by Kendall Grey
“Do you forgive me?” I ask hopefully.
“No,” she says, wiping her nose. “But it’s a start.”
Fair enough. I stand up and shrug out of my feather coat. Gods, I love this coat. But so does Freddie. I hold it out to him. “I want you to have this too,” I say. “I won’t need it where I’m going.”
“Loki—”
I shake my head. “Take it. Who else is gonna wear it?”
He stuffs the runes into his jeans pocket and accepts my gift, fingering the iridescent black feathers and rubbing his cheek against them. His eyes drift shut. After a moment, he opens them.
“I can’t accept this,” he says, dangling it between us.
My stomach lurches. “Why not?”
“It’s a nice gesture, but I need to find my own feather coat.”
“Then keep mine until you do.”
“How about you hold onto it until … whatever happens, happens.”
“And if I’m blown to a million bits by a rogue missile or smashed into roadkill by Thor’s hammer?”
“Then I’ll mourn you both,” he jokes.
I curl my fingers around the coat and hug it to my chest. “It really is badass.”
After several breaths, Freddie breaks the silence thickening the air between us. “We should get ready.”
I nod. We stand. Freddie hitches up his skinny jeans. “I won’t tell them,” he says, patting his pocket. “Not until you’re …” He stops.
He’s probably thinking what I’m thinking: Gunnar Magnusson would be devastated if he found out he was Sigyn and I didn’t tell him. When I’m dead, I won’t be around to take the blame, so it won’t matter. Yeah, it’s a copout, but duck and run has always worked for me.
“Your secrets are safe with me,” Freddie finally says.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I tentatively open my arms.
He steps into my embrace. We hug for a long moment, and my heart feels lighter and heavier all at once.
Freya whispers into my hair, “For the record, if you ever put lard in my shampoo and face mask again, I will personally castrate you with a spoon and feed your balls to you through a straw.”
I laugh. “Thank the gods I no longer have testicles.”
She jerks back, holding me at arm’s length, eyes glittering with an alluring combination of mischief and magic. “Speaking of testicles … I have an idea.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It’s almost 8:00. Behind the scenes, the Drag and Bone contestants watch the action on a video monitor, but I prefer to see it with my own eyes. Technology is untrustworthy. I peek through a gap in the massive red curtain. Camera people wander through the aisles, capturing famous faces sprinkled through the crowd and projecting their images onto the huge screen behind the stage. There isn’t an empty seat in the auditorium. The pre-show event is broadcasting live on YouTube. Right this moment, its feed is dumping into millions of computers across the United States and the world.
There’s never been a better time to be alive. Too bad I won’t get to bask in the fame we’re sure to find after tonight.
Damien enters through the backstage door to an explosion of camera flashes and shouts of, “Damien! Over here!” He makes his way through the tangle of paparazzi. A big guy wearing a suit and an earpiece shields him from the bulk of the swarm, allowing him to briefly shake hands with the participants who haven’t gotten a chance to meet him up close.
Perfect.
When he gets to me, I stick my chin out defiantly, look him right in the eyes, and say, “How’s the finger?”
He smirks. I glance down. The finger in question is hidden in his jacket pocket. “I would’ve given it to you if you’d let me,” he taunts.
The double entendre isn’t lost on me. Or on Freddie, who’s next in the receiving line. When their palms meet, I hold my breath. Faint wisps of red-tinged magic curl around their clasped fists. Freddie smiles politely and says, “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Drakkar.”
Damien grunts and continues down the row, shaking hands without much commentary. His bodyguard escorts him out of the holding area and into the auditorium. The fans roar at his appearance there.
Freddie barely nods at me. I nod back. He faces Alex and straightens his wig. I hope this works.
Heath Saxon flits through the throng, asking everyone to quiet down.
Here we go.
Our host is Tabitha Tingle, a famous queen who stars in her own popular drag TV show. Dressed in an eye-popping yellow gown that looks like a giant jonquil with extra petals around her waist, she crisscrosses the stage on heels that might as well be stilts and lays out the rules for viewers.
“Welcome to the Drag and Bone Pageant. Over the last week, our contestants have clawed their way through a rigorous vetting process, and the top ten drag queens have been chosen. Damien Drakkar, who plays Loki on Asgard Awakening, is the judge, and what he says goes.”
Laughter and claps fill the auditorium. The camera finds Damien’s face, partially obscured by sunglasses and hidden in unnatural shadows among the other observers in the front row. He flashes a billion-gigawatt smile, nods, and waves with the five-fingered hand.
“Our ten gorgeous queens will each perform a choreographed lip sync number. They’ll be judged on their costumes and accessories, prowess, stage presence, dancing and ‘singing’ skills,” Tabitha Tingle makes quotes with her gold-tipped fingers, “and believability. After each performance, Damien will share his thoughts about what worked and what didn’t. He’ll present his final judgment at the conclusion of the show. The winner will receive a crown and scepter, a check for $20,000, and a guest spot on an upcoming episode of Asgard Awakening.”
The audience bursts into applause. Chants of “Loki! Loki! Loki!” fill the hall. I’m chuffed and letting the attention go to my head until I realize they’re talking about the stupid Loki from the show. Ugh.
“Sit back, strap yourself in for a wild ride, and enjoy the Drag and Bone Pageant!” Tabitha Tingle gestures toward the curtain. “Our first contestant hails from Detroit, Michigan. Tonight she’ll perform her homage to fromage, to the tune of Aerosmith’s oldie-but-goodie, ‘Cheese Cake.’ Please welcome Miss Lula Fromage!’”
A queen wearing a giant yellow triangle with holes in it prances onto the stage. Beyond the curtain, people scream and whistle. I’m excited too.
While Miss Fromage performs, the rest of us backstage make last minute adjustments to our costumes, makeup, hair, and accessories. As I straighten Gunnar Magnusson’s braids, I sigh at how pretty Alex, with his magic, and Freddie, with his artistic talent, made him. He looks amazing as a man and a woman. And really, he’s both, isn’t he? Just like me. And Freddie.
Maybe we all are.
Who’s to say we mortals haven’t been reincarnated hundreds or even thousands of times already?
Gender’s just a component of who we are, not the totality of it.
“You’re beautiful, inside and out,” I say.
He shrugs shyly, and a fake boob peeps out of the top of his bodice. We laugh, and I reach inside the black-laced bustier of his short, flouncy silver dress to retrieve it. Staring into his eyes, I replace the insert and press its adhesive to his chest to ensure it’s properly secured. Once he’s set, he steps back and admires my outfit. With an appreciative shake of his head, he says, “And you are … stunning.”
“Really?” I coyly spin around to give him the complete view of the outfit Freddie bought for me forever ago: the skin-tight black rubber minidress with jet tulle cascading from the long sleeves. My legs are on full display, thanks to the shortness of the hem. Freddie gave me a bikini bottom to wear underneath, and now I’m grateful for the torturous waxing appointment. The man knows what he’s doing. If I’m lucky enough to live beyond today, I’m totally keeping this waxing shite up. Even the queens are staring at me with a mix of admiration and jealousy.
“I … Yeah.” Gunnar Magnusson scratches his head. His blush deepens. “You’re the
sun, the moon, and every star that ever dared to shine. You’re perfect.”
Not even close, but … SPLOOSH!
Kenaz breaks into a happy dance on top of my head.
“This crown is killing me,” Sparky complains, glaring up from my feet with unrestrained spite. “And so help me, if you yank that leash again, I will rip your toes off with my teeth and spit them into a public toilet when you’re not looking.”
Oops, I forgot the line was attached to my wrist when I spun for Gunnar Magnusson.
“Come on,” I say, “the crown makes you taller. More imposing. I’ll bet you could take on the world if you had a machine gun and a cigarette dangling from the corner of your mouth.”
“Rambo,” Freddie tosses out beside me. We may never be as close as we were before Freya awakened, but at least he isn’t trying to assassinate me with eye daggers anymore. The bonding moment we just shared as he cast his spell on Damien tells me there may be hope for Freya and Loki yet.
“What is Rambo?” I ask.
“A total badass,” Darryl Donovan interjects. “Though, he didn’t smoke.”
I gesture to the other cat. “Well, Wiggles isn’t complaining.”
“That’s because he’s wearing pearls. I got the short end of the stick,” Sparky says.
Wiggles looks up and bares his fangs like a smile. “I’m only here because Freya promised me a can of tuna when this is over. I’m still getting tuna, right, mistress?”
Freddie leans over on his precarious heels to rub both cats’ noggins. “If you’re a good little pussy and win me that crown and scepter at the end, you can have all the tuna you want.” He turns to preen in a mirror Alex holds for him.
Freddie, like the rest of us, looks amazing. His silver floor-length gown is tight at the waist and flares at the hips. The front is open like mine, revealing meticulously pruned legs. His wig looks like something out of a French history book. He even has a lorgnette to add to the effect. I’m not sure what he did with his penis, but damn. I’d swear he was a woman if I didn’t know better. Technically, under all the garb and skin, he is. Maybe that’s why he shines so brightly. He’s a queen in every sense.
Alex’s silver maiden costume matches Gunnar Magnusson’s. Since Morgan LeSlay and Jacinda Juggs are no longer competing, they’re playing different roles this time.
Lula Fromage’s performance ends with thundering applause. Shania Shibari is up next.
The members of the Rune Protectorate—Sparky, Wiggles, and Huginn included—wait patiently for our turn. Titzonna Styx lip syncs a raucous rendition of Beyoncé’s “Freakum Dress.” Then Freida Knutts, Laguna Shagalotte, Thelma Thromboner, and Vanessa Vagellum do their numbers. Judging by the standing ovations a couple of them garner, our competition is stiff. But the one to beat is up next.
I cringe when Heath Saxon calls Helga Boomslang to the stage entrance. The mean queen struts past us, flipping her oversized fan open and snapping it in my face, knocking my false eyelashes off one eye. “I’m gonna smoke you little bitches so hard, you’ll be farting ashes and burping fire. Watch me slay.”
The cats’ heads jerk up in sync. Their ears point toward her. Both of the little beasts meow loudly.
I just smile. “Good luck,” I call after Helga Boomslang as I replace the spider-leg eyelashes.
She flips her middle finger at me, dons an exaggerated, fake smile, and waves to the crowd as she mounts the stage.
On either side of me, the cats strain at their leashes, panting, practically choking themselves to get free.
“Must. Eat. Her,” Sparky says with a wild look in his feral yellow eyes.
“Dude, for real, though,” Wiggles drools.
“Patience,” I murmur.
The music starts on the other side of the curtain.
“Now, Alex.” I bend down and release the leash hooks from the cats’ collars.
Gunnar Magnusson arches a brow, glances to Freddie and back to me. “What are you up to?” he asks.
I shrug innocently.
Alex makes eye contact with me and nods. Sparky and Wiggles turn invisible and shoot like spears through the curtain after Helga Boomslang. I rush to peek through, nudging Heath Saxon out of the way.
Just as Helga gets her gyrations really going, she shrieks. Her feet dance awkwardly as if she’s playing hopscotch on plumes of lava. She loses her balance, tries to catch herself, and fails. She plummets to the floor in an explosion of pink and red tulle. Her wig slips off; her legs splay. Gasps tear through the room.
“Ahh!” she shrieks, kicking at the invisible cats ripping her costume to shreds in search of the catnip I spiked it with earlier while Helga Boomslang was yelling into her cell phone at dress rehearsal.
Hey, she earned this. I could’ve done so much worse.
Moral of this story: Don’t be an arsehole. Especially to a trickster.
The audience loses containment. Some folks cover their mouths in shock at Helga Boomslang’s misfortune, but most laugh uncontrollably. Her “performance” is like a clown rodeo in the middle of a Wal-Mart on Black Friday.
Gunnar Magnusson flashes me a disapproving look that quickly dissolves into chuckles. “What did you do?”
I shrug again. “Did you know cats have 200 million sensory thingies in their noses that make them smell forty times better than humans? Amazing how fast a little catnip can affect them.”
Gunnar Magnusson tosses an arm around my shoulder and says, “Someday, you’re going to let me in on one of your capers.”
I look up at him, surprised. “You? Making mischief? I thought you were the keeper of common sense. The king of rule-following. The law-abiding lord of—”
“I’ve joined the dark side. A trickster who shall remain nameless may have had something to do with my fall from the light.”
I grin and nuzzle into his bodacious chest. With each passing moment, I adore this man even more. I wish we had more time.
Stop thinking about the future. Enjoy the now, Laguz gently chides.
So, I do.
Pandemonium ensues as Helga Boomslang struggles to regain her dignity, but her moment in the sun is ruined.
Damien Drakkar’s voice interrupts the music flowing through the speakers. “I’ve seen enough. If you can’t stay on your feet, you can’t be queen. Disqualified.”
The uproar beyond the curtain—a mixture of dismay, giggles, and disappointment—amps up. Helga Boomslang plows furiously through the holding area. Rivers of muddy tears stream down her cheeks, ruining her makeup. “This is so unfair,” she crows, palming her eyes. “Someone did something to the stage. It wasn’t me. I was perfect!”
But with her posse long since eliminated, no one here gives a shite. A couple queens even turn their backs and titter to each other.
“Couldn’t have happened to a bigger bitch,” I mumble as the stumbling Sparky and Wiggles reappear at my feet. They furiously rub their cheeks against my ankles. I pet them and reattach the leashes to the stoned cats. “Good boys.”
“Dude, I’m so high,” Wiggles marvels. He sits up and paws at the empty air.
Sparky laughs. “Me too.”
“Straighten up and act right,” I say. “It’s our turn.”
“Our final two contestants chose to conduct a joint performance,” Tabitha Tingle says once the audience settles. “While this is an unusual request, we found nothing in the rules to prohibit such a partnership, so we’re going with the flow. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Miss Rebel Larkspur and Miss Shay-Shay LeTigre performing The Killers’s ‘The Man.’”
Tabitha steps aside. The auditorium goes dark. The song opens with a synthesizer rising slowly in pitch, and the lights come up. When the beat kicks in, Huginn struts under the dawning yellow sun of a spotlight. He wears the battle armor I made for him, with a few enhancements. People laugh and clap as he squawks across the stage, the glitzy rhinestones embedded in the sides flashing.
I prance out, wielding the gem-studded leashes attached to Sparky
’s and Wiggles’s matching collars. Stamping my high-heeled boots to the music, I sway and swing my arms like I’m the queen of the world. A huge “chariot” with wheels operated on either side by Gunnar Magnusson and Alex chases me. Freddie and Darryl Donovan “ride” in front. They’re actually walking, but their legs are covered by the cardboard monstrosity we cut and painted in rainbow colors to look like a royal buggy.
My long hair swings in a circle as I bust out dance moves that would give Bragi a hard-on. If I live past midnight, I must remember to thank Stephanie for the tips. Darryl Donovan scored her phone number and already arranged a date.
Cheers swell around me like a warm breeze. Several audience members stand, their mouths gaping. I shimmy to my left, throwing out an arm to indicate the two queens as Gunnar Magnusson and Alex yank the chariot apart and flatten it to the floor. The collapsed cardboard doubles as a pair of matching red carpets for Darryl Donovan and Freddie to traverse. When they reach the front edge of the stage and the lyrics start, they shake their rumps and belt out the tune. I pass the cats’ leashes to each of them. Sparky and Wiggles are slow to react, but they follow Freya’s cues well enough.
The whole number is hysterically ironic on so many levels, considering Freddie is a man pretending to be a woman who used to be a goddess and Darryl Donovan is a man pretending to be a woman who used to be the thunder god.
My thoughts harken back to our cross-dressing adventures when Thrym the frost giant tried to bribe the Æsir for Freya’s hand. If the Æsir could see us now …
Our performance is flawless. We hit every cue, every beat in perfect time. Freddie and Darryl Donovan stun everyone—me included—with their sass, style, and energy. I didn’t know Darryl Donovan had it in him, but he proved me wrong. I want to hug him.
The show could not have gone better. If we lose, it’s not because we weren’t good enough. We slayed. Take that, Helga Boomslang!
But our fate lies in Damien Drakkar’s hands. I pin my fists tightly at my sides and eagerly await his verdict.
When the people slow their claps and resume their seats, Damien mounts the steps to join Tabitha onstage.