by Kendall Grey
I press my frozen lips together.
It really is cold.
I wag an index finger at the monster-man. “No funny business.”
Ha! Funny Business is my middle name, but this creature doesn’t need to know that.
He shakes his head and smiles. Bright, perfectly aligned white teeth flash, dazzling me. “No funny business.”
The monster-man pushes against the inside of the box, and a door of sorts swings open. I jump, staring in awe as a pair of legs covered in dark breeches of unknown origin appears. This is no hybrid man-creature. He’s a full man. Like me. Or, like I used to be.
I back up, hands out, ready to fire off the spell tapped into the rune Kenaz that will decimate him with but a thought. But the fire that should be bolting from my bracelet across my fingers lies as quiet as cold ashes. I lift my wrist. There’s no bracelet. Damn it.
I survey the empty tomb with a quick glance. No trace of the silver bangle or any runes. I rub my scalp, running fingers along the spot at the top where the rune is supposed to return in the event of an emergency. Nothing.
Perhaps I bumped my head in all the Ragnarok commotion and jostled it out of place. I do a quick pat down of the three other spots where my runes should be embedded as part of the contingency plan should the bracelet be destroyed: left hip, right hand, sternum … Nope.
This is not good.
“No funny business,” the man repeats, his breath curling in the cold as he stuffs a wad of fabric under his left arm. Cheeks flushed red, he stops in front of me. “I’m Gunnar. Magnusson. Gunnar Magnusson. Not the actor.”
“Gunnar Magnusson Gunnar Magnusson Not the Actor is a very long name,” I say, still poking around the ice with my keen eyes.
“Sorry. It’s just Gunnar Magnusson,” he replies. “And you are?”
“Loki,” I say absently.
Desperate and starting to panic again, I drop to the snow and dig through it like a dog ferreting out a rabbit from its burrow. I must find my runes. I’m nothing without them.
“Loki, you said?” Gunnar Magnusson asks, now standing a few feet away. At least I can understand him now. His words are much less strange-sounding than before.
“Are you hard of hearing?” I snap. “Yes, Loki. Is that a problem?”
He jumps to defend himself. “Not a problem. I only want to help.”
I excavate the snow with these too-small hands. I claw my way through frozen dirt beneath, shredding the tips of my pretty little fingers on sharp, dirty ice. My tomb is devoid of the four small sacred bone tablets that give me my power.
Without those runes, I’m going to have a Hel of a time doing what I do best: hustling on behalf of Chaos.
Gunnar Magnusson kneels beside me. I pray this creature—this man—doesn’t sense my weakness. He unfolds the fabric he was holding and shows it to me.
“I do not understand,” I say, searching his face for deception, ill intentions, or general malice. Everyone hates Loki. Except for my wife Sigyn, who’s probably dead along with the rest of my “friends.” I kick-started the end of the world. Because of me, the gods—the only family I’ve ever known, regardless of how awful they were to me—are gone.
Gunnar Magnusson shakes the clothing and pins it with his fingers to my shoulders. It’s made of odd cloth that looks manly. Like something Gunnar Magnusson himself would wear.
“I am not a man,” I moan. Gods, how could this have happened? “This is clothing for a man.”
“It’s okay,” Gunnar Magnusson soothes. His soft voice doesn’t match the hard lines of his rugged face or the sprouting fur along his sharply angled jaw. Neither do his kind blue eyes. “Our souls don’t care which clothes we wear.”
Maybe his soul doesn’t. My soul is confused. It doesn’t know what to wear.
Correction. If I had a soul, it wouldn’t know what to wear.
He holds up the tunic—I suppose it could be called that—and nods for me to duck my head. I do, completely emasculated by the gesture, but I’m too bereft over the loss of my runes and penis to refuse his offer.
My arms wriggle through the sleeves, and I marvel at the heat infusing me. The fabric’s pattern of small squares reminds me of a woven basket. I don’t understand how such flimsy clothing can be nearly as warm as fur. This tunic must be bolstered with magic.
I’m swimming in the garment, but it’s big enough to cover my ample derriere and everything up top. And it’s comfortable, unlike rigid leather. I poke at its softness with a tentative finger.
“Come on, Loki,” Gunnar Magnusson says, nodding toward the beast he rode up in.
I squint at it. There are more heads inside. They’re watching me.
I don’t move. “What is that horrific creature?” I ask warily.
He gives me another strange look. “A tour bus.”
“Tour bus.” I try the words out but have no idea what they mean.
Gunnar Magnusson points to himself with a massive index finger. “I’m a tour guide. Part-time. And an archaeology student. Just here for the season. Actually, I’m heading home soon. I’m from America.”
He says too many words that make no sense. I shake my head and pluck the last one out of the air. “What is ‘America’?”
His gentle blue eyes narrow with disbelief. “You’ve never heard of America?”
I shake my head.
“How—” He stops himself. The left corner of his lips curls up in a wry smile. “America is … apple pie and Chevrolet. It’s freedom and democracy. Levi’s jeans and New York pizza. America is baseball, basketball, and football. It’s all the balls.”
I cover my bits protectively. I don’t know what any of those balls are, but if Gunnar Magnusson’s foot is coming for mine, I gotta protect them.
I look down. Oh, right. Ball-less.
Never mind.
I drop my hands.
“You’re freezing,” Gunnar Magnusson reminds me. “Come inside and warm up. We’re heading back to the tour office. I can call someone to pick you up there.”
“You speak strangely, sir,” I say. “I can find my own way.”
Gunnar Magnusson lifts his head and surveys the barren wasteland. “Not many cars or buses pass through here. I may be your only ride for hours, and it’ll be dark soon. I’d let you use my cell, but I don’t have one. Are you sure I can’t give you a ride, Loki?”
He seems sincere, but I can’t leave this place until I find my runes.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, even though I’m not fine or anything close to it. But I’ve never relied on anyone other than myself to get out of the many snags I’ve survived. No reason to start now.
“Have it your way.” He sighs, clearly disappointed. “Keep the sweater. Good luck.”
I look down at the woven navy garment. “Sweater,” I murmur. Then I call after him, “Gunnar Magnusson, what is the year?”
He turns, eyes concerned behind those strange black circles. “It’s 2019.”
How can that possibly be? More than a millennium has passed since I took my last breath? Surely not. That must be another of his word mucks.
“Loki, forgive me for asking, but do you normally take medication for your … uh … condition?”
“My condition?” I look at down at my feminine curves punching this way and that like a winding river. I suppose he means the change I’ve undergone, but I don’t understand what medication he might be referring to.
With an apologetic expression, he taps his temple a couple times.
I frown. “No idea what you’re getting at, chap.”
“Have you bumped your head recently?” he asks.
Judging by the angry expressions, the heads inside the metallic monster are starting to get cranky. Maybe they’re hungry.
What I wouldn’t give for a couple of goats over a spit right now. I could devour three or four by myself.
I shrug. “A strong possibility. I hit my head a lot. Comes with the territory.”
“Please,�
� he begs, sincerity plain and painful on his face, “let me get you some help.”
His persistence is appreciated, but damn it, I need my runes.
“I don’t need help, Gunnar Magnusson. I’m Loki. I solve problems. Creatively. I’ll figure something out.”
He hesitates for a long moment and finally mounts his unholy steed. Its other heads twist and turn behind him. His face is grim as the monster’s back end farts another cloud of smoke. The wheels turn, and he rides off into the sunset, a dozen bobbing, glaring heads fixed on me.
I watch after his “tour bus” with disdain. When it disappears over the horizon, I resume digging for my runes.
I don’t know how much time passes, but soon, the sun escapes earth’s stranglehold and the ocean swallows it whole.
The runes aren’t here.
Frustrated and so, so cold, I plop in the melting, dingy ice, curling my legs under the “sweater” to generate some warmth.
Gunnar Magnusson was right. No one else has traveled along this path. I am freezing again. And I have no runes.
The Norns spinning their fates at the roots of Yggdrasil have played a wicked joke on me. As I’ve done to countless others, they’ve twisted my destiny’s threads into knots and woven them back upon themselves so tightly, I have no way of escape.
What am I going to do?
When the last slivers of light fade like the dying embers of a burning funerary ship, I debate my options:
I can stay here, freezing, and hope someone else will come along to help me.
I can get up and walk along the black path winding like the Midgard Serpent through the snow until I find the village Gunnar Magnusson spoke of.
I can bury myself under the snow and pray for a quick death. Maybe I’ll earn a new pair of testicles in whatever afterlife awaits me.
Let’s be practical. Gods don’t give up. They don’t die—not without a fight—and somehow, I survived the ultimate one.
I fought in Ragnarok. I died at Heimdall’s hands, yet I’m here to gloat about it.
A familiar deep growl lures my attention toward the western horizon. Gunnar Magnusson’s beast approaches, its white glowing eyes lighting up the freshly fallen night.
I smile and stand. Maybe the Norns changed their minds about my fate.
The wheeled abomination stops. The door opens, exposing the monster’s insides. I limp over to Gunnar Magnusson as he gets out.
He’s smiling.
I’m shivering.
Heat pours out of the metal creature’s guts as he looks at me shyly.
He came back for me.
No one ever comes back for me.
“Your steed awaits, Mistress Loki.” He offers a hand.
I accept it. His fingers are warm. The fragrant aroma of a pine forest wafts off him toward me.
When I dip my head in appreciation, my gaze snags on the lady lumps blocking the view to the frozen feet I can’t feel. I suppose I should embrace this new body. Looks like I’ll be stuck with it for a while.
“That’s Goddess Loki to you,” I say as Gunnar Magnusson helps me climb inside the belly of the beast. My face heats, and I smile at my luck.
Gunnar Magnusson came back for me.
Chapter Three
The inside of the monster is like a brand-new world. I dart down the middle stretch of its innards along a black-edged esophagus spanning from mouth to arse. This thing is a marvel.
The heads that were inside earlier are gone. Must’ve been digested—or expelled. Seats covered with plush blue fabric, fit for royalty, line either side. The top section of both sides is made of ice that gives off no cold through which I can see the frozen plain. But the best part? It’s warm.
The heat from the creature’s belly toasts my frozen feet like meat over dying coals. I fling out my arms and fall into one of the chairs, kicking wildly.
I’m rescued. I’m safe. I’m circulating blood.
Maybe this is Valhalla, and I really am dead. I can deal with this kind of afterlife.
“You like it?” Gunnar Magnusson asks. He’s sitting in a chair up front on the left, turned toward me with an appreciative grin.
“I love it. What sort of creature is this magical ‘tour bus’? What powers does it possess? Obviously, it farts poisonous gas, an effective, if odious, defense against enemies. What else can you command it to do?”
Gunnar Magnusson chuckles. “You’ve never seen a bus before? You are an enigma, Loki. How did you end up out here in the middle of nowhere? Where is your home?”
I chew on those questions for a moment and decide evasion is my best tactic at this early stage in my adventures as a god—goddess—given a second chance at mischief. I’m aces at evasion. “My home is a small village to the south.”
“Which village? Sleipnir and I can take you there.” He pats the back of his seat.
I arch a brow. “Sleipnir? No, this is not he. He has eight legs.” I would know. I suffered through every kick during his birth.
“She has eight wheels and she’s fairly ornery,” Gunnar Magnusson counters.
She? Blasphemy! Unless he was reincarnated too …
“Is Breiðdalsvík your home? It’s only about a twenty-minute drive.”
“Yes, that’s my home, but I don’t want to go back. I got into a pinch of trouble last time I visited. Just take me wherever you’re going. I’ll find my way from there.”
“I’m heading to my lodgings here in Stöðvarfjörður.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
He watches me closely. “Do you have friends here? Or family you can stay with?”
Even if I did, I wouldn’t want to see them. They’d slaughter me on sight. My brows bunch together. I shake my head.
He presses his lips into a tight line. The rigidness becomes his angular face.
“I’m renting a one-bedroom cottage. There’s not much space, but if it’s just for a night,” he hesitates, “you can stay with me. I have an extra bed.”
Having survived a giant viper’s fangs dripping venom into my face for what felt like an age, I’m certain I can handle this so-called cottage and whatever roughness it imposes on my person.
I nod. “That would be suitable.”
He cocks his head as if mildly surprised by my answer, but he doesn’t say anything else on the matter. Instead, he opens a box lodged within the beast’s innards, removes a small wrapped package, and hands it to me. “You must be starving.”
Indeed I am. I accept the shiny, pliable object, turning it over this way and that, trying to ascertain a way inside. Gunnar Magnusson watches me closely as I nibble its end. It tastes bad. Perhaps I must pierce its husk to get to the fruit within. After I smack the item on the heel of my thawing foot, he takes it back and twists the top. Like magic, the brownish flesh pokes out from the rind. It looks like oats or some type of grain packed tightly together.
I snatch the food and stuff the entire thing in my mouth. It’s hard and crunchy and sweet and without a doubt, fit for a god. My eyelids fall in ecstasy. I take my time grinding this delicacy down to paste.
Gunnar Magnusson turns to look through the icy pane in front and grasps a large black ring. Still chewing, I stand beside him, marveling, skimming my fingers along everything. When they fall to a large stick-like protrusion beside him, he shouts, “Don’t touch that!”
I snatch my hand back. “Is it poisonous?” A few stray oats fly from my mouth with the muffled words.
“No, it’s the gear shift.” He looks up at me. “I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but you are a very strange person, Loki. How do you not know what a bus is? Or what year it is? Or how to open a granola bar?”
Think fast, Loki.
I squat beside him, keeping to eye level. People respect eye level. It means equal footing even though I’m clearly on much higher ground than this human simpleton.
“I’ll be honest,” I lie. “You were right. I did hit my head. Suffered a minor setback in the memory arena. I’m having troubl
e remembering much of anything—where I came from, where I was going, why I was naked in the snow.”
He levels me with an accusing stare. “You said you got in trouble in Breiðdalsvík. You remember that but not what a bus is?”
“Bits and pieces, old man, bits and pieces.”
He screws up his face. “What about your name?”
I dismiss the accusation in his tone with a wave. “First name that came to me. I’m not Loki. He was a god, and I’m obviously,” I gesture to my breasts and die a little inside, “not.”
He averts his gaze. “So, you don’t remember your name. Or where you came from. Or why you were buried in snow. I might buy that story, but the way you talk is not the way people around here talk. You speak Old Norse, a dated version of Icelandic that only historians and scholars understand. How is that?”
I cross my arms over my chest and straighten to my full height, which isn’t nearly as imposing as it used to be. Damn it. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I must’ve studied the old culture before I hit my head.”
The stranglehold on the doubt clouding his face loosens. “You think you were a researcher? An archaeologist? Like me?”
“Yes,” I rush to agree, having exactly zero clue as to what that big word means. “Of course, that must be what I was and why I can speak this ancient tongue. We’re archlologists!”
“Archaeologists,” he corrects.
I point at him. “Yes. That.”
He seems to consider my admission. The doubt from before returns. I’m losing him. Gunnar Magnusson is the only thing I’ve got right now, my only way out of this hellhole of ice, my only source of information. I have to convince him to let me stick around until I get my bearings.
In my previous life as the god of mischief, I learned the best way to get someone to join your side is to listen to what matters to them and turn it around to use it against them.
“Tell me about your work, Gunnar Magnusson.”
He grabs the poison barb thingie that I’m not supposed to touch and shifts its position with a thunk. The monster jolts forward, and I grab the seat to keep from flying through its transparent forehead. By Sleipnir’s withers, this beast is strong!