by Kendall Grey
A striped orange paw escapes from the top and swats at my arm. I wedge my body closer to Freddie, trying to block the armored man’s view. “Sparky, you’re going to get us in trouble. Stop that.”
Sparky lunges upward, exploding out of the bag like a reverse lightning bolt, leaving Wiggles, Freddie, and me agog. Sparky claws his way up someone’s backside, races across several patrons’ shoulders like hopping rocks in a stream, and dives into the crowd. Despite my impeccable reaction time, Laguz advises I let him go and feign ignorance about the cat.
The security guards head over. The man from before breaks character, lifts a black device to his mouth, and says something into it. Freddie stares at me wide-eyed as if unsure what to do.
“Duck!” I holler.
Freddie obeys. I grab his hand and dart through the crowd toward the exit. Laguz directs me where to go to avoid security. A small riot breaks out in our wake. I’ve lost track of Sparky. A woman screams something about being deathly allergic to cats. Bodies flail and bump in the tight space.
The furry little heathen is gonna get us kicked out of here. Keeping my head down, I navigate a tangle of legs and arms, dragging Freddie behind me. We’re almost to the exit when I straighten to my full height and run into two huge blokes dressed in black suits and dark glasses like mine. The surprisingly strong men waste no time snatching Freddie and me by our shirts and hauling us to a secluded room.
Great. Just great.
The door slams behind us. My heart tripping over itself, I scour the space for resources—preferably something I can use as a weapon. There’s a table, a couple of chairs, a cabinet mounted to the wall, and of course, the ever-present camera on the ceiling, its solid red eye watching our every move.
“Non-service animals are prohibited in the Nine Realms complex,” the first guy says.
The second guy reaches into Freddie’s bag. Wiggles yowls, hisses, and spits. The man yanks his black-gloved hand away with a sneer. Freddie sighs guiltily.
“How did you get in there?” I ask the cat, shaking my head.
“Don’t play coy with us,” Guard Number One says, holding open a palm. “Let’s see some ID.”
I pat myself down. “I’ve got both of ours right here.”
I pray Laguz will guide my fingers to the right driver’s licenses. I randomly select two and pass them over without looking at them. To be a great trickster, one must always be confident, even when one is cornered.
Especially when cornered.
Number One studies the plastic rectangles while Number Two pushes Wiggles’s head down and closes the bag on him. The cat protests with an anxious Meow!
Freddie tenses beside me. His hand twitches. Heat pours into my eyes at the sight of these jerks manhandling our poor pussy.
Number Two tosses the bag through the hole in the top of a tall canister. Wiggles screeches. Thumping and hissing ensue.
Oh, Hel no.
I lurch into Two’s personal space, fists balled and ready to fly. He may be twice my size, but I won’t tolerate feline abuse. “If you want to be cruel to someone, do it to me.”
With narrowed eyes, I slip my gaze over the arsehole’s frame, using Laguz’s insight to map where any weapons might be. A weighted bulge near the hip of his jacket snags my attention.
Two’s dull mouth flattens and spreads into a creepy grin. Reminds me of some giants I knew back in the day. “Don’t like it? Maybe you shouldn’t have brought contraband in here.”
Number One tucks the IDs in his pocket, where a bulge similar to Two’s protrudes. “Remove your eyewear, ma’am,” he says.
“I can’t. I have a condition. My eyes are sensitive to light.”
He reaches for my glasses. While he’s focused on my face, I yank the gun out of his pocket and train it on him. His hands fly up defensively. Before Two can react, I snatch his weapon as well, swinging it by the trigger until it falls into the saddle between my thumb and index finger.
I have no idea how these things work, but like I said, confidence is everything.
“What the hell are you doing?” Freddie’s voice wobbles.
“I’m saving our cat and getting us out of here,” I say, motioning for the two men to back up. “Grab Wiggles.”
Freddie hesitates a moment. He opens the container lid and withdraws a very unhappy pussy. He tugs the bag down, cradling the cat, and murmurs soothing words to Wiggles. Freddie never paid much attention to the cats before. This is a different side of him. Reminds me of Huginn and me.
“Gabriella Fontane and Rick St. John,” Two spits the names like they taste bad, “You are banned from setting foot in Nine Realms ever again.”
One chimes in. “We have evidence of you disrupting the casino on video, and we’ll call the cops on you for this assault.”
I smile and fiddle with one of the guns. So many mechanisms and switches. “Now, now. No assault has been committed. I merely alleviated some of the weight in your pockets for a few minutes.” I ease closer and level my gaze and my weapons on the pair. Employing my best New York accent, I say, “Here’s how this is gonna roll. My friend Rick is gonna slip outta here and look for his other cat. I’ll sit with you until he finds him, and then we’re gonna leave.”
I nod at Freddie, who rushes out in a big hurry. I return to the men.
“You won’t mention a word of this to anyone, least of all your friends on the police force. What would they think about two big strong lads such as yourselves being taken down by a waif of a girl like me anyway?” I smile coyly at them from under the cover of my shades.
They exchange expressions. Unease passes between them.
“Keep your mouths shut, and I’ll return your guns.” I’m taking a leap of faith here, but Laguz has my back.
These morons are more like slapstick Loki from Asgard Awakening than actual security guards. And if Laguz’s intuition is correct (I’m sure it is), they wouldn’t just be embarrassed if anyone found out they lost their weapons to a woman. They’d be fired. One thing I’ve learned in my short tenure as a Midgardian is that everyday folks just want to keep everydayin’. Jobs are hard to come by. Good jobs are better than gold.
Neither of these dolts wants to be unemployed. They’ll keep quiet.
I stuff one of the weapons in the waistband of my trousers, dig the driver’s licenses out of Number One’s pocket, and hold them up. Hearing metallic jiggling from the vicinity of Number Two’s nervously bouncing thigh, I dip my fingers in his pants pocket.
My money’s on handcuffs, Laguz says.
“Damn, you’re good,” I murmur as I pull the restraints out.
I slap a cuff on One, yank his arm to the handle on a cabinet mounted up high on the wall, and wind the chain through it. Then I cuff Two just so. Arms dangling, they’re stuck to the cabinet and to each other. I surmise Two has a key somewhere on him, but I wager it’ll take him a minute to find and use it from this awkward angle. That’s all the time I need to get the Hel out of here and reunite with Freddie.
I bow to the fools and slip into the casino, searching for the best place to leave the guns.
Wait, Laguz warns. Don’t forget to wipe off your fingerprints.
Of course. They do that on the television shows. Apparently, fingerprints can be used to identify people. Who knew?
I retrieve the weapons, tug up the hem of Gunnar Magnusson’s flannel shirt, and rub the guns clean. I leave them near the door and dive into the swell of humanity.
“Astrid!” Freddie’s head pops up from a sea of people. Relief filters through me.
He’s holding the bag with both cats peering out. I push through the throng to him. He guides me toward the exit, cursing under his breath. “They have us on video. They’re not gonna let us back in.”
“Then it’s a good thing we wore costumes,” I say, proud of myself.
Faces pointing down, we skirt through the crowd into the lobby. Laguz shimmies at my hip like an orgasm gone wild. It feels like someone kicked me in the gible
ts. In a good way. I lurch, grabbing Freddie to steady myself.
“You okay?” Freddie asks, eyes shifting everywhere at once. “We gotta get out of here, Loki.”
“What was that?” I say to Laguz, gasping.
“A monumentally bold but bad idea,” Freddie replies.
“Not you,” I hiss, trying to tame the rush of energy shooting through me. I scan the lobby for familiar faces, but these people are strangers.
The security guy who greeted us earlier confers with a stunning blond woman in a sharp suit. He points at us. She snaps her gaze in our direction. A faint aura of shimmering gold flares around her and fades as quickly as it appeared. Her shrewd crystal-blue eyes narrow on mine. Target acquired. She storms through the horde of tourists toward Freddie and me.
These aren’t the heroics of an employee doing her job. This woman knows me.
Curses! She could be anyone from my past, come to collect on an age-old debt. Or worse, to exact revenge for some wrong I was falsely accused of.
Pressing the flaring spot at my hip as we run for the exit, I whisper, “Laguz? What’s happening?”
I sense them, it says, tingling with pleasure. They’re here.
“Who’s here?”
Asgardian runes. Somewhere in this building.
My pulse takes off at a full gallop. “Whose?”
Everyone’s.
Chapter Fourteen
After our eviction from Nine Realms, Freddie and I spend the week plotting our strategy, designing new disguises, and gathering information. Our plan of attack is five-pronged:
Secure a room at Nine Realms via casino winnings.
Spend lots of money in the casino during the day so we can keep the room.
Map the locations of all cameras and other surveillance.
Observe the security staff and track the guards’ routines in areas that have a high likelihood of housing my runes.
Uncover the mysterious blond woman’s identity and respond accordingly.
It’s a lot of work, but my mortality is at stake. So, we tweak every detail and polish our plan to a shine that rivals Asgard itself.
When Thursday arrives, however, we’re stalled out. We tried several times to get into Nine Realms, but whenever we pass the building, Number One and Number Two are waiting at the door, a pair of twin mountains with a grudge, itching to hurl boulders at me. They’re like Loki detectors or immortals or something. Which, I suppose, could be as valid an explanation for their attentiveness as any other. For all I know, Odin himself positioned them there as a deterrent.
Though I’m eager to get inside, Laguz advises caution, a thing I care little for. The longer we sit on our hands, the more anxious I become.
Also, I haven’t slept much, and when I do, the dreams of my past tear me apart, piece by piece, with their truth. I suppose exhaustion, coupled with the growing guilt I feel over my treatment of Sigyn, could be adding to my strain.
This body is ill-equipped to deal with the kind of pressure I’m accustomed to. I often struggle to get enough oxygen, which spikes my pulse. My bloated stomach protests with random bouts of indigestion that make my jaw ache. My left arm goes numb on occasion, and between the Las Vegas heat and being cramped in the van, my ankles stay swollen. I’m bloody falling apart.
Freddie thinks I’m having panic attacks. I disagree. Loki does not have panic attacks. It’s stress, which is perfectly normal for Midgardians.
Still, the cats hide under the driver’s seat when breathlessness wakes me from my troubled sleep, forcing me to hang my head out of the van’s window, gasping, choking, and coughing. It seems the longer I’m away from my runes, the worse the symptoms become.
We’re so close.
I swipe my nose along the shoulder of Gunnar Magnusson’s flannel. His scent is nearly gone, but the memories are stronger than ever. I wish I could evict him from my head. I used to be good at throwing away things I shouldn’t. What have I become? A sentimental mess of frayed, raw nerves, that’s what.
“Today’s the day,” Freddie announces as he crawls into the back of the van. “We’re getting into Nine Realms, one way or another.”
“I don’t think so.” My shoulders hunch.
He shakes some vittles from the cat food bag and pours water from a bottle into the metal bowls. Sparky and Wiggles purr loudly as they munch and slurp.
“You’re not a pessimist, Loki,” Freddie says. “What’s wrong?”
“You ever feel like the world’s against you?” I ask. “Like no matter how hard you try or how bad you want something, it’s always bobbing in front of you, just out of reach?”
“Damn, girl. All the time. You have no idea how hard it is to get laid in my line of work.”
“Really? As handsome as you are, I thought you’d have to beat the women—men—off.”
“Don’t I wish?” He shakes his head and tsks sadly. “But never mind that. We’ve got your prosthetics and makeup down. Fake ID has been secured. Our plan is set. This cannot go wrong.” He pauses. “I mean, unless you mess it up. Don’t mess it up.”
I lower my head and rub my aching chest. I can’t put my finger on it, but something feels … off. Maybe I’m getting sick.
“Quit that sad sack routine and get dressed,” Freddie commands. “You look like you lost your best friend, which you have not because I’m your best friend now and I’m fabulous and I know you’re gonna kick ass in the tournament at the casino tonight. Chop-chop, bitch.” He claps twice as if chasing a fox away from the hens.
“Fine,” I mumble. “But you’re going to look for my runes while I’m playing, right?”
“I’m going to seduce anyone and everyone I encounter until I find your runes. Have I ever let you down?”
“No.”
“Then have faith in me. I do.”
I would if I weren’t so worn out mentally, emotionally, and physically.
The runes are within our grasp, Laguz sings. Be patient and methodical. You will find them soon.
I exhale a long breath and reach for my clothes.
An hour later, I’m dressed in a simple, low-cut black velvet dress with Louboutin heels, a flame-red wig that spreads like fire across my shoulders, and matching lipstick. My heavily kohled eyes are now tawny, thanks to contact lenses Freddie bought. He thickened the tops of my cheekbones with latex and sculpted my face enough to make me look like someone else. When applying my makeup, Freddie drew my lips bigger than they actually are with his magic pencils and fillers. My eyelashes are half an inch long and very distracting. Every time I blink, I think a spider is walking on my face.
Freddie also painted realistic images all over my arms using stencils and rainbow-colored inks. He says they look like tattoo “sleeves.” I’ve seen other Midgardians with similar pictures on their bodies. It must take a long time and a steady hand to draw such intricate details.
Freddie thinks the sexy outfit and the skin pictures will distract the other players. I agree. The longer I can keep them out of their own heads and focused on me, the better.
We take an Uber to Nine Realms and join the other poker players lining up for the tournament. Once my paperwork is complete and $10,000 worth of chips are purchased, Freddie kisses my cheek and says, “Good luck, Astrid Jones. I’ll text you.”
I nod and watch as he traipses with a backpack full of concealed cats toward the pathway leading to Hel. My gaze snags on my reflection in the mirror-like glass. I gasp at the painted goddess staring at me. I straighten my spine, tilt my head, and smile at myself. I’m so beautiful, I’d bang me.
“Hello, gorgeous,” a man says to my right. With red-tipped nails, I clutch my handbag and sweep it under my arm. I had to practice playing cards with these annoying talons. They’re ridiculously long and quite useless, but Freddie says men love red fingernails. Something sexual about them, but I don’t get it.
I widen my smile at the handsome fellow. He’s almost as tall as Gunnar Magnusson, but skinny with Freddie’s wiry build. He
wears a black tuxedo, a gold cummerbund, and a top hat. He bows and holds my gaze when our eyes meet.
He opens his palm, asking for permission to shake. When I lower my hand to his, he flicks his wrist, and a red rose appears out of nowhere. I clap with delight as he presents it to me with a deep bow. “Alexander Alfheim, at your service.”
I accept the flower, nod my thanks, and tuck it behind my ear.
“Alfheim,” I muse, employing the generic midwestern accent Freddie taught me. “I saw a sign with that word on it. Isn’t it one of the Nine Realms?”
“It is,” Alexander Alfheim says. His deep, smooth voice does things to my bits. I try not to make a show of squeezing my thighs together. “The home of the elves. But here, it’s also the level where magic happens, hence my name.”
“Ah, you work with the magic show?”
He grins, displaying too many white teeth to count. “I am the magic show.”
I cock a brow. “Pleased to meet you, Alexander Alfheim. I’m Astrid.”
He presses a kiss to the back of my hand. “The pleasure,” he purrs the word, “is mine.”
Ooh-la-ha.
“I see you’re playing in the tournament,” Alexander says, nodding to the line in front of me. “Best of luck.”
“Thank you. I need all the help I can get,” I reply with a flap of my spider-leg lashes.
His eyebrow barely lurches as he backs away. His smoldering stare sears a hole through my Spanx. “You should stop by my show later.”
I poke out my bottom lip a tad and playfully twist my hips. “Maybe I will.”
Alexander disappears through the crowd, whether by magic or other means, I’m not sure. Just in time, too. I’m being summoned to a table.
I head over and settle into a chair with six other players, all men. Smiling and flirting with the ogling fools, I size up my competition. Of course, reading the players and the cards will be critical factors for success, but I don’t discount the importance of stamina. I just have to outlast everyone else, and I’ll win.
A Nine Realms staff member runs through the rules, and we’re off.