by Kendall Grey
“It’s a matter of life and eternal death,” I bark. “Will you make an exception this once?”
“When you put it that way, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“Not unless you want Heimdall to kill us both.”
He huffs. “You owe me. I’m starting a mischief tab, effective now.”
“I’ll happily pay you back if we get away. Now, make the car work,” I say. “Push a button or something.” I wildly kick at the floorboard. Nothing happens. So, I jam my foot over his and slam the gas pedal. The engine growls a loud protest. We push the car in front of us a couple feet, and the lady walking toward us screams.
“Go over there!” I yell, clinging to Gunnar Magnusson’s free hand and pointing to our right with the other. “Traffic ahead is backed up. The bridge is practically empty. This way will get us out of here much quicker.”
“No,” he says.
The contrary fool. What is up with him?
“Why not?” I squeal.
He looks away, his fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. “I just can’t.”
The light turns green. Gunnar Magnusson backs up and steers the Torino around the angry woman and the chaos we made. We slide into a mess of traffic like a thirsty dude sliding into DMs.
I have no idea what that last bit means, but I heard Freddie say it once. What the Hel is a “DM” anyway? Dunny Machine? Deity’s Mangrove? Devil’s Motor? And why would someone in need of a drink want to slide into it?
Midgardian idioms. Still a stumbling block for me.
Gunnar Magnusson zips through the thick traffic as fast as it’ll allow. I’m not sure what his hang-up was about the stairs or the bridge, but I don’t press it.
I turn around to look at the doctor’s office building. A swarm of people duck, run, hide, yell. We probably lost Heimdall. The chaos in my chest swirls, and Kenaz beams with pride and delight from the top of skull. What a mess we made. I laugh maniacally.
“What’s funny?” Gunnar Magnusson asks.
“Don’t you feel it?” I say, reveling in the thrum coursing through me. I’m vibrating with it.
“What?”
“The adrenaline rush. The madness, confusion. The beautiful anarchy of it all. So inspiring.” I clasp the throbbing incision above my heart. The cardioverter-defibrillator within sparks in an effort to calm my body the Hel down. The sobering reminder of my mortality is a real pain in the arse.
“Have you lost your mind?” Gunnar Magnusson asks incredulously.
I laugh some more. “No, I think I’ve finally found it. Turn left at the next light and pull into that parking lot. I need to pick something up.”
“Do you have money?” he asks.
“Don’t need any.”
“Loki—”
“You worry too much. Park the car, hold my hand, and don’t let go.”
“You stole this car,” he says, as if I forgot, “and you made me an accessory.”
“Technically, you stole it, and we’re leaving it here. The guy was probably too stoned to be driving anyway. We did him and everyone else on the road a favor.”
“What about Heimdall?”
I expel a loud breath tainted with derision. “Trust me. He’s fine. He’s probably already regrown his stupid golden eyeballs and is well on his way to finding us if we let down our guard.”
“And the people at the clinic?”
“Aside from Goldie, no one was hurt,” I say. “They were just a little scared.”
“More like traumatized.” Gunnar Magnusson pulls into a parking spot and turns off the car. I grab a dirty napkin off the floor and use it to wipe down the steering wheel and door handle. Fingerprints can be revealing little bitches in modern Midgard. I learned that from the Discovery Channel.
“Come on,” I say, peering through the windshield at the sign that says Wal-Mart. “Huginn needs a new pair of pants.”
Clasping his hand, I push Gunnar Magnusson out of the car. His grip is loose. Reluctant.
He’s pissed at me. Somewhat understandably, but I wish he wouldn’t be such a curmudgeon all the time.
I guide him toward the store, steering as far out of the path of people and cars as I can. Wouldn’t want anyone noticing whatever weirdness might follow in our invisible wake should we accidentally bump something.
“I feel like I need to restate my position on boundaries,” he says quietly.
I halt my steps and turn to him. “Have you no sense of adventure? We just stole a car! How cool is that?”
“Grand theft auto isn’t just the name of a computer game. It’s also a felony.”
“I have an awesome lawyer,” I say. “No one got seriously hurt, and you have to admit, it was fun.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was terrifying.”
“Loosen up, old man. I can’t help who I am,” I defend.
“I liked you better before I gave your rune back,” he says.
Ouch.
Easy, Loki, Laguz advises. He has a point. Kenaz isn’t exactly a warm, cuddly puppy, eager to bend to your will. Neither is Gunnar. He’s a gentle person who has feelings that are prone to being stepped on. And you wear very large, very spiky boots.
“What are you suggesting?” I ask slowly.
“That maybe Kenaz isn’t doing you the favors you thought it would.”
“It’s a part of me, Gunnar Magnusson.” I smack the hot spot on my skull. “If you don’t like it—”
“Leave?” he says, glancing my way. “Don’t tempt me.”
His heady musk swells around us, but this time it carries a bitter edge, like the glint off a freshly honed dagger.
I force my tight shoulders to loosen. I can’t afford to scare him off. I need him in more ways than one. “I don’t want to fight with you. I care about you. And I value our friendship.”
He leans in. Warmth ghosts across my face. His lips are close enough to kiss. I want them on me. All over me.
Kenaz palpitates with appreciation.
“I care about you too,” he says, his breath tickling my nose. He’s melting my frosty exterior faster than an iceberg in a heat wave. “But since I gave you Kenaz, you’ve been acting … different. Impulsive. Erratic. A little dangerous. I’m worried about you.”
I swipe his cheek and trace the curves of his face starting at his thick beard. I wriggle my fingers through the scruff, relishing the simultaneous softness and wiriness of it. So like my own beard when I was a god. Tilting my head back, I breathe into his lips, “Kenaz knows what it’s doing.”
Time stops. In this suspended moment, we sit on either side of a balance beam, each waiting for the other to make a move. One of us is bound to disrupt the equilibrium intentionally or otherwise.
Who will break the spell first?
In the few weeks I’ve known him, I’ve kissed Gunnar Magnusson once on the cheek, thrice on the lips, and I fumbled a smooch with him when I was drunk on tequila and high on WeedPops after clubbing with Freddie in New York. I won’t count that one. He’s kissed me once. Now seems like a great time for him to start evening the score. Yet, he hesitates. Again.
When will one of us find the strength to stand up to the stubborn reluctance keeping us apart?
He steps away. The heat of his closeness dissipates. The world around us resumes its pace as the spell breaks.
“What do you need from Wal-Mart?” he asks. The tightness in his voice gives me pause.
“Just a few things and then we’ll pick up the boys.” I lead him inside, a little sad that the spot where our hands touch has turned cold.
Thirty minutes later, we exit the store with a customer’s stolen car keys, a screwdriver, scissors, a packet of sandpaper, a heavy-duty glue bottle, a vial of lavender essential oil, several bundles of wire, duct tape, a baby carrier that straps to one’s front, and a collection of “onesies.” Gunnar Magnusson hasn’t said a word. I sense his growing irritation as we wander through the parking lot, dodging oncoming vehicles and renegade shopping
carts. I push the key fob button repeatedly, listening for the telltale beep-beep of a car door unlocking, to no avail. Along our quest, a license plate with a turtle on it catches my eye. I stop and use the screwdriver to remove the plate. Turtles are adorable.
We scour six rows in the lot before the beep-beep comes through for us in the form of a dirt-encrusted pickup truck. Reminds me of the one I stole from an old guy in Charlotte, North Carolina, except this one is newer, if much filthier. Working to the tune of deathly silence from Gunnar Magnusson, I quickly switch out the license plates with the help of my trusty screwdriver.
“Hop in.” I open the door and nudge him toward it.
A buzz reaches my ears, tumbling my cardiac cadence out of rhythm. In my periphery, something green shimmers into view. It’s moving fast.
Shite.
“Get down,” I tell Gunnar Magnusson. I start to lie and say I forgot something but catch myself and rearrange my choice of words before the truth tattoo does it for me. “I need to retrieve something, and I don’t want anyone to see you.”
“If you’re going to commit another crime, leave me out of it,” he says.
“No crime,” I reply. “Duck please? I’ll just be a few minutes.”
Looking unamused, he hunkers down. I let go of his hand, and he materializes, smooshed half into the floorboard and half sprawled over the seat. Staring through my neck, he scowls. I feel bad.
But I’d feel a Hel of a lot worse if he saw the green hummingbird flying toward us.
“Stay down and be quiet.” I slip out of the truck and jog to intercept Muninn, Odin’s other former raven and memory keeper.
“Muninn,” I stage whisper. “Let me hold you.”
“Bitch, I ain’t playin’ with you,” the little thug says in his deep baritone. “Make yourself known, I got shit to deliver.”
Relying on Kenaz’s dagger-sharp reflexes, I snatch the winged bastard out of the air, making him invisible. He squirms under my grip and almost escapes. He may be small, but he’s strong. I tighten my fingers to keep him from flying away.
I bring him close to my face. “Quiet down. Gunnar Magnusson will hear you.”
“I don’t give a shit in a shoeshine shop,” Muninn blurts. “If he hasn’t figured out who he is yet, maybe it’s time I showed him. Her. Whatever.”
“It would devastate him. And me. Please don’t.” I work hard to keep my tone level, but the simple request turns into a vulnerable plea, thanks to my truth rune stave.
Muninn’s tiny chest stretches as he fills his lungs and releases an irritated breath. “Saga is coming. She’s pissed.”
I close my eyes. It was bound to happen sooner or later. “How do you know?”
“Because she went to Odin about it.”
Odin and Frigg (aka Saga Leifsdóttir, the former manager of Nine Realms Resort and Casino) have been married for over a thousand years. Seems natural for a loving wife to go to her doting husband with her problems. Unless, of course, their relationship soured over time, which the events of last night gave me cause to wonder.
I say, “And that’s unusual because …?”
“She hasn’t been in the same room with Allfather in ages,” Muninn admits.
So, my suspicions are correct. Saga coercing Gunnar Magnusson into her bed was my first clue that something was amiss between her and the old goat. Infidelity wasn’t unusual in our day, but it wasn’t something a woman—especially the wife of high-and-mighty Odin—boasted about. If they haven’t been together in a while, I reckon their marriage is strained at best, downright hostile at worst.
But nothing brings together old foes better than a common enemy. In a word, me.
See, Frigg is mad at me because I engineered the “accidental” death of her beloved golden boy, Baldur. Odin holds a grudge against me for that whole Ragnarok thing, particularly the parts where my son Fenrir ate him and my other son Jormundgandr drowned Thor in venom. Or, so I thought.
“When you say they haven’t seen each other in ‘ages,’ are we talking a couple months, years, decades—”
“Since 1823,” Muninn clarifies.
“I see.” So, things went from wine to vinegar between them. Perhaps I can use their breakup to my advantage.
“Odin wants his runes back. If you refuse to return them, he’ll take them by force,” Muninn says.
“They’re not his runes,” I retort.
“They’re not yours either, bitch.”
“Then, maybe I should give them to their rightful owners, bitch,” I taunt, though I’m courting disaster with the threat. Returning runes to former gods could trigger memories I’d prefer to remain lost to the oubliette of time.
“Perfect. You can start with Sigyn,” Muninn says smugly, crossing his delicate little gangster wings over his puffed-out chest. “I’ll wait.”
Grr!
“You know I won’t do that,” I protest.
“Odin figured as much. Which is why they’re coming after you,” Muninn says. “He wasn’t too happy about what you did to Heimdall back there.”
“Bastard deserved it,” I grumble.
“Not my judgment to make.”
“How much time do I have?” I ask.
“If I do it the old-fashioned way and use my wings, I’d say about twenty minutes.”
I choke over a swallow. “And if you use your powers?”
“Look, I can only make so many excuses,” Muninn says, his tone slightly less harsh than usual. “It was a good trick you pulled on Heimdall, but Odin won’t believe me if I come back empty-handed again.”
I guess that settles it.
“Then, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take you hostage.”
“What?” His voice peeps up an octave. “Wait, no. Loki, don’t. You’ll regret this!”
I race toward the Torino Gunnar Magnusson and I left on the other side of the lot. Muninn thrashes in my hand, but I hold onto him tightly, thumbing his beak down so he can’t stab me or yell for help. I open the trunk of the car. His beady eyes bug out. Though Muninn and I had a shaky relationship at first, things warmed a little between us last night. Any gains I made with him are now null and void.
Regret spools around me like a cocoon.
“I’m sorry, Muninn,” I whisper as I toss him into the trunk and slam it shut with a finality I pray won’t be truly final.
Chapter Six
Gunnar Magnusson doesn’t ask where I went or what I did. It’s for the best. I don’t want to have to tell him the truth.
Gods, what have I done, locking a tiny, helpless bird in a trunk?
Muninn will be alright, Laguz soothes. He’s immortal and hardly helpless.
I know this, but it doesn’t make me feel better.
It was necessary, the rune says.
I’m not sure I believe it.
Something seems off with Gunnar Magnusson. I mean, more so than it did when I went after Muninn. He refuses to touch me, which is both a disappointment and a gamble. He’s fully visible. Muninn may be locked up, but if Heimdall has regrown his eyes, he’ll be able to locate Gunnar Magnusson. Hurt feelings aside, I silently beg the Norns to keep Heimdall blind for a bit longer.
Gunnar Magnusson turns up the music on the radio as he pulls out of the parking lot. I assume he’s not interested in talking, so I pull materials from the Wal-Mart bag and get to work on my project. Letting Laguz guide my fingers, I weave a network of wires into the vague shape of a chicken and reinforce the form with duct tape. By the time we arrive at the motel, I have a prototype.
The truck rolls into a parking spot. I toss the exoskeleton in the bag, gather the supplies, and lay a hand on the door handle. Gunnar Magnusson’s hesitation stops me from pulling it.
He looks broken. I wish I could fix him, but I’m what wrenched him apart. Taking a deep breath, I try to put myself in his shoes by shifting my paradigm and seeing things from his perspective.
He just finished his thesis. He’s about to graduate from college. He got his d
ream job as a curator of Norse antiquities. Then I came along and ruined everything he’s worked his entire life for.
I sigh. “I’ve hurt you. Again. It seems to be the only thing I’m good at lately.”
He doesn’t deny it.
I consider my words carefully before speaking again. “Education and work are high priorities for you,” I observe. “I’m sorry I got in the way of your goals, but what you see is who I am: a trickster who makes trouble for a living. If that’s too much, I understand. I’m not for everyone. You don’t have to stick around.” I’ve given him this out so many times, it’s becoming a habit.
“Can you turn off the invisibility for one minute?” Frustration pitches his voice an octave higher.
Against my better judgment, I do as he asks. His breath hitches. When his gaze collides with mine, I feel more naked than I did in the parking lot earlier. The soul beaming through his tortured eyes skewers me.
Turning fully toward me, he takes my hands in his and squeezes. “I want things between us to go back to what they were. I want life to slow down long enough for me to appreciate it. I want …” He inhales deeply. “I want to let go and try to be more like you.”
I cant my head to the side. Did I hear him right?
“More like me?” I ask incredulously. “Why?”
“You live your life like every day is your last. If I said, ‘Hey, let’s jump off a bridge,’ you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d take a running leap and figure out how to live through it on the way down. Me? I wouldn’t jump off a couple of stairs, let alone a bridge.”
Then it clicks. His reluctance to go up to the roof. Avoiding the bridge in traffic …
“Are you afraid of heights?” I ask.
His cheeks burn red. “When I heard you climbed the World Tree at Nine Realms, I almost had a panic attack on your behalf.”
“If it makes you feel better, I nearly did too,” I say, cringing at the memory of dangling from that harness, fifty feet above the ground. “But it’s amazing how fast you can forget your fears when your immortality is on the line.”