by Amy B. Nixon
“Loki,” I muttered with a sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I should have guessed the first time you called me ‘necromancer’. Njord never would have used this word.”
“Whoops!” He shrugged and bared his lower jaw in a grimace. “Busted, as one like you would say. Do not beg for my forgiveness, necromancer. I am fond of tales of heartbreak. They provide such… How should I put it? They touch me. Delight me. Matters of the heart are joyous when they speak of throes and agony.”
“You’ll have to find someone else’s throes to entertain you. Goodbye, Loki.”
“I can help you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me well. As a matter of fact, I know about Freya’s spell. It makes all of you male Nordstrøms long to roll in the hay with a female Dustrikke. You being still alive means your loins–”
“I beg of you,” I interrupted him, struggling to keep an even voice, “please refrain yourself from discussing my loins.”
Wasn’t it bad enough that my engagement had ended, my family’s future was precarious, and I had embarked on a possibly fatal journey? Yes, my sex life was non-existent since June, and I didn’t need a Norse god to rub this fact in my face!
“As I was saying, evidently you have not rolled in the hay with a female Dustrikke yet. Nevertheless, you lied to me about not giving into the spell, when you have indeed acted upon your desires. For your earlier attempts to shamelessly deceive Njord, the wisest of all Vanir, you deserve a reward. I cannot reverse the spell, or the cursed outcome it triggers, but I can help you get inside Freya’s abodes.”
A loud gasp betrayed my composure. “You know about the curse?”
“Oh, but of course. I was there when the famed Vanir wrath overtook Freya. The remembrance of her fury shall never escape me. Ah, how poetically she punished your ancestors for what they did to that young Dustrikke child!”
Telling him I was different from my ancestors was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t utter a sound. It was foolish of me to even keep looking at him. Ninety-nine percent of his deeds were lies and deception. Despite knowing it, part of me was willing to cross the borders of sheer stupidity.
“I will offer my reward once more, necromancer.”
“Why should I believe your words? You loathe Midgardians.”
“No, no. I am fond of Midgardians. They make movies about me.”
Loki’s deceitful form of Njord diluted in a blurry haze. The mist quickly dispersed around him, carried over the ocean, and revealed a fully corporeal, colorful figure of a dark-haired man. What stood before me was the British actor who portrayed Loki in the Marvel movies.
His features stretched into a maniacal sneer, worthy of lunatic madness.
“This jocular fellow was notably entertaining to watch. Of course, the story was all wrong, but he captures my dazzling smile quite nicely. Do you not agree?”
“No, I don’t. Yours is of surpassing subterfuge and guile. He’s merely a human, incapable of your cruelty.”
“You flatter me, necromancer. I like you.”
You can make even a mischievous Norse god like you, but you can’t get the girl you’re falling in love with, a cynical voice nagged in my mind.
Not for lack of trying, I nagged back.
From time to time, I held conversations with myself. Not because I needed guidance from an expert, but simply because I had started questioning my common sense. Ever since learning of that seeress’ prophecy for Learyn in June, I doubted my decisions, my good judgement and my sanity more often than I cared to admit.
“All right,” I said after an eternity of silence. “Let’s pretend I’ll bite. How can you help me get to Freya?”
“I will portal you directly inside Sessrúmnir.”
“So the goddess can obliterate me on sight? Thank you for this courteous offer, but I’ll pass.”
“Fascinating! What reluctance you show for someone carrying such desperation!”
Desperation wasn’t the correct term.
I thought about the last time I had seen Learyn, Wandered into her dreams and held her in my arms. When she had told me to wake her up and find her because she wanted to kiss me outside a dream, I’d been brimming with hope. Shortly afterwards, my old frustration had resurfaced, whispering how I couldn’t return to Norway until I had found a solution. If not a way to lift Freya’s attraction spell, then at least one to break the curse.
Or maybe it was indeed desperation. Otherwise why was I still enduring Loki’s presence?
“I would accompany you, necromancer. Dear old Freya and I have a special bond. Who knows? Seeing you with me might coddle her enough to grant you more than an audience. Dare I say… even grant your heart’s desires?”
His index finger swayed up, painting swirls in circular motions, stirring the air in a vortex of brilliant white luminescence. A moment later, his portal was complete, floating vertically near the edge of the Munkurin rock I was standing on. All I had to do was take a step forward.
I lifted my eyes to Loki’s ostensibly innocent smile.
As both of us stepped into the burning luminescence, I couldn’t help but wonder if The Norns – our Fates – had woven enough luck into my destiny. Was Loki’s reward for my lies one of the few candid acts of kindness he had shown since the day he was born? Or was I about to become yet another fool who had fallen prey to his cunning mischiefs?
What happened to Dann? Who are the Neptunia Prata? What was that Livløs creature? Why is Vee always being so mysterious? What’s the meaning of Learyn’s hallucinations?
Get the answers to these and many other questions in Rampant Necromancer, book two in the Nordstrom Necromancer series. Grab the book HERE.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy B. Nixon is a designer and columnist by day, an aspiring fiction author by night and a 24/7 caffeine addict.
When she's not working or writing, Amy enjoys cooking, playing board games, taking roadtrips, shocking the people around her with dark humor, playing the piano and ruining group photos due to not being able to pose seriously for a proper picture.
Find out more about her on www.amybnixon.com