Runed

by Kendall Grey

  This is a place of death, and I don’t want to be anywhere near it with my mortality as fragile as it is. My butt cheeks clench as I wade through the sea of sickness into a room separated from others with a white curtain.

  Gunnar Magnusson sits on the edge of a bed. Our suitcases are lined up against the wall, mine with the strange-looking gadget Freddie made clamped near the handle. A man in a white coat aims a small flashlight into Gunnar Magnusson’s eye and shifts it away. Then he does the same with the other eye.

  Black stitches mar Gunnar Magnusson’s forehead and cheek. A sling contains his left arm, forcing it into a bent position. Despite his injuries, when he sees me, his lips crack into a painful smile. He winces and presses his fingers just below the gash on his cheek.

  “I strongly recommend you remain here overnight,” the doctor says. “You have a mild concussion.”

  Gunnar Magnusson shakes his head. “No can do, Doc. We’ve got a convention to attend.”

  The skeptical doctor shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll get your discharge papers ready.” He leaves.

  I walk over to Gunnar Magnusson. He holds out his arms tentatively. I hug him. The closeness is nice. I wish I had more time to enjoy it.

  “What’s the news about our bird?” he asks.

  “It’s not good. He’s still with the veterinarian.” I pause. “Gunnar Magnusson, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  He nods for me to continue.

  “I lost your hamingja,” I confess. “Huginn ate it. The veterinarian said it saved his life. So, I left it with him. For luck.”

  He seems to mull this information over. “You don’t believe that necklace bestows good luck, do you?”

  “Of course, I do. The moment I lost it, everything went to Hel. We got the flat tire. Then had an accident. There’s no telling what will happen next. Without it, we’re cursed.”

  Gunnar Magnusson touches my sleeve. “Loki, I believe we make our own luck. Just because a few bad things happened doesn’t mean it’s a necklace’s fault.” He pauses. “If you really think you’ll have bad luck without it, why did you leave it with Huginn?”

  I sigh. “Because he needs it more than I do. He’s going to die without it.”

  “Did you just commit a selfless act?” he teases.

  I puff out my chest. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just keeping a promise not to kill the stupid bird.”

  “Either way, selfless.”

  “Whatever,” I grumble. “We have less than a day to get to Atlanta. We need a new plan.”

  Freddie steps up. “I’ll book us a flight. You have my credit card?”

  “About that.” I pull the plastic out of my pocket and hand it over slowly. “The lady at the veterinarian said it was ‘declined.’ I had to use the cash you gave me for a down payment on Huginn.”

  Freddie’s forehead furls. “What do you mean, declined? There’s no way. My account’s been paid. I have an unlimited line of credit. Let me see my phone.”

  I give him the phone and turn to Gunnar Magnusson while Freddie silently argues with his credit card app.

  “See,” I say, nodding to Freddie. “I told you. We’re out of luck.”

  “How much cash do you have left?” Gunnar Magnusson asks Freddie.

  Freddie looks to me and knocks a brow.

  I shrug. “The cost was $500. I gave them $500.”

  “Shit.” Freddie digs out his wallet and thumbs through the scant bills within. “We’re down to a hundred bucks. Let me see if I can find out what’s going on with the credit card company.” He wanders out of the room.

  “Is there another method of transportation?” I ask.

  “Not one I can think of. Without money, we won’t get far,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “We could try hitchhiking, but that can be dangerous, and there’s no guarantee we’ll get picked up.”

  “If this ‘hitchhiking’ is the only way, then we have our answer,” I say.

  “What about Huginn?”

  I shake my head. “We don’t have time to wait for him to heal.”

  “So, you’re just going to leave him with some random vet?” His voice pinches with muted anger. “Don’t you care about him?”

  “Yes, Gunnar Magnusson, I do care,” I say, “but I care about my mortality more. The veterinarian will tend to his injuries. This may be his only chance for survival. Without any money, we won’t be able to bring him with us anyway, so hitchhiking, it is. Also, I don’t know what hitchhiking is.”

  “It’s begging for a free ride from passing cars on the highway. And there has to be another way,” he counters, no longer concealing his frustration.

  I take his hand and squeeze it. “This is not how I wanted things to go, but we’re out of options. Maybe once I find Laguz, we can come back for Huginn. A couple of days’ rest will be good for him. As long as he has the necklace, he should be fine.”

  “If that’s what you want to do.” He’s unhappy with me.

  I’m unhappy with me too, but my hands are tied, just like I was tied to that rock with the serpent spitting venom in my face before Ragnarok. Sometimes, you have to accept the shite-storm, give in to it, and wait for it to pass. Easier than fighting a battle you’re too small to win.

  Freddie returns, grim faced. “My credit card has been locked down. The company says there’s evidence of fraudulent activity by an unknown party. They’re sending me a new card, but it won’t arrive at my house until tomorrow.”

  “After I pay for this hospital visit, I’ll be maxed out on my credit,” Gunnar Magnusson says apologetically.

  I steel my resolve. “We’re hitchhiking. End of discussion.”

  “This ought to be fun,” Freddie says. I can’t tell if he’s serious, but I’m guessing he is. Freddie seems to enjoy living life on the run. He’s a man after my own heart.

  The doctor’s assistant slides open the curtain and hands Gunnar Magnusson some papers and a small bottle. She explains his “discharge instructions” and walks us out to the lobby where he pays his bill. Indeed, his credit card is at its limit.

  When the three of us walk out into the waning sunshine with our luggage in tow, I take Gunnar Magnusson’s arm. Mostly, I want to make sure he’s steady on his feet, but I also don’t mind the closeness.

  We walk down the street, using Freddie’s phone for navigation. Freddie holds up his thumb every time a car passes. No one stops. We head toward the freeway.

  An hour later, we’re still walking. Not a single vehicle has so much as slowed down for us. Gunnar Magnusson would never admit it, but he’s getting tired. I can tell by how heavily he’s leaning on Freddie and me. We stop to rest at a gas station, and Freddie goes over to talk to a truck driver.

  The man’s shaking head suggests he’s not going to help us.

  The sun is gone now, and darkness fills not only the sky but also my heart. We’re half a day away from Atlanta by car. If we manage to find a ride right this minute, we won’t arrive until tomorrow morning, and it doesn’t look like that’s even a remote possibility.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I march up to another man, much older, feeding his pickup truck with gasoline through a hose. “Hello,” I say.

  He smiles widely. He’s missing his two front teeth. His withered cheeks are rosy, weathered by sun and wind and age. “Hey, little lady,” he drawls appreciatively, tracing the curves of my body with glazed, watery eyes.

  So, it’s gonna be like that. Okay.

  I hitch a hand to my hip and kick it out. “We need a ride. Where are you going?”

  He sniffs and spits on the ground, leaning against the rickety old truck. His gaze floats toward Freddie and Gunnar Magnusson and hardens a little. “Headin’ down to Charlotte.”

  “Is that near Atlanta?”

  “About four hours northeast of it, I reckon,” he says.

  “How about you take us there?” I say. Then, remembering how Gunnar Magnusson preaches politeness, I tack on, “I would apprec
iate it.”

  The man slides his attention from my face to my chest, where his eyes settle.

  So, he likes boobs? Okay. I’ll give him boobs.

  I lift my shirt, dip my head to the side, and say, “Pretty please?”

  He licks his lips and grins from ear to ear. “Yes, ma’am! Come on down.”

  I look south and appreciate my breasts right there with him. They are quite wondrous. With a smile, I lower the shirt and wave over a stunned Gunnar Magnusson and a laughing Freddie. We hop into the back of the man’s truck with our suitcases, and we’re off.

  Though it’s early spring, the temperature is chilly. But tucked between my two man friends, I’m warm and content enough to catch a few winks of sleep. The guy’s driving leaves much to be desired. He swerves and slams the brakes, throwing our bodies into one another and against the short walls of the truck’s bed.

  Several hours into the drive, after a particularly ruthless thrashing that nearly ejects us into traffic, Freddie turns to look into the cabin.

  “I don’t want to alarm anyone,” he says, jerking a thumb toward the driver, “but Cletus McRedneck up there is guzzling hooch.”

  “What is ‘guzzling hooch’?” I ask and peer through the glass. Cletus McRedneck holds a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and he’s slur-singing along with a whiny, twangy tune on the radio. Badly. “Oh.”

  Gunnar Magnusson wears a tight expression like he’s in pain. He says nothing.

  “Yee-haw!” Cletus McRedneck shouts, lifting his bottle through the open window and brandishing it like a weapon. “Welcome to Charlotte!”

  Indeed, a sign displays the same words. We’re getting closer, but the prospects of arriving in one piece are diminishing with each passing mile in this drunkard’s truck.

  He veers off the highway, sliding from the exit ramp onto the shoulder, then quickly yanking the wheel to right his overcompensation. He slows to a stop at a red light. Freddie taps on the window separating us from him.

  Cletus McRedneck slides the glass open. “What y’all want?”

  “You mind if I drive you to your house?” Freddie asks casually. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, don’t you?” He adopts a friendly tone, which seems to appeal to our host.

  Cletus McRedneck considers Freddie’s offer. “I am getting a mite-bit tired.” He turns up the bottle and slurps some more liquor.

  “Why don’t you tell me where you live, and I’ll make sure you get home safely,” Freddie offers.

  The traffic light turns green.

  “All right,” Cletus McRedneck says. “Come on up here.”

  The truck lurches forward as Cletus opens the door.

  “Put it in park!” Freddie shouts.

  “Oh. Right. Park.” Cletus McRedneck searches the steering wheel, finds the lever, and sloppily throttles it into place.

  Horns honk behind us. Freddie jumps out and darts into the driver’s seat, waving the cars behind us around. He quickly navigates the truck through the intersection. He and Cletus McRedneck discuss directions, and I turn to Gunnar Magnusson. His face is pale with a sheen of sweat. I touch his forehead. It’s cold and clammy.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  He nods, but I don’t believe him.

  Suddenly, I feel awful for dragging him and Freddie along on this wild-chicken chase for my runes. I put them through too much, and my bad luck—or targeting by the Norns or Odin or all of the above—has rubbed off on them.

  When we get to Cletus McRedneck’s house, I know what I have to do.

  Freddie and poor, hobbling Gunnar Magnusson help the old drunk through the door as I unload the suitcases and wheel them to the porch. While they’re occupied with easing the man onto the couch, I snag the keys from where Freddie laid them on the table near the door and sneak outside.

  I run out to the truck and fiddle with the keys till I find the right one. Having watched Freddie and Gunnar Magnusson drive, I have the basics down. The left pedal on the floor is used for brakes and the one on the right is for moving forward. The wheel turns the truck. Lever tells the vehicle to go forward, backward, or park.

  Easy enough.

  I turn the ignition and pull the gear lever. The truck lurches backward. I stomp the brakes and check my surroundings. Finding the street clear, I screech out of the driveway and head in the direction we came from. The signs point me to Interstate 85 South, and within minutes, I have this driving thing down.

  I feel bad about leaving Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie with the old man, but it’s for the best. Once I find Laguz, my luck will turn.

  Well, I think it’ll turn. Until I get within ten miles of Atlanta, and swirling blue and white lights appear in the rearview mirror, signaling for me to pull over.

  I debate the merits of gunning the gas to escape and decide it’s worth a shot. When I shove the accelerator to the floor, the engine sputters and spits like an ornery old grandmother.

  “Oh, come on!” I shout at the stupid clunker. I slap the dashboard twice. Blue lights continue to spin, and the siren accompanying them grows louder as the policeman practically grinds into my back bumper.

  That’s when I notice the little symbol on the dashboard that looks like a gas pump is lighted up. Its needle rests definitively on the “E” near the bottom. The wheels ease to a stop. I close my eyes and shift the lever into the “P” position.

  If I try to run, the policeman will catch me. If I stay in the car, the policeman will have me. Either way, I’m screwed.

  The uniformed man walks up to the truck and leans down, hand on the gun strapped to his hip. He motions for me to unroll the window. I can’t figure out this contraption, so I open the door. His fingers tighten on the weapon, and he says, “I need to see your license and registration.”

  I flirtatiously bat my eyelashes at him. “My what?”

  “Identification. Your driver’s license.” His eyes rove through the cabin, then return suspiciously to me.

  Of course, I don’t have a driver’s license. But I do still have the passport I stole from the girl at the airport, so I reach for my pocket.

  The officer tenses. “Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  My pulse races. I carefully remove the passport and hand it to him.

  He shakes his head. “I need your driver’s license.”

  I smile again and lean over so he can see how big my breasts are. “Is there a problem?”

  He scowls. He seems neither amused nor interested.

  He backs up a pace. “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Friday morning, I awake from a night of fitful sleep in a claustrophobic jail cell and try to remember my dreams, but it’s like catching falling sand. Just as an image brightens and becomes clearer, it slips through my fingers, blown away by the winds of forgetfulness.

  I saw the hummingbird again, but I can’t tell if it was a dream or a memory. I flex my brain harder, trying to squeeze out meaning to hang on the wall of my mind. If I can grasp one solid piece of the picture, I may be able to decipher the entire thing.

  “Hummingbird,” I murmur to myself, sitting up. What was the hummingbird doing when I first woke in the snow?

  I think back to that day, which feels like an age ago, even though it hasn’t even been a week. I woke up to a whisper. Wake, Trickster. But I’m certain it wasn’t the hummingbird.

  Hummingbird …

  Bird.

  Chicken.

  Huginn.

  Where Huginn goes, so does …

  Muninn.

  Huginn and Muninn?

  Thought and Memory?

  “Flaming avian shite kebabs,” I say to myself. Was the hummingbird Muninn?

  If so, and he still serves Odin as Memory, then maybe his appearance at my awakening triggered memories of my former life as a god and of what happened at Ragnarok.

  But the little bird disappeared right after I woke, and when I saw him again at the gas station yesterday, h
e kept his distance. Why? If he’s doing Odin’s bidding, it seems like he’d want to remain close. Allfather is in the business of everyone else’s business.

  Could Muninn have gone rogue like Huginn? Much as I’d like to believe he has, I doubt it. I get the feeling Muninn is watching me from a distance while Huginn watches from the front row. A global perspective paired with a local one might provide Odin with a clearer picture of what’s going on.

  Loud clattering on the metal bars of my cell rattles my thoughts. Being trapped in this cage feels like my son’s entrails entrapping me prior to Ragnarok all over again. If I had a giant serpent spitting poison in my face, it would be just like old times.

  “Loki,” a uniformed guard with a bald head calls, “if that is indeed your real name.”

  I scowl at him. “It is.”

  “Your attorney is here.” The guard unlocks the metal door and slides it open.

  I step out, and he grabs my arm roughly, escorting me to a small, windowless room. A handsome man with dark brown skin, sporting a navy-blue suit, sits at the little table. He wears glasses similar to Gunnar Magnusson’s, but these are squarish in shape. I swallow at the thought of Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie, stuck in Charlotte with the raving old drunk guy. They’re probably cursing me this very moment. That, or they’re celebrating their freedom from my shenanigans.

  The suit man stands up and nods to the guard, who leaves and shuts the door behind him.

  “Miss … Loki?” the dark man says, holding out a hand. “I’m your court-appointed attorney, Darryl Donovan.”

  I grasp his hand and shake it firmly. A low-vibration hum ripples between us. His face is strong and set like a mountain. Unyielding. His grip is just as hard. Disturbed by the ribboning energy between us, I pull away and study him closely.

  His voice is as deep as the sea; his eyes are as watchful as Allfather himself, but he is definitely not Odin. I would have sensed the old goat. The tilt of his head suggests he’s befuddled, as if he too felt the odd sensation when our hands touched. The air in the room crackles to life like a shield around us.

  I am strangely attracted to him, and I have no idea why.

  “Have we met?” he asks, eyeing me.