by Kendall Grey
Alex turns to Freya. “Do you recall any of your spells?”
Looking helpless, Freddie pats himself down. “I don’t … know.”
So much for that plan.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Loki, wait,” Alex says, but I’m too distraught to hang around.
I knew waking Freya was a gamble. I took the shot, and I missed.
I trudge to my room with Huginn.
“What am I going to do, Huginn?” I ask, throwing myself onto the bed and draping an arm over my eyes. I wince at the painful strain in my side.
“Give Freya time to figure out what’s going on. Maybe Alex will help her remember the spells.”
“I don’t have time. I have to go through with Angrboda’s plan.”
“There has to be something else we can do,” Huginn argues.
“You heard Muninn,” I say. “Even if I manage to keep breathing, Odin and Frigg will be hot on my trail at the stroke of midnight tomorrow. I hung all my hopes on Freya. Even if she does remember some magic, why the Hel would she help me after the pain I put her through?”
“Because Freddie knows you. The new you. That has to count for something.”
I’m not so sure.
The door opens, and Gunnar Magnusson and Darryl Donovan stride in, their arms full of Little Debbie boxes. “Where do you want ’em?” Darryl Donovan asks.
Over the top of his teetering load, Gunnar Magnusson gestures with his chin to the dresser beside the TV. They drop their treasures and turn around. Gunnar Magnusson tosses me a box. I catch it. At least my belly will die happy.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Where are Freddie and Alex?” Gunnar Magnusson asks. “I filled Darryl in about Freya while we were out.”
That’s one less thing I have to explain. “In their room. Freddie had a … breakthrough. He remembers his former life, but he’s having some difficulty adjusting to sharing a brain with a goddess.”
Darryl Donovan shakes his head. “You people just keep bringing the hits, don’t you? First Loki turns out to be a real-live Norse god, and now Freddie and Damien Drakkar are too. Who’s next?” He jabs a thumb in Gunnar Magnusson’s direction. “Gunnar as Odin? Or better yet, Sigyn. That would be hilarious.”
I don’t laugh.
“I’m going to die tomorrow,” I remind them, hoping the somber note in my voice will distract my friends from hypothesizing further on immortal possibilities.
Darryl Donovan straightens and gets serious. “What can we do to prevent that? I was just starting to like you.”
I toss up my hands. “I have no clue. Every idea with the slightest bit of potential crashes into a brick wall and shatters. Damien has one of my runes and claims he knows where the other one is. With twenty-four hours to find it, I have to give him what he wants.”
“We’ve talked about this,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “I won’t let you whore yourself out. I promise, it’s not something you want to do.”
The sting of his words hurts worse than my sore rib. I turn on him. “You don’t have a say. It’s my body. I’ll do what I must with it.”
The vein between his eyebrows throbs. “So, you want to be his baby factory? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Of course not. But let’s be realistic. With the clock ticking down to the wire, there’s no room for error. Every alternative we’ve come up with leads to a no-win situation.”
Gods, I’m so sick of repeating myself. I’m stuck in a web, and the only way out is through the back end of the spider’s digestive tract.
Gunnar Magnusson clasps my hands in his and looks me in the eyes. “Let me put this another way. If you agree to his demands and bear his children, what then? You prompt another Ragnarok? How does that benefit anyone?”
“Would another Ragnarok be so bad?” I counter.
“Yes!” he shouts incredulously.
“Oh, please. These Midgardians are awful. They treat the planet like it’s a junkyard.”
“Watch your tongue, lassie,” Darryl Donovan says. A distant rumble of thunder underscores the threat in his words. I swallow hard over my suddenly arid throat. He gestures to Gunnar Magnusson. “We’re Midgardians. You gonna lump us in with everyone else?”
“No, y—
SHUT UP, LOKI, Laguz screams between my ears.
I shut up. Reorganize my thoughts. Try again. “No, I’m not counting you among the rest of the Midgardians, but look around. Earth is in no shape to fight back against their jabs. Climate change, disease, world hunger, politicians who do nothing. Despite being an ‘intelligent’ race, humans put themselves in this situation. I have no empathy for them. Let the Midgardians die. They’ve never done anything to help me or my ilk.”
Gunnar Magnusson lurches backward as if I struck him. “So, you’ll condemn billions of people to death simply because you think they aren’t worthy?”
“No,” Sannleikur forces me to fire back. “I condemn them because I’m scared, all right?”
An inferno of fear burns over me. I stare at Gunnar Magnusson through glassy eyes.
“That may be the most human thing I’ve ever heard you say.” Gunnar Magnusson closes the gap between us and grasps my elbows. “You may be scared, but I’m not.”
“You’re not going to die tomorrow,” I snap.
“Neither are you.” Gunnar Magnusson’s voice is soft.
I want to believe him, but Norns don’t lie. And they never, ever change their minds.
I feel my control ebbing like curling breath against a brutal Icelandic wind. I turn away from Gunnar Magnusson as panic descends. Can’t let him or Darryl Donovan see me like this.
“I’m dead,” I whisper to myself. “Really dead. Forever and eternally dead.”
Covering my face with shaking hands, I tremble as the realization of my impending demise clicks into place and sets off a bomb of bone-deep understanding. In twenty-four hours, Loki, god of mischief, will no longer exist. He won’t be reborn as a Midgardian. He won’t come back as a chicken or even a lowly worm. He will be erased from Memory. Muninn will see to that.
This is exactly what Odin and Frigg wanted, and neither of them had to lift a finger to achieve it. I orchestrated my own end for them by tempting fate with Skuld.
Will I expire from a heart attack in my sleep just after midnight? Will a bus run me over on my way to the Drag and Bone finals? Will I drown in a toilet when Freya shoves my head into it?
My shoulders bounce as I alternate between laughing maniacally and choking on the tears blurring my sight. “I’m dead,” I mumble over and over until hyperventilation renders me mute.
Gunnar Magnusson gathers my shaking frame into his arms and holds me to his chest. His warmth is life. It grounds me. Centers me.
“You’re not dead yet. And I’m not letting you get dead either,” he whispers into my hair.
Not dead yet … Not dead yet … Not dead yet.
“I got you,” he says, curling his arms tighter around me. I go limp. Focusing on his steady heartbeat and deep breaths, I absorb everything he offers.
Breathe, Loki. Breathe … Laguz slows my pulse with its soothing serenade.
In and out. In and out. In and out.
Finally, I regain my senses and find the strength to return Gunnar Magnusson’s squeeze.
“Better?” he asks.
I sniffle and nod, keeping my head tucked into his chest to avoid Darryl Donovan’s scrutiny.
This is home. No matter the time or place, Gunnar Magnusson—Sigyn—will always be home.
An urgent knock at the door prompts Darryl Donovan to answer.
Kenaz lights a fire under my arse and shakes me fully awake. You’ve had your meltdown, and now it’s time to pull your shite together, it seems to say.
If nothing else, the rune is good for motivation.
I quickly dry my face with my sleeve. Thank you, I tell Kenaz. It seems to pat me on the head.
Freddie, Alex, and
the cats burst into the room.
“Loki, don’t sleep with Damien. You’re ovulating something fierce, girl,” Freddie blurts.
Mortified, I cover my bits with a hand and duck behind Gunnar Magnusson. “What? Ew!”
“I think I can help you,” Freddie continues, his eyes wild. “You and I will turn invisible and go to him tonight. Once we get to his room, I’ll cast a spell that’ll create a lifelike image of you—one that all five of his senses will believe. We’ll slip him some Rohypnol to knock his ass out and grab the ring and Alex’s hat. Easy-peasy.”
“Yeah, except, the ring has a spell keeping it glued to his finger,” I say, “and she’s a giantess. I doubt Ro-whatever-nol will be strong enough for the likes of Angrboda.”
“Then I’ll manipulate my Loki puppet to do the nasty with him, and Alex will try to break the ring spell while Damien’s distracted by your sexy feminine wiles,” Freddie says.
Biting my lip, I consider Freddie’s suggestion. “It’s not a bad idea, but I’m not sure it’s wise to wait until tonight. What if it doesn’t work? If we can’t break the spell on the ring, we’re back to square one.”
“Not if Angrboda believes she—he knocked you up,” Freddie says. “She promised to give you the ring if you agreed to her terms, right?”
“Yes, but giants aren’t always trustworthy.”
“You got a better plan?” Freddie asks.
I shake my head.
“Then, it’s settled.”
I pause. “Why would Freya allow Freddie to do me this kindness?”
The goddess steps close and looks me directly in the eyes. “Because as Alex and Freddie were helping me work through my past, I remembered something. You changed after you hooked up with Angrboda. Before her, you were a minor annoyance who occasionally made me laugh. I didn’t like you much, but you had a few good traits. You showed compassion when it was necessary. When I least expected it, you made me believe you had a good heart under all the mischief you wore like armor.
“But after you fell in with Angrboda, you turned mean. Hateful. You forsook Sigyn—the one you should’ve fallen down and worshipped—and sold your soul to an evil bitch. Alex told me how Angrboda treated the dark elves. It wasn’t right.”
“No,” I say. Deep regret seeps into my soul like bitter tea. “It wasn’t. I should’ve been stronger. Should’ve tried to resist her magic. I couldn’t then, but,” I glance at Gunnar Magnusson, “I think I can now.”
Freya leans in, close enough to kiss me. “This is a golden opportunity for retribution. And maybe in punishing her for her heinous misdeeds, you’ll redeem yourself in my eyes. Just a little.”
Blinking, I lower my gaze and nod. Freya may not forgive me, but at least she’s giving me a chance to prove my loyalty.
I lift my head, resolute. “I want Angrboda to pay. For everything.”
Gunnar Magnusson drops a hand on my back and rubs slow circles there. “What if we accelerate things? Knock out two birds with one stone,” he suggests. “Why not see if we can get into the auditorium today? We can claim we’re going to work on lip sync routines for the big show tomorrow. If Drakkar gets word Loki’s there, maybe he’ll come to us.”
“And how would he find out about it?” Darryl Donovan asks.
I nod to Huginn. “We have our own personal delivery boy.”
“Huginn?” Gunnar Magnusson chuckles. “No offense, buddy, but you aren’t as fast as you used to be.”
Huginn flaps his wings. “That’s what you think,” he clucks, though Gunnar Magnusson can’t understand him.
“You might be surprised.” I pick up the bird and ruffle his feathers. “Someone’s rune gave him a turbo boost in the friendly skies department.”
Gunnar Magnusson arches an amused brow. “Miracles never cease.”
Alex steps in front of me. “What do you say, Loki? Should we give my poppet idea a try?”
“Might as well,” I say, feeling mildly more upbeat than I did a few minutes ago. “You mind sending Damien Drakkar a message about where we’ll be, Huginn? You can airdrop him a turd on your way out if you want.”
“I’d be delighted to,” Huginn says.
“We have a plan,” I announce with false bravado.
Everyone cheers.
I don’t think it’s gonna work. In fact, I’m positive it won’t. But if it gives my friends hope, I have to try.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I dig out the business card Heath Saxon gave me our first day in San Francisco and call him. Laying on the charm with a little help from Laguz, I ask him to pull some strings and get us into the auditorium so we can practice routines. He agrees to meet us there and arranges for us to use the sound system as long as we’re out by 5:00. That’s when the crew comes in to start setting up for the live broadcast tomorrow.
Once we’re settled, I send Huginn to deliver the message to Angrboda that we’re here and cross my fingers for good luck.
As my final hours in Midgard draw to a close, I’m infused with a strange peace at the prospect of dying. After my rather embarrassing meltdown earlier, I’ve come to terms with the fact that what the Norns want, the Norns get. Since I can’t stop Fate, I will make my last day among the living the best one ever. I’m going out with a bang. It’s what Loki would do.
And hey, at least I know the chick who runs Hel, right? I’m sensing a long overdue father-daughter reunion in my future.
As Freddie and Darryl practice their lip sync dance to the song “Work” by Ciara, featuring Missy Elliott, I get an idea. I wave my hands in front of the stage and yell, “Stop.”
In the control booth, Alex pauses the music, and everyone turns to me.
“Is there anything in the rules about having other people onstage during a queen’s performance?” I ask.
“I’ll check.” Heath Saxon whips out his phone and scrolls through it.
With a gleam in his eye, Gunnar Magnusson asks, “What are you up to, Loki?”
I shrug. “It might make a stronger impression if Darryl Donovan and Freddie added a little something to … enhance the drag queen experience?”
Gunnar Magnusson folds his arms across his chest. “Enhance? With what? Backup dancers?” He subtly shakes his arse.
I tilt my head left for a better look. My grin widens.
If Kenaz had a tongue, it would be lolling like a panting dog’s.
“I think we all agree Damien Drakkar was premature and undeservedly harsh in his evaluations of you and Alex. Judging by the wild applause that day, the audience thought so too. It seems only fair to give you two blokes another shot at showing off your talents, even if you can’t win.”
Motion from the back of the auditorium signals the arrival of newcomers—about ten or so, all wearing venue uniforms. They spread out among the seats, sweeping the floors, wiping down armrests, and picking up trash.
Heath Saxon looks up from his phone. “I can’t find anything that would preclude you from using backup dancers. I don’t see any reason not to.”
“Thank you, lovely,” I drawl and climb onto the stage with a butt-boost from Darryl Donovan. Ow, this damn rib. I press a palm to my side.
Gunnar Magnusson flexes his biceps once like a warning to Darryl Donovan, who quickly lowers his hands from my booty after ensuring I won’t roll off.
Freddie says, “You know, I wanted to win this contest because I thought it would be fun to add another trophy to my collection after taking first place in the costume contest at the Asgard Awakening convention.”
“You stole the trophy,” Gunnar Magnuson reminds him, “but go on.”
“Now that I’m looking at things through the eyes of a goddess, it’s become a challenge,” Freddie says. “I must win this pageant. I’ll do anything to walk away with the Drag and Bone crown. None of those other bitches will stand in my way.”
Darryl Donovan raises a hand and asks with a sly grin, “What about this bitch?”
“You and me? We’re bitches together,�
� Freddie declares. “But you’re gonna let me win, right?”
Darryl Donovan laughs, his bright white teeth gleaming against his vibrant mahogany skin. “No way. Bitch.”
“What?” Freddie drops his hands to his hips. “Come on, Darryl. I neeeeeeeed this.”
“What do you want me to do? Bug out and throw the fight?” Darryl Donovan shakes his head. “Not my style, man.”
Freddie pouts. “But you’re my biggest competition. Aside from that Helga Boomslang tart.”
“Then you better work, girlfriend. I ain’t givin’ up nothin’ for free.”
“So, if I pay you …?”
“Ladies, please,” I interrupt. “We’re wasting precious dance time. We have a group number to design. I need to know who’s in so Alex can choreograph.”
Freddie props his chin in the saddle between his thumb and index finger and studies Darryl Donovan. “Can we combine our acts into one and ask the judge to consider us individually?”
Heath Saxon lifts a please pause finger and returns to his phone.
“You’re really milking this thing for every drop, aren’t you?” Darryl Donovan says to Freddie.
“And you aren’t, queen?” Freddie punches back.
“I gotta stop, drop, and roll after that one.” Darryl Donovan does exactly that. I giggle at the sight of him flipping around on the floor, kicking, rolling, hopping. I think this wild, frenetic performance is called “breakdancing,” but I can’t be sure. I’ve only read about it, never seen it.
A knockout of a woman appears below the edge of the stage. She slow claps for Darryl Donovan. He leaps to his feet like his underwear is on fire. Absently smoothing his skirt, he stares at her, seems to remember he’s wearing a skirt, and quickly tugs it down and off his legs, revealing the sweatpants beneath.
“Hi,” he says with the goofiest grin I’ve ever seen attached to his face. He trips over the hem his left foot hasn’t quite cleared. If I didn’t know better, I might surmise he was imitating Damien Drakkar’s rendition of a bumbling Loki.
Derp.
“Hi.” The woman wedges her hip against the stage, looking up at him.