by Kendall Grey
“Clearing customs requires passengers to present their passports—”
“Define passports.”
Instead of explaining, he reaches into his back pocket and removes a small, nearly square dark blue booklet. He hands it to me. “My friend is not a woman.”
Good, my female body says.
I smile and open the little book. Inside is an image of Gunnar Magnusson. It’s a perfect likeness, far better than any painting or sculpture I’ve ever seen. “This is you! Like the television but not moving.”
“It’s a photograph. People take them all the time. You can take pictures with your phone,” he explains.
“Where is your phone? Take a picture of me. I want to see.”
“International calls are expensive,” he evades. “And so are phones.”
I furrow my brow. “You don’t have one?”
“I have one at home.”
“For pictures.”
“No, for calling people. You can dial another person’s number and talk to them from great distances through the air.”
My eyes widen. “Like magic?”
“No, more like that electricity we talked about last night. Sort of.”
“One day, when I find what I’m looking for, I will call you, Gunnar Magnusson. I’ll boast of my exploits and dazzle you with tales of my greatness.”
“Okay, Loki. You do that.” He pats my hand but doesn’t look at me.
“You’ll miss me,” I say.
Out of the corner of my eye, he nods.
A wet blanket of sadness fills Sleipnir. It feels like the burst of humidity that covers you when you’re standing near a hot spring and the wind changes direction to double back on you. Warm at first, but quickly turning sour and cold.
“Almost there,” Gunnar Magnusson declares as he steers Sleipnir onto an expanse of black ground. “I’ll leave the bus here and catch a taxi to the airport. Just have to go in and give my boss the keys. Wait outside the bus. I’ll be right back.”
Gunnar Magnusson gathers his belongings, which are contained in a hard case with wheels. Earlier, he called this “luggage.”
“You mind watching my stuff?”
I wonder if I can fit inside his luggage. “No, I don’t mind.”
As soon as he’s gone, I squat down beside the box. Even if I folded myself in half, I’d be too big. Damn it.
SQUARK! SQUARK! SQUARK!
“Not you again,” I mumble, turning to the noisy Huginn behind me.
“Still looking for what you lost, I see,” he taunts, flapping his oddly angled wing.
“Cut the shite, Huginn. I know you’re spying for Odin.” I don’t give him a chance to respond. I just grab him by the neck and clutch him to my chest. His wonky eyes narrow on my breasts. He opens his mouth, and his tongue wriggles out toward them. I clamp his beak shut on the tongue, eliciting a muted yelp of pain.
“You can tell Odin,” I spit the word out like I would rotten fish, “that Loki is back and coming to reclaim what’s his. Hers. Theirs.”
Huginn’s outward-looking eyes center and focus on me. One of them turns the same glittery blue as the character on Asgard Awakening. This is no see-gee-eye or “computer” or “animation.” This is Odin looking through Huginn into me. I startle, almost dropping the bird.
SQUARK!
“How are you gonna find it?” Huginn asks. “Where are you gonna look?”
I smile smugly. “I’m so happy you asked. You’re gonna help me.” I tuck him tightly under my arm to secure him. “See, I know for a fact that Odin depends on you and your brother Muninn to bring him news from the Nine Worlds. It would be such a shame if he lost one of you.” I squeeze my arm, clutching him to my body.
SQUARK! SQUARK! SQUARK!
He can’t breathe.
“Whart der yer wernt?” he finally manages with great effort.
Hoisting him up by the neck, I look him right in one of his wonky eyes. “I want you to help me get on a plane that will take me to Odin.”
Huginn flaps his patchy wings. A few feathers tumble down. “Can’t do that.”
“Of course you can. Because if you don’t, I will strangle you.” I back up the threat by tightening my grip. It’s a bit of a gamble because I don’t actually know that I can kill Huginn. If he has his immortality rune, I’m out of luck. I’m hoping he doesn’t. Let’s see if he—or Odin—calls my bluff.
More frantic flapping ensues, and Huginn’s outward-pointing eyes bulge like egg yolks about to pop under a knife’s point.
I’ll be honest with you. I don’t really think Huginn will help me. At least, not in the way I want him to help me. But I’m gambling that Huginn is so valuable to Odin, the Allfather is willing to risk a small concession to keep the bird alive. That’s all I need. A tiny crack in the ice. One iron link removed from the chain armor protecting him. Creating weakness and then exploiting it is my specialty.
“Mercy!” the bird squawks.
I drop him and lean down close. “So, what are you going to do for Loki? I need your word that you will help me.”
An Asgardian’s word is his bond, and once sworn, it cannot be broken.
“You have my word. Allfather will grant you a small gift,” he blurts.
Though gods must uphold their promises, they can interpret requests as they like. “Helping me” might not put me directly in Odin’s path, but it should give me the tools I need to find the path.
I nod for Huginn to continue.
“But you must give him something in return.”
I study the bird accusingly. “Like what?”
“First, you must swear not to kill me.”
“Done.” He said “kill,” not hurt or maim. I can work with this.
His beak opens in what must be his version of a smile. “Secondly, Odin wishes to see you kiss your human.”
Of course he does. Because he would be so amused to watch the great god Loki kissing a man. Well, the joke’s on him. I’ve already kissed Gunnar Magnusson once, and truth be told, I rather liked it.
I mentally stick out my tongue.
“What do I get if I kiss Gunnar Magnusson?”
“The gift of language.”
“Language?” I say, stroking the beard I no longer have.
“Odin offers you the boon of modern English to help you along your journey.”
I laugh. I can’t blame the old goat for twisting my wish. I wouldn’t respect him if he didn’t.
And really, it’s not such a bad present. With “English” loaded on this silver tongue, no one in America will be able to resist me.
“I accept Allfather’s offer.” It comes out not in Old Norse, but with the same rhythm and accents of the words spoken by actors on Asgard Awakening.
“I’m speaking English,” I say in English. I clap with delight. Brilliant!
“Now, deliver your half of the bargain.” Huginn nods to the building from which Gunnar Magnusson ambles toward us. “Your hero awaits.”
He bird-chortles, which sounds like a dying baby reindeer afflicted with croup. One eye swirls with Odin’s blue magic again.
I nudge Huginn behind me with the toe of my boot. He clucks his irritation.
When I turn, I am struck again by the sheer size of Gunnar Magnusson. He’s an imposing figure as he strides toward me like a Viking on the battlefield, intent on his quarry. If this were a thousand years ago, he’d command legions. I tsk, shaking my head. The intellectualism of this time and place is wasted on a body like his.
Tingles emanate from my center as the wind tosses his long hair like a battle horse’s mane. His face is serious, hard like I’ve never seen it, but it softens when he approaches.
“Slip him some tongue,” Huginn goads, peering around my leg. “Grab his arse.”
I waste no time paying Odin back for my gift. I stand on tiptoes and plant a kiss on Gunnar Magnusson’s cheek, which pinks on contact.
Huginn squawks a protest.
Our deal didn’t specif
y it had to be on the lips.
I can fudge promises too.
I smile smugly when I pull away. Huginn’s tail feathers swat frenetically against my ankles. He is unamused.
“What was that for?” Gunnar Magnusson asks, the barrel of his chest drawing my attention to the hard pectorals under his shirt.
When I tear my gaze away and look up, his blush has deepened further.
“Nothing,” I say meekly in Old Norse. “Just showing my appreciation for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Was that … a thank-you?” he asks, poking fun at me.
“Why not?” I say. “Where to now?”
Gunnar Magnusson nods at an approaching car with the word “taxi” on top. “We ride to the airport.” Then he frowns and points down. “What’s that?”
“What?” I say innocently, side-stepping in front of Huginn.
He gestures to the bird peering up from behind my legs. “Why are you hiding a chicken?”
I suppose there’s no use trying to conceal him. Gunnar Magnusson would’ve noticed him eventually. I pick up Huginn, cuddle him to my chest, and stroke his head. He seems sated. For the moment. “I just found him. He likes me.”
SQUARK!
Gunnar Magnusson cocks a brow. “You can’t take a bird in a taxi.”
“Why not?”
“It’s unsanitary, for one thing.”
I shrug. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t—”
The little bastard shits on my tit and then proudly squawks his laughter. I thrust him away from my clothes and shake him with one hand while I try to slough the crap from my shirt with the other.
Gunnar Magnusson’s shoulders jerk, and he covers his wide smile with a hand. He’s trying not to laugh at me but failing miserably. He squats, opens his luggage, and rummages through it. He produces a huge shirt and offers it to me.
Chicken shite coats my hand. I wipe it on the shirt I’m wearing, squeezing Huginn a little harder than necessary. I can’t kill him, but I’ll damn sure make him uncomfortable. Chuckling, Gunnar Magnusson looks like he wants to help, but he’s not sure what to do.
I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head.
“Whoa!” Serious now, Gunnar Magnusson steps in front of me to block the taxi driver’s view.
“What?” I say, my exposed nipples tightening against the cold.
“You—your—wow—” He reaches for me but pulls his hand back. I shove the bird into it and squirm into the clean shirt.
“Umm—” he protests, gritting his teeth at Huginn. He looks around anxiously, spots a long tube hanging out of the wall of the building, and runs over to it. He twists a knob, and water pours out, drenching Huginn, who screams and flaps with irritation. What an inventive irrigation system!
SQUARK! SQUARK!
“Get your hands off me, oaf!” Huginn howls, but Gunnar Magnusson doesn’t speak Chicken.
I laugh my arse off. Poetic justice.
When Gunnar Magnusson comes back, I tuck the soaked, thrashing bird under my arm. “Let’s go,” I say and head toward the taxi.
The driver eyes me suspiciously, but he doesn’t refuse me my chicken. Maybe he liked the boobs enough to excuse this infraction on social norms.
Gunnar Magnusson and I are mostly silent on the way to the airport. When we arrive, he pays the driver for his service with pieces of paper, removes his luggage from the box in back, and turns to me outside a door that opens and closes all by itself for people entering and leaving the airport.
More magic. These Midgardians have really upped their game in the last millennium.
Overhead, loud, screeching hisses fill the sky like flying metal dragons. I cover my ears and watch in awe as giant beasts with writing on their sides leave and approach. I point up and say in Old Norse, “These are planes?”
Gunnar Magnusson nods with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“You will fly home on that?”
He nods again, and the fake smile fades.
“I will fly to your home too.”
He starts to protest, but I lift a hand to silence him. “Don’t worry. I’ll find my own way, Gunnar Magnusson.”
I don’t need his pity or his charity. I have English, Odin’s magic chicken, and a forked tongue. I can do anything.
He takes a step closer. I smell his soap and feel the heat steaming off him. It’s dizzying.
Squark? Huginn pokes his beak up with interest. I shove his head under my oversized shirt and wrap it in the fabric to keep him quiet while angling his arse end away from my clothing. I may have survived Ragnarok, but Crapnarok could well and truly end me. Phew, this bird stinks.
“I hope you find whatever you’re looking for,” Gunnar Magnusson says. His breath smells of mint—quite an improvement over Huginn’s arse.
I smile. “I will.”
“Always so certain of yourself,” Gunnar Magnusson muses.
“Indeed.”
He pauses, waiting for another loud plane to clear, then he tentatively leans in. “You know the concept of hamingja?”
“Of course,” I say. “Luck passed down through generations via a personal guardian. Sometimes it can be freely given as a loan to a person in need who faces a great challenge.”
“Its meaning has changed somewhat over time,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “It’s still a kind of guardian angel, but now the word means ‘happiness’ in Icelandic.”
Gunnar Magnusson tugs a leather strap out from under his shirt and pulls it over his head. Attached to the thong is a carved iron raven, its wings splayed majestic and wide. The details are magnificent. He ropes the necklace over my head. The bird drops in place between my breasts. He looks away as I study it.
“May my good fortune be yours, Loki. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He inclines his head in a bow, gives me a bright white smile, and walks toward the door, which opens just in time for him to step through.
Nobody gives Loki gifts, especially not ones that carry good luck with them. I run after him. “Wait! Gunnar Magnusson, wait.”
He stops and faces me.
“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it. Gunnar Magnusson has been kind to me. Far kinder than my adopted family in Asgard ever was.
I toss an arm around his shoulders and hug him tightly, purposely squishing the chicken between us. Huginn crows a protest under my shirt.
The way my female body responds to Gunnar Magnusson’s crushing maleness catches me off guard. As with every other time I’ve touched him, the familiar tickle in my stomach strokes me from the inside out. It’s a maddening sensation with a wildness that appeals to my fiery, chaotic nature. It steals my breath, blurs my vision, confuses the Hel out of me.
But the way my new body responds to him isn’t the only reason I enjoy his company.
For my entire existence, I’ve been a loner. Always the outsider, I didn’t fit in with the giants of Jotunheim, so I went to Asgard in search of camaraderie. Odin welcomed me as a blood brother, but his affection didn’t last long. The rest of the Asgardians—with the exception of my wife Sigyn, but let’s not go there—made me the butt of their jokes and grew to hate me. Even in death, I was alone.
But now … I am not. I found a companion who treats me with respect I never got from anyone else.
I don’t want to let him go.
So, I make a promise to myself: I won’t let him go.
“Gangi þér vel,” I say.
He backs into the airport. “Good luck to you too.”
He doesn’t have to say the words. Armed with his gift of hamingja, I have all the luck I need.
Chapter Eight
First things first. If I’m to make it to America, I need information. Lots of it. Information is my weapon of choice.
So, I sit near the endlessly opening and closing doors and watch the Midgardians. Studying people is one of my many talents. Their words, their body language, the way they make eye contact with each other all tell me who they are. Within moments of meeting someo
ne, I can tease out their strengths and weaknesses.
For example, that woman over there on the bench is pissed off at her boyfriend or husband. Every time the little box—the “phone”—makes a jingle, she looks at it, scowls, huffs, rolls her eyes, and angrily taps the tiny letters. A long chirp rings out. She straightens and holds the phone to her ear. I know whoever is on the other side is a boyfriend or husband because of how fake she sounds when she answers his “call.” Her voice perks up, but her face remains locked in a sneer.
Strengths: Voice acting.
Weakness: Self-centeredness + mule-worthy stubbornness = DISTRACTED.
I tuck her details away for future reference while I plot my next moves.
Objective 1: Secure a phone.
Objective 2: Find a passport.
Objective 3: Get on a plane to America.
Action plan: Gunnar Magnusson’s passport has a picture of him inside. I suppose whoever’s in charge uses these booklets to identify passengers. That means I need to hustle a woman who looks like me. The one on the bench won’t do—her hair’s all wrong and she isn’t nearly as attractive as I am—but I may be able to nick something of value out of the bag lying beside her.
I wander over and sit next to her. She barely acknowledges me as she speaks in English into her little box.
“I don’t want to go to your parents’ house for Easter, David.” Her voice lifts to a higher pitch. “I know, but it’s so far away, and your mom hates me.” She pauses. “Why can’t we just stay home?”
While she and David duke it out, I glance down to the bag sitting beside her. Its mouth gapes with all sorts of delicacies I’ve never seen before. Little bags within bags. Containers full of who-knows-what. Wrinkled pieces of paper with colorful pictures, letters, and numbers on them. Gunnar Magnusson called them “króna.” He traded similar papers with the taxi driver. This one in the woman’s bag says “10,000.”
I scoot into her personal space, betting my closeness will cause her to turn away. I bet right. With a loud huff, she gives me her back. I slip my fingers into the bag and sneak the papers out. They go into my pocket, and the girl is none the wiser. A few minutes later, she snatches her bag, stands, and walks away, barking orders at poor David.