by Kendall Grey
SQUARRRRRRK! “You got it, boss.” He promptly tips over on the carpet near the door, lids half-closed, gnarly legs sticking out, and resumes snoring.
“Good night, mates,” Freddie calls over his shoulder as he heads up to his room.
I face the challenge of the next set of stairs and determine they’ve already beaten me by virtue of the fact that I can no longer stand up. My legs buckle, and Gunnar Magnusson swoops in for the save.
Cradling me in his strong arms, he stares down into my face, picking my bits apart from the outside in. What is he thinking? He’s proven himself an honorable man. He won’t take advantage of me, but I wouldn’t complain if he changed his mind.
This man baffles me. My feelings for him are even more baffling. In my old life as the trickster god, I transformed into female animals many times, but it never affected me the way this body has. I thought by now my urges would have normalized. Maybe women truly do have the same desires as men, and this is the new normal?
“Sleep now, Loki,” he says, laying me in the bed. He tugs the covers up to my shoulder as I roll to my side.
I wave him closer. “Lie with me.”
He meets my gaze. His eyes are full of sincerity. Like a raw, open wound. “I can’t.”
“I said lie with me. Not lay me. Come on.” I hold up the covers, nodding him in.
He hesitates.
“Please, Gunnar Magnusson.” I remember how he likes the word “please.” I close my eyes.
The bed shifts behind me, and I smile as his weight dips the mattress.
Sleep consumes me instantly, and my mind fills with delightful visions of Gunnar Magnusson and me riding a chariot together across the nighttime sky.
The first thing I feel in the morning when I slip away from my dreams of suckers and chicken kebabs and Gunnar Magnusson’s stacked body dancing close to mine is warmth. It spans the length of my back and spreads inward to my front. I’m curled into a semi-ball. Something the size and shape of a hand rests on my hip. I exhale contentedly and open my eyes.
The second thing I notice is the room spinning. Not in the good way. I blink. It gathers speed. Normally, I’d enjoy such an out-of-control sensation, but this one is also attached to the third thing I notice, which is a Ragnarok-sized revolt kicking off dead center of my stomach.
I vault out of bed and search for a pot to puke in. Then I remember the toilet and how useful it is for carrying away waste. I barely make it to the white bowl before evacuating the contents of my stomach, my liver, my pancreas, and every other organ unfortunate enough to be lined up directly or indirectly along my digestive tract.
“Gods, I am so sorry,” I tell my stomach. “I’ll never”—BLECHHHH!—“abuse you like that again.”
Damn mead. But not the suckers. Freddie says the suckers don’t give you “hangovers,” just the “munchies,” which explains why I have “Dorito” dust and “pepperoni” stains all over my shirt.
I’m learning so many new words in this country.
My stomach rumbles. I belch.
Heave-ho!
SPLAT!
Ugh.
I dissolve onto the cool tile floor, waiting for my head to stop spinning. I wake up several hours later with Gunnar Magnusson sitting beside me. A cold wet cloth clings to my forehead.
I smell something dark and rich that reminds me of Gunnar Magnusson’s coffee pot in Iceland. My nose twitches. “Coffee?” I ask groggily.
Gunnar Magnusson reaches up to the vanity above us and pulls down a steaming mug. He holds it out to me with a sweet smile. “You feeling better?”
I push up to sit and lean against the cabinet. The toilet is clear, but I don’t smell too good. Mortality can bite me. I accept the cup with gratitude.
“Ugh,” I say and sip at the delicious brew.
He watches me, not with the concern of a man who helps a random stranger but with the concern of a man who’s worried about someone he cares about. Again, I get that weird feeling in my stomach of flapping ravens trapped and desperate for escape, but they’re stuck there, in a place they don’t want to be, with no way out. Wild animals should remain just that. Wild.
Inch by inch, the walls begin to close around me and Gunnar Magnusson. I’ve never liked being trapped. Chaos cannot abide containment. Plus, it’s my business to trap others, not the reverse.
Yet, on the flip side of this razor-sharp coin is the seductive promise of what lies within this net Gunnar Magnusson has thrown over me: safety, warmth, love.
I’ve never been safe, I’ve always been cold, and hate and I are on far more intimate terms.
“You are a paradox, Gunnar Magnusson,” I say.
“I could say the same of you,” he replies. “And you can just call me Gunnar. That’s my given name.”
I know this. But I like the sound of his full name. It’s big with lots of syllables. Big as he is.
“Gunnar Magnusson suits you.”
He nods his concession. “Are you hungry? Freddie made breakfast.”
My head pops up. This empty stomach flip-flops like a dog doing tricks for a treat. “Yes. Must. Eat. Food.”
I grab the edge of the sink basin and try to pull up, but I’m weak. How humiliating. Gunnar Magnusson stands, offers a hand, which I reluctantly accept, and we head downstairs.
Wearing a funny white hat that looks like a debauched cloud, Freddie flits around the kitchen, wielding a utensil of some sort, occasionally flipping whatever is in the pan on the stove. The smells of cooking meat and an undercurrent of something sweet make my stomach roar with hunger.
“Good morning,” he says jovially.
I stare at the maniac. “How are you even standing?”
He drank more alcohol than Gunnar Magnusson and me combined, and he ate at least five suckers.
“You’re a god, aren’t you?” I say, truly awed.
He laughs. “It’s not the first time I’ve been called that, but usually it’s the morning after a wild night with a babe or two.”
“Respect,” I say, lifting my coffee mug to him. He said that word to me last night when I stood on a table at the bar and slammed three shots of “tequila” in quick succession.
He laughs. His teeth are very white. Like Gunnar Magnusson, he’s also very handsome. Different, but handsome.
Damn this uterus!
“When are you shipping out?” Freddie asks Gunnar Magnusson.
Gunnar Magnusson sighs. “Well, I missed my flight. It took off three hours ago.”
“Good. I’ll hook you and Loki up with a new one. You can stay here another day or two,” Freddie says as he slides a flat piece of bread onto a plate next to two slices of fragrant red and whitish meat. He sets the delicacy in front of me. My mouth waters, and I stab the round cake with my fork.
He holds up a hand to stop me from devouring it and waves a small container filled with thick brown liquid under my nose. “Syrup. For your pancake.”
It smells sweet and a little strange, but I’ll try anything once. I drizzle the “syrup” over the bread and sample it. The flavor is similar to caramelized sugar but like nothing I’ve ever eaten. My taste buds explode.
“This is an orgasm in my mouth,” I declare and stuff the rest of the pancake in.
Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie stare at me as I chew.
“What?” I say around the wad of pancake and syrup cud.
Huginn stumbles into the kitchen, weaving across the floor, his talons scratching the tile. He bumps into a cabinet, snarls at it, and clucks. I toss him a crumb of pancake, but he doesn’t want it. His stomach must feel like mine did.
“I need to get home,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “My professors are expecting me, and I have to wrap up my thesis so I can graduate in May.”
I don’t ask what “thesis” or “graduate” is. I’m too enamored of this breakfast to care.
Freddie sits next to me and looks over at Gunnar Magnusson. “I gotcha. Speaking of graduation, I never asked you about your dig in Iceland. Sorry, man. Distrac
tions. How’d it go?”
Gunnar Magnusson has never been one to brag, but at Freddie’s mention of his work, pride alights in his sparkling eyes. It shines through his words too.
“We unearthed another longhouse. Found some coins and other interesting things inside. They lend strong evidence to the existing theory that the Icelanders of the 800s traded with the British. I suspect the artifacts we found will date back to earlier in that century than previously thought.”
“Cool. Way cool.” Freddie’s head bobs. “That reminds me. I saw an article about that paper you cowrote in one of the online magazines. Hold on. I’ll see if I can find it.”
He pulls out his phone, types some words, and waits for the screen to load. These devices are absolutely mesmerizing. I observed Freddie using his all last night. I must get one of my own.
But something snags my attention as I peer around his arm, marveling at the wonders of modern technology. On the side of the “website” is a rectangle with words and a picture that shifts every second.
Past and present collide. Witness the wonders of how ancient Norse culture became a modern phenomenon at the Asgard Awakening exhibition, the text at the bottom reads. Limited engagement ends March 23.
The pictures include Viking helmets, weapons, coins, and jewelry. A silver bracelet stands out from the rest. I immediately recognize it. Chills climb my neck like a million little spiders.
“Stop,” I say, dropping my fork and leaning into Freddie’s personal space to study the image. “What’s that?”
Freddie shrugs and angles the phone toward me.
Barely visible on the finely hammered bracelet is a hunk of polished white bone lit up by a symbol I know all too well.
I jump out of my seat, knocking the chair over. The space between the slats on the back save a surprised Huginn from a royal squashing. He peeps, trapped by the chair, shaking his tail feathers and scowling at me.
“That’s Laguz!” I hop up and down and point at the gleaming white inlay sporting a vertical line with half an arrow on top.
I can hardly believe my eyes. One of my runes. Finally! But Kenaz and Othala—the other two that were embedded on the bracelet—are gone. Whoever owns this piece did a good job of covering up the spots where the original stones were. If I can find this rune, maybe the others won’t be far away.
“Where is this bracelet?” I demand, stomping my foot.
Freddie taps the text, then makes the screen bigger with his thumb and index finger. “Says it’s from Alda Grímsdóttir’s personal collection. It’s on display at a museum here in New York.”
“What’s today’s date?” I ask.
“March twenty-third. The last day it’ll be on exhibit.”
“Hold on a second,” Gunnar Magnusson says, leaning over for a closer look. “That bracelet looks to be from around the early ninth century. Laguz is a female-centric symbol of intuition, creativity, and the unconscious.”
Yeah, that’s not all it’s a symbol of. But I don’t tell them what else it means.
“Its owner was probably rich, but not top-dog rich,” he continues and points to the blown-up rune. “See, there’s only one stone. Researchers believe the presence of two or even three stones in jewelry like this signified a higher station and greater wealth.”
“You’re assuming there’s only one,” I say. “Look more closely, and you’ll find evidence of two others—one on either side—that were removed.”
Kenaz and Othala. I miss them fiercely. I will find them. But most importantly, I must find Ihwaz, the rune that grants immortality. Once I’m a god again, I’ll have all the time in the world to find the other runes.
Gunnar Magnusson squints at the picture. He’s not wearing his glasses, but he refuses to put them on in front of Freddie. I understand. It’s a man thing. Or, as Freddie calls it, a “bro” thing.
Gunnar Magnusson shakes his head. “I can’t tell from this low-resolution image.”
“Trust me,” I mumble as I tap the photo for more information and scan the ensuing text. “They’re missing.”
He glances at me curiously as if to say something, but he holds his tongue.
I find what I’m looking for on the website and pass the phone back to Freddie.
I look down at Huginn, still trapped within the slats of the chair, too short to climb out, but listening to the conversation with great interest. “What say you, bird? Is that not my rightful possession?” I nod at the phone.
A guilty SQUARK! is his only answer.
He knows something.
“May I have a word with you?” I ask him. “In private?”
Freddie and Gunnar Magnusson exchange amused looks as I lead Huginn into the adjacent room littered with cushy cushions and rugged rugs. The men talk quietly in the kitchen, but I can’t hear what they’re saying.
I pick up Huginn and set him on the ottoman, then take the seat opposite. The chair is so big, it tries to swallow me. I kick free of its grip with no small fight. Perched on the edge of the cushion, I lean close to the bird and narrow my eyes at him.
“Tell me what you know about that rune.”
Cluck, cluck, cluck.
“Don’t play dumb with me, Huginn. Did Odin put it there? Did he steal the other runes that were in the bracelet?”
One of his eyes flips to glittering blue and settles on me. I get the sneaking suspicion that Odin is not only watching and listening to me through the chicken, but he’s also targeting me. As in, zeroing in on my location.
I grab the nearest pillow, knock Huginn off the ottoman onto the carpet, and pummel his prone form.
SQUARK! SQUARK! SQUARRRRRK!
Wings flap furiously. Feathers fly. Talons scratch the fabric covering the pillow as he struggles to escape.
Hovering over him on all fours, I shove my finger in the bird’s face. “You’re spying on me and sending my location to Odin, aren’t you? I trusted you!”
Here’s the truth: I’m making a much bigger deal out of this than it is. I’m not stupid. Gathering information for the old goat is Huginn’s job. I didn’t trust him for a second, though I wouldn’t have minded if he’d really befriended me. He’s actually kind of fun to be around. And he serves as a great improvised weapon in a pinch.
But never mind that. My current hissy fit is designed to make me appear weak. I want Odin to underestimate me. I want him to think I’ve lost my mind somewhere in transition from male god to Midgardian woman.
What I don’t want him to know is that I’m on to him.
I recognized the name Alda Grímsdóttir when Freddie spoke it. She’s the executive producer of Asgard Awakening. I saw her name in the credits during the marathon. I also believe she’s either a messenger for Odin or the man himself, either hiding behind a pseudonym or physically transformed into a woman, like me. Alda means “long-lived,” and Gríms is a variant of Grímr, which means “a person wearing a helmet.”
A long-lived person wearing a helmet fits Odin’s modus operandi.
“I’m going after that rune tonight,” I lie, “and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“No, Loki!” Huginn cries. “Odin’s gone now. I’m sorry.”
“Too little, too late.”
I grab the bird by the throat and stand. A scuffle ensues. His claws swipe at my neck and face, snagging on my clothes. Feathers fly. Wings pump. Skin slices open. I shake him loose, cart him to the back door, and toss him outside. “Good riddance.”
I shut the door and dust off my hands. When I turn to go to the kitchen, Freddie and Gunnar Magnusson are standing in the corner watching me.
Gunnar Magnusson points after Huginn. “You chucked the chicken.” He sounds disappointed.
A muffled SQUARK! echoes against the closed door. Scratching follows.
I shoo the men upstairs, away from prying ears. Since he can’t fly, Huginn won’t be able to hear us up here. I slip into our room and shut the door.
“I know this sounds crazy,” I begin carefu
lly, “but we can’t trust Huginn. He’s hooked in to Odin, and the old man knows everything Huginn sees and hears.”
Freddie says, “Seems reasonable to me.”
Gunnar Magnusson glares at him and crosses his arms.
“I’m sorry you missed your plane, Gunnar Magnusson—”
“Why does she call you by your last name?” Freddie interrupts, looking at his friend. “Is that some kind of Domination/submission kink thing?”
Gunnar Magnusson shrugs, his cheeks coloring.
I ignore them. “I need to go to Atlanta, and since you do too, maybe we can travel together.”
Gunnar Magnusson holds up a hand. “Wait a minute. Why do you suddenly need to go to Atlanta?”
“I thought you were both going to Atlanta,” Freddie interjects.
We both turn to him and say, “Shut up.”
I grin at Gunnar Magnusson and unzip my suitcase. “Because, fine sir, that’s where Laguz is heading. We’re gonna let Odin think we’re going after the bracelet in New York, but in actuality, we’ll intercept it at its next stop. At an Asgard Awakening convention in Atlanta. A few days from now.”
It’s a good thing Odin gave me the gift of English, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to decipher any of that from the website.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Freddie asks.
“What do you think she’s saying?” Gunnar Magnusson replies warily.
“Road trip!”
My eyes widen with glee. “I don’t know what that is, but yes! Road trip!”
I lift my suitcase by the handle, and a gaggle of vibrators spills out onto the floor. Several of the devices sputter to life, thumping jerkily across the surrounding sea of sheer sleeping gowns and boots and jewels and candies.
Completely unfazed, Freddie says, “I totally called it on the kink thing. I’m off to pack.”
He prances out of the room looking pleased with himself, leaving Gunnar Magnusson staring open-mouthed at the army of marching vibrators, his face as red as a beet.
Chapter Fourteen
“You realize that chicken won’t survive on its own out there,” Gunnar Magnusson says, glancing to the window overlooking the backyard.
