by Kendall Grey
The song ends. The audience raves over Alex’s performance. Several observers give him a standing ovation. I approach the peak, ready to jump. Buck naked Kenaz is waiting for me there, luring me to the edge.
Loki! Laguz shrills, but I’m past the point of stopping this thrill ride. I’m going to blow. Only question is when.
All eyes turn to Damien Drakkar. He switches on a handheld microphone I hadn’t noticed before and grunts into it. “Pass.” The word blares through the speakers hanging from the ceiling and walls with dark finality.
Breaths from around the auditorium hitch and fall. The disappointed-looking host standing at the center of the stage says to Alex, “Thanks for participating, Morgan LeSlay. Your performance was amazing. Next up is—”
Kenaz twists, tugging the invisible strings working my pleasure center like a marionette. The volcano forces a crack in my exterior and loses containment in a rush. Climax thunders through me, and the tremors amplify into earth-shaking ripples.
The building trembles. Chairs rattle. People shriek.
“Earthquake!” someone yells.
Fever pouring over me like lava, I marvel at the pandemonium I’ve created—or Damien Drakkar prompted me to create. Chaos descends on the theater as humans run for the doors, shouting and clutching each other.
STOP IT, KENAZ! Laguz screams loud enough to loosen my eardrums from their moorings.
I regain my senses, and the earth’s shivers halt as suddenly as they started. I clutch both arms of my chair, afraid that if I let go, I might inadvertently climax again.
Except for Damien Drakkar and me, everyone on our row has vacated their seats. He stares at me with delighted appreciation and thrusts his face inches from mine, close enough to kiss me.
I glance around at the terrified faces, the spilled plastic cups, and dropped napkins littering the floor. That orgasm was the bomb. Literally.
I wouldn’t kick a cigarette and a shot of Jack Daniels out of bed if Damien Drakkar offered them to me.
“That was something,” he says, admiring a thin stream of dust falling from the rafters. “I wonder if my fans think the Breaker of Worlds had anything to do with the quake. I’ll bet if a geologist pinpointed the exact epicenter, it would be this very row.” He tosses his head back and cackles with grating laughter, erasing the intoxicating haze of pheromones from my memory.
Reality punches me in the face with sobering clarity.
I’m the Breaker of Worlds, not him. Does he know I caused the rumble, or is he so self-centered that he thinks he did it?
Something’s not right. Laguz’s thoughts stumble.
You’re telling me, I think. Did Damien Drakkar bait me into causing the quake? Was it magic? If so, I could be dealing with any number of gods from my past.
Or a Loki copycat, Laguz says. Either way, staying close to him won’t end well.
The stiffening hairs at my nape achieve liftoff.
Damien Drakkar retrieves a Sharpie from his jacket pocket, grabs my hand, and scribbles “3859” on the back of it. “Armstrong Regency Hotel, room 3859,” he repeats as he stands. “Be there at seven.”
He struts toward the door on the right side of the stage as if the building didn’t just try to shrug out of its own foundations.
What the Hel is going on?
Once a parade of firemen assesses the building and deems the structure sound after the “highly localized but mild earthquake,” everyone returns to the auditorium to finish the second round of judging. I look for a different seat. I need to stay far away from Damien Drakkar to suss out what’s going on. I can’t think when I’m near him.
Alex finds me in the crowd and wanders over. “You okay?”
“I’m feeling out of sorts,” I say, which is very true. I rub my sore rib for effect. Right now, my side doesn’t hurt nearly as much as my pride. “How about you?”
“Pissed.” He scowls after Damien Drakkar, who’s signing women’s cleavage with the Sharpie he used on me. Who does he think he is, wearing sunglasses indoors and acting like he’s David Lee Roth looking for a groupie to bang after a Van Halen concert?
“I’m sorry he booted you,” I say.
“Two-faced son of a bitch,” Alex grumbles.
Jeez, I know he was excited about the contest, but Alex seems to be taking his defeat hard.
“You didn’t deserve the cut. Everyone else thought you were great,” I say, patting his arm. “I’m gonna go back to the hotel and ice my rib. Would you tell the boys where I went and wish them luck for me?”
Still seething after Damien Drakkar like a storm cloud chasing the sun for shining too brightly, Alex nods. “Sure. Hope you feel better.”
“Thanks,” I say and pull out my phone to order an Uber to our hotel. I wander toward the exit and sort through the day’s events.
Damien Drakkar has an effect on me that I can only attribute to some form of magic which Kenaz, my rune of fire and passion, is amplifying. I can’t remove Kenaz from my skull, but staying away from Damien Drakkar might minimize his impact. Obviously, the man is capable of giving me earth-shattering feels in the pants without even touching me.
I don’t want to think about what might happen if he did touch me.
That said, I can’t exactly stay away from the thief who has my rune. I’m trapped between a rock and a giant, venom-drooling snake hovering over my head. At least this time, it’s only figuratively.
Damien Drakkar’s pass on Alex was a kick in the face. Though I didn’t see it (too busy triggering temblors to notice), whispers among the observers I pass when I leave the premises declare Alex’s routine flawless. No one understands why he didn’t advance to the next round. I’m stumped as well.
When I get to the hotel, I find Huginn glued to Freddie’s tablet, binge-watching a show called Robot Chicken, which I do not understand. It features neither robots nor chickens. Midgardians are so weird.
Huginn asks about the contest. I gloss over the details. While he’s occupied, I work on his project and continue sorting through the facts at my fingertips, but I’m at a loss for what happened with Damien Drakkar or how to proceed.
One thing is clear, Laguz says. You have to meet Drakkar tonight. Finding Othala is your top priority. We have exactly one lead, and it’s him. The sooner you recover your rune, the sooner you can get away from that guy and move on to locating Ihwaz.
As for meeting Damien Drakkar alone, I don’t want to. Now that I’m clear of his sexy stench, all I can think about is Gunnar Magnusson. But as Laguz said, without Othala, I’m an incomplete god. Not even a god. An incomplete Midgardian.
As the day’s shadows lengthen and the sun drifts toward the horizon, Alex sends a text. Darryl Donovan, Freddie, and Gunnar Magnusson made it through to round three, which will be tomorrow. We may be one man down, but we’re still in the game.
I get dressed for my “date” with Damien Drakkar. My outfit is casual—jeans, a short-sleeved purple polo shirt, kick-ass black boots, and my feather coat. I don’t want my clothing to suggest I’m interested in anything more than food—preferably a well-done goat or five.
When the guys and cats get home, it’s almost time for me to leave. I follow Gunnar Magnusson into our room.
“Congratulations on progressing to the next round,” I say.
“I felt a little foolish,” he admits, “but it was fun. Where are you going?” He gestures to my clothes. “I thought you weren’t feeling well.”
“I’m better. Meeting Damien Drakkar at his hotel.”
He slowly curls his arms into a rigid knot over his chest and sets his jaw. “Oh?”
“I’m going to find my rune.”
He glances at his watch. “So, you’re having dinner with him.”
“I don’t know. He just told me to be there at seven.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Loki, let me come with you.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because that guy … He’s … He makes me nervous.”
&nbs
p; “You think he’s gonna hurt me?” I laugh. “I’m not a delicate flower.”
He stands toe-to-toe with me and gently grasps the backs of my upper arms. His eyes target mine, and I read the concern in them loud and clear. “You’re no flower. But you’ve been injured pretty badly. You’re not at peak performance. And after what I saw today, I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
“Why would you want to throw him? Wouldn’t he be heavy?” I pause. “Oh. I get it.”
“After you left and everyone went back inside following the quake, I watched him interact with people,” he continues. “He was rude, disrespectful, demanding. He lost his temper with that Heath guy three times. I thought he might start a fist fight with one of the queens for flirting with him. And he grabbed someone’s butt when they passed by. He’s not a nice person.”
Hmm. If this is true, Gunnar Magnusson may have a point. “Thank you for looking out for me, but this is the perfect opportunity to look for Othala. Laguz will recognize its signature, I’ll nab it, turn invisible, and be back before you’re in bed.”
Before we’re in bed. Kenaz waggles its nonexistent eyebrows.
He slams his lips into a thin line. “I don’t like it.”
“I’ll be fine.” I lean forward, balancing on my tiptoes in a failed attempt to match his imposing height.
He expels a long breath. “Let me drive you. I’ll wait in the lobby.”
“He’ll recognize you.”
“I’ll put my hair up and stuff it under a hat.”
“What about your muscles?” I squeeze his left biceps and swoon inwardly at how tight it is. Why are my sex hormones working so hard to get me laid today?
Kenaz flexes mischievously.
Laguz groans. It always comes back to the sexually insatiable Kenaz.
True, I think, but Kenaz always promises—and delivers—a good time.
UGH, Laguz grunts.
“I’ll wear baggy clothes,” Gunnar Magnusson says.
I could argue with him for days, but I doubt I’d get anywhere. He seems to have a deflection for every possibility I throw at him.
“Fine,” I agree. “You wait in the lobby.”
“And if there’s even the slightest whiff of trouble—”
“I know. I’ll text you.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” His face lights up. “Freddie can rig up a listening device and drop it in your purse. I can monitor you that way.”
If another orgasm like the one I had in the auditorium sneaks up on me, Gunnar Magnusson doesn’t need to be listening. In fact, he doesn’t need to be anywhere near the hotel. He might end up buried in its rubble.
“That’s not necessary,” I say.
“What about Huginn, then?” he tries. “I could wire him.”
“And what’s Damien Drakkar going to think about me arriving with a chicken in tow?”
“I don’t care what he thinks.” Gunnar Magnusson’s pupils dilate with a flare. His lip curls into a snarl.
And it’s seriously hot.
I fan my face and swallow the sudden spate of spit flooding my mouth. “I can handle myself. I’m a freaking god, remember?”
“Former god,” he corrects. “We’re working on your upgrade to version 2.0, which will never be installed if you don’t listen to common sense every once in a while.”
He doesn’t know how close to the target he hit with that statement.
“Are you worried about me?” I playfully poke his chest. His pec tightens under my fingertip.
“Yes,” he says waving his hands emphatically on either side of my head. He looks like he wants to grab me by the ears and shake me. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Yes, I’m worried.”
I smile. “I love that you’re getting so worked up over this.”
“You’re incorrigible,” he gripes.
I laugh. Regret it. Grab my side. “I know. Now get out of here. I need to fix this makeup. I’ll be ready to leave at 6:30.”
He grouses on his way out of the room.
After struggling for ten minutes to freshen my face, I give up and meet Gunnar Magnusson in the living area. He hands me my purse. I discreetly check to ensure the runes are still there—all accounted for—and that my phone is charged—seventy percent should be fine. “I’m ready,” I say.
On the ride to the Armstrong Regency Hotel, Gunnar Magnusson says, “Text me updates when you can.”
“I will.”
“And if he says anything you don’t like, leave.”
“I will.”
“And if he gets aggressive, scream at the top of your lungs and run like hell.”
“I will.”
“You need to scope out where the room is in relation to the elevator and stairs—”
“I appreciate that you’re watching out for me,” I say, “but this trickster has a few tricks up her sleeve. If I have to use them, I will.”
Pinned under his top teeth, his bottom lip pales. “I can’t stress this enough, Loki. I know how you like to play with people, but you’re wounded, not up to snuff physically. Please, don’t take any chances with this guy. He could be dangerous.”
Could be? Ha! He’s definitely dangerous.
But the real Loki can be dangerous too.
I crack my knuckles and stretch. “I’m not concerned.”
He huffs. “Could you try to be?”
“I’ve got an idea,” I say. “While I’m busy looking for Othala and fending off the handsy Mr. Drakkar—”
Gunnar Magnusson winces.
“—why don’t you plan what we’re going to do for our second date?”
He glances at me and quickly returns to the road. “You’re serious?”
“I can’t lie.”
“Give me some ideas,” he says grudgingly.
“I like to eat goats. I’m fond of the color black. As I’m new to a female body and not accustomed to the rules of modern fashion, my clothing and makeup skills are underdeveloped, but I’m willing to try dressing up if you want to take me somewhere the elite congregate. I have a righteous sense of adventure and will try anything once—twice if it doesn’t kill me. Bonus points if the activity you choose involves something I’ve never done or heard of before.”
“Anything else?” he asks sarcastically.
I blink. “I think I’ve given you plenty to work with. Now, go forth and make magic since I seem to have lost most of my own.”
He pulls into the parking lot at the Armstrong Regency Hotel. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Fifteen
I rap on the door to room 3859. It opens. The enigmatic actor’s ocean-green eyes sparkle as he waves me inside.
I step into another world. The space is twice the size of our suite—big enough for a giant. The furniture upholstery alternates between plush red velvet and soft gold silk. Crown molding accents the trace ceiling, and delicately etched wainscoting graces the walls. Low lights provide barely adequate illumination, but that’s the point. The décor is all about mood, and this place beams sex with the subtlety of a three-alarm fire. The misted, open-petal flower prints hanging on the velvet and gilded wallpaper weave intricate threads of eroticism through the room. From the thick pile of crimson carpet to the heavy rose fragrance tingeing the air, the suite blares an unmistakable command to “get busy.”
“You look lovely tonight, Miss Jones,” Damien Drakkar says, shutting the door. He lifts the wine glass cupped in his hand to his lips and imbibes in dark liquid that matches the color of the carpet. He gestures to the right. Dozens of crystalline bottles lining the mirrored shelves behind the bar sparkle under the ever-shifting light. “Wine?”
“Thank you, Mr. Drakkar,” I say. “I’d love some.”
“Call me Damien.”
I nod. “And you can call me Astrid.” Not a lie. He can call me that.
Look at me, leveling up on my truth-skirting skills.
Damien sets his glass on a tall table by the door beside a huge bouquet of red rose
s and steps behind me. His closeness warming my back, he grasps the collar of my coat, his fingers scraping my stitches. I suppress a flinch. The pain keeps me focused. He eases the black-feathered fashion statement off my shoulders and hangs it on a coat rack with two of his leather jackets.
Damien glides to the bar and pours my drink. His feet are bare. He’s wearing a shiny black satin shirt with the top two buttons undone and matching pants. The outfit looks more like casual loungewear or pajamas than regular clothing. It’s positively ridiculous.
“This is a 2003 Bordeaux.” He closes his eyes and inhales the bouquet. “Aromas of berries and mocha with complications of oregano and thyme. It’s rather unique. Very expensive. And powerful.” The words like me hang unspoken in the air.
His fingers brush mine during the handoff, and Kenaz practically seizes with delight. I sniff the elixir, swirl it, and take a sip. I’ve only had wine once, at Hel’s Bells club under Nine Realms Resort and Casino. That kind was sweet and almost black, but this stuff is full-bodied and rich with a hint of figs and chocolate. Interesting.
Damien retrieves his drink and gestures to the oversized couch waiting for us like a horny sex maw. Kenaz warbles. I take a seat, hiding a grimace when I jostle my rib. He lowers himself beside me like a shark’s fin slipping under the surface of a calm sea. Everything about him is sinuous, boneless. It’s distractingly sexy.
Our thighs touch. More spasms from Kenaz ensue, spreading longing through my body. I try to ignore it and study my wine. Damien watches me. His hand—ringless, damn it—sweeps the hair out of my face, revealing my neck. He stares at it as if he wants to take a bite.
Bring it on.
Gods damn it, Loki. You and Kenaz lolling your tongues like lovesick teens is making it hard for me to keep up the resistance, Laguz warns.
I shake free of the daze stalking me and deflect Kenaz’s barrage of sex thoughts with renewed focus. “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about your role on Asgard Awakening,” I say, steering our conversation toward the innocuous, “but I’m curious why you chose to play such a loathsome character. The Loki on the show is rather a fool.”