Gods on Earth: Complete Series (Books 1-3): Paranormal Romances with Norse Gods, Tricksters, and Fated Mates

by Andrijeski, JC

  When he spoke, his words surprised her.

  But then, his words almost always surprised her.

  “You are a kind person,” he said. “You are a sweet, kind person, Marion. But I think it’s okay. I think the shop-keep would understand.”

  Marion’s eyes opened.

  She didn’t look at him, but stared down at his bare chest with its intricate, esoteric-looking tattoos in faintly-glowing blue and green.

  Kind? Sweet?

  Had he really just called her those things?

  Marion honestly couldn’t remember the last time anyone called her those things, or anything remotely like those things.

  Decadent. Irresponsible. Callous.

  Cold. Embarrassing. Spoiled.

  Lacking in moral character. Lacking in judgment.

  Oversexed.

  Probably an addict or an alcoholic.

  She’d heard all of those things, especially in the tabloids.

  But kind? Sweet?

  She looked up at him, but saw no hint of amusement in his eyes.

  Instead, he caressed her face again, right before he took a step back.

  “I will do as you advised, and wait on ordering food,” he said, inclining his head politely. “Call for me, if you need help. I will hear you. I will be in the other room, trying to acquire clothing for the two of us. Do you have any requests, in terms of clothing?”

  She thought about that.

  Then, her cheeks still warm from his touch and his words, she shrugged, smiling faintly.

  “Surprise me,” she said.

  G etting undressed was hard.

  Hard enough, Marion turned off the shower, realizing it would take some time.

  Peeling off clothes stuck to wounds, soaking wet, heavy with water and blood, burned in some places. It was slow, painful, annoying, awkward, and by the end of it, it made her want to cry. She got the sweater off easily enough, but the bra stuck to a cut on her back.

  Getting the jeans off was a new kind of torture.

  Even taking off her boots and socks hurt.

  A piece of metal cut into part of the hiking boot, leaving her sock and part of the shoe stuck in the cut.

  The worst was her thigh, where she’d been sliced by something sharp, probably something metal. She had little bits of glass and plastic embedded in her neck, arms, hands, shoulders, and face.

  She did her best to use her fingernails as tweezers to get most of them out.

  In the end, she called Tyr and asked him to get her some actual tweezers from downstairs.

  He did her one better, getting a whole first aid kit and a bathroom kit from a small shop on the lobby floor, complete with tweezers, toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, comb, a tube of disinfectant cream, disinfectant spray, bandages, tape, gauze. He got her shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel, even though the hotel already supplied several small bottles of each.

  Without her asking, he stayed to help remove the rest of the glass from her skin.

  She was forced to ask when she touched her head, and realized she had pieces of glass embedded in her scalp, along with the side of her neck and back, where she couldn’t see.

  In the end, he sat on the bathroom counter, with her sandwiched between his legs––Marion wearing only her underwear at that point, and Tyr still in the black suit pants and shirtless, wearing dress shoes and a watch that was probably badly damaged by water.

  It took him roughly a half-hour to get all the bits of glass off her.

  Then he left, and Marion took a shower, which was both painful and positively glorious.

  By the time she got out, the whole bathroom was steam, and she felt vaguely guilty for how long she’d been in there, even as a part of her felt tired, realizing now that she’d have to use a lot of disinfectant on the hundreds of cuts all over her body, and probably bandage up the worst of them.

  First, though, she needed to free up the bathroom for Tyr, and likely help him by picking all the glass out of his skin.

  Wrapping a towel around herself, she poked her head out into the hotel bedroom.

  It was empty.

  She ventured out of the bathroom cautiously.

  As she looked around, she caught sight of a note on the bedspread, which was a new one, she noticed, not the one she’d dragged off the bed and onto the floor.

  She walked closer and saw the top of the bedspread turned down. Seeing the pale gold sheets there, she realized the bed had been changed entirely, and the old bedding and bedspread were gone.

  “Busy little god,” she muttered, picking up the note.

  She read the words there, which were brief, and to the point.

  I’ll be back soon.

  I told them to leave the clothes on the table.

  Order food if you’re ready.

  Marion looked around.

  Other than two small end tables on either side of the king-sized bed, she saw only a low coffee table in front of a small couch of gold-dyed leather.

  Then she noticed the sliding wooden doors.

  For the first time, it occurred to her that she’d only seen a small part of the hotel suite.

  Walking to the doors, she pushed them apart.

  Marion found herself facing a large room––much larger than she’d expected.

  Bay windows formed most of the wall to her left.

  A textured wall stood between those larger windows and a sliding glass door, flanked by sheer curtains someone had opened, along with curtains of a darker, heavier material. Through the main window, she could see snow falling past the small balcony, and a view of the Washington Monument, the mall, and the Lincoln Memorial in the distance, all lit up and shadowed by flurries of falling snow.

  A flat-screen television covered a section of wall not far from the sliding glass door, situated above a gas fireplace in white stone, and next to a pale blue, modern-looking leather sectional sofa with a glass coffee table and two standing lamps.

  A kitchen and bar took up most of the area to her right.

  Beyond that, she saw a modern dining table with four chairs, and a desk with a laptop perched on top of it. Another small sofa stood in the opposite corner, nearer to the suite’s front door, that one pale green, also leather.

  Everything about the room was sleek, white, but incredibly comfy-looking, down to the thick, white, faux-fur blanket that covered most of the blue sofa.

  A full-sized, stainless-steel refrigerator sat in the kitchen, and the bar had three, tall, chrome and blue leather upholstered barstools.

  A bottle of wine sat on the counter next to a fruit basket.

  Marion saw two neat stacks of clothes on the kitchen table, along with a second note between the stacks.

  That note was in a different hand than the one in the bedroom. Someone had scribbled in blue ink:

  Call us if you’d like to make any exchanges, or if you need anything else!

  It’s been a pleasure shopping for you, sir!

  Below that, it had a phone number written in sharpie with a smiley face.

  Snorting, Marion started going through the pile of clothes.

  She quickly realized the first pile had to be for him, Tyr.

  She noted a man’s dress shirt still in the wrapper (white), a man’s T-shirt (gray), blue jeans (also men’s), three pairs of socks, one of them dress socks, two pairs of boxer briefs, black sweat pants, and black slip-on shoes. When she glanced at the door, she realized more clothes hung there as well, in a garment bag.

  She guessed that might be the reason for the men’s dress shirt.

  And the black leather shoes.

  Leaving his pile alone after her initial eyeball of the contents, she pulled over the other stack of clothes, which appeared to be women’s garments, and began to go through that.

  As she did, she could have kissed Tyr.

  Well… she definitely would have kissed him before she got the clothes.

  But now she would have kissed him for the clothes, as well.

 
; She found stretchy jeans in her size in burgundy and dark green, a thick, super fuzzy white sweater made of what felt like Angora wool, several long-sleeved, fitted T-shirts, a pair of legging-style pants, socks, and running shoes. He’d also gotten her several pairs of underwear, two bras, one sports bra, and a hoodie sweatshirt.

  Everything was in her size––even the bras.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to know exactly how he’d done that.

  Regardless, she was hardly in the mood to complain.

  She took all of her booty back to the bedroom, grabbed the legging pants, new underwear and a bra, one of the fitted, long-sleeved shirts, and the hoodie sweatshirt, and disappeared back into the bathroom. The mirror had cleared by then, so she dropped the towel on the floor and spent the next twenty minutes or so putting disinfectant on every cut she could find, and bandages on a few of the bigger ones.

  When she finally finished, she dressed in the clean clothes and nearly groaned in relief.

  Balling up her old underwear, she stuffed that in the trash, then wandered into the next room, put on socks, and went back to the living room.

  Sitting on the leather couch, she curled up under the fuzzy white blanket and found the remote. She’d just turned on the television when it hit her that her stomach was grumbly. She had no idea how long it had been since that cheeseburger, but clearly, it had been too long.

  She was food girl.

  It was her job to order them food.

  Shucking off the blanket, she got up, found the hotel phone, and started opening drawers until she unearthed the menu for room service.

  She might have gotten a little carried away.

  Part of it was having to guess what kind of food Tyr might want.

  Most of it, truthfully, was that no menu was safe in her hands, not right then.

  She was starving, and she wanted comfort food.

  She was still ordering dishes for the two of them, when there was a rattle at the door, a click and a beep, then the door gliding inward. Marion tensed until she saw Tyr standing there, now wearing a bathrobe over the suit pants.

  Looking him over, she couldn’t help smiling, chuckling a little.

  She still held the hotel phone to her ear.

  “Ma’am?” the person on the other end said. “Is that everything?”

  Jerking her eyes and mind back to the phone, Marion flushed, then nodded, speaking in the same breath.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think that’s everything. How soon can you have it up here?”

  “It’ll be about thirty minutes, ma’am,” the server said. “You’re lucky. It’s really quiet tonight. Normally a haul like this would take at least an hour––”

  “That’s great. Perfect. Thank you so much.”

  She was hanging up the phone as Tyr walked over to the kitchen table, looking down at his pile of clothes. She watched him pull out the sweat pants, underwear, and the gray T-shirt, before he glanced over his shoulder at her.

  “Are they okay?” he said, looking down at what she wore. “What I got for you?”

  Marion hugged herself in the long-sleeved T-shirt and hoodie, nodding.

  “They’re perfect,” she said sincerely. “Honestly, I couldn’t have possibly found anything more perfect. They’re almost too perfect. If I hadn’t gotten hungry, I’d probably be passed out on the couch right now,” she admitted, glancing at the blue leather couch under the television.

  Tyr nodded, his expression unmoving.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he told her.

  He turned to walk away, and Marion blurted out words.

  “Hey!”

  He turned, looking at her with those dark, coal-like eyes.

  Marion flushed at the intensity behind that look. She made a vague motion with her hands approximating tweezers, or maybe some kind of muscle spasm.

  “Do you want me to… you know? Like you did for me?”

  He just stood there for a beat.

  Then he shook his head, once.

  “Thank you, Marion,” he said politely. “But I can handle that. You should relax.” He flicked his fingers gracefully towards the blue sofa. “I’ll be out in a little while. And I’ll wake you when the food arrives.”

  She nodded, still hugging her arms around her chest.

  She watched the tall god until he disappeared, closing the wooden sliding doors behind him.

  Then, sighing, she collapsed on the blue sofa, picking up the television remote.

  She felt like she could stay in this hotel with him, doing nothing but hanging out in these clothes, eating room service and watching television, for about a month.

  Maybe more like three.

  17

  The Best Laid Plans

  “ W e should talk now,” Tyr said.

  His voice was serious as he set down the bone of a chicken drumstick covered with bright-orange buffalo sauce he’d just demolished.

  Marion had ordered a lot of food.

  A ridiculous, borderline-obscene amount of food.

  Not to mention, a bizarre, decadent, and utterly irrational selection of food.

  Strangely, though, and despite the cheeseburgers they’d had a few hours earlier, she and Tyr were doing a pretty good job of putting it away.

  She’d gotten fish tacos, and a Filet Mignon for Tyr. Buffalo wings with blue cheese, calamari and potato skins for both of them. Another cheeseburger and fries for her. Two salads. Four beers. Two bottles of water. Two bottles of caffeinated soda. Two cappuccinos.

  And an order of mushroom and cheese ravioli, just in case.

  She also got a piece of carrot cake, a piece of cheese cake, a piece of apple pie, a brownie, and an order of crème brûlée, since she didn’t know what kind of dessert Tyr might like. She also ordered a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries for herself.

  At the last minute, worried the ravioli might not be enough emergency food for both of them, she also ordered a small pizza with goat cheese and some kind of fancy Italian meat.

  It was ludicrous.

  But they had a fridge, she told herself.

  And a microwave.

  Assuming they were still around tomorrow, they could eat the leftovers then.

  If Tyr thought she’d lost her mind a little, holding the room service menu, he didn’t say a word. When he saw the piles of plates with metal coverings and the water bottles next to the two cappuccinos, two cokes, and four beers she’d ordered… he didn’t say anything.

  Instead, he started lifting metal lids.

  He stacked the lids all up on the bar, moving each plate to the coffee table under the television… then all the drinks… then all the utensils… then all the napkins and condiments and salt and pepper shakers… before finally getting comfortable on one end of the sofa and turning to her politely, his black hair wet from the shower.

  “Do you mind if I turn on the news?” he said. “I would like to see what is happening around the White House, in case it is relevant to our situation.”

  Marion nodded, sliding down the couch so she was a few feet away from him.

  She watched as he laid a cloth napkin on his lap, then tugged the Filet Mignon closer to where he sat. Picking up a fork and steak knife, he gave her another polite look, pointing at the steak with his knife.

  “Do you mind?” he said.

  She shook her head. “No, that’s for you. The cheeseburger was mine.”

  Nodding, the god began sawing into his steak.

  Marion looked around at the embarrassing amounts of food, and suddenly wondered if he thought she expected him to pay for all of this.

  “Hey,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush. “I want to put all of this on my credit card. You don’t have to pay for any of this––”

  Tyr was already shaking his head, chewing steak.

  He waved the knife in the air vaguely but expressively.

  “Don’t worry about that, Marion,” he told her. Pointing at the food with the knife, he added, “Eat. It is
likely we will have to go out again tonight.”

  She considered arguing the point, then shoved it aside.

  Turning to the food in front of her, she pulled the raviolis towards her first, and began to dig in with a fork.

  She’d never tasted anything so damned good.

  Now, over an hour later, she and Tyr were still on the couch, and still, unbelievably, picking at what remained of the bones of their food––Tyr especially, who appeared to have some kind of bottomless digestive tract.

  “We should talk,” Tyr repeated, after taking a long drink off the second beer he’d opened. “I need your input. About how we might reach your father.”

  Marion nodded, frowning.

  Looking out over their makeshift buffet table, she snagged a piece of calamari, crunching it with her back molars as she thought about his words.

  “You think it’s better if we go tonight?” she said, glancing at him.

  Tyr frowned, glancing up at the television.

  They’d been watching the news for the last hour, while they ate.

  Their car accident made it to every channel.

  They even had an image of the car door being blown off the side of the McLaren, after the sports car rolled over almost three times and ended up on its side. That’s when they got hit by another car, spinning the McLaren until it smashed into the curb. Marion couldn’t see much about that car, either, unfortunately, much less who was driving it. The SUV had darkened windows, no license plates, and no distinguishing marks whatsoever.

  There was confusion after that, screaming, then everything went dark.

  All the street lights went out at once.

  Although Marion hadn’t thought it did them much good at the time, in the videos, the lack of streetlights made the McLaren strangely difficult to see.

  “How did you do that?” Marion said. “With the lights?”

  She glanced at Tyr, and he looked back at her, his mouth firm.

  She didn’t think he would answer, when he shrugged.

  “My brother helped me.”

  “Loki?”

  “Thor.”

  She thought about that, in terms of the tiny amount she knew about Norse gods and their supposed abilities. Within that context at least, Tyr’s claim made sense. Thor was the God of Thunder. He should have some ability to manipulate electricity.