Runed

by Kendall Grey

  “Loki. Are you okay?” Gunnar Magnusson asks, his breaths fast, shoulders heaving for air.

  On the verge of unconsciousness, I close my eyes. I may not have any runes to protect me, but I find enough strength to smile. Small victories.

  Hands fall on me. One scoops me up from the back, the other grabs an arm. I’m airborne for a second, then my front hits a wall of warmth. I crack open an eye.

  I’m slung over Gunnar Magnusson’s shoulder, my head bobbing against his arse, his arm clasping my legs to his chest as he thunders toward Sleipnir, mumbling curses along the way. Long blond hair dangles past my range of vision, but I’m pretty sure it drapes the length of his thighs down to the backs of his knees.

  Blond hair is pretty.

  I haven’t seen myself, but I’ll bet I’m pretty too.

  Gods often are.

  Goddesses.

  Boobs.

  Smile.

  As Gunnar Magnusson mounts the steps to Sleipnir, a stunted SQUARK! pokes my lethargy in the gut, diverting me away from my heavy flirtation with unconsciousness for a moment.

  “Where are the runes?” I whisper at Huginn, stumbling behind us. One of his wings is slanted out of place.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” For a split second, his crazy, polarized eyes right themselves into a single, direct line of sight and then go wonky again.

  But I’m watching.

  West.

  He looked west.

  A tide of recognition wells within me. I feel each of my four runes calling from that direction. Their whispers are weak and scattered but unmistakable.

  With an imagined splash of water across my skin, Laguz reminds me I am adaptable. A memory of Asgard sparks Othala’s promise to deliver my rightful inheritance as a god of the Æsir. Kenaz projects enlightenment in a burst of illumination behind my eyes. And with a shake of yew leaves, Ihwaz assures me that rebirth into my former glory is imminent.

  The runes haven’t been destroyed. I just have to figure out where they are and how to get them.

  West. I have to go west.

  Gunnar Magnusson lowers me into a seat inside Sleipnir. I am warm again.

  My eyes crack open once more and fall on his worried face. I notice his knuckles are bloody as he thumbs away whatever grime I’ve accumulated on my cheek. He forces a smile through clenched, bright white teeth. “You’re something else, Loki.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  I laugh and swan dive into the bottomless pit of sleep with only two thoughts on my mind as I fall.

  My runes are out there.

  And Gunnar Magnusson saved me. Again.

  Chapter Five

  People are talking, but I don’t understand the words.

  I try to sit up. My arms, legs, and other parts remain in their respective places, refusing to cooperate.

  I’m getting pretty damned tired of the constraints this body places on me. First, I couldn’t best the oaf who tried to assault me. Now I can’t even sit up. What good is being a woman if you can’t do anything?

  I open one eye. At least one organ works. Above me is a plain but neatly cobbled wooden ceiling. Its color is almost the same blond as Gunnar Magnusson’s hair.

  I open the other eye and tilt my head, which screams in protest. Then I remember how I got this way. Big burly arsehole. Head butt. Ouchie.

  The male voice coming from somewhere else sounds very sure of itself. Another voice jumps into the discussion. This one is also male, but weak and sniveling. Sycophantic. They seem to be arguing about something. Without a command of whatever language they’re speaking, I can’t decipher what they’re saying. It sounds similar to the words Gunnar Magnusson uttered when he became frustrated with me inside Sleipnir earlier.

  Laughter filters in between what appear to be verbal barbs, but it doesn’t sound real. It has a tinny quality. And it’s fake. I know. I’m Loki, the father of lies. Or mother, as the case may be. I can smell a lie an ocean away.

  “Gunnar Magnusson?” I call. My voice sounds like the croak of a frog. My throat is parched.

  And now that I’m trying in earnest to move, everything hurts. I groan into the pillow cradling my sore head and find the fabric-covered lump unbelievably soft. What the Hel do they put in these things? In my day, we stuffed pillows with straw, but this is so much better.

  I suppose there might be a few advantages to living outside of one’s own time.

  Footsteps head toward me. A face hovers above mine. A line between the brows. Gentle, bright blue eyes watchful behind clear circles. Rustic blond hair curls in waves around Gunnar Magnusson’s shoulders like the elegant prow of a mighty Viking ship. Angular cheek bones slant behind a dense patch of facial hair. And he smells almost as divine as I do.

  I sniff at my armpit and scrunch up my nose at the mild stench.

  Okay, almost as divine as I used to smell.

  “Glad you’re awake,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “You’ve been asleep for hours. I thought you had a concussion. You had me worried.”

  The utterance of his last sentence, something throbs pleasantly between my thighs.

  Okay, it’s not something. I know exactly what it is.

  Why does this flush of heat keep bursting within me when Gunnar Magnusson is near? I am not attracted to men.

  This body betrays me. I wonder what signals it’s sending that I’m not aware of.

  Gunnar Magnusson passes me a mug made out of a substance I don’t recognize. It’s thin and pliable and contains transparent liquid. I marvel over the container, but only for a moment. I am so thirsty. I gulp down the cool water greedily and wipe my mouth with my sleeve.

  “I’m fine. Who’s here, Gunnar Magnusson?” I ask, my voice raspy. I’m still not used to its high pitch. It seems like another person talking, using my mind to fuel words firing from someone else’s mouth.

  “No one,” he says. “It’s just the television.”

  “I do not know this word, ‘television.’”

  He sits beside me on the too-comfortable bed, staring down at me. My body thrums in appreciation of his looks, but what do I look like? I know I’m not as fresh in my various creases and folds as a god—goddess—should be, but how has my face changed? And why is he looking at me with such kindness?

  “You’ve never heard of television?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Then I’ll have to show you. You might enjoy the program.” He snickers. Reconsiders. “Then again, maybe not.”

  I let his vague comment pass.

  He gets serious and leans a little closer. The fluttering in my stomach starts up again. Am I sick? Maybe I’m going to vomit. I’ve seen humans do that when they drink too much mead or catch fever. They say nausea is a pain in one’s middle that ends with the evacuation of whatever food has been consumed, but the only thing I’ve eaten is the granola bar he gave me earlier. It would be a shame to spit that golden deliciousness back up.

  Mmm … granola bar. My mouth waters. I try again to sit up, successfully this time. Though, my head swims.

  “But before we watch TV, we need to talk,” Gunnar Magnusson begins slowly. “My work here is finished, and I have to return to America.”

  Okay. Not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.

  When I don’t respond, he says, “I leave for Reykjavík tomorrow.”

  I shrug.

  “Is there somewhere I can take you?” he asks.

  “I can stay here,” I assure him. Once I get my bearings, I’ll figure out how to find my runes.

  He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I’m renting this place. Borrowing it for a short time. I have to give it back tomorrow.”

  “And?”

  “And you can’t stay here after I leave.”

  “Then we’ll raid the village and take it by force,” I proclaim, swinging my feet to the floor. Looting and pillaging will be a fine way to get back into the swing of godhood, even though I’ve technically lost the -hood
.

  “You really don’t have a clue, do you?” he asks, shoveling a handful of blond waves from his eyes. Exasperation bleeds from his pores.

  “This Reykjavík is west?” I ask hopefully. The name of the settlement sounds somewhat familiar.

  He nods.

  “Will you take me there?”

  He sighs. “Yes. I can take you. But once we get to Reykjavík, we’ll have to part ways. I’m going home, and something tells me you don’t have a passport, let alone the money for a plane ride. Our time together will have to end there.”

  I smile. I don’t know what a passport or a plane is, but I’m confident I’ll find what I’m looking for in Reykjavík.

  “Then we shall part as brothers,” I say.

  He screws up his face as his gaze trips over my jutting chest. His cheeks redden again. The blush is delightful.

  He reaches around me for the table beside the bed, wrangles a stack of neatly folded clothes, and sets them next to me. “I picked these up for you at the store while you slept. They didn’t have much selection. I hope they’re the right size. Would you like to take a shower? It might make you feel better. I tried to clean up your face after the run-in with the man at the gas station, but …” He trails off.

  I don’t know what a shower is, but if it’s like rain, as it sounds, then it would be welcome. “Yes,” I say. “Take me in the shower.”

  The red in his cheeks deepens to scarlet. He stands, starts to offer me a hand, scratches the back of his neck instead, then watches as I get up, ready to catch me should I fall.

  He guides me into a small room lined with wooden planks. A white basin nestled into a wood cabinet. A small, hollow iron—yet not iron—thing caps the far middle end of it. And above the basin, tacked to the wall is a polished reflecting surface.

  It takes a moment to get past the initial shock of what bounces off it.

  I lean close, eyes wide, and study myself. I pull the skin over my cheeks. It’s tight and cream-white except for the purpling goose egg on my forehead. My pale-yellow hair is long and respectable, like that of a Valkyrie, a chooser of the slain in battle.

  My body may be soft, but my blue eyes are fierce. The old fire I feared I’d lost still burns behind them.

  Gunnar Magnusson rests against the door frame, arms crossed, watching me.

  “I need a helmet,” I say to his reflection. “And a horse.”

  He laughs. “That would be fitting. Maybe you can find both in Reykjavík.”

  Beside the basin is a window and a cubby in the wall containing a closed white pot that sits on the floor behind a circular rug made of unknown material. “What is this?” I ask.

  Just when I’m certain his face can’t get any redder, he proves me wrong. “A toilet.”

  I cock my head to the side and try out the word on my tongue. “Toilet?”

  “Like a privy.” He flips open the lid, revealing an inverted dome filled with water. Then he pushes a button on the wall above it, and the water spirals downward. I drop to my knees and watch in awe.

  Fascinated, I reach for the liquid, but Gunnar Magnusson stops me. “Ah, I wouldn’t touch that,” he advises, his nose scrunched a tad.

  As soon as the bowl is evacuated, more fills it. I mimic Gunnar Magnusson and push the button, laughing at the wonder of it.

  To the right of the toilet is a large, clear stall with another metal tube jutting from high up on the wall. I tap the strange ice-yet-not-ice that forms its boundaries. “What is this miraculous substance?”

  “It’s called glass.” Gunnar Magnusson leans into the cubicle and twists a knob. Water spits from holes at the top of the tube. I clap my hands. This is positively delightful!

  I yank the tunic over my head and climb inside the odd box. Gunnar Magnusson averts his eyes and says, “You should give it a minute to warm up.”

  “Why?” I ask. The ice-cold water spilling over my shoulders and between my breasts, trickling over every curve, is pure heaven. At least, I think it is until it changes from cold to warm and then to hot.

  My thighs quiver with the ecstasy of the heat. I duck my head under the stream and bask in absolute perfection. This new world teems with so many wonders. I shall be entertained for centuries. Well, assuming I find my runes.

  “There’s … uh … soap in the dish.” Gunnar Magnusson’s voice is tight.

  I locate said soap and spin it between my palms. It’s very different from what I imagined. Having always been a god, I never had a need to wash, but this process is quite exhilarating. The soap smells of pine and spice, like Gunnar Magnusson. I close my eyes and drink in the scent like a filling hornful of mead.

  “I’ve died and gone to Valhalla,” I moan.

  When I look through the steaming glass, Gunnar Magnusson’s back is to me.

  “Thank you, Gunnar Magnusson.”

  He turns but doesn’t look at me. He fiddles with his sleeve. “That’s the first time you’ve thanked me, Loki.”

  I’m a god. Correction, god-dess. Why should I thank anyone for anything? I only made my appreciation known because this “shower” is such a treat. Mortals should thank me for entertaining them, making proper mischief, starting world-ending wars. That’s what Chaos created me for.

  “Don’t get used to it,” I say, inhaling the rising, soap-infused steam. The scents swirling inside my head give me a nose-gasm.

  “That was rather rude,” Gunnar Magnusson says over his shoulder.

  “It’s rude to expect a god to show weakness to a human?” I ask.

  He spins all the way around and nails me with a hard stare through the glass, avoiding the bodyscape south of my neck. “You hit your head, remember? You’re not a god. You’re a nutjob.” Now his eyes shift to my shoulder. “A beautiful one, but still …”

  He thinks I’m beautiful. Of course, he’s right. I am. But he doesn’t have to acknowledge it out loud. A Viking only says such private things to a woman he’s serious about.

  The fluttery feeling in my gut is back. I wish I could figure out how to control this body.

  “I’ve upset you,” I say, pressing against the glass.

  He turns around again. “You can come across a little harshly. A thank-you or an apology every once in a while wouldn’t kill you.”

  I should hope not.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt, though I’m not sure what he wants me to apologize for. Maybe just saying the words will do the trick.

  I push open the fogging door. Averting his gaze, he quickly unfolds a swath of pale, textured fabric and drapes it over my front. Then he shuts off the flow of water. I dry off.

  He shyly meets my eyes and jerks his head toward the door. “I’ll be out here when you’re done.” Then he leaves.

  I gleefully make use of the toilet, flush it three times to enjoy watching the swirling water, and don the clothes he brought me. The breeches fit nicely, but I’m unfamiliar with the thick, faded blue material. Should keep me warm, though. The shirt is plain black. My breasts could benefit from some support, but this will have to do. Gunnar Magnusson even gave me a pair of boots and two long black socks. I think. I’ve never seen ones woven like this, and certainly never black ones. I like them. The boots are his. They’re rather large, but they’ll suffice.

  When I exit, the smell of something delicious beckons me to another room where Gunnar Magnusson removes two small plates of unidentifiable food from a white box. Steam rises. He sets the plates on a table and gestures for me to sit.

  I do. A tall cup full of yellowish liquid waits at my place. Whatever he cooked smells divine.

  “Hope you’re okay with leftovers,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “I needed to clear out the fridge.”

  Unsure of what these words mean but too hungry to care, I shrug them off and sniff the yellow drink. Smells strong. Like mead. I sip. It’s bitter and cold and full of wee bubbles. I set the glass down and stare at it doubtfully. “Is this piss?”

  He laughs. “It’s called beer. As my dad used to
say, ‘It’ll put hair on your chest.’”

  “I can see why.” I rub my hairless chest.

  Motion on the wall grabs my attention, and I startle at the sight of a mounted flat rectangle displaying moving pictures of people who are dressed in bad reproductions of clothing from my time.

  I yank my knees up and curl my arms around them, shaking. “By the Sons of Ivaldi, what is that?”

  Gunnar Magnusson chuckles and sits across from me, passing over a pronged silver utensil with which I presume I am to eat. But how can I eat with these miniature people leaping about in a tiny box? Not only are they distracting, but they seem angry. What if they try to attack me? Snarling, I clench the silver tool in my fist, prepared to pluck an eyeball out. Or worse.

  “That’s Asgard Awakening,” he says and slices into a loaf of golden bread with his knife and pronged stick. “It’s a dramatic comedy television show that’s popular in America. Like Xena: Warrior Princess. Or Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”

  I feel as if my brain is going to burst. “I don’t know this Xena or Buffy. How did those people get so small? Are they dwarves?”

  He studies me, combing my face for lies. I’m all out. This time and place is full of so many wonders, I’m living in a perpetual state of childlike discovery. There’s no room for lies when I have a brand-new world to explore. I’ll get back to my job as Trickster in Chief once the newness wears off and I understand the playing field better. For now, I’m content to wallow in the riches of novelty.

  “Be honest with me, Loki,” he says, his tone serious. “There’s no way you’ve never seen a television or a bus or a toilet. And I’m not buying the head-bump excuse. What’s your game?”

  Despite the ravenous hunger eating away at my gut, I lay down my pokey thing and look him right in the eyes. “I’ve never been honest with a person in my very long life, Gunnar Magnusson, but there’s a first time for everything. I am the god Loki. The last thing I remember before you found me in the ice field was Ragnarok, which apparently happened quite a number of centuries ago. I should be dead. I’m not. I don’t know what else to tell you.”