything.”

  He flips a grin over his shoulder to Gunnar Magnusson, who’s shaking his head. “Let’s party.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  There are parties, and then there are PARTIES. Freddie draws a sharp contrast between the two by showing Gunnar Magnusson, Huginn, and me the difference.

  We spend the entire night gallivanting through New York via something he calls “Uber.” Uber takes us to clubs where we dance with hundreds of other Midgardians. We hit bars and drink liquor. We eat more suckers. We end up outside someone’s house “grilling” chicken “shish kebabs” at four in the morning. Huginn is so stoned, he enjoys several cannibalistic bites before sleep gets the better of him, and he nods off in my lap, a few shreds of some unfortunate cousin’s flesh dangling from the corner of his beak.

  We end our night when the sun comes up and Uber arrives to take us home. Sitting beside me in the back seat, Gunnar Magnusson looks exhausted. He didn’t have any suckers, but he did drink a few beers. Freddie is on my other side, happily sedated. Huginn snores loudly on my thighs. A small puddle of chicken spit has accumulated on my breeches. I’m so happy, I don’t even care.

  When Uber man tells us we’ve arrived, we stumble out of the vehicle and up the big brick stairs toward Freddie’s brownstone. Gunnar Magnusson stands behind me, guiding my uncooperative feet one step at a time. Once inside, he and Freddie slap hands the same way they did at the airport and bump chests. I try to mimic their hand motions with Freddie, but I fail miserably and squash my breast painfully when I chest-butt him.

  “Ow!” I rub the spot. “I keep forgetting I have boobs.”

  Freddie bursts into laughter. “You crack me up, Loki.”

  Gunnar Magnusson smiles tersely and takes my hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  I don’t complain.

  “Huginn,” I slur, “you stay down here and guard the door. Don’t let anybody in here, especially not that old fart, Odin.” I hold a bent finger to my lips and wink languidly at him.