by Kendall Grey
Huginn has been squawking and clucking since I threw him out.
“I don’t care,” I say as I comb through my wet hair with the brush Gunnar Magnusson loaned me. “He’s a traitor. Let him die.”
“That’s cruel, Loki. You’re not cruel.”
I spin to face him. “You obviously have no idea who I am or what I’m capable of.”
He sits on the bed, watching me in the mirror. “Then clue me in. I’m not interested in running off and joining you on some vendetta for an imaginary foe your mind is fixated on.”
“Back to that, are we? Loki’s crazy. Find him some medicine.”
“Did you just refer to yourself as a man?”
“Yes, I did. Because that’s what—” I pause. He won’t understand. Maybe I don’t want him to. I really gotta figure out where my head is on the topic of Gunnar Magnusson. “Never mind. The chicken will be fine, trust me.”
I finish stuffing the vibrators back into the suitcase and head to the bathroom to change.
“Loki,” Gunnar Magnusson calls behind me.
I turn.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Be careful with Freddie.”
I quirk my head to the side. “Why?”
“He’s a party boy, as you know. I’d just hate to see you get hurt.” With that he walks out, shutting the door behind him.
What the Hel was that about? Score one for adding to my general confusion and gender identity issues. Thanks a lot, Gunnar Magnusson.
And if Freddie’s such a “party boy,” maybe he’s where I need to be hanging my intentions. Vibrators get the job done in a pinch, but what would the real thing be like in this body?
I shake my head. I’m not ready to find out. When I was high on weed, I thought I was, but I’m carrying too much baggage from the previous incarnation. Maybe in time. My body’s all for it, but my head … not so much. The constant battle between the two weighs on me.
I’ll figure it out. I always do.
After dressing and cleaning my teeth with something Gunnar Magnusson calls a “toothbrush,” I drag my suitcase downstairs.
Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie wait in the living room. Freddie is dressed in a black shirt with the top buttons undone and jeans that hug the curves of his skinny legs. Gunnar Magnusson wears his usual red flannel shirt and dark, loose-fitting work pants. When I look at them, my hormones amp up their never-ending quest for man meat.
I am a mess of desire and instinct, tempered by only a sliver of self-control.
Ah, Chaos. You are a beautiful thing.
“Shall we?” Freddie asks, swinging open the door.
Out we go to the pretty red Porsche. We load our bags in the storage space and back seat. Freddie and Gunnar Magnusson say they’ll take turns driving.
For the first hour of the trip south, the two old friends reminisce about their exploits as teens in “high school” in Atlanta. They boast about girls they dated, beers they drank, sports they played. Gunnar Magnusson is vague, less forthcoming about things he’s done than Freddie. He says he focused more on schoolwork than he did on something called “football,” which is why he was never any good at it.
Freddie, on the other hand, claims he was a “chick magnet” in high school. Why he would want to attract chickens eludes me.
When the conversation lulls, I take it upon myself to keep the fires burning with a little anecdote about the time when Odin, Hœnir, and I journeyed together on a similar “road trip.”
I watch the cars disappear behind us, pleased at the speed with which Freddie drives. “Have you ever heard the story of Loki’s theft of Idunn’s golden apples? It reminds me of us.”
“I know it,” Gunnar Magnusson says.
“I don’t,” Freddie interjects. “Share.”
“One day, we—er, Loki, Odin, and Hœnir went on a journey, as they were wont to do. After traveling many hours, they became famished. They stopped to slaughter an ox, put it on a spit, and waited for it to cook. They went to taste the meat, but it was cold. So, they cooked it some more. A few hours passed. Still cold.
“Then an eagle in a tree above them said he would make the meat cook if they promised to give him his share of the meal. The Æsir agreed, and when they presented the steaming beef to the eagle, he ate almost every bit.”
“Must’ve been one hell of a bird,” Freddie mutters.
“Oh, he was. Huge, I tell you. The size of your home, Freddie,” I continue. “Well, I—Loki, famished and tired, became angry that the eagle had eaten so much, so he chased it, slashing the air with a stick. The eagle flew away, but the stick caught in his talons, lifting poor Loki into the sky and dragging him over mountains and trees and assorted patches of scar-inducing nightmares made real upon godly flesh. Loki begged the bird—who was actually a giant named Thiazi—to set him down, but the eagle said he would only do so if Loki brought him Idunn’s golden apples.”
“What was so special about her apples?” Freddie says.
“I’m glad you asked,” I reply. “Her apples gave the gods a youthful appearance. See, the Æsir were immortal, but in order to keep up the vivaciousness of youth, they had to consume her apples regularly.” I don’t mention that with newfound knowledge and the right runes, many of us were later able to circumvent having to imbibe, but why ruin a good story?
My thoughts snag on a bump in the road of my memory.
No runes. No apples. No perma-youth. I shall endeavor to remedy that unpleasantness as soon as I get my hands on Laguz.
“Anyway,” I continue, “when Loki got home, he tricked Idunn into examining some other apples he found, saying they seemed comparable to hers. Why not bring her apples to the field, and she could decide if they were as good?
“Idunn was not the sharpest nail in the box. She went along with Loki. Thiazi the giant had a crush on her. Disguised again as an eagle, he swept her away, kidnapping her for years.
“In the meantime, the Æsir and Vanir grew old without their precious fruit. They all hated Loki and accused him of some trickery that got Idunn in trouble. Loki promised to ask the frost giants about Idunn’s whereabouts if Freya would loan him her feathery cloak.”
“This cloak,” Freddie muses. “It gave Loki the ability to fly? Or was it just so fabulous that he needed it to make a fashion statement?”
I smile. “A little of both,” I admit. That cloak was ballsy and beautiful. When I wore it, I felt like the king of the Nine Worlds. Gods, I miss that cloak. Though, now I have my own feather coat, which is the next best thing.
“Loki flew in bird form to Thiazi’s home, valiantly rescued Idunn, and transformed her into a nut, which he grasped in his claws as he made his escape. But Thiazi was furious that Loki would steal from him. He turned into an eagle and chased them all the way home to Asgard.
“But Odin and the other Æsir were expecting him. They piled up heaps of wood shavings and set them on fire right after Loki swept in with Idunn. The fire caught Thiazi unawares, and he crashed into the gate, where the Æsir quickly disposed of him.”
“So, Loki’s a hero,” Freddie says.
Gunnar Magnusson laughs. “You didn’t tell him the other part. About Skadi, Thiazi’s giantess daughter.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “I don’t think that part is nearly as interesting as—”
“What did the giant babe do?” Freddie asks Gunnar Magnusson. “Did she retaliate?”
“Oh, yeah,” Gunnar Magnusson says with a chuckle.
I spy through the bushes of fur on Gunnar Magnusson’s cheek a tiny dimple. I want to bite it. He deserves it for bringing up that tired old story about me and the damned goat. Also, the dimple looks good enough to eat.
“When Skadi came looking for vengeance,” Gunnar Magnusson finishes for me, “she demanded two things: an Æsir husband, and the gift of laughter, as she was heartbroken over the loss of her father.
“She chose Njord for her husband. Loki then tied his own balls with a rope to a goat’s beard. When the goat jerked, h
e screamed. The two tugged back and forth, and Skadi got her wish. She laughed for the first time since her father’s death.”
Freddie bursts into riotous laughter at my expense. “Who the hell ties an ornery goat to his balls?”
I cross my arms, stuff my fists under my armpits, and sink into the back seat.
“Loki,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “That’s who. If you haven’t watched Asgard Awakening, they do a great retelling of that myth.”
“It’s not a myth,” I shout, louder than I mean to. “And the producers of that show wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them in the gonads.”
Freddie glances at me in the mirror. Silence shadows the car for a long moment. I resume pouting as the two of them relive stories from their shared past. Tales of summer parties and swimming pools, a school trip to Washington, DC, and first kisses fill the space my tantrum left vacant.
Once again, Loki is left out. Just as he was shunned the night Baldur died. Why is it such a struggle for me to find meaning in life? I’m clever. I’m handsome—beautiful, good-looking—whatever. I have an awesome sense of humor. But I don’t fit in anywhere.
The son of frost giants, I joined the Æsir as Odin’s sworn blood brother, he made me feel welcome for a time, including me on his journeys, inviting me to dinners. The other gods turned on me soon after. Odin was the only Asgardian who still called me friend, but eventually he soured on me too. When he didn’t invite me to his table to drink that last time when everything literally went to Hel with Baldur, I knew we were through.
I don’t enjoy the bitter taste of loneliness. It makes my tongue itch and my fists do things I can’t control. Worse, it unleashes my deadliest weapon of all: my mouth. My tongue is a master at slashing and destroying.
With a little luck, I’ll pay Odin back for ostracizing me.
I reach for the lucky necklace Gunnar Magnusson gave me, but my fingers find only a naked leather thong. I drop my chin to check for the raven pendant—in my lap, on the seat, on the floor. My heart skips a beat.
I pat myself down. Check my pockets. I shake out my shirt and feather coat.
Then it hits me.
When I threw Huginn out. I grabbed him, and he distracted me with feathers and wings and feet and squawking.
That little cock snatched my raven while we fought!
Ten cattle says he swallowed it. Because that’s how unlucky Loki is when he doesn’t have hamingja.
A crash of thunder explodes to the right. The Porsche veers suddenly, and Freddie struggles to control the steering wheel as I tumble into the door. Cars around us honk their horns. Brake lights ignite in a sea of red. Gunnar Magnusson’s fist tightens on the armrest, his knuckles white. The car goes thump-thump-thump-thump in rapid succession. It feels like we’re riding a sorely damaged and limping horse.
“What the hell?” Gunnar Magnusson shouts as Freddie slams the brakes.
For a moment, my life, short as it’s been in this body, flashes before my eyes, and the world slows to a crawl.
I have no runes.
I have no powers.
I have no immortality.
I am going to die in this car.
I know this because my heart is racing, and blood pounds against my ears in a death beat. My hands tremble as if I have a fever. Sweat rolls down the inside of my shirt. My muscles are locked into place.
I can’t move.
I am dying.
I am dead.
All because a stupid spy-chicken stole my lucky raven. Thanks a lot, Huginn. I owe you one.
Chapter Fifteen
I wake to my favorite pair of concerned, clear blue eyes staring down at me. Gunnar Magnusson’s face relaxes a touch when I blink at him.
“Loki.” His voice is gentle. He’s always so gentle.
“Am I in Hel?” I ask weakly. Everything in my peripheral vision is blurry. I can’t see the dead surrounding me, only Gunnar Magnusson. This can’t be Valhalla. I’m not good enough to end up there. But Gunnar Magnusson is, so maybe …
“If you define Hel as a tow truck dragging a Porsche behind it, then yes. You’re in Hel.”
“Ha ha,” I say, but I’m not laughing. “If this isn’t Hel, then … Valhalla?” I ask hopefully.
He shakes his head and smiles. His teeth dazzle me. “Only warriors end up there.”
I’m a warrior. Kind of.
“This is the New Jersey Turnpike, which I’d wager some might call hell,” he says. “We got a flat tire. I think you hit your head and passed out. Are you okay?”
I didn’t hit my head, and I freaked out.
I try to sit up, but my scrambled brain is screaming not to. It’s too shaken up. Confused by everything. I lie back down and plant the heels of my palms into my eyes to shut out encroaching reality closing in on me.
“I have to get that rune,” I say softly, keenly aware of my own mortality prickling the underside of my skin. “If I don’t find Laguz, I’ll be gone forever.”
Something hot sears my temple. I swat at it. My fingers come away with clear liquid. What is this sorcery?
I stare at the water. I do not understand.
Gunnar Magnusson brushes the streak away with his big thumb. “Your life does not hinge on finding an old hunk of bone, Loki. That’s superstition talking.”
“Right. And crazy. Don’t forget the crazy.” I should tell him about the raven pendant going missing, but I’m afraid he’ll be angry, or worse, hurt.
He loaned me his hamingja, and I’m obligated to return it when I’m done with it. While sticking to the spirit of an agreement has always been a sketchy prospect left up to interpretation, it does one no good to provoke the Norns with broken promises. Reneging on a sworn agreement ends badly 100 percent of the time.
“Everything okay back there?” Freddie turns from the driver’s seat to peer at us.
I sit up. We’re still in the Porsche, but we’re being transported on the back of a bigger vehicle.
“Yeah,” I mumble. My head feels a little better now. “What are we doing? How long was I out? How far till we get to Atlanta?”
“We’re going to a repair shop. I have a spare, but I don’t trust it,” Freddie says. “I’d rather have a professional install a brand-new tire. As soon as that’s finished, we’ll get back on the road. Shouldn’t be too long of a delay. We still have another twelve hours of driving.”
I look around the car. “Has anyone seen Huginn?”
Gunnar Magnusson frowns. “You left him in New York, remember?”
“Yes,” I snap, “I do remember. Did he stow away with us? He has a habit of sticking his beak where it doesn’t belong. I thought maybe he tagged along somehow.”
“You said he was spying on you,” Gunnar Magnusson replies quietly. I can tell by his delicate tone he’s trying not to upset the hysterical woman.
He thinks I’m a joke.
“What do I have to do or say to convince you I’m not crazy?” I ask. “Huginn is Odin’s raven. Reincarnated. I’m Loki. Also reincarnated. Odin has been watching me through Huginn’s eye. That’s why I had to ditch him. I can’t have busted-ass chickens spying on me, okay?”
“I believe you,” Freddie says from the front. A sucker stick pokes out of his mouth.
I tip my head to the side. “You do?”
He shrugs. “Sure. I mean, when we die, our energy has to go somewhere, right? Maybe you really were someone named Loki in a previous life. A Viking warrior? Why not?”
“I’m not a warrior … exactly. I’m a …” If I tell him I’m a trickster, it might put him off my side and onto Gunnar Magnusson’s. I need an ally. I’m not so sure Gunnar Magnusson fits the bill anymore. “I’m a negotiator.”
Gunnar Magnusson’s eyebrow hops. “That’s one word for it.”
I slap him with a scowl. Extra sauce.
He holds up his hands in apology. “I’m teasing.” He nudges me in the ribs with an elbow. “I believe you believe you’re Loki. Creative people have wild imaginations. N
othing wrong with that. You’re not hurting anyone.”
In this context, I fear “creative” is just another word for mentally unstable.
A terrifying thought occurs to me. What if he’s right? What if I’m crazy?
I think back on everything that’s happened to me in the last few days. I woke up naked in the snow. There are many explanations as to how that could’ve happened. Reincarnation does seem pretty farfetched when I look at the situation objectively.
Maybe I really am a human woman who was kidnapped and left for dead. Or robbed. Or raped.
I don’t think I was raped. I didn’t have any injuries when I woke up.
But robbery could explain the naked part. It’s possible that someone stole my possessions, took my clothes, and left me for dead in the middle of nowhere. Maybe the cold or the trauma of being targeted messed with my memory.
Could I have dreamed up Ragnarok? If so, why are my memories of it so visceral, so present in every thought and motivation? How do I know how to speak English if Odin didn’t grant me that gift? Did I always speak the language and just needed a bump on the head or some other jolt to the brain to jostle it loose?
What about Huginn? How do I understand him? Neither Gunnar Magnusson nor Freddie seem to.
Talking to a chicken is crazy. Claiming to understand him is even worse.
I clearly don’t have powers. I’ve tried using them, and they’re gone.
Oh my gods, I think I’m nuts.
“I need help,” I whimper, lowering my head into my hands.
“I’m here,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “I’ll help you.”
He slips a heavy arm around my shoulders and pulls me to the barrel of his chest. My soul was forged from the fires of Chaos—at least, in my demented mind it was—yet I’ve never felt warm. I don’t know how to be warm. My entire existence has been spent distant and cold.
Is this my lot in life? To remain cold, unattached, selfish?
Sitting close to Gunnar Magnusson gives me comfort I never knew as a god. But I’m not built for comfort.
I ease away from him and wipe my running nose with a sleeve. “I’m okay.”
