by Kendall Grey
The dealer keeps the cards very close to the table when he shuffles, which means I can’t see what they are. For an instant, I panic. How am I going to win if I can’t cheat?
Droplets of sweat gather on my brow as I pick up my two cards. Five of diamonds and ten of clubs. Nothing.
Lower your arms so they’re touching the table, Laguz advises.
I do so.
Now what? I think.
Open yourself to these men’s thoughts. Feel their vibrations through the wood, Laguz coos.
I swallow as bets are made. The dealer turns over the flop: the king of spades, king of hearts, and the two of clubs.
Still nothing. Perspiration trickles down my back.
This is only the first hand, Loki. Call.
I focus on my breathing as I toss in the appropriate chips to stay in the game.
With the bets collected, the dealer dishes the turn card. It’s the five of spades.
Two pair.
And what do the others have? Laguz chimes inside my blood.
I focus on the vibrations pulsing through the wood of the table like Laguz said. Anxiety, irritation, disgust to my left. Hope, annoyance, feigned cockiness to my right.
Which means? Laguz sounds like a wise man tutoring a child.
I’d better up my bets.
I sense Laguz’s smile and toss in an extra chip worth a hundred dollars. Two players on my left fold. Cocky guy smiles smugly, which makes me think he has even less than he’s letting on. He raises me. I call.
The dealer turns over the nine of hearts.
The bets go around. Hopeful and Annoyed fold. Cocky is grinning like a man leaving a whorehouse. He’s full of shite.
Let him have it, Laguz advises.
What? No! I have the cards to win.
Feed his arrogance. His fall will be that much sweeter.
Laguz is right. I’m the trickster. I lure my victims into a false sense of security, let them believe they have the upper hand, and then, at the last moment, I crush them.
“Fold,” I say when my turn comes.
Cocky laughs loudly, jostling the table with a hard slap. The dealer frowns at him, and the pit boss standing nearby closes in, his proximity a clear warning to behave. All smiles, Cocky rakes his chips and says, “Better luck next time, sugar.” He pinches my ass.
If I were my son Fenrir, my hackles would be stiff as a ship’s oars, and this craven excuse for a human would be halfway down my throat. Since I’m not, I turn to him with all the grace and poise Freddie taught me over the last week and say, “Congratulations. You’re an excellent card player.”
“And you’re … probably good for much more than poker.” He leans in and gets really interested in the cleavage peeking out from the top of my dress.
Ah. So, this is how it goes.
Fine. The Norns gave me a female body as a punishment? Joke’s on them. I’m going to use it to my advantage.
“I like the way you think.” I flash Cocky the most sickly-sweet smile I can conjure and scoot my chair into his personal space.
Let the games begin.
Three hours later, I flip two $5,000 chip tips to the dealer and the pit boss respectively. I leave the poker table $50,000 richer, with a guaranteed seat at the next round of the tournament tomorrow night. Behind me, my conquered enemies lay scattered in a puddle of drool and missed opportunities with the hottest woman in the casino.
Gods, I love my job.
As I head for the exit to look for Freddie, someone steps into my path. Laguz startles. It’s the blond woman who recognized me on our first night in Las Vegas.
She’s stunning, though the glow she emitted before is gone. Crystalline eyes with a hint of blue remind me of the icy world of Niflheim. Her long, braided hair is arranged in a pattern of elaborate twists and turns tied at the back of her head with a spray of pale strands draping her shoulders. Dressed in an elegant, body-hugging black dress and gold heels, she strikes me as a force I don’t want to tangle with.
“Congratulations, Miss Jones.” The smile she offers doesn’t reach her eyes. She slides her gaze down my front with reptilian curiosity. If she recognizes me, she doesn’t show it.
She recognizes you, Laguz says.
A prominent pendant comprised of a filigree feather set against a gold disk glitters from a long chain dangling between her breasts. She holds out her right hand. “I’m Saga Leifsdóttir, the general manager of Nine Realms.” The gold badge pinned to her chest confirms her identity. “I understand you advanced to the second round in tonight’s poker tournament.”
“That’s right,” I say, waiting for Laguz to feed me more details, but nothing comes.
I cautiously shake the woman’s hand. Coolness passes between us through the contact, but not much else. Wait. Just as she starts to pull away, a tingle infiltrates my skin. I tighten my grip enough to let her know I’m not to be trifled with, and then I let her go.
Was that a twitch at the corner of her eye?
Laguz spits out frantic vibes, a dizzying spin of jerky blips I can’t decipher.
What the Hel is going on?
“Are you staying with us for the duration of the event?” Saga asks. The words are friendly; the tone is cold.
“Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a room,” I say.
Her face brightens in a shadowy way, as if the light isn’t quite ready to reveal all of her.
“Then allow me to remedy your situation,” Saga says, waving for me to follow her. “We always take care of guests such as yourself who contribute their talents to our little community.”
The hairs at my nape stand at attention. Her patronizing condescension feels familiar, like tiny pinpricks invading my skin. Every move she makes seems calculated as if she’s overcompensating for something. Is she wearing a new body too and hasn’t quite figured out how to optimize it?
“Thank you, Mrs. Leifsdóttir. That’s very kind.”
“Miss,” she corrects. “And call me Saga.”
How about I call you Bitch?
Saga leads me to the crowded hotel lobby where she bypasses several lines of people waiting to check in and conducts a conversation with one of the workers behind the desk.
“Miss Jones here needs a suite in Asgard for the next three nights. She’s participating in the poker tournament.” She turns to me and says, “Do you require one key or two?”
“Two please,” I say. “I have a habit of misplacing things.”
With an arrogant smile, she tucks a small envelope into my hand. It says “Himinbjorg Suite.”
“This is both a room key and your ticket to enter any event or activity on the premises,” she explains. “We at Nine Realms aim to ensure your every need is met. Don’t hesitate to contact our concierge with any questions or requests. You may indulge in our amenities free of charge. We have a spa on level four, Muspelheim, as well as an ice bar one floor up from there in Niflheim. And don’t forget to check out the magic show on level eight, Alfheim. Our resident illusionist has quite a few tricks up his sleeve. You won’t want to miss him.”
As she yammers, she looks as if she’s savoring the marrow from the bones of her enemies. That or she really gets off on serving her customers. Either way, her weird flirtation with her job seems … icky.
On top of that, Laguz says she knows who I am. If she’s already confirmed my identity as Loki, what kind of mischief is she planning for me?
“Here is my card with my private number.” She passes me a gold rectangle with her name and a phone number hammered into it.
I rub a thumb over its surface. It’s plated in real gold leaf.
She meets my gaze. I can’t look away. I’m trapped in her spell. A salmon in a net.
“Call me if you need anything,” she says with sour honey dripping from her voice. “Anything at all.”
I nod. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“The pleasure is mine.” Her cryptic, fool’s-gold smile returns. My teeth itch at the sight of i
t.
I do not like this woman. At all.
When she turns to leave, Laguz trembles at my hip.
She’s dangerous.
Chapter Fifteen
I find the Himinbjorg Suite just off the Bifrost elevator, a delightful take on the rainbow bridge that runs in an arc from the Midgard level to the top of the resort. The irony of the suite’s name isn’t lost on me. Himinbjorg was Heimdall’s home in Asgard.
“How you like me now, Heimdall?” I ask my absent slayer as I wave my key card in front of the panel to unlock the door and step inside.
My breath catches. The room is massive. The décor is done up in white, light blue, and pastel yellow to give the illusion of floating among the clouds. Like the original entrance to the Bifrost, this space has a heavenly feel to it—an air of peacefulness that protects its occupants from the grit of the “real world” down below. It boasts two bedrooms, each with a huge bed and wide-screen television. The kitchen has a table and four chairs, appliances for cooking, and a pantry. The refrigerator is loaded with treats and drinks: tubs of skyr, biscuits for dunking in coffee, a popular orange Icelandic soda, and more. And the view from the living area overlooking the Las Vegas strip with its multitude of lights and vivid colors steals my breath.
The suite is lovely. It’s perfect. Maybe I’ll be able to sleep dream-free here.
I duck my head into the bathroom. Remembering the tiny space in Gunnar Magnusson’s cabin in Iceland, I drop my jaw. The bathtub looks like a hot spring with nozzles and golden accessories. With a total of six faucets pointing in various directions, the shower is big enough for several people to use at once. Freddie’s going to love this. Soft, puffy rugs dress the floor in white, and two thick robes hang from a hook beside the door. I touch one of them, wishing Gunnar Magnusson were here to don it with me.
I shake my head and face the mirror. I smooth a few spots where my makeup has rubbed off, adjust my wig, and use the toilet.
“Who do you think Saga Leifsdóttir is?” I ask Laguz.
I’m not sure, Laguz intones. But you’ve met her before. If not an Asgardian, she’s a giant or a dwarf or an elf.
I finally experienced some success tonight after a week of failures. I can’t screw this up. “I’ll steer clear of Saga for the time being. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself, especially if she knows me.”
Good idea. Proceed with caution.
“This would be so much easier if I had a god detector.”
True. But it wouldn’t be half the fun.
“Speaking of fun … I need to find Freddie and give him his key.”
Then let us hunt.
I ride the Bifrost elevator down to Midgard. The crowds here—even at night—astonish me. There are so many people, it’s stifling. I push past the wall of tourists and gamblers and Asgard Awakening fanatics toward the passageway to Hel. I descend the ramp. It’s poorly lit with black walls and tiny, anemic white lights embedded in the floor to guide the way. Up ahead, heavy, dark melodies topped off with high-pitched insectile noises pump through speakers and waft toward me.
Goosebumps pebble my skin the deeper I travel. A series of brilliant white flashes ignite the black walls in time with the frenetic, pounding music. Reminds me of Thor calling lightning and thunder, making the sky his bitch.
I’ll admit it. I’m unnerved by the sights and sounds assaulting my senses, and I haven’t even gotten to my destination yet. I pause for a moment and consider turning around. I enjoyed the clubs in New York, but this feels … different. Like the forces that aligned to bring Ragnarok to pass have awakened alongside me.
Threats, fear, and doubts yank me into the past, which seems to take great pleasure in ganging up on me.
It’s been centuries since I last saw my daughter Hel, the namesake of both the Norse land of the dead and the bottom level of Nine Realms Resort and Casino. I haven’t missed her. Her temperament was much like her mother’s.
Again, I regret many of my choices, Angrboda being the mistake I most wish I could correct. If not for her, three children from hell (literally) wouldn’t have been born. If not for her, Ragnarok would never have come to pass. If not for her, things might’ve been different between Sigyn and me.
Who are you kidding, Loki? Laguz chides. You act as if you had no say in the matter. Consent was mutual. Stop blaming Hel for your bad decisions.
You know, sometimes I wish Laguz wasn’t always right.
“Thanks for your vote of confidence,” I murmur under my breath.
You made mistakes. Own them, Laguz advises.
I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath. I did make mistakes. A lot of them. The past may be immutable, but I still have free will in the present. History doesn’t have to repeat itself.
A couple dressed in black and white overtakes me from behind and stumbles around me. They can’t keep their hands off each other, pawing and laughing and bumping lips. They look drunk. I wish I were drunk.
I continue down the spiraling walkway until it forks and spits me out at the mouth of Hel’s Bells. The club is protected by a towering gate of wrought black iron on the left side and gleaming white on the right. Several people are lined up to go inside. They’re also dressed in black and white.
The music is too loud. The smell of violets permeates the air, surfing an ever-present fog that creeps along the floor with an eerie semblance of authenticity.
Why do I feel like something bad waits for me inside?
The gate swings open, admitting the couple that passed me moments ago and the others who were waiting. It clangs shut behind them. Alone, I step closer and peer between the iron bars. The entire club is black and white. The ceiling, the checkerboard floors, the doors—even the people. Everyone matches. I look down at my red dress. I should go back to the suite and get some sleep, even though the prospect of the nightmares terrifies me.
A woman appears from out of nowhere on the other side of the gate. Her face is painted with a striking similarity to my daughter’s. She grins. I swallow the panic climbing my gullet.
“We have a dress code here,” she says, her voice spiked with icicles. She nods to a sign on the wall: All visitors to Hel are required to wear black and white. No exceptions.
“My mistake,” I say and turn to leave. I bump into a familiar tuxedo. Alexander Alfheim is still wearing his top hat, but the cummerbund is no longer gold. It now matches his black coat.
“Astrid Jones,” he purrs. “What a pleasant surprise.”
I cock my head and stare up into his inscrutable eyes. “I don’t recall giving you my surname when we met earlier.”
“You didn’t.”
“Then my reputation must precede me.”
He cracks a wry smile. “Indeed, it does.” He sticks out his elbow like a chicken wing toward me. I can’t help but think of Huginn and feel guilty as I take his arm. He nods to the black and white woman. “Bend the rules for this one. She’s … special.”
The attendant’s eyes, which I see are black and white now that she’s standing in the dim glow from fake candles attached to the wall, narrow on me with suspicion, but she yanks open the metal bars for us and looks away as if bored when we step through.
The moment my foot passes the threshold, I shiver at the sudden iciness of the air. I’m accustomed to cold—I prefer it to Las Vegas heat—but this chill is different. It carries a musty note of decay with it. Alexander’s arm tightens under my grasp. He pats my hand.
Loud, death-drenched music permeates the club. I believe the theme is called “gothic.” In my savage red, I stand out like Thor wearing a wedding dress. More than a few people in the crowd gawk as if they’re ready to scream “guilty!” at me for having violated some arcane fashion faux pas.
Alexander guides me to the bar, orders a drink, and deposits it in my hand. I nod my thanks just as a black-and-white blur races past my feet. By the gods, it’s Wiggles! I track his path to a slow-dancing couple engaged in some heavy kissing and possibly other th
ings—it’s hard to tell through the fog. Squinting, I realize half of the duo is Freddie, and the other half is a man. I avert my eyes, but Alexander caught me looking.
He nods at the pair. “You know them?”
“I—uh—yeah. Sort of.”
I chance another glance.
Freddie and the man are all up in each other’s business, grinding hips, swaying to the dreary music as if they’re one person.
“Shall we say hello?” Alexander asks.
“Oh, no. We shouldn’t bother them. They seem pretty … involved.”
“You’re not jealous, are you?” Alexander cocks a suggestive brow. “Scorned lover, perhaps?
I laugh and sip my wine, which I just noticed is black. Naturally. “Not even close. I’d hate to ruin their good time. I’ll catch up later.” I divert my attention to Alexander’s handsome face. “How did your magic show go?”
“Very well,” he says. “I only slipped once when I sawed my assistant in half tonight.”
Without permission, my gaze wanders back to Freddie and his partner. I try not to stare, but I can’t look away. They’re too compelling.
I don’t know what to make of them. On the one hand, I’m fascinated by their flirtatious dance, the give and take of it, the push and pull. At the same time, though, it seems so … dirty.
Mm-hmmm, Laguz crows.
I lick my lips and try to remember what Alexander said.
“… and then she stumbled out of the box with a bloody stump, spurting arterial fluids all over the screaming faces in the crowd.”
“Wow,” I say absently as I sneak another peek at the two men. They’re involved in a tongue duel that’s about to trigger a tirade of trouble in my trousers—er, Spanx.
“You like that, do you?” I’m suddenly aware of Alexander’s heat on my skin as he leans in.
I shake my head to loosen the men’s hold over me. “Sorry?”
Alexander angles close to my ear, the air of his words stirring my insides like a cyclone. “You like watching them.”
My breath catches. “No, I thought I saw someone else I know.”
He smells my lie and steamrolls over it. “What do you think three would be like?”