by Kendall Grey
I don’t want to think about how Freddie’s going to react when he finds out that not only is he Freya, but his boyfriend also sold me out. If our tumultuous past holds true, Freddie might be pretty damn happy about the latter when he discovers the former.
“The bird has a point,” Sparky jumps in. “Looks like Freya’s man Alex is a traitor.”
“Disappointing, dudes.” Wiggles laments.
“I think it’s time we did some investigating into who the real Alexander Alfheim is,” I say. “Don’t mention anything about the emails to him or Freddie until we have more information.”
“Not to throw more monkey wrenches into the current predicament, but we also need to find new lodgings,” Gunnar Magnusson reminds.
“How is a monkey hurling wrenches going to help us get a hotel room?” I ask.
Gunnar Magnusson laughs. “No, a monkey wrench is an unexpected problem.”
“Ah. Why don’t we just look for an abandoned house to borrow for a few days?” I ask.
“You mean, break into someone’s home?”
I shrug. “It wouldn’t exactly be breaking in if I use my rune stave to unlock the door.”
“I doubt the cops would see it that way. I’d rather do it the old-fashioned way and pay for a room, fair and square.”
“Then we’ll use the credit cards I pilfered,” I say.
“What?” He looks from the road to me and scowls. Methinks he’s not pleased. “I thought you paid with the money you won at the poker tournament.”
I open my purse, dig out the little rectangles, and fan them like playing cards. “Why would I do that when I have all these plastic thingies?”
“Because that’s stealing,” he says incredulously.
“And?”
“And it’s not only illegal. It’s just plain wrong.”
“I don’t think so. Those drunkards should’ve been monitoring their wallets better. There are pickpockets everywhere in this country, Gunnar Magnusson.”
“You’re unbelievable.” He shakes his head. “No more stealing.”
“But I—”
“I said no more.” His forceful tone renders the declaration final and closed for debate.
I cross my arms and huff. And wince at my rib’s protest.
Gunnar Magnusson pulls into the lot at the auditorium and parks. He turns to Huginn and says, “I’ll leave the van running to keep you guys cool. Lock the door behind us.”
Squark! “Let me come with you, Loki,” the chicken says, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the grinning Wiggles.
“Taking you inside will draw unwanted attention.”
“Not if you’re invisible.”
“I need to stand out for this,” I say. “I want Damien to see me. Besides,” I whirl on the cats and point two fingers at them, “remember what Freddie said. When he’s gone, I’m in charge, and I’m telling you to keep your claws and teeth to yourself. You promised.”
Sparky laughs. “His exact words were, ‘She’s the boss when I’m not around.’ But if you ain’t around either …” He lifts his furry shoulders in a shrug and opens his paws. “You go inside, all bets are off.” He flicks his haughty gaze at Huginn and licks his chops hungrily.
Huginn shoots another dubious look at the cats. “You don’t know what they’re like when you’re gone. They taunt me incessantly, make stupid chicken jokes—”
“What kind of chicken grows on a tree?” Wiggles asks.
“Poul-tree,” Sparky answers. “Why does a chicken lay an egg every day?”
“Hen-durance,” Wiggles says.
The cats fall over with laughter, paw the air, and slap their tails on the floorboard.
“Wow,” I say. “I see what you mean.” I crawl to the rear of the van and drag my suitcase between the back seats. “I was saving this for the right moment. I think the time has come.”
I make a show of unzipping the luggage slowly. Then I pull out the chicken-sized suit of armor I’ve been working on and hold it up for Huginn’s inspection. A potent burst of lavender fills the minivan. The cats stop laughing and start coughing.
“Repurposed and redesigned baby onesie outfitted with coarse-grain sandpaper under two layers of tight-weave chicken wire. Cats hate sandpaper, so they won’t want to touch it. The chicken wire provides extra support as well as a safety cage that curious paws can’t penetrate. The outer shielding has been treated with lavender essential oil, another feline deterrent. You can’t fly in this suit because the wings have to remain in the cage for protection, but you couldn’t fly anyway, so no loss there. And to top it off, I made you custom spats for leg coverage, easy claw access should you need to retaliate, and a non-Viking-Viking helmet to secure your noggin.” I whip out the horned monstrosity and set it atop Huginn’s comb.
Gunnar Magnusson tosses his mane back and bellows a hearty, appreciative laugh.
“What the—” Wiggles protests.
“This ain’t fair, man!” Sparky swipes at his scrunched-up nose. “That shit stinks!”
“Dude, you can’t leave us alone in the car with him,” Wiggles says. “The smell alone will kill us.”
Huginn squawks an admiring chuckle as he takes in the outfit. It’s not pretty, but the cat deterrent-wear is already working.
“Put it on me, Loki,” Huginn begs, his beak cracked in a wide grin.
I oblige, gently folding his wings flat, poking his feet through the holes on the bottom, and securing the cage with the hooks I fashioned from the wire. I give the armor a few thumps to test it. Seems to hold just fine.
“You’re the best,” Huginn squawks. “Takk, friend.”
“You’re welcome.” I point at the cats, this time more meaningfully. “You two behave.”
“Gah, can you at least crack the window?” Sparky complains. “That smell is disgusting!”
I push the buttons to lower the glass a few inches and climb out of the minivan. “Have fun, you three.”
“Loki, come on!” Wiggles says.
I shut the door and follow Gunnar Magnusson toward the building. “Let’s go in separately. You find the boys and fill them in about the hotel switch. Don’t mention the email. I’ll meet you all at the van shortly.”
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“Have a few words with Damien Drakkar.”
“I’m not comfortable with leaving you alone with him.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m doing it anyway.”
He grunts but doesn’t say anything.
“Just round up Darryl Donovan, Freddie, and Alex. Leave the rest to me,” I say.
When we arrive inside, a security guy approaches. He rests a hand on the gun at his hip. “Do you have a pass?”
I give Kenaz control of my mouth and let the rune speak for me. “Astrid Jones. I represent two of the queens who advanced to the second round.” Not a lie. I didn’t say my name is Astrid, and I do represent Darryl Donovan and Freddie.
I glance to the guard’s arms and widen my eyes. “Look at your biceps. Do you work out? How much can you bench press? How do you maintain such a physique? Is it vitamins? Vegan diet?”
The officer looks from me to Gunnar Magnusson and back to me. “Seriously?”
The man has no muscles to speak of, but a little ego boost never hurt anyone. And technically, I’m not lying about anything. Just asking a lot of questions.
“It’s pushups, isn’t it?”
He stretches to his full height and sucks in his paunch as he adjusts his belt. “I do workout. A little.”
“Just a little?” I grin and squish the loose skin on his upper arm. He flexes under my touch. “You’ll have to tell me your workout secrets. I’ve just gotta grab my boys. Should only take a few minutes, okay?” I don’t wait for his answer.
Holding my head high like I have every right to be here, I stride into the hall with the confidence of Freya’s cats. The security guard bumbles something behind me about needing to see my pass, but he doesn’t follow.
Gunnar Magnusson catches up, leans over and says under his breath, “I’ll give it to you. You know how to charm people with laser-tight precision.”
I smile. “It’s what I do.”
Dance music pours between the cracks of the closed doors. Amid a fast tempo and heavy bass, a line about being “too sexy for my shirt” prompts my eyebrows to lift. Gunnar Magnusson and I part ways—he goes directly inside the auditorium while I take the long way and enter via the side entrance. When I see what’s happening onstage, I burst into laughter.
Darryl Donovan, aka Shay-Shay Le Tigre, eats up the stage with flashy, wicked dance moves. A tan and black cheetah-print dress with flowing sleeves jerks with his bucking hips as he stomps and thrashes, sending his black wig spiraling around his head. He mouths the song’s lyrics with exaggerated expressions of surprise, flamboyance, and confidence.
“Oh, gods, if Odin could see you now,” I murmur to myself and clap. Darryl Donovan makes a stunning woman. Positively delightful.
The singer says his shirt can’t handle his sexy. Nor can his car or his hat. This is hilarious!
It feels good to laugh even though it makes my side hurt.
Darryl Donovan gives us his back and twerks his booty like the thunder god he is. He ends the song with a mighty, two-handed flourish. The cheetah spots on the sleeves hugging his upheld arms glitter under the spotlight. The audience erupts with applause. I join them. He totally deserves this.
When he turns around, Darryl Donovan wears the silliest grin, like he can’t believe he did it.
I’ll remember this moment when he finds out who he really is and how much he hates me. Because it’s coming. No matter how much I want to delay the truth, he will discover he’s Thor, probably sooner rather than later.
Then again, it’s Sunday. Only two more days until I’m gone. Maybe the Norns will put off his awakening until I’m asleep for good.
The screams and cheers continue. People stand up to clap for my mate. I’m proud of him.
I have the best friends.
Except for Alex. What has he done? I don’t know whether to rip his throat out or shame him in front of Freddie. Either way, I want revenge for him turning me over to Damien Drakkar for money. What a jerk.
And you’ve never sold someone out? smartarse Laguz asks. Idunn? Freya? The dwarves? Shall I go on?
“Not necessary,” I whisper.
The perpetual reminders of my flaws and mistakes wear thin. Even if they’re true. Still … Betrayal sucks.
The applause dies down after a minute, and Darryl Donovan takes a final bow.
Damien Drakkar’s smooth-as-honey voice floods the speakers. “You took that song to a different level, Miss Le Tigre. I enjoyed the flirtation with your African roots via the cheetah prints and flashy gold. Props too on the dancing, especially in those heels. If only your brain were as big as your ego.”
A hush falls. Darryl Donovan tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes. His jaw works back and forth.
I’m shocked and offended that Damien would say such things about my friend. Darryl Donovan is no dummy, and though he might pretend arrogance in front of this crowd, he doesn’t flaunt it in real life. He’s down to earth. If anyone has a big ego, it’s the man slandering everyone else from the shadows in the front row.
Damien waves a hand and laughs. “Don’t be upset. I’m just doing my job. I’m supposed to be critical so you can improve.”
“What exactly was your criticism?” Darryl Donovan asks in his usual, very male, baritone. He flips a bit of hair out of his face and settles his fake-nail-tipped hands on his padded hips. “All I heard was you casting aspersions on my intelligence. But if you have something constructive to add, I’ll gladly listen.”
Damien quirks a brow. “You have spunk, I’ll give you that.” With a loud sigh, he says, “Pass to the next round.”
The spectators clap, and I do too, but it’s not for Damien showing “mercy” on my friend.
I’m beginning to hate Damien Drakkar.
Darryl Donovan nods and traipses off stage. Between cracks in the curtain, I spy Alex and Freddie waiting for him backstage.
The emcee resumes his microphone and announces, “That’s it for round three of the Drag and Bone Pageant. We’re down to the final sixteen participants. I know you guys can’t wait to see what shakes out next. Join us on Tuesday night at 8:00, live on our YouTube channel, to find out which queen will walk away with the crown. Let’s give a final round of applause for all our daring ladies.”
Twenty-odd queens (including Darryl Donovan, Freddie, and Helga Boomslang—Ugh! Shocker that she made it through) fill the stage. They bow as the audience claps, whistles, and howls for their favorites. Once the ladies disperse, I watch Damien Drakkar from the shadows. Fans barrage him from every side, begging for pictures and autographs. He signs women’s cleavage—a recurring theme, apparently. He flirts as they snap selfies with him. Even from behind his dark glasses, I can sense him undressing them with his eyes.
Then those probing eyes find me. I stand straight and tall, arms crossed and defiant. I lift my chin and level him with a condescending glare. A slow smile smears over his face like a skid mark in the toilet. Amused, is he? Well, I am not.
He breaks away from his little harem, making some excuse I can’t hear. Disappointed moans bandy among the scorned queens. They paw at his clothes as he slips away, guided by the red-haired assistant/thief wearing the short, green flowery dress the cats described. She must’ve come here after securing Alex’s hat.
Damien stalks toward me.
When he lands within a few feet, he gestures to the door with a head jerk and says, “Walk with me.”
Chapter Eighteen
“You just can’t get enough of me, can you, Astrid?” he pronounces the last word with derision, as if he doesn’t believe it’s my real name.
Uh-oh.
He recognizes you, Laguz says.
No shite, wisenheimer.
“It’s like you know me inside and out,” I say.
His gaze sidewinds down my face and lands on my breasts. “Not yet. But soon.”
I kick out a hip and rest a hand on it. “What do you want?”
He tears his eyes away from me and turns to his hovering assistant, the statuesque red-haired larcenist who can’t seem to breathe without his full attention on her. “Get out of here.”
I wonder if she has a flattened top hat stuffed down the back of her undies.
The woman doesn’t say a thing, just flits away as if pleased he dismissed her so rudely.
“Wow, how much do you pay her to treat her like goat shite?” I ask. And steal for you, I mentally tack on.
“Plenty,” he answers, “but I’m not here to talk about the help. I have something you want. You have something I want. Let’s make a deal.”
Kenaz yawns and stretches.
Out of nowhere, a blast of sexual energy clobbers my southern shores. Damien grabs my hand and pulls it toward his mouth. Laguz wages a sputtering defense against his erotic attack, and I manage to jerk away weakly. Kenaz blatantly refuses to help. Naturally.
Unsteady on my feet, I say, “I’ll bet you’re not used to hearing the word no.”
“Correct.” His sea-green eyes sparkle with unearthly luminescence.
I feel woozy just looking at him. “Hear me loud and clear: I’m not interested in any ‘deals’ with you. Keep your snake-oil-salesman magic pointed elsewhere. And don’t touch me again.”
“But I haven’t told you the conditions,” he protests. Notable that he doesn’t deny the magic gibe. “I thought you wanted one of your ‘boys’ to win the pageant. I believe two are still in the game after I booted the dim-witted one who broke down my door at the Armstrong Regency. The hotel will send him the bill for the damages, by the way.”
I snort. “Good luck with that.” Gunnar Magnusson is as homeless as I am.
“What’s his name?” Damien asks. “Or is it hers?”
I
don’t like what he’s insinuating. Does he know about Sigyn? Or is he just being a transphobic dick? Either way, he can bite me.
“There are so many confused people around here who pretend to be someone they’re not,” he continues. “I believe she was Jacinda Juggs, the Milkmaid of Mississippi. Correct?”
“First of all, it’s presumptuous to assume everyone in the pageant is transgender and uses ‘she/her’ pronouns. It’s common courtesy to ask which pronouns they prefer and use them accordingly. Secondly, transgender people aren’t ‘confused,’” I say. Anger replaces lust as Laguz puts a smackdown on Kenaz, and a different sort of heat fuels my galloping pulse. “They were born in the wrong body.”
He quirks an intrigued brow. “Like you?”
This catches me off guard.
I start to tell him I don’t know what he means, but I swallow the lie before Sannleikur mangles it into something damaging. Instead, I say, “More like you. Is that your problem?”
A tiny flicker of displeasure disturbs the corner of his mouth. I may be on to something. I’ve definitely found a nerve to prod.
“Were you born in the wrong body? The lowest scum of the earth was already taken, so you had to settle for … this?” I gesture to his distractingly sexy form and force the lust regaining its footing under a veneer of control.
“Watch your tongue, lass,” he hisses. “You didn’t want to cross me back then, and you certainly don’t want to do it now.” He slithers closer. Towering over me with not only his imposing height but his imposing presence, he makes me feel as big as a starving squirrel. Not to mention, the reference to “then” is a sure sign I’m talking to an Asgardian.
Who didn’t I want to cross in my past? Thor and Odin were the only two I really ever feared, and when I did, I deserved their ire for whatever crime of the day I may have committed. The other Asgardians were toys to me. They kept me entertained, and then I threw them away.
Laguz flutters at my hip to the point of distraction. I settle a hand over the spot, but the vibrations increase, wriggling into my palm.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Damien asks, cupping my cheek with more tenderness than I thought he had in him.