by Kendall Grey
He shrugs. “It’s your decision. But the terms are set.”
My heart does a speed jig. “So, you’re forcing me to bed you, and you’re okay with me being miserable the entire time. Why are you doing this?”
He lurches forward and grabs my arms. Hard. I flinch and try to shove him off, but his grip is solid.
“Why?” he mimics. “Because my name is misery. I live for watching others suffer. Why do you think I enjoyed being with you so much? It wasn’t about you. It was about making her jealous. I got off on seeing her cry. Your cruelty, by the way, was exquisite. I need that again. A thousand times, if that’s what it takes. I want the world to suffer.”
“The Angrboda I remember was all about the experience. If I were the Loki I used to be, I might be interested, but I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I don’t want you. Not anymore.”
I want her.
“You always were a fool, Loki. Now you can add ‘self-righteous prat’ to your resumé. You nauseate me.”
“So, the deal’s off? You gonna give me Othala and call it even?” I hold out my hand.
“Not even close. Time is running out. Decide.” He unties his robe. The silk falls to his sides, revealing his naked form. It’s something, I must admit.
Kenaz hums atop my skull as if issuing a mating call.
Quiet down, idiot.
But as sexy as Damien is, Laguz keeps Gunnar Magnusson front and center in my mind. Resisting Damien is so much easier when Laguz is in charge. Kenaz doesn’t like it, but Kenaz can bite me.
A zap jolts my brain. I fight the urge to grab the spot pulsing atop my crown. The sassy bastard rune.
I need Damien to down that drink. Now.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask. “Let’s get to know each other a little before we jump in bed.”
“You never cared about what was going on in my life before. Why ruin a good thing?” He slinks too close. Gods, he smells good. I almost fall for his musk, but Laguz clears my head enough to resist.
Swallowing my revulsion, I lean into him and draw his hand up to get a better look at Othala. “How do I know this is the real deal?” I trace the symbol with my fingertip. I don’t feel anything from it. Maybe it’s a forgery and I won’t have to sleep with this ass splat after all.
He spreads his fingers and admires the ring with muted amusement. “It’s real. Would I have gone to all this trouble to turn over a fake?”
“Uh, yes,” I say. “You absolutely would.”
“So you don’t sense it?” he asks. “Excellent. The magic is holding.”
He means Alex’s magic. That he stole.
That’s it. The finger is coming off. If I keep him talking, maybe I can stall long enough to locate a weapon in this place. “How’d you do it?” I ask, nodding to Othala.
“I channeled protective energy from some stones I stumbled on and muted its signature so no one but me can sense it.” Stumbled on, my arse. “Then I layered a simple lock spell over my finger, and voilà.” He stares at the ring as if hypnotized.
Lock? Laguz flushes warmth through me like laughter. You have just the key for a lock. Cut Lásabrjótur loose on the thing and be done with this fool.
Brilliant!
With a thought, I prime my back for flexing. Just before I pull the trigger, I remember Othala isn’t the only rune I need. I’m a dead duck tomorrow without Ihwaz. If I break the lock and nab Othala, my mortality problem won’t be solved.
I take a gamble. I have nothing to lose but my life. “What about Ihwaz? Where did you hide it?”
Damien tumbles out of his daze. “I didn’t hide it anywhere. I said I know where it is.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Odin has it.”
His dark gaze flickers to me, like a candle lit behind an infinite black curtain of night. Hatred burns from that flame. “He takes what does not belong to him.”
Not an answer, but interesting.
Keep him talking, Laguz says.
“I agree. You know he has our runes, right? He’s stockpiling them. Without them, the Æsir will die out over time, and he’ll be the last god standing, laughing his way to eternity. He’s a selfish bastard.” I bare my teeth and curl my lip.
“He has all of them?” Damien asks. The uncertainty in his face surprises me. I figured he knew. Since he doesn’t, I now have information to dangle over his head.
Let the buttering begin.
“Well, not all of them,” I say grinding my toe into the carpet. I don’t have Angrboda’s rune, but if there’s another he wants, maybe he’ll trade. “I might know where to find a few.”
“What about mine?” he asks, suddenly very interested.
I hate that I can’t lie. “Give me Othala, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
His green eyes narrow on me, staring through my soul. After the longest thirty seconds of my life, he shakes his head and turns away. “You can’t help me. No one can. I just want to destroy the world. Is that so hard?” he yells at the ceiling.
“You don’t need me to trigger the end of the world,” I say. “Go out and start a war. From what I’ve seen of modern Midgardians, they love their guns and explosives. You can buy them anywhere. Just terrorize a bunch of people in a public place if it gets you off. That ought to set the ball rolling.” And get you shot.
“You’ve read the prophecies,” he says. “You’ve heard the Norns. Ragnarok happens because of you—because of our children. The cycle must continue, and you’re the key.”
“Odin says he wants to stop the cycle,” I say. “That’s why he won’t give me Ihwaz. And yes, the Norns’ words carry a great deal of weight, but how do you reconcile my starting Ragnarok with the prophesy Skuld gave me last week?”
He inches closer, eyes glittering with interest. “Tell me.”
“You haven’t heard?” I turn my tone casual. “Loki is going to die tomorrow. Hard to pull off Ragnarok when I’ll be breaking the fast in Hel come Wednesday morn. Even harder to spawn new hellions in less than twenty-four hours.”
A chime rings from the table. Damien and I glance over to the vibrating phone clattering across the smooth surface. He picks it up. I catch a glimpse of the ID: “Unknown caller.”
Damien hits the button to ignore it and sets the phone down. It immediately chirps with the same message. He grunts and executes some commands, ordering the phone to block the person.
“No doubt a fan who stumbled on my number,” he complains. But before he can put the phone on the table, it rings again. “Persistent, aren’t we?”
He scowls. When he sees the ID, his anger dissolves into shock. The screen reads “Hel.” He pushes the answer button and lifts the device to his ear. “What kind of sick joke is—”
I lean closer and strain to hear. I’m pretty sure the voice says, “Hello, Father. Or should I say, Mother?”
The hairs at my nape stiffen.
Damien’s eyes widen. “What the bloody hell is this?”
It sounds like the voice says, “Turn on your television.”
Damien snatches the remote and flips on the TV.
Three beings appear on the screen. The figure on the left is a wolf with fur blacker than a starless night and a badass punk-rock mane, shellacked spikes and all. Saliva froths from the corners of the wolf’s many-toothed maw. His eyes are twin new moons. A rusty chain and a thin, flimsy fetter hang broken around his broad shoulders. I recognize the latter restraint as Gleipnir, constructed by Alex’s kin from Svartalfheim. The dark elves made the fetter out of the sounds of a cat’s footfalls, a woman’s beard, a fish’s breath, a bird’s spit, a mountain’s roots, and the sinews of a bear.
On the right side is a serpent biting its tail. Its slit, vivid green eyes are fixed on something beyond the screen. Yellow poison froths from the sides of its mouth. Stripes on its glowing scales flash like bolts of lightning as it breathes under the artificial illumination. I shiver as the frightful serpent spits out the tail and flicks its forked black tongue. It set
tles its unnerving gaze on me as if plotting which cut of my flesh will be the tenderest.
Finally, a young woman with a half black and half white face stands between the two monsters. Like an old movie, she’s a study in contrasts—light and dark. For every white point on her body, there’s a black match. Her eyes and the two halves of her long hair are opposites.
On first glance, I’m shaking in my boots at the prospect of coming face-to-face with the monsters who’ve destroyed the world countless times. But when I look again, something feels off.
I step closer to inspect the image. These three beings are Angrboda’s and my children—or how our children used to appear—but the tiny details are wrong.
The hole in Fenrir’s snout is missing. After he bit off Tyr’s hand, the Æsir tied Fenrir to a stone with Gleipnir and propped his mouth open with a sword. The hilt was anchored in Fenrir’s lower jaw while the tip braced against the roof of his mouth. When he broke free, the sword left a gaping wound in his muzzle that never healed. It’s an easy thing to overlook if you don’t know Fenrir the way I do.
And the liquid sloughing from Jormundgandr’s mouth should be green, not the typical yellow of most snakes’ venom. My boy’s coloring seems off too. He had few stripes and was less vibrant than he appears now. This is a sensationalized version of the serpent I sired.
Having seen Hel in a dream about a week ago, I can affirm that the person staring back at us is not the latest incarnation of her either. She looks younger on the TV. The Hel I recently encountered had aged in subtle ways—more wrinkles around the eyes, slightly sagging skin, and a vacancy in her expression that the old Hel didn’t possess. Her movements are a touch out of sync from what I’d consider normal too. The tilt of her head seems forced, almost robotic.
This must be Freya’s doing. She came through with the best illusion she could conjure on short notice. I owe her and Freddie big time.
“That’s better,” Hel says. “It’s so good to see you both. And you’re back together.” She claps with delight. Very out of character for her. “Big plans, I take it?”
“Hel?” Damien says. A smile streaks across his lips. “Is it you? And Fenrir and Jormundgandr?”
“Quite the family reunion, no?” She wiggles her shoulders and matches his grin.
Definitely not the real Hel. Far too bubbly. I quietly release a sigh of relief. This isn’t what Freddie, Alex, and I planned, but it’ll do.
“We were just talking about you,” Damien says. “Well, not you exactly, but the importance of family.” He throws an arm around me. I force a smile and pretend to like it. “Though we’re in discussions about starting over from scratch to set off Ragnarok properly.”
Hel’s dramatic gasp is as fake as she is. She presses a hand to her sternum. “More children? Whatever for?” She gestures to her brothers. “Jormundgandr, Fenrir, and I are very much alive and quite capable. I should think we’re all you’ll need to get the job done. We’ve never failed you before.”
Fenrir nods his mighty head, his bristly, night-black fur waving with the motion. A dollop of saliva weeps from the corner of a mouth bearing too many teeth to count. He’s beautiful. Freya is quite the artist.
I step forward. “Hel, you’re as stunning as ever. My pride and murder. And my two beastly boys! How I wish I could rub Fenrir between his ears. I’ve missed those pearly fangs, though I’ll bet Tyr doesn’t.”
Fenrir barks a deep laugh that tests the security of the windows. Impressive. I must compliment Freya on her attention to detail.
“And Jormundgandr, you’ve gotten even bigger since last time I saw you battling Thor on the plain of Vigrid, centuries ago. In a fresh match up, I’m certain you could end him first.” I leave off since Thor’s a grass-eating, goody-two-shoes practitioner of the law these days.
The grizzly green and black serpent opens his mouth in a twisted version of a grin, exposing fangs bigger than Fenrir’s and a forked tongue that could impale a mountain range with a flick.
“Where have you been, my beloved children?” Damien asks. “I’ve been searching for you since I awoke. I only resorted to requesting the pleasure of your father’s uterus because I thought you were all dead.”
Hel leans toward the camera. Her voice drops, low and deadly—almost sexy—as she says, “We’re here and participating. Ready to get this party started. Are you?”
Wearing a huge smile, Damien turns to me. “What do you say, love?
“I say, let’s Ragnarok!”
He returns to the television, all smug, fearless, and full of glorious purpose. “We need to discuss our plan in person. Where shall we meet?”
“We’ll be in touch when you finish your little show in San Francisco,” Hel says. “Keep your phones handy and your minds open.”
The screen fizzles into frenetic static.
Freya, you brilliant tart, I’m going to kiss you for this!
Damien turns to me, eyes alight with glee. “Look at us. Just like old times. You. Me. Our three murderous babes plotting to destroy every man, god, and child in the Nine Realms. I can’t wait!” He rubs his hands together.
I cock my head to the side. “And the best part? You don’t have to extort sex out of me after all.”
“I’m not ruling it out if you’re still up for it. Another demon child would only help our cause.” He dips in to kiss me, but I push him away.
“I think the three we already made are plenty,” I say. “In the meantime, I’m gonna need my rune.”
His smile fades, and he studies me for several heartbeats. “I’ll give it to you under one condition.”
“What?” My pulse thunders.
“Swear on your name as a god of Asgard that you’ll be by my side when we pull the pin on the Ragnarok grenade.”
Careful, Loki, Laguz warns. Wording is everything. You must not only state a truth, but you must also be careful of what you promise. The Norns won’t abide broken oaths. The consequences would be eternal.
If I’m going to die tomorrow, what does it matter? I ask.
Laguz doesn’t answer.
“I, Loki Laufeyjarson, swear on my name as an Asgardian to stand beside you when Ragnarok begins,” I say, clasping Damien’s hand.
If, by some miracle, I do live beyond tomorrow, I’m only committing to stand next to Damien at the onset of Ragnarok, not to start it or to remain there for the duration. Nothing in my oath says I have to help him either. And if Ragnarok never happens, I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?
We shake on our deal, and Damien steps back. “I wasn’t lying about the spell on the ring. It’s unbreakable.”
I consider telling him I can unlock it with my rune stave, but when he goes for the knife sticking out of a block of wood on the kitchen counter and sharpens it, Kenaz lights up like an aurora on Midwinter’s Eve. Saliva gushes into my mouth, and I lick my lips as he flips the tool into the air. It spins, and the handle lands in the saddle between his forefinger and thumb. He tosses it once more and catches it by the business end, pointing the handle out to me.
“Would you like to do the honors, my love?” he asks.
I quirk a brow. “You don’t think amputation is a bit … extreme?”
Damien shrugs. “A little blood never hurt gods like us. I’d be honored.” His eyes glitter with a hint of frosty malevolence.
Something in the way he speaks tells me he gets sick pleasure out of making me squirm. What he doesn’t know is, I’m not squirming at all. Kenaz smells his spiked, pounding blood. The rune rages under my scalp like a Viking longship battling unforgiving easterly gales at sea. Kenaz wants a piece of Damien Drakkar. Truth be told, Loki does too.
Our eyes meet and hold.
I grab the knife, shove his hand to the counter, and grant control of targeting to Laguz. The rune guides the point of the blade millimeters behind the ring. I arc down in a fast stab. Flesh rends. Bone cracks. Blood spurts. Damien screams between clenched teeth.
Othala joins the cacopho
nous chorus as it rockets out of the ring’s setting, straight into my right hand. I drop the knife, launch backward into the far wall, and lose my breath on impact. Pinned to the dent I created in the wallpaper, I’m paralyzed. Othala’s raw energy bounces through my soul like a million mirrors reflecting my entire being.
Damien’s cries and pants fade. Stuffing the stump that used to be his finger into his armpit, he watches me with wide eyes. I flail and twist, trying to assimilate the massive power dump that just blew up my hand and fanned through the rest of me like a hot oil spill.
Then shite gets really weird.
I jerk and seize. My arms fly forward, and I drop to the carpet on all fours. My limbs stretch and thin. My torso thickens. My neck elongates. The pain is exquisitely blinding. When I unclamp the eyes I didn’t realize I’d shut, my perspective shifts drastically. I’m taller, hairier, and decidedly equine. I rear back and stomp a … hoof? I look down. Yep. Hoof.
I’m a mare.
A glossy, jet black, majestic mare. Hair swishing across my vision, I lower my head to look at Damien. From this height, he’s tiny. I could step on him. Bruise a toe at the very least. Trample him at best …
Just as I’m getting the hang of standing on four feet, I collapse to the floor again. This time, my hind legs shorten into a pair of leathery pouches behind me, and my fur thickens to an incredibly dense weave. Leaning on nubby flippers, I try to pull myself forward. It would be a Hel of a lot easier if I were in a tub of water. Heavy whiskers sprout on either side of my face. I bark.
Seal. Aww! I love seals.
Damien’s face lights up. A rivulet of red trails from his armpit down his side. “You’ve regained your shape-shifting ability. Fascinating, though a bit uncoordinated.”
I insult his lineage in a pinniped dialect he doesn’t understand.
Another wave of change hits me, knocking me down to something exponentially smaller. My back explodes as wings wriggle out of my spine. Fur drifts like a dandelion into the air, leaving behind a smattering of stray, hair-like wisps under my enormous compound eyes. Antennae twitch at the top of my head. I pop out an extra pair of legs in the space between my arms and natural legs. Their joints bend at strange angles. I beat my wings a hundred times a second and lift off from the floor to circle the room.