by Kendall Grey
“I’ll start a list. Shoes and wigs and makeup and nail polish and padding …” Alex says, typing a note on his phone.
“And we need to binge every episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race,” Freddie adds.
I don’t know what that is, but it sounds fun.
“… curlers, jewelry, accessories, maybe a pair of roller skates or something,” Alex continues.
Darryl Donovan swipes his mouth and shakes his head. “What have I gotten myself into?” he mumbles.
Alex leans over and pats his shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun, Darryl. Just roll with it.”
Darryl Donovan looks at me in the mirror again. “You owe me for this, Loki. So goddamn much.”
“I know,” I say. “And someday,” it’ll have to be real soon, “I’ll find a way to pay you back, I swear it.” A god never defaults on his promises, especially a god who can’t lie. I’d better get busy.
A song everyone knows comes on the radio. Darryl Donovan turns up the volume, and the guys bob their heads to the music.
Gunnar Magnusson stretches across the gulf between us and says in Old Norse, “I don’t know what size I wear in women’s clothes, but I could use a stylist.”
Happiness washes through me, nudging my thudding heart to hurdle its next scheduled beat. “What ever for?” I ask coyly, also in Old Norse.
He settles into his seat and crosses his arms over his barrel chest. I watch it rise and fall with stomach-fluttering appreciation. “You know.”
A flush of heat stains my cheeks. My Viking rescuer is willing to dress as woman for me. It might be the sweetest offer he’s ever made. “I’d be honored to be your personal stylist if you’ll have me. But I have one request.”
He turns to me.
Edging closer, I rake my fingers through his rich, russet-and-blond face fur and whisper in his ear, “Keep the beard.”
His lips spread into a pleased smile. “You’re hired.”
Chapter Nine
Early Friday/Freya’s Day
We check into a San Francisco hotel well after midnight. I guess that means it’s officially Friday. I try not to dwell on the calendar as we head up the elevator. We rented a two-bedroom top-floor suite using a credit card I stole off an obnoxiously loud and drunk passerby on the street. If the owner of the card reports it missing, I can always turn invisible and shuttle us out of there.
Freddie and Alex stumble like a human pretzel made of arms and legs into one of the rooms. The door slams in front of Sparky and Wiggles.
“Son of a bitch,” Sparky grumbles.
“No yodeling,” Darryl Donovan calls after Freddie and Alex. He plops on the pull-out couch in the common area and settles his bags beside it. With a stretch and a loud yawn, he lifts his chin toward the other bedroom. “It’s all yours. Just keep it down. I’m tired as shit.”
I nod my thanks and turn to Gunnar Magnusson, afraid of what’s coming.
“I can sleep on the floor—” We both say at the same time. We laugh, though my laugh surely hurts more than his does.
“You and Huginn take the bed,” he says, gesturing to my smarting rib. “You need to rest and heal. The floor won’t do you any favors.”
Huginn clucks nervously by my ankles. “He’s right, Loki. You’re in a bad way. I’m worried about you.”
I force a smile and shake my head dismissively at him.
Maybe it’s Kenaz’s fire driving me to ask, or maybe it’s fate. Either way, I whisper to Gunnar Magnusson, “We could share the bed.”
He pulls away, disconnecting the subatomic call thrumming between us.
Wait! Come back! I need you.
“I can’t, Loki,” he says gently, a lonely note of regret topping off his refusal. I can’t tell if he’s denying me because I’m injured, or he thinks I expect sex, or whether it’s something completely different. He’s a hard man to read sometimes.
I lift my hands in surrender. “I just want to sleep. I couldn’t do anything else if I tried.” And if these are indeed my final nights in Midgard, I want to spend every one of them beside you.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “Okay.”
“You two are cute,” Darryl Donovan quips from the couch. He swings his feet up and flicks the TV on with the remote.
I’d forgotten he was there. “You’re cute, Darryl Donovan, animal avenger.”
With a smirk, he waves me away. “Get the hell outta here with that mess.”
I nod toward the empty bedroom. “Come on, Huginn. You can keep my feet warm.”
“You got it, boss,” he squawks and plumps his feathers with a quick shake, shedding a few as he follows me.
Gunnar Magnusson and I drop our belongings on the floor beside the door. The room features a huge bed, big enough for three people. I consider inviting Darryl Donovan in so he doesn’t have to sleep on a lumpy couch, but Gunnar Magnusson seemed mortified when he woke up with Freddie in Atlanta. He probably doesn’t want to share a bed with another man again. And truthfully, neither do I. Knowing Darryl Donovan’s true identity makes it extra awkward.
I should find him a nice woman to tumble. That would be perfect payback for doing the drag show. I mentally add this task to my things-to-do-before-I-die list.
Adjacent to the bedroom is a bathroom with a giant tub. After making use of the facilities, I brush my teeth. A bath would be divine, but no matter which way I tug or how careful I am, I can’t get my shirt off. Lifting my arms more than a few inches is frightfully painful.
I wander out of the bathroom. Jaw clenched hard enough to make his dimple pop, Gunnar Magnusson sits stiff as a sword in an armchair with Huginn in his lap. He urgently strokes the bird’s feathers as they survey the city below.
Shite. I should’ve asked for a ground-floor room. I didn’t even think about Gunnar Magnusson’s fear of heights when I requested the suite. Stupid. Insensitive.
I step in front of him and redirect his attention from the beautifully lit Golden Gate Bridge in the distance to the arm hanging halfway out of my sleeve. “I’m prisoner in my own clothes.”
Gunnar Magnusson’s anxious expression melts into a soft, amused smile. He sets Huginn on the carpet and stands. “Let me help.”
He pulls my sleeve out and guides my hand down. He’s so gentle, it hardly even hurts. Though, the WeedPops could have something to do with my euphoria too. “Are you going to shower?”
“Bath,” I say.
He nods. When he turns away from the window, I glance across the cityscape and snap the curtain shut with my good hand. I follow him to the bathroom. He sits on the edge of the tub and turns on the tap. Testing the temperature with his fingers, he waits until the water is warm enough and plugs the hole in the bottom.
Awkward silence fills the void between us. Once again, I feel a need to apologize. Tuesday will be here in no time, and I don’t want leave anything important unsaid. “I’m sorry for dragging you through so much.”
“I made my own choices,” he says.
“Yes, you did. For me.” Suppressing a groan, I drop to my knees and catch his hands. They’re big and warm and as gentle as he is. How I wish I could keep these hands trapped in mine forever. But a cage is no place for a man. Or a woman.
“That’s not what I mean,” he says, staring into my eyes. “I didn’t make my choices for you. I chose you.”
It’s true. As both Sigyn and Gunnar Magnusson, he’s always chosen me. When she selflessly shouldered the burden of the bowl to keep snake venom from burning me in the cave before Ragnarok. When he sacrificed his morals by sleeping with Saga to retrieve Kenaz. When he agreed to enter the drag contest to help me find Othala.
He. Chose. Me.
“I don’t deserve your kindness,” I say, tearing my gaze away from him to study the fascinating waterfall spilling into the tub.
“You do,” he counters. “I see it in how much you’ve changed.”
Changed? No. I’m still the same old trickster. Right?
“Have I?�
� I ask. “I don’t think so.”
His grin confirms I have. He stands and offers me a hand up. He spins me around to face away from him and lifts the other sleeve to help me out of my shirt. Kenaz thrums at the contact. I revel in the feel of Gunnar Magnusson’s skin on mine. I crave it.
I wish I had more time.
“Can you handle it from here?” he asks, leaning in from behind me, lips grazing my ear, and nodding toward the nearly full tub.
The fever of desire burns through me. My nipples pucker. I’m wearing a bra, but I feel naked. “Yes, of course.”
He gently undoes the bra clasp at my back and slips the straps down my shoulders. The boob harness drops to the floor near my foot. The cool air hitting my exposed skin combined with his body heat makes for a dizzying cocktail of lust. Gods, I want him. He’d be worth the agony.
“Call if you need help,” he says, and then he’s gone.
I release a painful breath and climb into the divine bath, my body atingle with … ideas.
Methinks you wish to fornicate with Gunnar, Laguz teases in a sing-song chime.
I roll my eyes. Golly, ya think?
Kenaz beams a smug smile from the top of my head.
If I wasn’t injured and on a literal deadline, I’d have pushed him in the water and given him whale riding lessons.
What does sex feel like as a female? I know from my adventures with the vibrators I found in a plane’s cargo hold that climaxing as a woman is physically different than doing so as a man, but is there an emotional component my male side missed? Because it seems like there is. Or maybe it isn’t a male-female thing, rather an immortal-mortal one?
I have been experiencing a lot of sensations I never felt when I was a god: sadness, elation, disappointment, excitement. The parts of me that enjoy mischief have remained largely the same, but the ones that involve connections with others are real eye-openers. I could be suffering from actual affection for the first time in my life. If I keep this up, I might even fall in love.
And just like that, I’m in love with the idea of being in love.
So, how do I do it? If I can engineer the feeling, I want to give it a try before it’s too late.
Love doesn’t work that way, Laguz says. It’s a predator. It sneaks up on you when you’re perfectly content, mind on other matters, and strangles you from behind. You can’t even see its face sometimes. Love is cruelly beautiful and beautifully cruel. It will devour you, destroy you, ruin you. And if you’re lucky enough to find it, you should let it.
What if it takes me becoming mortal to fall in love? Worse, what if being mortal is as good as it gets?
Then you needn’t worry, Laguz says. You’ll be dead in five days anyway.
I touch the ear Gunnar Magnusson’s lips brushed moments ago and whisper, “I want to fall in love.”
After a long, thoughtful soak, I climb out of the tub, dry off as best I can, and gingerly wrap a towel around myself. A quick examination in the mirror of my stitches reveals less redness. The oozing green pus is gone. The spot still hurts like an infected ax wound, but it’s better than it was. I sigh with relief. My rib is killing me, but at least the antibiotics are working.
Gunnar Magnusson’s face brightens when I return to the bedroom. He lowers the volume on the cartoon he’s watching and says, “I’ll help you get dressed.”
From my suitcase, I dig out the flannel I’ve been wearing since I stole it from his closet in Atlanta. It needs a bath of its own, but I don’t care. I give him my back, lower the towel to my hips, and he shimmies the sleeves up my arms. Then he steps in front of me. I’m hyperaware of the vertical strip of pale skin running from my neck to my waist slowly disappearing with each button he fastens. His knuckle brushes my breast, and his scent fills the air like a blooming flower, but darker. Heavier. It’s heady and hypnotic and I—
Pheromones?
You’re both throwing them like an archer slings arrows. And they’re equally as potent, Laguz says.
Kenaz seems to nod appreciatively.
Gunnar Magnusson’s fingers pause their work, and his nostrils flare, triggering a cascade of red flushing from the top of his head down to his neck.
“I want you,” Sannleikur makes me blurt. My voice is breathy.
His eyes and musk say, I want you too, but his mouth remains clamped shut.
“Should I take a hike?” Huginn interrupts, scratching at the carpet and waving a wing in the direction of the door. “I can hang with Darryl.”
I glance over to him, and the spell breaks. Good job too. As much as I would love to take Gunnar Magnusson’s body for a test drive, my body is not ready for it.
“No, stay.” Then to Gunnar Magnusson, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I indicate my back with a thumb. “Stupid rune stave doesn’t know when to shut up.” Then curiosity gets the better of me. “What do they look like?”
“What do who look like?” Gunnar Magnusson’s voice cracks. His face has reached peak redness. If his coloring deepens any more, I might need to call him an ambulance.
“The tattoos.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t notice any tattoos.”
I spent hours getting inked in Skuld’s tattoo shop. She said I wouldn’t be able to see them, but I thought others could. Seems unfair that the rune staves are invisible after the pain and trouble I went through to get them.
“Huh.” I sit on the bed and carefully wiggle into my Thor booty shorts. Gunnar Magnusson averts his eyes.
“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask.
“No.”
“Are you scared of needles? Or thorns, as the case may be?”
“No. I just never found a design I liked enough to have it permanently stuck on me.”
“We should remedy that situation,” I say and slow-crawl to the top of the bed. “I think you’d look splendid with body art.”
He pulls off his boots and pitches them into the corner, but his clothes stay on. Damn it.
Huginn settles by my feet. I tug the covers up to my neck and stare at the ceiling, noting every point where pain bores into my body. Breathing is slightly less traumatic after the bath, and the wound on my shoulder no longer burns like the fiery forge of Chaos. My mind drifts along WeedPop currents and snags on something important: the runes.
After my fight with Odin, I didn’t have time to catalog which ones I recovered. Thoughts racing, I push up to sit and scan the room for my bag. How could I have been so careless?
You’ve been unconscious and largely incapacitated. You’re allowed to make mistakes, Laguz says.
“You should’ve reminded me,” I snarl.
“Reminded you about what?” Gunnar Magnusson asks, alarmed.
Squark? Huginn says.
I toss the covers aside and stumble out of bed, ransacking pillows and bags and shoes in a frenzy. The bag is stuffed behind my suitcase. Was that where I left it? Or did Gunnar Magnusson look through my things?
I mentally flip the switch on Hulinhjálmur to conceal what I’m doing and pour the runes out into a hand. Bragi, Gefjun, and Hlin are accounted for. There are Eir, Njorun, Modi … Where are my friends’ runes? Magni, Vili, Idunn … Ah! Here’s Freya’s. I furiously shuffle through the last few. Sif, Forsetti, Sol … Sigyn’s is at the bottom of the pile. Yes!
But that’s it.
Well, the good news is that Darryl Donovan won’t be regaining any previously held powers on my watch. The bad news is, he might uncover them on Odin’s if Allfather decides to regale my lawyer about his former exploits as the thunder god.
I rub my forehead. I am so screwed.
“What are you doing, Loki?” Gunnar Magnusson walks over as I try to figure out what the Hel to do with these stupid bone chips. When I don’t answer, he says, “Can you please make yourself visible?”
Hanging my head, I drop the runes in my flannel shirt pocket and materialize.
Gunnar Magnusson helps me up. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I can’t. “I
can.” I stomp my foot. Ugh! “I’m sick to death of this truth stave.” I cringe at my poor choice of words, as death is currently breathing down my neck.
“Not much I can do about that,” he says, “but if you want to talk about whatever else is bothering you, I’m a good listener.”
I meet his eyes. “I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll hurt you, and I’ve done enough of that already. It’s time I did something for you for once.”
His face lights up. “I know what you could do. Help me come up with my drag queen name.”
I laugh and grab my side when the broken rib stabs me like a pissed-off narwhal. “You’re not really dressing up in drag for me. Are you?”
“Of course, I am. It’ll be fun. I could use a distraction from the monotony of my life.” He caresses my cheek and lets his hand drop. “You make everything more interesting.”
Even when I try not to be selfish and do something kind for him, he turns my actions around and helps me anyway.
Gods, if I ever find the courage to tell him who he is, I’ll owe Sigyn so many apologies.
Chapter Ten
The Rune Protectorate, as Darryl Donovan dubbed our little crew, convenes in the suite’s kitchen for breakfast. Gunnar Magnusson is absent. He wasn’t in bed when I woke up, which was a bummer, especially since I dreamed about humping his leg all night.
Shite. What if I really did hump his leg all night, and that’s why he left?
My sex drive is out of control. Kenaz seems to smile with a gratified lilt at the top of my head.
Freddie sets out stacks of pancakes, strips of crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and scrambled eggs on the giant table. He tops off our mugs with delicious steaming coffee. I have no idea where he got the food, and I don’t ask. Freddie is an amazing cook. Who am I to question his talents or his sources?
Hunched over my plate, I devour everything in a few, messy bites and heap on more while the boys discuss plans. Healing requires a lot of energy.
“According to the Drag and Bone website, auditions open at noon today,” Alex says, thumbing through the details on his phone.