by Evie Kent
And waiting.
Sitting upright on the couch, adrenaline pounding, my mind focused for the first time in what felt like months. In the real world, tonight’s plan would never, ever cross my mind. I was willing to shove and kick my way out of a bad situation, sure, but to physically maim someone, to cause irreparable damage…
That wasn’t me.
But now it had to be.
I estimated about an hour had crawled by since the lights first dimmed, the various strands around the main hall edging toward total blackout every ten minutes or so like they were on a timer.
His timer.
Nothing connected to any outlets in here—no pipes for the running water. Hard as it was to wrap my mind around it, Loki seemed to be the one generating all the power.
Which was just all sorts of fucked-up that I refused to get into.
As the lights descended to their final midnight glow, the setting just before pure darkness, I shot up and tiptoed across the hall—straight to the butcher’s block. While Loki had prepared most of our meals, which I usually wolfed down at the far end of the table, refusing to sit across from him and pointedly moving to the opposite end anytime he tried to join me, I had still familiarized myself with the whole kitchen. Everything. Not just the knives, even if they were my main focal point. By now, I could ease the biggest one out of its slot without that telltale hiss of sliding metal.
I’d used it to chop carrots yesterday for my salad, taking the time to adjust to its weight. Kind of an excessive knife for vegetables, but I’d feigned ignorance when Loki called me out on it. Tonight, my hand shook as I wrapped a fist around its mahogany-brown handle. Still wearing this flouncy white dress, places to hide it were slim.
Unless you’d spent nearly all your life with perfect posture, capable of holding just about anything between your shoulder blades when you tried. Eyes locked on the doorway that led out to the bedroom, the bathroom, and the narrow black passage that Loki had dubbed the “calendar corridor” for some reason, I hastily hoisted my dress and shoved my hand up my back, careful to keep the blade facing away from my skin.
It took a few tries; pinching a pencil between my shoulder blades during a rehearsal break while my studio friends giggled was one thing. Even if the item was much smaller, the stakes were low. If the knife slipped out, I risked injury—and exposure. A sweaty palm made the whole process trickier than it needed to be, my muscles strained, my heart thundering so hard it was a wonder it didn’t wake him.
But I got it. Eventually, with a lot of patience and precise posture, I clutched the knife’s handle between the wings of my shoulders. Doing cartwheels on the inside, I slowly eased my hand out from under my dress, then just stood there for a few beats to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. The effort to maintain the posture, to grip a smooth surface between my shoulders, made me shake, but I lasted a good sixty seconds without it falling—and that meant it was go time.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Shoving my nerves—and my moral objections to what I was about to do—deep, deep down, I crept carefully from the main hall, then down the little steps into the darkness. Arms out, I fell back on years of balance training, then veered to the right just off the stairs, groping around until I felt the doorway to his sleeping quarters.
“Uh, hello?”
“Hello, little human,” Loki rumbled back from the pitch-black depths. My heart bottomed out at his voice alone, three nights worth of steamy, terrifying nightmares about this man pounding through me. I clutched at the wall, waiting, fighting to keep my breath even. His chuckle followed the shifting of what sounded like bed linens, like he was sitting up. “Finally come to share my bed?”
“Oh my god.” I forced some snark into my tone, even as my knees knocked and my palms erupted in another wave of cold sweat. “Look, the couch is giving me a weird crick in my neck, so, yeah… I’m… here. But this isn’t an invitation to, you know, touch me, got it?”
He snorted, the sort of laughter that seemed to accompany genuine amusement. Chuckles were the dangerous ones: they either fell coldly from his lips, not an ounce of sympathy in his eyes, or they purred in the aftermath of some sexual innuendo. Neither situation was a welcome one.
“We’ll see, I suppose,” he mused, and I managed a long, annoyed exhale from the shadows.
“Okay, well, if there’s no guarantee, I’m going back to the couch—”
“Fine, you petulant woman,” he said. The sound of a hand patting the bed made the hairs on my arms stand up. “Just get in. You’re safe. I only fuck the willing.”
“Do you ever listen to what comes out of your mouth sometimes?” I gagged, just for good measure. “Like seriously, dude.”
“I’m afraid my offer expires—”
“Okay, okay,” I muttered, stumbling into the darkness, arms out and quivering, the knife’s blade hanging like an icicle down my back. “I’m coming. I just… don’t know where I’m going.”
“Straight ahead.” More blanket shuffling, followed by a contented sigh from the lurking god. “Go until you hit the frame. It’s a round bed, thin linens. You can’t miss it.”
I didn’t bother to thank him; I hadn’t thanked him for anything thus far, and if I started now, he might suspect something was up. Instead, I just shuffled along until I collided hard with a wooden frame, and I let out a hiss as pain flared in my shins. Slowly, I crouched over—no easy feat given I had to keep my back perfectly straight, my shoulders thrust back—and felt along the cushy bed’s surface.
Then squealed when my hand landed on a bare, hairy, taut leg.
“Oh my god, sorry, sorry…” The apology was instinctual, my babbling a nervous tic that I’d managed to keep in check thus far. A seductive chuckle filled the room as I scrambled along the outer rim of the bed, keen to put some distance between us at first.
“You’re a funny little creature, Nora Olsen.”
“Okay,” I replied flatly, my standard go-to whenever he said something that might coax me into any kind of conversation, pleasant or otherwise. Leaning heavily on my right arm, I eased down to my elbow, then settled on my side, facing him in the darkness. As soon as I relaxed my shoulders, the knife lilted sideways, its lethal blade resting on my dress and not my spine. Good. Just as I’d hoped.
“Okay, I’m in,” I told him, still fighting to keep any intonation out of my words, to sound like this was the world’s biggest chore—like I was only here out of necessity. Tensed, I slipped my arm under the paper-thin pillow, propping it up to support my supposedly cricked neck. “So. Good night.” I cleared my throat, then hastily added, “And don’t fucking touch me.”
“So vulgar, you twenty-first-century women.”
“Fuck off.”
Another snort. “I rather like it, actually.”
That lone butterfly with its broken wing limped around in my chest again, and I closed my eyes with a sigh. “Okay.”
Could he hear my hammering heart—sense my racing thoughts?
Fuck, I hoped not. I’d never been a religious person before, not with all the shit that had happened in my life, but if gods were real, then I hoped—prayed—to whoever might be listening that Loki’s powers didn’t extend to mindreading and supernatural hearing capabilities. Please.
Facing him in the darkness, I concentrated on my breathing. For now, I focused on keeping it even—not too fast, not too slow. Just the rhythm he might expect under these circumstances. The seconds crawled by, the two of us lying side by side in the darkness, and I made an effort to shift around on top of the sheets so my future movements wouldn’t rouse him.
I played the long-con, timing myself, waiting for what felt like a fucking eternity before I started to draw my breaths out longer, adding the odd hitch here and there, like I had finally drifted off to sleep. Whenever I heard movement on his side of the bed, which felt huge now that I had to crawl across it with a knife, I sucked in a deep breath and fluttered my eyes open, just in case he was watching.
&nbs
p; An eon later, he started to snore.
Softly. Sweetly, almost, not like Devlin’s obnoxious roars every night. My heart lurched at the first gentle rumble, but I waited, kept my deep, shuddering breaths as even and rhythmic as possible.
I needed to confirm he was out.
Every limb was stiff by the time I finally adjusted myself properly, stretching my arm around so I could creep up my dress and retrieve the knife. Carefully, I steered it under my pillow, eyes open and slowly adjusting to the darkness. Without a spec of light anywhere, all I could make out was his outline, his silhouetted profile slightly darker than the space around him. Dozing on his back, Loki seemed to have cushioned his head on his folded arms, leaving himself vulnerable—exposed.
Open to a predator.
I swallowed hard. Was I that predator? Could I actually do this?
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I’d never even been in a fight before. Physical violence was always a last resort, but here I was, gearing up to stab a sleeping god.
No.
I can’t—
You want to die here, Nora? demanded a sharp voice inside me, someone who sounded like me, but in this moment was somehow ten times more confident. This is life or death. Use the knife and get out.
Tentatively, my hand curled around the wooden handle, but it took me another whole goddamn year to finally inch closer to him. By then, I was white-knuckling the knife and on the verge of passing out, but my mind was made up, my heart set. Once I started, there was no stopping; hopefully inertia would just carry me through to the end.
Soft tissue. Don’t want the blade stuck in bone.
The thought made me gag, but I swallowed down the rising sickness as I crept inch by inch to his side. Even in the dark he scared me, so large, so strong—even relaxed, his body’s contour caught my eye, attractive in the dips and peaks, defined and toned.
A gorgeous monster.
One I’d see in my nightmares for the rest of my life, probably.
Shaking, I pushed up on my right elbow and gripped the knife for dear life in my left hand. Reared back. Hesitated, the mountain absolutely silent around us—and then plunged the blade straight into his throat.
His eyes shot open immediately, arms flailing, and I shrieked as a wash of piping hot blood spurted out all over my hand and up my arm. He shoved at me, gurgling, and I twisted the blade in deeper. The high-pitched whine between my ears drowned out my screams, everything inside me numb, and after receiving a second coat of blood along my arms, I bailed out. Left the knife in him as he bucked and gasped. Rolled off the bed. Collapsed to my knees as soon as my feet hit the ground. Struggled to get up and stay up. Crashed into the doorway.
Realized I was sobbing.
“He’s dead,” I cried as I wiped the tears from my cheeks—and smeared them with hot blood instead. Sure, I hadn’t confirmed it, but I must have hit something vital. In all the old stories, gods could die. Swords and arrows, hand-to-hand combat with other gods… They weren’t infallible, right? These guys had weaknesses, just like us. They bled. Felt pain.
Shaking, I stumbled into the main hall and waved my arms. “He’s dead! Let me out! He’s dead!”
Blood splattered the ground—gold blood. Fighting to catch my breath, I gawked down at my hands and found them drowning in gold. It glittered in the faint stretch of moonlight trickling in from the mouth of the cave.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” I sprinted for the ramp on legs ready to give out at any second. “Hello? He’s gone! Let me out!”
I made it halfway up the sloped path before I heard my name. Gargled and incoherent as it was, that was my name—coming out of his mouth. I spun around, eyes wide, knees buckling as Loki staggered into the main hall after me, a hand to his throat, his chest and neck soaked in gold. All the lights came screaming back to life at their brightest setting, and the god stumbled hard into one of the armchairs, glaring up at me with death in his eyes.
“Nora, Nora, Nora, Nora…” He bellowed that last one, ripping the knife from his throat and painting anything within reach with flecks of divine blood.
Not dead.
Very not dead.
Oh my god.
I clapped a hand over my mouth to muffle my sob, regret and fear sinking like anchors in my gut.
Chilling laughter filled the room, falling from his lips like a landslide. Wet, thick chuckles of varying intensity and pitch thundered up to meet me, and I slumped to the wall for support—no fucking idea what to do now. Almost equally unsteady on his feet, Loki tried to push off the armchair, but quickly faltered, collapsing back into it with his eyes wide and wild, his mouth warped in a thin, haunting smile. Just before the chair could tip over under his weight, he steadied himself, still laughing, still crazed, then grabbed the chair and hurled it clear across the room. It crashed into the kitchen cupboards, the collision wrenching another scream out of me and an explosion of shattered wood.
Can’t stay here. Nowhere to go. No exit.
He wasn’t dead.
I couldn’t get through the electric bars up ahead.
No one was coming for me.
No one can hear you scream, Nora.
Panicked, I hoofed it down the ramp and detoured around the huge table. Loki lunged after me, but noticeably uncoordinated, incapacitated by the gaping tear in his neck, he tripped over the bench and collapsed onto the tabletop, a surge of gold puddling around him. His mouth twisted in a snarl, and his nails ripped into the oak as he scrambled after me, crawling up the table as I ran for my fucking life.
“I’m sorry!” I shouted just as I staggered down the steps and scuttled around the corner into darkness. The bloody god came crashing after me, but slipped and fell hard on the stairs, gurgling something at me in a Norwegian dialect I couldn’t understand.
Nor did I bother to try.
I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, until my lungs burned and my legs gave out.
When that moment came, I found the smallest, most inconspicuous crevice around to squeeze myself into.
And waited—shaking, wheezing, crying—to see if I would live to suffer another day in this nightmare.
8
Loki
She had guts, my little human.
More than any of the others, she had fire.
And the uncanny ability to disappear for an entire day without making a sound.
With a bowl of roast venison stew in one hand and a flickering torch in the other, I made my way through the mountain’s interior. Almost twenty-four hours had crawled by since Nora had attempted to slit my throat while I slept. In that time, I had healed and sat waiting for her in the great hall, loitering at the head of a table still drenched in my own blood.
And she had made herself scarce, holed up like a frightened mouse in the nooks and crannies of my cage—knowing full well that she had made a grave error in judgment.
Fiery creature.
A fighter, through and through.
I slowed at a fork in the tunnel, eyes dancing left and right before I veered to the right. Left was a lot of dark roads to nowhere, steep drop-offs and jagged pits. Nora had tiptoed around everywhere these last four days, but I seriously doubted she found any solace that way.
Not without breaking something.
Right forced me to stoop, however, and I ducked down with a wince, neck aching, throat sore with every swallow. While the attack hadn’t killed me—and wouldn’t in the future, I hoped she realized now—it had certainly taken me by surprise. None before her had tried to murder me to barter for freedom; the others lacked the stones. Still, while it hadn’t ended my life, it hurt. A lot. And it continued to throb long after I had healed it. Deep in concentration, calling on every ounce of power I possessed, I had stitched sinew and flesh back together, one bit at a time, until I was whole again.
And as I plodded along now, hunched, the metal torch occasionally knocking against the wall of the tight passage, I estimated another day before I was at full strength again.
Outside this fucking prison, it would have taken seconds to heal, hours to bounce back. Here, I was… winded. Tired. Little Nora Olsen had delivered a powerful blow, and although I had serious doubts she would try again, I’d have to keep a closer eye on her.
Maybe concoct an actual punishment for any future attempts.
For now, I thought a reward suited her—us—better. After all, what a brave thing, to attack a god as she did. Even in the moment, my throat split open, my ichor leaking, I’d found it impressive, perhaps even amusing.
But had we broached the subject back then, I wasn’t sure how I would have reacted to her—best she spent the day away while I recovered, while I had the time to really reflect.
Currently, I had an inkling about where she had burrowed. After checking a few of the more obvious hiding places closer to the main hall, I branched out, walking deeper into the mountain, tuned in to the faint hum of a human’s life force. All creatures possessed one, supernatural or not, though in my experience, humanity’s was always the weakest.
I found her in a pitch-black corridor, wider and taller than the one I’d just traversed. If she had carried on deeper, she would have happened upon a chamber with a few patchy holes in the ceiling, allowing the sunlight to warm her throughout the spring day. Instead, I could practically hear her teeth chattering within the sliver of a trench that stretched alongside the footpath. When I’d first discovered it centuries ago, it had glittered with gemstones embedded in the stone, treasures hidden by dwarves most likely—the greediest lot who spread caches of riches across Midgard, far from their brethren in Svartalfheim. Now, the trench stood empty…
Until today.
She remained still, silent, always conscious of her self-preservation. I admired that about her, that she didn’t give in so easily.
But our game would eventually wear thin, and then I would have to force us into a new one.
“Hello, little human,” I rumbled, shouldering my torch as I stood at the cusp of the footpath and peered into the trench. Firelight flickered over the grey stone, illuminating white fabric below, her black hair and lean legs. She lay facedown, hands over her head, cowering. “You can come out now… I’ve brought you something to eat.”