by Kendall Grey
“I don’t think so,” I say, though I’m not sure. He seems familiar, yet not.
With a quick gesture to the chair opposite him, he offers me a seat and slowly sinks into his own, studying me as if trying to place me. Feeling’s mutual, mister.
There is definite energy between us. I don’t know what to make of it, and I don’t think he knows either. We sit for a long moment, facing each other, he with neatly manicured hands folded loosely on top of a folder and I with palms flat on the table, ready to push up and run for the door in case something really weird happens.
Why the Hel would I think something weird would happen? There’s no way I could have met him—not in this incarnation. Still, the thrumming between my ribs will not shut up. I rub my stomach absently.
Hauling his gaze away, Darryl Donovan ends the staring contest, opens the folder on the table, and thumbs through the few pages. “It says here you were driving a stolen car without a license, and you’re in possession of a stolen passport. Did you stow away in a plane to get here?” He shuts the folder and targets me with his disturbing liquid-honey gaze. Feels like he’s picking apart my soul.
I definitely know this man.
From somewhere.
Some time.
Not here.
“Yes,” I say. “I did all of those things. Can I go now?”
He laughs humorlessly. “No. You can’t go anywhere but back home to Iceland. That’s where you’re from, correct?”
Bright white teeth contrast with his rich brown skin. I do my best to resist his considerable charms, but damn, he’s a looker. My girly bits are all a-tingle. My man-brain is doing its best to shut that noise down and failing spectacularly.
“I’m from Asgard,” I say, plumping my breasts under defiantly crossed arms.
He tosses his head back and barks another laugh, this one harsh to the point of scathing. It sounds like rumbles of thunder bellowing through a canyon, amplified by echoes.
“That’s rich,” he says, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes. “Maybe we can get you off on an insanity plea.”
I shrug. “Okay. Then can I go?”
“Just where were you heading? Why did you steal a man’s truck and drive it all the way from Charlotte?” He settles the glasses back in place.
“The Asgard Awakening convention,” I reply.
Now he gets interested. He smooths his purple tie flat, along with his surprised expression.
“It’s very important that I go there,” I beg. “Today. It has to be today.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Sorry, toots. I like Asgard Awakening too, so I get the obsession, but you aren’t going anywhere.”
Thrashing music erupts from Darryl Donovan’s coat pocket, startling me. It’s like Van Halen but with lots more screaming, a faster tempo, and louder shredding.
He lifts a finger and stands up, digging out his phone. “Excuse me a moment.” With the folder tucked under his bulging arm, he heads to the door, knocks on it, and steps outside, shutting it behind him.
I jump up and listen through the metal.
“Darryl Donovan. … Yes, I’m with her now. … She what? … Uh-huh. … Can you tell me your position there again? … This is highly unusual, Dr. Smith. You understand I’ll have to verify this information, right? … Yeah, I got it. Make sure you bring a copy of the orders, and I’ll have my people check with the prosecutor’s office. What time should we expect you? … If the judge approves it, my office will follow through as prescribed by law and she’ll be returned to your custody upon your arrival. I’ll meet you at the courthouse. … Thank you.”
In the silence that follows, I rush back to my seat and study my fingernails as if bored. Meanwhile, it feels like my heart’s about to thump clean out of my chest.
The door opens and a confused-looking Darryl Donovan returns. He places his eight fingers and two thumbs on the table, bracing over me like hungry Fenrir staring down at Tyr with his hand in the wolf’s mouth. “Did you forget to tell me that you broke out of a mental institution, Miss Loki?” He practically snarls my name.
Fires of vengeance light his intense amber eyes. Oddly, I’m even more turned on by this man than before. What is it about angry male energy that gets this body humming so fast?
I pass my tongue over my top lip and peer up at him through a tangle of blond, but I say nothing. I don’t know what a mental institution is, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t broken out of one. Unless a tomb of ice fits the description.
“I can’t say I’m surprised, given what you said about the Asgard Awakening convention and your adopted name.”
“It’s not adopted,” I say. “I was born Loki.”
“Of course you were.” He narrows his stormy eyes on me and folds his thick arms over his chest. That suit does wonders for him. It’s tight enough to accentuate his muscles without giving too much away. My imagination is on fire with dirty deeds I could perpetrate upon his impeccable personage.
“Dr. Smith, the administrator at your … healthcare facility, is coming to pick you up. I have to fill out some paperwork and submit it to the judge in court in an hour, but if all goes well, you’ll be back in your padded cell by tomorrow, wearing an aluminum foil hat and flinging spitballs at imaginary cats.”
I cock my head to the side. “What? No! I have to go to the convention. Bad things will happen if I don’t make it there tonight. Please, Darryl Donovan. You seem like a nice man. Is there nothing you can do to help me?” I put a little pout into my plea and wiggle my upper body so my boobs jiggle.
Undeterred, he shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. The law is the law. You broke it, and I’m duty bound to follow it.”
“But you said you might know me from somewhere,” I try. “I think I may know you too. I just can’t remember.”
His harsh gaze softens enough to let a sliver of regret beam out and graze my cheek. “Even if I did recall where I’ve seen you before, I can’t change the law.”
His posture relaxes a tad, and he sits. “Dr. Smith says the truck you stole wasn’t actually stolen. You borrowed it from your uncle. You should have asked, but you didn’t. Okay, you made a mistake. It happens. As for the passport, Smith claims there was a mix-up at your treatment center and one of the nurses gave you someone else’s. Why anyone needs a passport at a mental health facility, I’m not sure, but whatever. The only charge the prosecuting attorney can pin on you is driving without a license, and that’s not enough to hold you in jail. Since this is your first offense, they’ll probably ask you to pay a fine, and that’ll be it.”
“So, I can go?” I ask hopefully.
“After you make your appearance in court, yes. But you’ll be going back to your treatment facility under escort.”
That won’t do. Whoever is behind this stunt to have me locked up far away from my rune deserves a kick in the balls. I’m looking at you, Odin.
“Son of a bramble-boinking bitch-bag,” I curse.
Darryl Donovan stands and stuffs the folder under his arm. He suddenly looks a Hel of a lot less put together than he did before. As if sitting here in my illustrious presence has rattled him straight down to his fashion sense. The suit bunches at the elbows and crotch, hiking the cuffs of his pants too high and his sleeves too short. His glasses don’t sit right, like they’re slightly bent at the bridge of his nose, making them appear lopsided. And the papers he’d been so meticulous about keeping straight and orderly are no longer neat, but splayed, their uneven, harsh edges bursting from the sides.
“A word of advice, Miss Loki,” he says, subtly shaking a foot to let some of the wrinkle out of his crotch. “Stay out of trouble. You seem like the type that attracts it. It would behoove you to keep your nose clean and your hands inside your own pockets.”
I frown and swipe at the underside of my nose. I don’t detect any boogers or other foreign matter dangling there. “I don’t have pockets. They took my feather coat away when I got here. I love that coat,” I lament.
&nb
sp; He ignores me. “Transport will be here shortly. I’ll meet you at the courthouse.” He reaches inside his suit, pulls out a small rectangle of paper, and turns to me, those enigmatic eyes glittering with interest. “If, by chance, you think of where we might’ve met, give me a call.” He hands me the card with his name and telephone number on it. His finger brushes mine, and the same electric hum from before crackles across my skin. “I’m … curious.”
I lick my lips again—it’s hard not to with him standing so close in this tiny room. This man makes me thirsty in a very different way from Gunnar Magnusson or Freddie. His intensity is like a magnet calling me home.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m curious too.”
Chapter Twenty
The judge bangs his gavel and sends me on my way with a $500 fine and an order to return to the custody of the mental health facility from which I escaped.
I don’t have $500.
I also don’t know where this mystery healthcare home is or who the elusive Dr. Smith is, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Darryl Donovan sits beside me on a bench in a long hallway of this “courthouse.” He hasn’t said much since we left the courtroom. Mostly, he answers his phone and talks to everyone, other than me, who passes in the corridor.
After he hangs up from an incoming call, I ask, “What is that music your phone keeps playing?”
“Amon Amarth.”
“I thought it was Van Halen.”
“No.” He scoffs. “Not even close. This is Viking metal.” Waggling his phone, he says this with a great deal of pride.
My ears perk up. “What is ‘Viking metal’?”
I’m picturing longships made of iron, oared by bearded, hard men forged from metal, ready to take on the world.
“It’s heavy metal that has an Old Norse component to the lyrics.”
“What is ‘heavy metal’?”
He looks at me as if I’ve grown an extra appendage. Little does he know, I’ve actually grown two. Though, I lost a different appendage in the process, so I suppose the net result is just one. “How do you not know what metal is?”
I shrug. “I’m new here.”
He opens his phone and thumbs through a list of songs. Finding one he approves of, he plays it. The music is very fast. The man singing has a deep, scratchy voice, and I can’t understand what he’s screaming.
“This is called ‘Twilight of the Thunder God,’” Darryl Donovan says, his eyes gleaming. “It’s brilliant.”
I frown. “What is he saying? Something about a protector of mankind? Ha!” I throw my head back and laugh. “Thor was a self-serving lummox with goat shite for brains stuffed inside a too-thick skull.”
“Those are fighting words,” Darryl Donovan says with playful sternness. He seems to be joking, but the intensity behind his gaze hasn’t left. Nor has the thrum reverberating between us.
“There you are,” a familiar voice calls from down the hall. Two pairs of footsteps increase their pace, thundering toward me. Even riddled with gashes and random bandages, the taller of the duo lights a fire in my already warm breeches.
I can’t believe my eyes. I jump to my feet. “Gu—”
Freddie cuts me off, ignoring me. “I’m Dr. Smith,” he says, holding out a hand to Darryl Donovan as he closes the space. “I’m here for Miss Constantine.”
Constantine? I mouth to Gunnar Magnusson. With a hidden smile, he barely shakes his head, telling me to be quiet.
The lawyer stands slowly and shakes Freddie’s hand, scrutinizing my friends. “Darryl Donovan.”
Freddie sports a crisp white coat similar to the one the doctor who treated Gunnar Magnusson wore. Beside him, Gunnar Magnusson is dressed like Huginn’s veterinarian in what I’ve since learned are called “scrubs”—a plain green V-collared shirt and pants that accentuate his muscles. He looks mighty fine in those scrubs. And the busted face is an added turn-on. I like how tough he is. Must be the Viking in me.
One at a time, I survey the trio of men surrounding me. They’re all physically appealing, and though my mind remains reluctant to sample any goods, my female body appreciates each of them in different ways.
Freddie faces me. “You’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you, Miss Constantine?” Turning his back to Darryl Donovan, he arches his brow meaningfully at me as if speaking in some code I don’t fully understand.
“Yes, Dr. Smith,” I reply mechanically. “Sorry for escaping from the mental institution. I promise to be good from now on.”
Freddie pats my arm, faces Darryl Donovan, and jerks a thumb toward Gunnar Magnusson. “This is Gunnar. He’s my assistant.”
“You okay, Gunnar?” Darryl Donovan asks suspiciously. “You look like you had a run-in with a hellcat and lost.”
Gunnar Magnusson flexes his biceps. “Just doing my job. Sometimes our patients get a little … feisty.”
Ha! I smirk. I wouldn’t mind getting a little feisty with him. Especially with that stitched-up gash on his cheek.
Mraow.
“Gunnar will see Miss Constantine to the van. I can handle the paperwork,” Freddie says.
Darryl Donovan adjusts his glasses. “Mind if I take a look at your credentials?” His smile reminds me of a snake flicking its tongue, testing the air, looking for something tasty and vulnerable to eat. “Wouldn’t want to turn her over to the wrong person, now would I?”
Freddie offers a terse, unamused smile, but he pulls out his wallet and flashes his identification. Darryl Donovan pushes his glasses even higher up his nose and studies the card carefully. Finding it passable, he leans back and nods.
Gunnar Magnusson grasps my upper arm. I’m unsettled by his closeness after being away for so long. I keep my excitement muted, but inside, I’m dancing like I’m listening to Van Halen in the Porsche with him tapping out the rhythm beside me.
“If you’ll come with me, I’ll get her belongings and the papers you need to pay her fine,” Darryl Donovan says. “You can pay here or online.” Then he turns to me. “Best of luck, Miss Constantine. You have my contact information.”
I wave the business card he gave me, which is slightly damp with hand sweat. “Goodbye, Darryl Donovan.”
He watches me a moment as if he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t.
Freddie follows the attorney into an office, swatting his hand frantically behind him for us to go, and Gunnar Magnusson leads me outside without comment.
As soon as the air and sun hit my face, I exhale a heavy breath. When he stops beside a white van, I check my surroundings. Seeing no one near, I jump up and down. “I can’t believe you’re here. How did you find me? Are you angry with me? I’m sorry, Gunnar Magnusson—”
He doesn’t bother telling me to shut up with words. Instead, he silences me with a soft kiss, which is a far better method for achieving the same goal.
My knees weaken, and I go limp in his arms. Naturally, he catches me. He’s always there to hold me up and clean up my spills and take care of me. I owe him. A whole lot.
He pulls away, taking his sweet lips with him, self-consciously ducking his head as a car pulls out from its spot and veers toward the exit. He grips the handle of the van’s back door and says, “What you said about the necklace turned out to be true. It really was lucky.”
My eyes widen. “You found Huginn?”
He smiles and yanks the handle, sliding the door backward. “He’s inside.”
I leap through the opening.
SQUARK!
“Loki!” Huginn says weakly. His messed-up eyes point in opposite directions, but one of them targets me. His taped beak is still a little bent from crashing into the windshield, and his mostly featherless chest is bandaged, but otherwise, he looks a Hel of a lot better than he did when I left him yesterday.
“Your friends saved me. You saved me,” he peeps in a high pitch.
I pick him up, careful not to upset the wrappings, and hug him to my chest. “You’re alive. I don’t know how you survive
d, but I’m glad you did.” I give him a peck on the side of his head, and his feet run happily in place, tearing up the air.
Gunnar Magnusson eases into the front passenger seat and looks back at me. “I’m glad you’re okay. Sorry we couldn’t get here sooner. Freddie had to wait for his new credit card to arrive by courier at the drunk guy’s house. It’s amazing how much power rich people have, even when they’re low on cash.”
“I’m surprised the old man knew who you were this morning,” I say. “He was pretty messed up.”
“Yeah, he reported his truck missing last night before we could stop him,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “We had to convince him his niece borrowed it while he was passed out, and she promised to return it in a few days. Which reminds me, when we wrap up in Atlanta, we need to take his truck back to him.”
I grin. “Road trip?”
“Road trip,” he agrees. “Once we got the credit card, we picked up Huginn. The vet says he’s through the worst, and he’s already stronger than she expected. Now he just needs to rest so he can fully heal.”
SQUARK! SQUARK! SQUARK! Huginn protests. “Screw that. I’m fine. Just give me Odin. I’ll scratch his gods-damn eye out. He’ll pay for what he had that driver do to me on the highway. Throwing a chicken into traffic. WHO DOES THAT?”
I hug Huginn again, hurting for what he’s endured. This female body is lending me all sorts of matronly feelings. And you know what? I think I’m okay with it.
“You and I have a lot to talk about, Huginn,” I say to my little clucking cuddler.
Gunnar Magnusson looks at us strangely, but by now he must’ve gotten used to the fact that I talk to my chicken and understand his squawks and I truly believe I’m the god Loki, reincarnated without my powers, but hell-bent on getting them back.
And yeah, I called Huginn “my chicken.” Until he decides otherwise, that’s just the way it is. Besides, I seem to have converted him from Odin’s side to mine. I can use him to get my runes back.
“You two make quite a team,” Gunnar Magnusson says.
I smile at Huginn. He returns the smile with his busted beak.
