by Kendall Grey
Curious.
“What’s the matter, Allfather? Can’t live with me, can’t set me on fire and leave me burning on the prow of a ship made of toenails sailing into Hel?” I laugh. “Get to it. What do you want? Besides me gone.”
He subtly bristles at my light tone. Thanks to Laguz, I notice.
“I quite enjoy the modern world,” Odin says, gliding along the Bifrost that reflects the massive aurora like it’s greased with pig lard. For an old man, he gets around pretty well.
“It’s not so bad,” I agree. “Though, the clothes are a bit much.”
He stops three feet away, studying me.
“I won’t let you ruin things again.” Odin’s voice is softer now, but the eye fixed on me remains harder than granite. It peers into my soul. My soul flinches.
That eye never bothered me when we lived in Asgard. Why does it now?
That’s when Laguz enlightens me. I nod as understanding trickles down, filling the holes in my porous mind, made incomplete by centuries buried under ice.
“You’ve gotten comfortable,” I say, mentally thanking Laguz for the insight.
You’re welcome, it chimes like one of Freddie’s email notifications in my head.
Now I know why I haven’t seen any other gods aside from the ones standing with me now. Odin’s hidden their runes. I’ll bet they survived Ragnarok too, but they’re probably still asleep under the ice.
I ease closer, my muscles curving and curling, emulating the motions of a snake. Odin makes me feel venomous. “You like the new world, so you’ve decided to keep it for yourself. You selfish fart!
“I can’t believe Odin the Wise has turned into a greedy, jealous old American who hides other gods’ runes so they can’t share a piece of his immortal pie. If you can successfully keep our runes away from us, eventually, we’ll die from ‘accidents,’” I make air quotes, “dread diseases, or simple old age. Without our immortality runes, we have no recourse against you. All you have to do is sit on your wrinkly hands and wait for nature to take its course. That way you can defend your innocence to the Norns if they should wonder centuries from now how Odin survived when the rest of us are nothing but bleached bones on a distant shore.”
I shove my finger in his face. “You’re a narcissistic, self-absorbed, pitiful man who thinks the world owes you.”
“That’s not true, Loki.” His voice quavers. He really is old. Older than I remember. “I love the New World. It’s been my home since Ragnarok, and I’ve grown quite fond of it. My intention isn’t to keep you or the others out. I simply want to protect the fragility of this delicate biosphere.”
I snort a laugh. “Oh, please. Spare me the altruistic goat shite about saving the planet from itself.”
The tension in his eye finally loosens, and regret fills in the empty space. “I’m trying to prevent the next cycle.”
A chill lurches painfully up the rungs of my spine. I straighten to shake it off.
Of course, he wants to stop the cycle. Ragnarok isn’t a single event. It’s a series of repeated events on a never-ending loop. No god can shut down Ragnarok unless he prevents Loki from rebooting the sequence.
I got news for him. Loki will not go down easily.
“At the very least, you aim to keep me—if not all the Æsir—mortal,” I say as Laguz helps me put the pieces together. “The problem is, you can’t kill me outright. When we mixed our blood, we became bound to one another. We agreed to always share seats at the same table, which in modern terms translates to: You can’t kill me because we’re blood brothers, and you’re too by-the-book to break that rule.
“So, you worked to keep me contained instead. You reasoned that if I’m not awake, I can’t share a space at your table or anywhere else. More importantly, if I’m not awake, I can’t cause trouble.”
Odin doesn’t respond. He just watches me, his eye unmoving.
“Who else walks among us in the new age?” I ask.
He slowly shakes his head. “None but those you see here.”
I hike up a brow. “How many are dead? Or frozen like I was?”
He looks away. “I don’t know.”
“You’re the all-seeing one,” I chide. “What do you see? Oh, wait. You’re down a raven, aren’t you? Nice of you to use Huginn like a tool and toss him out—literally—when you got everything you could out of him, by the way. That was a page straight out of my book.”
“He was getting too close.”
“To what?”
“You.”
As if getting close to me is a bad thing. Snarf.
“It was a real dick move.”
He nods. “It was.”
Clearly, he’s not giving up any information about the other gods, and neither Laguz nor I can tell if he’s lying about not knowing their status, so I get to the point.
“Where have you hidden my runes?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then, where are everyone else’s runes? If I see anyone climbing out of a snow pile, I’ll be sure to pass the info along.”
He shakes his head. “Your first one was a freebie.”
So, he wanted me to find Laguz?
“Equal footing, equal ground,” he says.
“Ah, your outdated notion of ‘honor.’ Right.”
He does abide by a code of fairness, the idiot. But by allowing me to find Laguz, he gave me the upper hand. The rune of intuition and insight is exactly what I need to help me find the others. Bad call on Allfather’s part.
What he also doesn’t know is that I can feel the other three runes, whispering to me. It may be a vague and directionless sense, but it’s there. I’m confident I can track them down. I have Laguz and Huginn. Maybe Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie too. They’re all I need.
“I know you can be reasonable,” Odin says. “Aren’t you tired of fighting a war on repeat? We can break the chain.”
I snort. “Yeah, right. If I give up my immortality, everyone wins except for me. And who’s the biggest winner of all? You. You get to live forever with your precious Midgardians, watching bad television and sipping piss-flavored beer for the rest of your days. What kind of Viking are you? What happened to the warrior who led the mighty Æsir into battles? He fell prey to the new generation and wants to share it with everyone else. You’re an insult to our heritage.
“Rest assured, Allfather, the only chain I’m breaking is the one that has the rest of us yoked to your chariot. Pour that into your drinking horn and chug it.”
It’s time the other Asgardians realized what a manipulative shite Odin is. They’ll be furious when they find out what he’s been up to. I’ll make it my mission to locate them, wake them up, and help them find their runes. Loki will lead the revolt against Allfather and put him in his place.
Bringer of Ragnarok? Hel yes. I’ll bring Odin a Ragnarok like he never imagined.
“I’m warning you, Loki,” he says. “There will be dire consequences if you defy me.”
“Dire is my middle name.” Okay, so I have a lot of middle names. “Bring it, old man.”
With that, I give Odin my back and run toward Heimdall at full speed. My arms pump at my sides, fueling my legs to greater speed. Heimdall braces, sword out, ready to swing.
It would thrill him to take me out again, this time for good. He’s not bound by the same blood oath Odin is. But I deny him the pleasure. When I get within five feet of his blade, I flash him a wide grin. Taking a leap of faith at Laguz’s urging, I jump off the Rainbow Bridge into the swirling mists and hope for the best.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Ah, Laguz, you never steer me wrong,” I say with pure glee, brushing my hip. I surf into the hotel in Atlanta, riding the crest of a rainbow and slide down its back into my favorite time of day: Chaos Time.
The music picks up right where I left it with the singer crooning about a ballroom blitz. Midgardians dressed as Asgardians scatter in every direction. Freddie stands in the corner with his phone, looking back and forth between it
and the skull suitcase spinning around, bouncing off people’s legs and butts. Is that … Oh my gods, it is.
Huginn sits atop the remote-controlled suitcase Freddie rigged up on the trip to Atlanta. Huginn tucks his talons carefully under the handle so he doesn’t tumble off. His tongue lolls happily from the side of his beak. Though it looks like he’s driving the runaway luggage, Freddie’s actually navigating from a distance. I knew his robotics skills would come in handy.
Always looking for fun, and always finding it.
“Huginn!” I shout. “Where’s Gunnar Magnusson?”
Huginn squawks and shrugs his wings. I can hear his laughter from across the room. It makes my heart smile.
As I scan the sea of faces, my gaze snags on a tall, heavily muscled figure wearing an Asgard Awakening Thor costume and glasses. “What the Hel?”
My lawyer, Darryl Donovan, stands in the center of a small crowd, swinging a replica of Mjolnir in a circle, shouting a blood-curdling battle cry. “For Asgard!”
“Thor’s a loser,” I cackle flirtatiously as I race past Darryl Donovan with a huge grin.
He does a double take and lifts his hammer threateningly. “Face me, Loki. You coward!”
Wow, he’s really getting into character. I wish I had more time to play, but I don’t want to go back to jail. Also, Heimdall is sure to be right behind me—
A flash of light above spits him out of the immaculate chandelier directly into my path.
Shite.
I spy Gunnar Magnusson chatting with a bevy of scantily clad Freyas and Friggs and Sigyns and Idunns and even Hels. That last lot are a little scary. I cannot possibly love them more.
I zoom toward Gunnar Magnusson, ducking to evade Heimdall’s watchful, regrown eyes.
Screams of delight and laughter charge the atmosphere. These Midgardians are either stupidly gullible or so enamored of their precious Asgard Awakening that they think the magic swirling from every corner is nothing more than theatrics engineered with trick lighting. Either way, they accept the chaos energizing the room as I do and feed into it.
I drop to my knees and crawl among the dancing partiers, heading toward Gunnar Magnusson’s big boots. I’m a little miffed by all the lady feet around him. But I don’t own him. He can do what he likes. I guess.
When I reach my destination, I tug on the hem of Gunnar Magnusson’s breeches and smile up at him. He jumps when he sees me and subtly waves me up, reaching for my hand.
“Loki, I made some friends,” he says. His words slur, and I notice he’s holding a glass with half a finger’s worth of amber liquid left in the bottom. “This is Hel. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
I check out the Hel in question. She looks nothing like the real deal—indeed, way too pretty for that. Then again, so is the one on the show who she’s dressed as. “Nice to meet you, Hel.” Then to Gunnar Magnusson, “We have to go before Heimdall finds me.”
Gunnar Magnusson’s blue eyes are duller than usual. I silently consult with Laguz about the best way to lure him out of this party, but Laguz seems to be enjoying the insanity too much.
What’s the hurry? it asks. Why not have a drink? Maybe Freddie has more of those weed suckers.
“While I appreciate your sage advice,” I say aloud, “this isn’t the best time for drinks or suckers. Help me out of here alive, and we’ll revisit the decision.”
A girl dressed like Freya turns her dim head my way. “Who’s she talking to? Oh. Great Sif costume, by the way.”
Gunnar Magnusson slurps down the rest of his drink and laughs. “She thinks she’s Loki. Reincarnated. Like the god.”
“The show’s Loki is better than those silly old myths,” a fake Frigg snipes. She’s clearly not had enough to drink. I accidentally on purpose bump her arm as I turn to assess Heimdall’s position. She spills her drink all over her bad costume. Honestly, the mess of fabric looks more like a Roman toga than what a Norse goddess would wear. Have these fools no respect for authenticity?
“Sorry,” I say, not sounding sorry at all.
Heimdall turns and lifts his golden eyes to mine. He smiles.
I’m shite on toast.
Just as he starts toward me, Freddie shouts, “Release the dildos of war!”
Huginn squawks and pecks the button Freddie installed on the top of my skull suitcase. The lid flips down, pouring out the plethora of adult toys I collected from the plane. I’m a little sad to see them flopping around underfoot, never to be appreciated again. I suppose I’ll have to restock at a later date.
The vibrators roll and tumble and bump and jump. Some of them activate when boots graze them, which only adds to my delight at seeing my silicone darlings doing their worst.
Ah, Chaos, how I’ve missed you.
Squeals and squeaks emit like birdcalls from the Midgardians as they kick at the vibrators, trip over them, and fall into random piles of human giggles. Most of the people are drunk. They don’t mind. They’re laughing, whooping, and hollering with glee.
What can I say? I know how to throw a party.
Heimdall gets caught up in the attack of the killer vibrators and trips, slamming his face into the carpet. It’s just like the scene in Asgard Awakening where Thor does the same to Loki. Except so. Much. Better.
DERP.
Stifling a laugh, I grab Gunnar Magnusson’s hand. “Time to run. And I do mean run.”
I try to yank him behind me, but he’s too heavy, so I run in place.
“But I was just getting to know them,” he says, gesturing with the hand holding the empty glass at the women.
“More’s the pity,” I say, tugging harder.
He digs in his heels. “And you promised me a dance tonight, Loki. Where’s my dance?”
“I would love to dance with you,” I say, and I mean it. “But if I don’t get out of here now, Heimdall is going to kill me for real. Chop, chop, mighty handsome Viking.”
He pauses and turns to me, lips curled in a soft smile. “Did you call me handsome?”
“I did indeed,” I say, still pulling him toward the exit, without any luck. “You’re the handsomest fellow here, by my estimation. Can we talk about this in the van?”
“You. Said I. Was handsome.” More slurring.
“Yep. Ticktock, big guy.”
“More handsome than Freddie?”
“Yes.”
“And your lawyer. What was that guy’s name? He’s here, yanno.”
“Yes. Handsomer than Darryl Donovan, even. To the van, then?”
More yanking, to no avail.
“Prove it,” Gunnar Magnusson challenges. “Dance with me.”
“You’re making my escape difficult,” I tell him. “But okay, I’ll give you something better than a dance. Get me outta this hotel in the next sixty seconds, and we’ll do the horizontal dance between the furs.”
What? Laguz demands.
“What?” Gunnar Magnusson squeaks.
“What?” I ask myself.
Where did that come from? I don’t want to mate with Gunnar Magnusson.
Do I?
Even though I don’t have a second to spare, I spare one anyway to consider this proposition. Gunnar Magnusson is a fine specimen—not just of man but of hu-man. Why shouldn’t I lie with him? I’m Loki, the King of Mischief. It’s my job to do the unexpected.
“Yep,” I confirm. Why the Hel not? “Sixty seconds. Let’s go.”
Gunnar Magnusson’s eyes widen. He bends forward, scooping me over his shoulder, and curling his thick arm around the backs of my exposed thighs. It’s a good thing I wore undergarments today. This skirt is mighty short. I grin.
He stalks toward the door. When I lift my head so it doesn’t bump into Gunnar Magnusson’s butt, I catch Goldi-eyes storming after us, knocking people out of the way.
“Huginn! Freddie! Retreat!” I shout as I pass them. I swat Gunnar Magnusson’s tight arse twice. “Hurry, Gunnar Magnusson.”
Heimdall’s long legs are faster than my ride’s. Gun
nar Magnusson has a hard time navigating the crowd due to: A) his politeness; and B) his drunkenness.
I’ll solve problem A for him right now. “Get the bloody Hel out of the way!” I scream at the people crowding the exit. “Move it, Midgardians, you daft goats.” I swing my arms around Gunnar Magnusson, pushing backs and butts aside in an attempt to clear a path.
Heimdall’s thundering footsteps are a couple yards behind us. He’s not gentle as he bats people aside and lunges at me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and cling to Gunnar Magnusson’s waist. “Please don’t get me,” I pray. “I’m too young to die.”
A heavy thud followed by a clatter of metal and crashing glass prompts me to open one eye.
Behind me, the girl dressed as Loki who I chatted with outside the hotel smiles at me. Her foot is stuck out with Heimdall’s hooked around it. He’s sprawled face down on the floor with a pair of waiters on top of him. All three are drenched in liquid from broken stemware. Cuts dot their skin as they moan.
I laugh and laugh and laugh all the way out of the building. Freddie rushes out, a hunk of metal in the shape of a person standing on a small slab of marble in one hand, Huginn in the other, grinning like he just found a treasure trove of Omnom bars.
He hefts the object to the sky and shouts, “I won the costume contest!”
SQUARK! Huginn says. “Well done!”
“Okay, maybe I stole the trophy,” Freddie admits.
“Where’s the van?” Gunnar Magnusson asks.
“Follow me.” Freddie waves us after him and trots toward the parking lot.
The sounds of laughing and shouting Midgardians fade as we wind among the cars until we reach the white van parked near the exit. Gunnar Magnusson sets me on my feet. When I stand up and the blood reroutes to the proper places, I startle at the sight of Odin, version 2.0, leaning on the van’s hood.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, waving Freddie toward the driver’s side behind my back.
He slinks around and gets in.
“Who’s that guy?” Gunnar Magnusson slurs. “He’s not your boyfriend, is he?”
“No, Gunnar Magnusson. More like my brother. Kind of.”
