Gilded

by Kendall Grey

  “So, you’re a man.”

  “God. But close enough.”

  “Stuck in a woman’s body.”

  I nod.

  “With magical powers.”

  I half shrug. “Well …”

  “Who was that guy you talked to outside the van?”

  “Odin.”

  He squints as if rewinding through time. “Did he call me—”

  I cap that noise right away. “And Heimdall was the one chasing us. The ‘mechanic’ from the repair shop who threw Huginn at us on the highway, remember?”

  “He did have gold eyes.” He points at Huginn, who’s been silently watching us in the corner. “And he’s Odin’s raven?”

  “Was Odin’s raven.”

  “Where’s Muninn, then?”

  “That’s not important.” I dart into the living room, grab the remote control from the coffee table, and shove it in his hand. I need a distraction to bury the truths Odin revealed last night. “Make this work. I want to watch Asgard Awakening.”

  “Loki, I’ve just learned the myths I grew up with are actually true. The fictional stories that drove me to devote my life to studying Viking culture and mythology are real.”

  “I’ve been telling you the truth since we met.” Well, about some things, at least. “You don’t listen.”

  “You’re a Norse god.” He sets the remote aside as he mentally chews through the implications. “My favorite Norse god, in fact. And you’re here. With me. And we … well … huh …” He trails off, brow furled.

  I imagine he’s running through the same scenarios that hit me when I emerged from my frozen tomb and got all sorts of warm and tingly feelings for him. He’s probably thinking thusly: He’s a man. I’m a man. He’s attracted to me. He fornicated with me. But he isn’t sexually attracted to other men. And I don’t look like a man. But underneath this squishy feminine skin, I’m all man. So, he shouldn’t feel anything for me because he’s not the type of man who likes other men.

  Maybe I’m exactly the monster the history books say I am. A shapeshifting trickster whose goal is to make mischief and ruin people’s lives simply because I can.

  Wow, when I put it that way, I’m a pretty horrible person.

  “Yo, Gunnar,” Freddie says as he strides into the kitchen, knuckling the sleep from his eye. The purring Sparky languishes in the crook of his other arm, flapping his demon claws in and out. “We got anything to eat in here?”

  “No,” Gunnar Magnusson says, favoring the feline’s gaze over Freddie’s. “You found the neighbor’s cat from hell, I see.”

  “His name is Sparky,” I say.

  Freddie holds the cat up and pets his head. “Sparky. I like that. Suits him.”

  “How’d he get in here?” Gunnar Magnusson asks.

  “Huginn invited him in.” I stare pointedly at the chicken, who seems fascinated by a dust bunny in the corner.

  “What’s with the face?” Freddie asks his friend. “You look like you ate a bag of sour dicks.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s cheeks redden.

  “He’s embarrassed about what happened last night.” I spin the chair next to Gunnar Magnusson around and straddle it, splaying my legs over both sides the way Freddie does when he sits.

  The crimson in Gunnar Magnusson’s face deepens.

  “Oh,” Freddie says. “That. Well, these things are inevitable when you mix booze with … whatever the hell they gave you at the hospital.”

  Gunnar Magnusson winces and stands. His gaze drifts to my open legs. The wince solidifies into a pained scowl. “I’m getting dressed. Figure out what you want to do about food. I’m easy.”

  Freddie snorts a laugh. “That’s what she said.”

  I look around but don’t see any women. Maybe he’s talking about me? Though, most people say I’m far from easy. Hard, is a better descriptor. Hard to get along with. Hard to control. Hard to like.

  Head pitched low, Gunnar Magnusson checks the security of the knot holding up his towel and skulks to his bedroom. I crank my neck to follow his path and lick my lips after him. My ovaries engage in a celebratory dance. Damn, he’s fine.

  “You know what no food means,” Freddie says with an impish grin.

  “I do not, but I’m eager to hear,” I reply.

  “Waffle House!” he shouts triumphantly.

  “Do they serve goat there? I’m really jonesing for some goat,” I say.

  “No goat,” Freddie laments. “But can I interest you in chicken and waffles?”

  Huginn pumps his wings with an offended huff. “SQUARK!”

  I cock a brow and give Huginn my back. “Chicken and waffles would be marvelous.”

  “It’s settled then.” Freddie sets the cat on the floor. “Huginn, keep Sparky company while we’re gone, will you?”

  Sparky’s lips pull back to reveal a grin powered by pure glee. Laguz beams its own smile in the form of a proud thrum at my hip. This should be fun.

  Indeed.

  Huginn backs up, folding himself into the corner. “Loki, we’re friends, remember. And I’m injured, not performing at my best. I can’t defend myself against a giant feline such as this. Please don’t let the cat eat me. I helped you against Heimdall last night. Remember the suitcase and all those vibrators I released to trip him? If not for me, he’d have caught you.”

  “I’m sure Huginn will show Sparky the ropes,” I say. “And don’t worry. I promise to bring you some leftovers. Assuming there are any.”

  “Loki,” Huginn begs. “Don’t leave me alone with him.”

  “What did you and Muninn discuss again?” I lean down and cup my ear.

  He snaps his beak shut with a pop.

  “That’s what I thought.” I straighten. “Ready, Freddie?”

  Freddie’s still wearing his Norse strap dress and a pair of white socks with red lines encircling the tops. “I’m always ready. And I see you are too.” He takes in my tight shirt and tighter booty shorts and nods his approval.

  As Freddie heads for the door, he yells in the direction of Gunnar Magnusson’s room, “We’ll be in the van.”

  “See you in a couple hours,” I say over my shoulder to Huginn on my way out.

  “Hours?” Huginn shrieks, wonky eyes bulging with terror from their sockets. “Loki, no!”

  Chapter Four

  “Top, bottom, middle. Bump, bump, bump. Jazz hands, and … explosion.” Freddie leans across the graveyard of empty plates at the Waffle House, crashing his fist into mine and wiggling his fingers. Gunnar Magnusson is on a phone call outside. I was tired of waiting for him to return, so Freddie devised a greeting routine just for me. I think he noticed I feel left out every time he and Gunnar Magnusson do their ritual, so he took pity on me. This kind of pity, I’m cool with.

  “Again,” I say, delighted with the cadence of our hand dance.

  Freddie obliges, and together we recite the words echoing each move, “Top, bottom, middle. Bump, bump, bump. Jazz hands, and … explosion.” Freddie pushes a blowup noise through his pursed lips.

  “You got it,” he declares, sinking into his side of the booth.

  I smile, pleased with how fast my integration into the New World is coming along. I’ll have this country conquered in no time.

  “Things between you and Gunnar seemed a little tense this morning,” Freddie says, turning his sweating glass of water in a circle over the ring it left on the table. “Everything all right?”

  “The truth?” I knock a brow and tip my head to the side.

  He shrugs. “If you feel like telling it. I wouldn’t know a truth from a lie.”

  “Gunnar Magnusson and I aren’t really a couple.” I pause. A memory of bathing naked with Sigyn in preparation for our handfasting day floats into focus before my mind’s eye. I swallow. “Well, not anymore.”

  “Let me guess. Sexual problems?” He lowers his voice conspiratorially.

  “What? No.” I dismiss this notion with a wave, think twice, and change my answer sin
ce I’m being honest for once. “Sort of.”

  “He wants it all the time,” Freddie surmises and then shakes his head. “No. You want it all the time.”

  “Neither of us wants it all the time. We’re both … conflicted.” Of course, Gunnar Magnusson doesn’t have any idea of how conflicted he truly is. Yet.

  “He did get teased a lot for being a prude when we were growing up.” Freddie stretches his arms toward the ceiling and yawns. “He’s just shy, I guess.”

  “Not like you.”

  He shakes his head and laughs. “No. Not at all.”

  “You have sex with men.” Freddie doesn’t strike me as the type of person who would conceal anything about his sex life. Or his life in general. The man is an open book.

  “Sometimes,” he says.

  I lean closer and whisper, “What’s that like?”

  “Same as sex with a woman. Empowering.” His tawny eyes spark, and Laguz warms at my hip.

  Me likey, the rune drawls.

  Freddie looks up. I follow his gaze to Gunnar Magnusson heading toward us. The ridge between his brows stands out. Scowling, he slips into the booth beside me and drops his cell on the table. His phone is different from Freddie’s. It doesn’t have pictures or the internet. He says it’s cheaper without them.

  “Bad news?” Freddie asks.

  Gunnar Magnusson nods. “That was my Scandinavian Studies advisor. I gotta get cracking on my thesis today if I’m going to make the May first deadline. It’s the only thing standing between me and graduation. I have plenty of notes and about half of the rough draft finished, but my professor wants me to revisit the outline, which means I have to start over.” He shakes his head. “All the time and work I put in just went kaput.”

  Freddie lurches across the table and punches his friend’s good shoulder affectionately. “You can do it, man. I have faith.”

  I stab a finger into the puddle of maple syrup my waffles left behind and swirl it through the sugary goodness. I slurp it up, spiral my tongue around the finger, and say, “What is ‘thesis’?”

  Gunnar Magnusson adjusts his hips under the table and tugs his jeans out of the suddenly tight creases gathering in his lap. “It’s a written culmination of the academic knowledge gained from a course of study. I’m investigating the role of runes in Scandinavian religions prior to 1000 C.E.”

  I choke on my syrup.

  “What?” he says.

  “Too bad you don’t know any Norse gods who predate 1000 and have an expertise in such matters.” I glance down to Laguz.

  Freddie shifts his gaze from Gunnar Magnusson to me. “Wait. You’re a Norse god?”

  “I thought we covered this,” I say.

  “You and I covered it,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “Freddie was asleep with the cat.”

  Light dawns in Freddie’s eyes, and he points a finger at me. “You really are Loki? For real, for real?”

  “Are you stoned?” I’ve told him this a million times. Why are these dumb men just catching on now?

  Freddie shrugs. “A little.”

  “Yes, I’m the Loki you’ve read about.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s brows knit together again. “I appreciate your offer, Loki, but I need to write the paper on my own. I’m not a cheater.”

  I flinch at the truth barb. Ouch.

  “It’s not cheating if you get information directly from the source,” Freddie says. “Where else would you find it?”

  “I dunno, the library?” Gunnar Magnusson counters dryly and then sinks into the booth. “Hours and hours and hours at the library.”

  I give up on the finger swirling, bring the syrup-covered plate to my face, and lick it clean. Damn, this stuff hits the spot. I’ve been craving something sweet since I woke up this morning. Maybe we can stop and get some chocolate on the way home.

  I wipe my maple-drenched mouth with a wrist and say, “Suit yourself. But I could help you write that tome in a matter of hours if you’d let me.”

  Gunnar Magnusson seems to consider it for a moment, but he shakes his head. “I’m good. Are we ready to go home? I have a lot of work to do.” He stands.

  I stare up at him. “And what about me, Gunnar Magnusson? What about my valuable work?”

  “What work?”

  “Rune gathering. So I don’t die, remember?”

  “I thought gods were immortal,” Freddie says.

  “We are. As long as we have our runes,” I explain.

  “But you found your rune last night.”

  “I found Laguz. I need Ihwaz if I’m to live. Othala and Kenaz if I want to enjoy it.”

  “If you want to go in search of your other runes, I’m not stopping you,” Gunnar Magnusson cuts in. “But I’m stuck here until I finish my thesis.”

  I stand up too and settle my hands on my hips. “Fine,” I say, inexplicably irritated.

  I suppose I’ll figure out where to look myself.

  Then it dawns on me. Gunnar Magnusson just gave me the out I’ve been hoping for since Odin dropped the Sigyn bomb last night. I can walk away from him, and he’ll never be the wiser for knowing his true identity. I’ll have free rein to do as I please without the bother of a hen-pecking wife breathing down my neck. He’ll get his stupid “graduation.” I’ll get my runes. We’ll both be happy.

  So, why do I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the back by yet another “friend?” My thoughts flicker to Huginn, and the muscles in my chest constrict in a painful crescendo.

  “I could help you,” Freddie interjects. “I got nothing better to do for a while. And my pockets are deep.”

  I smile at him. “Thank you, Freddie. That’s very kind. I shall take you up on your offer.”

  Lips pressed into a thin line, Gunnar Magnusson looks through the window to the van in the parking lot and huffs. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  The waitresses gawk as we parade out—me in my scant sleepwear, Freddie in his dress, and Gunnar Magnusson all big and Viking-y and—well, Gunnar Magnusson-ish.

  The tension in the van is thick enough to cut. Freddie mentions something about hiring a guy to drive the truck I stole back to its owner. Gunnar Magnusson grunts his approval. More casual chatter follows, but every carelessly tossed word is like a spike through a helmet.

  We stop at the grocery store for food, which Freddie pays for. I’m disappointed there aren’t any goats, but I did find ten new chocolate bars to try. Aside from Freddie singing along with the radio, there is little talking the rest of the way home.

  When we climb the stairs to the second floor of the apartment building, our arms laden with groceries, a new cat waits at the door. This one is black and white with green eyes. His tail whips around Freddie’s legs, and he follows us inside.

  “What’s with the cats?” Freddie says, setting his bags on the counter. I dig through them in search of candy.

  “No idea,” Gunnar Magnusson replies. “There’s no food in here to attract them. Maybe he’s Sparky’s buddy.”

  A purring Sparky leaps from the top of a cupboard near the ceiling onto the countertop and rubs his cheeks against Freddie’s hands as he unloads cold stuff into the refrigerator. There’s no sign of Huginn other than a couple feathers scattered here and there.

  “Huginn?” I call. He’s probably hiding from Sparky. “I brought you some chicken feed.” It’s actually a bag of sunflower seeds. The cashier said she gives them to her roosters for a treat. I figured I’d try a different tack with Huginn and play nice. I need to know what he and Muninn talked about. I’m atingle with curiosity.

  Gunnar Magnusson, Freddie, and I unpack and stash the rest of the food in silence. An occasional meow punctuates the chorus of purrs rising from the floor whenever someone trips over a furry body. After closing the pantry door, Freddie heads to the couch with a bag labeled “popcorn” and plops down. He turns on the television and flips through channels. Sparky’s friend hops up, winding across his lap, tail twitching and motor humming.

  “When do you want to le
ave, Loki?” Freddie asks, nudging the new cat’s butt out of his face.

  Gunnar Magnusson mounts a stool at the bar separating the kitchen and living room. He sits with his back to the television. With a sigh, he opens a dusty laptop.

  “And where are we going?” Freddie adds. He’s noshing white nuggets. The black-and-white cat stabs his face in the popcorn bag. His mouth comes away with a bulbous surprise, which he crunches loudly.

  I sit beside Freddie. He shakes the bag at me. I dip my hand in and study the little bubble puffs. I sniff, wince, shrug, and eat. These popcorns seem to be made of air. Not particularly filling, but the flavor is pretty good.

  “Soon. But I haven’t figured out my destination yet,” I say around my mouthful.

  It’s been less than a day since my reunion with Laguz. I’m trying to give the rune time to regain its bearings, but so far, it hasn’t cleared a path for where to look for the other three runes. Their low, distant thrums seem to well vaguely from the west. As I understand the shape of this continent, pretty much everything is either west or north of here. I suppose I should be relieved to feel them at all.

  “Cool,” Freddie answers, still flipping through channels. “I got a bunch of shows I need to binge-watch until you decide.”

  “Asgard Awakening?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he confirms, high-fiving me.

  Freddie cranks his neck to look back at Gunnar Magnusson. “You don’t mind me hanging out for a while, do you, bud?”

  “Suit yourself,” comes Gunnar Magnusson’s curt reply.

  “Awesome.” Freddie returns to the TV. “Ah, here we are.”

  Images of Asgard fill the magic box. It doesn’t look like the real Asgard, but I have to admit, it’s pretty with its gleaming gold accents set against swirling auroras tiptoeing across the night sky. And though I despise Loki on the show, I’m starting to enjoy how they portray the other characters’ stories.

  This early episode is about the time a smith came to the newly erected Asgard and offered to build a huge fortress to protect the Æsir in exchange for Freya’s hand. Seeing an opportunity to exploit his services, I bargained to throw in the sun and moon alongside Freya if he could finish the job in three short seasons, knowing there was no way he could do it by himself. Freya’s honor would be safe, and Asgard would be fortified. It was a ridiculously easy grift.