by Kendall Grey
I saw its license plate right before the crash. It read, “ALLFTHR.”
Chapter Seventeen
A boxy vehicle arrives with a screaming siren escort. Its red and white lights spin in a frenetic dance that makes my eyes hurt. Blue and white lights approach too. Cars on the highway are stuck, barely able to move as a police officer waves them along a few at a time.
Minutes later, I sit at the edge of the ambulance cradling Huginn’s barely breathing body. He lost most of his feathers. His beak is bent at a dangerous angle. One of his talons curls around my finger as if it’s his lifeline, the only thing keeping him from stepping over the threshold into death. I gently stroke the talon as the workers carefully load Gunnar Magnusson onto a cloth-covered bier.
Freddie approaches. His face is bashed up with purpling bruises and several cuts. He limps, but he seems okay otherwise.
“You all right?” he asks.
I nod, staring down at Huginn. “We must save Gunnar Magnusson. And Huginn.”
“They say he needs a few stitches, and they want to x-ray his neck to be sure it isn’t fractured, but Gunnar will be fine.” He pauses to look at his friend. “First thing out of his mouth was your name. I think he kinda likes you.”
I kinda like him too, but I don’t say so.
“I am sorry about your Porsche.”
Freddie waves a dismissive hand. “Cars can be replaced. People can’t.”
Neither can birds.
Huginn stirs in my arms. His breath rattles. This is not good.
I tell myself the only reason I’m concerned about Huginn is because he swallowed the lucky pendant Gunnar Magnusson gave me. I should twist his neck and put him out of his misery, but I swore an oath not to kill him.
I could ask Freddie to do it, then slice open the chicken’s belly and take the raven back. I slaughtered thousands of animals in my day. They’re just stupid beasts put on this earth to feed men and gods. Huginn’s soul is worthless. He probably doesn’t even have a soul.
His wonky eye slowly turns to fix on me. It shimmers blue for a split second, but then he blinks, and the blue is gone. He closes both eyes and resumes his rattling, erratic breathing.
Was that Odin trying to break through to watch me? Or Huginn cutting him off?
I straighten my spine.
The sun is heading for the west. Time is slipping through my fingers. If we don’t make it to Atlanta before the weekend, I’ll have to start searching all over again for Laguz. Odin won’t make it so easy next time. Without my powers, I could spend years looking for the runes and never find them.
And if my bad luck holds, I won’t live long enough to mount another search.
I look down at Huginn again, and my heart stumbles out of rhythm. I must get the iron raven back before something else goes wrong, but I can’t find the will to harm this bird.
Why? What is wrong with me? He’s just a chicken.
But then I think about what he’s been through, and anger explodes in my bones. Huginn is an outsider. Like me. Odin used him. He let Huginn befriend me, lured me into believing I could trust him, and then he turned the bird against me. Worse, he had someone throw him at us, causing a bad accident.
Allfather has no regard for Huginn aside for what the bird can do for him. Once Huginn’s dead, he’ll replace him with something better, and it’ll be like Huginn never existed.
Now I am furious. For myself, for Gunnar Magnusson’s injuries, for Huginn’s impending death, for Freddie’s car. I’m mad at the whole world for allowing this to happen, but mostly, I’m pissed at Odin.
Pissed enough to start another Ragnarok if I have to.
The uniformed workers wheel Gunnar Magnusson over to the ambulance. I stand up and lean over him, caressing his bloody beard. His face is bandaged with white strips. A thick plastic collar encircles his neck. His beautiful hair is matted and decorated with little shards of glass. But his eyes are the same. Aware, alert, and kind.
“I’m so sorry, Loki,” he says roughly and glances to the chicken. “Is Huginn okay?”
My eyes blur suddenly. I blink, and tears fall onto Gunnar Magnusson’s arm. He reaches up to catch them and wipes my cheeks with his thumb. “Is he alive?”
“Barely.” I choke and quickly blot away the unexpected flow of stupid tears with my sleeve. Why the Hel do I care about this damn bird?
Huginn nuzzles into the crook of my elbow and sighs, his tiny lungs rattling.
Gunnar Magnusson snares my gaze in the net of his eyes and presses his words into me as if a brand. “Find him a veterinarian. They might be able to help.”
Freddie steps closer, listening.
“Go now, Loki,” Gunnar Magnusson orders. “Before it’s too late.”
I shake my head. “I can’t leave you.”
One of the workers intervenes. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to clear the scene and transport all three of you to the hospital.”
Gunnar Magnusson lifts a shaky hand and points at me. “She’s not coming with us.”
The uniformed man scrutinizes me, looking me over from crown to boots. He gestures to my forehead. “She needs stitches.”
I wipe at the spot. My fingers come away red. “Put a bandage on it. I’ll be fine.”
Huginn’s rattling intensifies. My heart trips over itself again. Gods, make this cursed empathy stop!
Freddie reaches into his pocket, fishes around, and comes up with a leather wallet. He leafs through it, pulls out a wad of bills and a thin plastic slab, and shoves the lot into my hand. “Go. I’ll take care of him.” He nods toward Gunnar Magnusson.
“But where do I find this ‘veterinarian’? And how will I find you?”
Freddie turns to the officer. “Which hospital?”
“Our Lady of Mercy,” the man says.
Freddie leans close to me and retrieves his phone. He types in the numbers 696969 to unlock it. Then he opens the Uber application and orders a car. It says the car will arrive in eight minutes. He stuffs his phone in my back pants pocket. “Get an Uber to the hospital when you’re done. You remember how to do it?”
I nod. He showed me the application for Uber when we went carousing in New York, and watching him use it now reminds me of the steps.
“Pay the vet with the credit card. If they won’t take it, give them the cash. Meet us at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital when you’re done. Got it?”
“Yes.” I am overwhelmed by Freddie’s graciousness.
Nobody helps Loki.
Perhaps I should revise that statement and tailor it to the past tense. Nobody helped Loki. But they do now.
“Thank you, Freddie. I am indebted to you.” I truly am. I bow my head respectfully to him.
I lean over Gunnar Magnusson. “Be well. I will find you.”
I drop a kiss on his blood-stained lips. He closes his eyes. The connection between us tightens the slightest bit. His presence tugs at the soft places in my heart.
I never intended to allow anyone in there, let alone a modern man, but he won’t leave, and I can’t seem to force him out. I guess that means he’s welcome.
“You’re a good person,” he whispers. He shifts his eyes toward the road. “Go.”
The workers pull him into the ambulance, and Freddie hops up beside him. He nods curtly to me, and the doors close them in. The police sweep glass off the freeway and direct cars around. Traffic moves a little faster as the ambulance drives off, its lights spinning, its wailing siren warning everyone to get out of its way.
Part of me leaves with that ambulance. I don’t like the feeling of missing pieces. The holes weaken me, make me porous and brittle. I am Loki, the trickster, yet I feel like Loki the fragile fool.
Staring down at Huginn’s mangled body, I am made even weaker.
“Come on, buddy,” I whisper. “Hold on a little longer.”
There is no response. Just more out-of-rhythm wheezing accompanied by the occasional shudder. His grip on my finger has loosened. I clutch him t
ighter to keep him warm.
A few minutes later, the Uber man pulls off onto the shoulder. He looks surprised when I open the door and settle in the back seat with a chicken.
“He’s dying. I need to find the nearest veterinarian,” I plead. I don’t even have to conjure fake tears to convince him. Real ones are flowing again.
“Uh, okay,” the Uber man says reluctantly. I feel certain if I were a man, he’d tell me to take a walk. I suppose there are a few advantages of inhabiting an attractive female body. He turns to his phone and searches for vets. Then he veers onto the slow-moving highway.
“Is that your pet?” he asks.
“Yes,” I cry. Sniffle, sniffle. “I’ve had him for years. He’s my best friend. I can’t live without him.” I turn the waterworks up. It’s not hard.
Huginn’s eyelid cracks just enough for me to notice. His beak is busted all to Hel, but I’m pretty sure he’s trying to smile.
Stupid damn bird.
“Whoa, man. That chicken is in bad shape,” the driver says.
“I’m not a ma—never mind.”
“He’s lucky to be alive.”
Lucky.
I survey Huginn’s injuries. Messed-up beak. At least a few broken bones. Possible internal bleeding. But he’s still breathing. Barely. If he did swallow Gunnar Magnusson’s raven pendant, maybe its luck will hold.
“Yes,” I say. “He’s very lucky.”
We make small talk the rest of the way, and I keep my eye on Huginn, adjusting him as needed for maximum comfort. He nestles his head in the crook of my arm and sleeps.
When we arrive at the veterinarian, I run inside and explain what happened to the stern-looking woman sitting behind the desk. She stares at me with a shocked expression, then tells me to sit and wait. Other people are waiting, but none of their animals seem to be hurt. The woman says they have appointments, and I’ll have my turn soon enough.
“We were just involved in a car accident. This chicken is my life,” I say, brewing a fresh round of tears. “If he dies, I will too!”
Yes, I’m being a bit dramatic, but I’m not lying. Not exactly. Odin is intent on orchestrating my end (permanently this time). He wouldn’t have had the mechanic launch a helpless chicken into speeding traffic at us if he weren’t. Huginn is Odin’s precious raven—the one he went to great lengths to protect in the time before.
The more I think about it, the angrier I become.
The arsehole sacrificed his prized seer to get back at me.
What a dick!
Tears roll down my cheeks. The woman at the counter hesitates. A couple of concerned people waiting with their pets call out for me to go ahead of them. The lady picks up a phone and dials a number. She turns and mumbles some words I can’t hear. Then she says, “Come with me.”
I follow her through a short maze of hallways into a room that smells like a revolt of animals that lost to an overpowering giant who bathes in concentrated rivers of poisonous lemon juice. I wrinkle my nose at the stench. Huginn doesn’t notice.
“The doctor will be with you shortly.” The woman leaves me alone with Huginn and shuts the door.
I fall into the chair, exhausted. My body aches. My head still spins. When I wipe my brow, dried brown blood flakes off onto my sleeve.
“I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this, Huginn,” I say softly, stroking his feathers.
His eyes remain shut. He doesn’t stir.
“I’ll do everything I can to save you.”
I can’t believe I said that, but I’m overcome with a tide of sadness at the sight of him.
Odin used him.
I used him too. That makes me an awful person.
If Huginn leaves this office alive, I’ll try to make it up to him.
A woman wearing a colorful shirt, matching pants with dogs all over them, and glasses like Gunnar Magnusson’s comes in. A pair of younger men flank her.
“I’m Dr. Kretchner,” she says and shakes my hand. She looks at Huginn and frowns. “I understand you had an accident. Tell me what happened.”
I weave an elaborate lie and spin it fast. “Huginn has been my pet for a couple years. A man stole him, and we chased him down the highway to get him back. He opened his window and threw him out into traffic. Huginn splatted on the windshield and now he’s going to die, and I can’t live without him, and please, Doctor, you have to help him!”
I squeeze out more tears for added effect. Okay, one or two might be real. Sue me. I’m in crisis.
The doctor carefully takes Huginn from me. The bird manages a weak SQUARK of resistance as she carefully turns him, inspecting his wings, beak, and finally palpating his stomach. When she touches his underbelly, he cries out pitifully. His mismatched eyes widen and glaze over with pain.
“We’re going to do some X-rays—”
“What is ‘X-rays’?”
She looks at me strangely, as if I should know this word. “A picture of his bones.”
I startle. “No, you can’t kill him!”
“I won’t,” she assures me. “The X-ray will show us which bones are broken, and it’ll determine whether I can help him or not.”
“Can you make him stop hurting?” I ask warily.
“We’ll give him something for the pain,” she says. “Stay here. This may take a while.”
The countless minutes I spend alone in that little room are the longest of my life. I wring my hands. I pace. I stand near the door, listening for squawks.
Footsteps come and go. Dogs bark. Cats meow.
No squawks.
Huginn is going to die. Maybe he’s already dead.
Why am I more concerned for his life than what’s inside his belly?
Why is this taking so long?
WHAT THE HEL IS HAPPENING TO MY CHICKEN?
An eternity later, the door opens slowly, and the doctor enters, her face grim. My heart clogs my throat. Tears well.
She sets a folder down on the metal table and removes a black picture with white markings on it. She tacks the image to a lighted plane on the wall. “This is the X-ray of Huginn’s organs.” She points to a bright white spot that looks like a bird with its wings splayed to either side. “This is the pendant we pulled out of him. Did you realize he’d eaten it?”
I feign surprise, though it’s not hard. Who knew one could take pictures of the inside of an animal in this way?
“I lost the raven the other day. He must’ve gotten it when I wasn’t looking.”
“Well, be glad you did lose it. It saved his life.” She dips a hand in her white jacket pocket, holds up Gunnar Magnusson’s raven pendant, and deposits it in my palm.
Hope erupts from my chest in a fresh surge of tears—happy ones this time. “What? How?” I choke.
“When Huginn hit your windshield, a couple bones broke in his chest. One of them would have impaled him straight through to the other side if the pendant hadn’t stopped it. As soon as I saw the X-ray, I did emergency surgery. He was bleeding internally. If I’d let him go another ten minutes, he wouldn’t have made it.”
“So, he’s not dead, then?” I ask hopefully.
“Not dead,” she confirms.
Raw, wracking sobs tumble out of my mouth as I mumble my thanks over and over.
“But he’s still in danger. The next twenty-four hours will determine whether he lives. Like I said, he lost a lot of blood, and we don’t exactly have an excess of chicken blood lying around here to give him a transfusion.”
I blink the tears away. “What does that mean?”
“We need to keep him for observation overnight. We’re an emergency facility, so he’ll receive round-the-clock care.”
“But I have to go to Atlanta,” I say. “I need to be there tomorrow. It’s very important.”
“If you want Huginn to live, he must stay here. He can’t travel until he’s stronger.”
“How long will that take?”
“A couple days.”
Odin and Laguz
will be long gone by then. I have to make a decision. Leave Huginn here to heal and travel to Atlanta without him, or let Odin and my runes go and hope I can catch up with them another time.
Mortality weighs on me like a polar bear’s hot breath against my nape.
Meeting the doctor’s eyes, I remove the empty leather thong from my neck and reattach the raven pendant to it. Then I hold out the necklace pooled in my palm. “He stays. But keep this close to him. Out of pecking distance, of course.”
She starts to object, but I cut her off.
“It’s for luck. He needs all he can get.”
The doctor nods.
I hope Gunnar Magnusson’s gift of hamingja is strong enough to keep Huginn alive.
Chapter Eighteen
Freddie meets me in the lobby of the hospital. This place is grand in an understated way. It’s furnished with high-reaching columns of white, and unobtrusive blue furniture scattered in clusters. Dozens of people mill about.
“How is Gunnar Magnusson?” I ask.
“How’s Huginn?” he asks at the same time. Then, “You first.”
“He’s better but not fixed. The veterinarian says he needs to stay a couple days. Your turn.”
“Gunnar is okay. They stitched up his cuts. Speaking of”—he reaches for my forehead—“you should have them take a look at yours. You might need stitches too.”
I bat his hand away. “I’m fine. When can Gunnar Magnusson go?”
“They want to keep him overnight for observation,” he says, “but he told them he’s leaving. The bastard’s just as stubborn as you are.”
I nod. A few cuts shouldn’t impede men such as us. He’s strong. He’ll be all right, just as I will.
“Take me to him,” I say.
Freddie leads me through a door that empties us into another lobby, this one littered with people in various states of disarray. Moans emanate from the corners. One woman clutches her stomach, her face in a permanent scowl. A man holds a bloodied rag against his neck. Another lady cradles a sleeping child with bright red cheeks.