by Kendall Grey
“Wow, that was something else.” Tabitha breathes heavily into her microphone and fans herself with a yellow-gloved hand. “Damien, what did you think of this intense, insane, incredible performance by Shay-Shay and Rebel?”
I hold my breath.
Damien peers over the top of his sunglasses at Darryl Donovan and Freddie. “Outstanding, ladies. There’s no other word for it. In fact, all of you were amazing.” He gestures to us and turns to the audience. “Every step was expertly executed. Every lyric mimed perfectly to the song. The outfits were beautiful, and the props alone deserve a standing ovation, am I right?”
Throat-scratching cheers, stomping feet, and ear-splitting whistles reverberate through the hall.
“This may be unorthodox, but it’s our first drag show, so we make up some rules as we go. I’m gonna throw caution to the wind and say Rebel and Shay-Shay, you both win.”
I can’t believe it.
My scream blends with the deafening crowd’s, rippling and bending the air. Darryl Donovan and Freddie turn to each other with huge grins. They throw out their arms and hug. Aww!
“I’m not finished,” Damien says, tapping his earpiece. “I’ve just received confirmation that there’s more. Not only do they win, but their assistants deserve something too.”
My heart beats a wild tattoo.
“What?” everyone asks, looking at each other.
“We can’t give the crown, scepter, or cash to anyone but the official winners, but executive producer Alda Grímsdóttir informed us that she’d like to extend an invitation for your entire troupe—cats and chicken included—to join me for guest spots on an episode of Asgard Awakening. How does that sound?”
Alda Grímsdóttir, whom I reckon is Odin, wants us on the show? Well, I’ll be dipped in goat shite. What is Allfather up to?
Doesn’t matter. I’ll try to unravel Odin’s motives and machinations later. Right now, it’s time to savor our win.
My friends burst into laughter. We high-five each other and jump up and down, shaking our arses to an unsung victory song.
I’m amazed by my boys.
And Damien surprised me. He could’ve defied Alda Grímsdóttir and given the crown to someone else. No one would’ve known. He’s a righteous dick, but despite the meanness and thirst for blood, Angrboda did the right thing for once. Almost makes me feel bad about the spell Freddie conjured earlier.
Or maybe he let us win because he still thinks he can get in my pants. That’s actually much more likely. I definitely don’t feel bad now. More like vindicated.
An hour later, after the fans snap their final selfies, the paparazzi finish hounding us, and the crowd dissipates, we gather our belongings and head for the exit.
I stroll near the Golden Gate Bridge with four strong men in drag surrounding me. “I couldn’t be prouder of you guys.”
“The Rune Protectorate rules!” Darryl Donovan shouts to the sky, wielding his scepter.
Freddie brandishes his sacred crown. “Long live the Rune Protectorate!”
“We’re gonna be on Asgard Awakening!” Darryl Donovan adds.
Whoops and whistles follow. I keep my suspicions about Damien’s motives to myself. Let them enjoy this.
My friends wind their arms around me in a group hug. I’m full and light all at once.
This must be what family feels like.
A chime from my phone interrupts our celebration. Unknown number. I answer the call.
“What did you do to me?” Damien Drakkar demands, his voice tight.
Catching Freddie’s eye, I wave him closer and hit the speakerphone button.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say innocently.
It’s true. I didn’t do whatever Damien might be referring to. Freya, the goddess of sex, did.
The gods giveth and the gods taketh away. Ha!
“I just sent three women home unsatisfied,” Damien laments.
“Ouch. Sounds like a personal problem. Have you consulted your doctor about erectile dysfunction? They have pills for that.”
“I know. And as of an hour ago, they no longer work.”
I look at Freddie’s pinched face and burst into laughter. He tries to cover his giggles, but they eke out between his fingers. Grinning Gunnar Magnusson presses his curling lips flat, forcing the dimple in his cheek to wink. Alex and Darryl Donovan grab each other’s arms and bend over, holding their stomachs.
“Impotence is a tough punishment. Perhaps the Norns decided to pay you back for how you treated the dark elves,” I suggest. “Or for stealing people’s magical hats. Or for casting sex spells on me. Or maybe they simply don’t like guys who force themselves on women.”
“Remove the spell,” Damien growls. “I mean it, Loki.”
“I can’t remove a spell I didn’t cast.
“Who did it, then?”
I don’t answer.
“I gave you Othala—” he whines.
“After you stole it.”
“I let you cut off my finger—”
“You’re a masochist. You enjoyed it.”
“I gave your friends the contest. What more do you want?”
“They earned their title, and you know it, jackass.”
He huffs. “I should’ve let the Boomslang tranny win like I planned.”
Ah ha! I knew it. Odin’s holding something over Damien’s head. Allfather forced him to pick us. Sneaky little bastard wants us on the Asgard Awakening set. More clues for Laguz to cogitate over later.
“See, that right there is why you got what you deserved. I told you before, the correct term is transgender person, and you’d be wise not to use that slur with me again, or the next time we cross paths, I might cut off more than a finger. Oh, and one more thing. Don’t even think about trying to take Freddie’s and Darryl Donovan’s title back. I have a rather damning recording of the transphobic insults you hurled that night in your hotel room, and I’m not afraid to turn it over to the press if you piss me off.”
The line goes quiet. “You wouldn’t dare,” he snarls in a threatening tone.
“I absolutely would. See you on the set, Damien.” I slap the end button and turn to my friends.
“That was brilliant, Loki,” Darryl Donovan says. “Well done.”
“Remind me not to leave any sharp objects lying around when you’re pissed,” Gunnar Magnusson says.
“You’re one quarter forgiven, Loki,” Freddie declares.
He meets my eyes and lifts his hands into the starting position for our secret ritual: the Freddie-Loki hand dance he taught me on our road trip to Las Vegas. My throat tightens a little.
“Top, bottom, middle,” we recite together as we go through the proper motions. “Bump, bump, bump. Jazz hands, and … explosion!”
“I’ll take one quarter forgiven over Freddie shouting at me any day,” I say, then more softly, “Thanks, mate.”
He points at me. “You still owe us. Like, a ton.”
“I do. And I intend to pay you back for everything.”
We bump fists.
Alex faces Freddie. Happiness beams from his dark eyes. “Where to, my goddess?”
“You, me, our bed.” Freddie snaps his fingers and winks at him. “Your queen demands your full attention.”
“Uber?” Alex asks.
“Nah, it’s the perfect night for a midnight stroll,” Freddie says, scooping up a cat in each hand. “Come on Wiggles and Sparky. It’s past your bedtimes. Catch you guys at the hotel.”
Midnight stroll.
I check my phone for the time. It’s a few minutes past 11:00. Less than an hour of my life remains. I’m sad that Freddie and Alex left before I could say goodbye, but maybe it’s for the best. Goodbyes suck, and I can’t trust myself not to break down into a blubbering mess of stupid in front of them.
I scan the skies for flying Valkyries but find only a faint fog rolling across the bridge. I rub the spot over my heart, feeling for lumps, or a hiccup from the cardioverter-defibrillator, or
a ticking time bomb someone slipped in my chest when I wasn’t looking. None of the above. I peer through the mist in search of muggers, ax-wielding homicidal maniacs, or deranged hippies. I see only a handful of tourists and people walking their dogs.
Maybe Skuld forgot about me.
I pick up battle-armored Huginn and stroke his feathers. He opens his beak in a smile and nuzzles into my arm. “We did good, boss.”
“Yes, we did,” I say.
“I have a surprise for you,” Gunnar Magnusson says.
“Oh?”
He gently takes Huginn from me and passes him to Darryl Donovan. The former Thor nods before slinking into the darkness. I track Darryl Donovan as far as I can, but he disappears. “Where are they going?”
“The surprise required a little … coordination. They’ll be back.” He opens his hand and offers it to me. “Walk with me?”
I slip my fingers between his and squeeze. “I’d love to.”
The instant my skin touches his, a wave of calm rolls over me, and my fear of dying ebbs away. Peace is a novelty for a former god created from fire and chaos. But I like it.
My senses are alight, amplified, honed to peak performance. I can hear the steady pound of Gunnar Magnusson’s heart, count every whisker on his chin, smell his affection. Does this kind of clarity befall everyone who’s about to die? Or is it just Gunnar Magnusson’s—Sigyn’s—effect on me?
As we walk, I study the sky, the fuzzy orb of the moon ducking behind the clouds, and I smile. Despite the threat of time breathing against my nape, I am happy. I shift my gaze to my handsome Viking rescuer and realize something else.
I’m not just happy. For the first time in my long life, I’m in love.
For a death day, it turned out pretty damn good.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Darryl Donovan honks the minivan’s horn from the street and waves us over. Gunnar Magnusson opens the door for me, and we pile into the back. Huginn clucks between us.
“Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, stroking Huginn’s feathers.
“Patience,” Darryl Donovan says as he navigates the van toward the imposing bridge spanning more than a mile before us.
“You’re gonna love this,” Huginn squawks.
Everyone seems to have forgotten Skuld’s prophesy, so I will too. In these final moments in Midgard, I’m no longer afraid of dying. I’ve been living in fear for the better part of a week, worried about what would happen on Tuesday, but this day has been nothing but fun. I’ve had the time of my life since I met Gunnar Magnusson. If I’m about to meet my end, at least I’ll die happy.
Darryl Donovan pulls up to the welcome center adjacent to the Golden Gate Bridge. Gunnar Magnusson gets out. While he rummages through the trunk, Darryl Donovan turns from the driver’s seat to face me. “You’re all right, Loki. I wasn’t sure before, but I am now.”
I blink over suddenly misty eyes. “You’re pretty okay yourself.”
He gestures to Gunnar Magnusson dragging equipment out of the boot. “For the record, he doesn’t believe you’re gonna die tonight any more than I do. A little faith goes a long way.”
“I second that,” Huginn clucks.
I smile at him.
“Be good to that dude,” Darryl Donovan says. “He cares a lot about you.”
I want to ask how he knows, but I blink instead. I squeeze his shoulder as Gunnar Magnusson thrusts a hand in the car to help me out. “Thanks for being a great friend. To all of us.”
Darryl Donovan grins and says, “Good luck, man. See you soon.”
They bump fists, and Darryl Donovan drives away before I can say goodbye to him or Huginn. Something catches in my throat, threatening to unleash a glut of tears, but I inhale a deep breath and force it silent.
“Turn us invisible?” Gunnar Magnusson requests with raised eyebrows. “Pedestrian access is closed at night.”
I nod and tap into my rune stave’s power. The world sheds its color as we melt into our surroundings.
Gunnar Magnusson picks up the bulging pack at his feet, slings it over his shoulder, and guides me across the Coastal Trail until we stand atop the majestic Golden Gate Bridge. I survey the city lights, the gently churning Pacific Ocean, the slow-moving clouds. The wind nips at my ears, but I’m not cold. He opens his pack and shrugs into some kind of harness. I keep a hand on him so he’ll remain unseen as he dons the strange gear.
“Why are we here? I thought you didn’t do heights,” I say, gazing at the stars trying to poke holes through the pillowy night sky. Is Skuld watching me through that curtain of darkness, waiting till the last moment to push me off this bridge?
“Changing paradigms.” He grasps the handrail and peers over the edge. His knuckles whiten. A muscle in his cheek spasms like it’s been working overtime for a week and has yet to realize vacation started yesterday.
“How so?” I ask.
He tugs a harness strap. “We’re going to jump.”
I laugh. “You. Are going to jump. Off this bridge? A little extreme, even if you weren’t acrophobic, don’t you think?”
“Not me,” he corrects. “We are jumping off the bridge. Together. What better way for me to prove you’re not going to die? And for you to prove my fear of heights is irrational? We’re doing each other a favor.”
Though his words are brave, I hear the quiver in his voice. He’s as afraid as I am.
“You’re insane,” I say. “And that’s coming from a person who probably is, in fact, insane.”
“Facing one’s fear isn’t insane. It makes us stronger,” he counters. But even as he speaks the bold words, his knee bounces nervously.
I stare down at the swirling black sea. If I don’t break my neck when I hit the water, I’ll probably drown. A fitting end for a god forged from fire. But not for him.
“No,” I say. “You don’t have anything to prove.”
Gunnar Magnusson clasps my arms. “Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and trust in those who trust in you.” He fishes his pendant out of his shirt and holds it up. “I have my lucky hamingja, and I have you. That’s all I need.”
My head spins, and it’s not from the elevation. I’m lost staring into his eyes. His lips are so close. I want to believe I can forge my own fate. With him by my side, maybe I can. I swallow the rock in my throat.
“Are you scared?” I whisper.
“I was. But I’m not anymore. Because even if something goes wrong and we do die, at least we’ll do it together.”
A quiver tickles my insides. I lay a hand on my stomach to quell the jitters jitterbugging in there. They take the gesture as a greenlight to jig harder. He’s willing to die with me? Wow. That right there is some epic poetry. And even more reason to love him.
How our roles have shifted.
“Okay,” I say. “How do we do this?”
He hikes up the straps of his backpack. “We’re gonna use a parachute.”
“What is a parachute?” I ask.
“Kind of like a balloon that opens up after you jump. It slows you down as you fall.”
I smile. “Sounds fun.”
“Ready?”
I nod. He sucks in a full breath through his nose and blows it out from his mouth. He climbs up to stand on the railing, curling an arm around one of the vertical metal bars. Once steady, he offers me a hand up. I join him.
The view is stunning.
I should be afraid. I’m not.
“I only brought one ’chute,” he says.
I shrug. “What does that mean?”
His feet shuffle around mine. When I look up, he’s right there, in my face, exactly where I want him.
“It means we have to share,” he says. He’s shaking. I have no doubt it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to chicken out.
I’m mortal too, but I can shapeshift with Othala. A bird, a bee, a butterfly—if something goes wrong, I have a temporary safety net until the Norns find me. Gunnar Magnusson doesn’
t. Which makes me appreciate him and this daring stunt even more.
His trembling hand falls to my waist, tugging me hip to hip. Or a close approximation. He’s half a foot taller than me.
“This sharing,” I say. “Does it require me to hold on to you? Because I’d like nothing more than to coat you like a can of spray paint.”
“Yes. Closeness is imperative.” His quivering grip flexes, binding me to him. I wind my arms around his neck and hook a foot around his ankle. Now all of our parts are aligned. Except for our mouths. There’s a remedy, but I’m gonna wait for him to tackle that problem.
“Do you trust me?” he asks, staring through the windows of my eyes into my soul.
“Always.”
“Hold on tight,” he says.
I squeeze harder and smile.
He inhales deeply, closes his eyes, and steps off the railing.
We fall.
And fall.
And fall.
His eyes pop open wide, and I laugh at the irony of this giddy stomach-dropping sensation. It feels just like kissing him. Falling isn’t so bad when you’re doing it with a person you care about.
Mortality tangoes with my better judgment as wild Kenaz battles intuitive Laguz for control of my limbs. Laguz begs me to be sensible and shapeshift. Kenaz encourages me to embrace the chaos of the moment.
Kenaz wins.
Gunnar Magnusson fumbles with a cord and yanks it. A huge black tarp explodes out of his backpack, and suddenly, the rushing air freezing my cheeks isn’t racing as fast.
“Wahoo!” Gunnar Magnusson shouts to the heavens. I feel some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
I laugh, marveling at the wonders of modern Midgardian science. Who would have thought you could jump off anything for fun and (theoretically) live to tell about it?
Adrenaline courses through me, prompting my already restless heart to skip a few beats. For a terrifying moment, the cardioverter-defibrillator loses its rhythm, stranding me on the shores of a flatline. Panic cements my bones, flash-freezing my muscles into paralysis.
Oh my gods, my heart stopped working and we’re going to crash on the rocks and die and I can’t breathe and I should’ve listened to Laguz and—