Runed

by Kendall Grey

  “We do,” I agree. “Finish your story, Gunnar Magnusson. How did you spring me from jail?”

  “Freddie called in some favors to secure this van, our fake IDs, and other logistical stuff,” he explains. “He may be a party boy, but Freddie gets things done. You’ll be pleased to know he also bought us tickets for the masquerade ball at the Asgard Awakening convention tonight. You should probably thank him.”

  I laugh at his jab. “I certainly will. And thank you, Gunnar Magnusson. Without you, I’d never have gotten this far.”

  I swoon a little at his slight blush. The man is about as perfect as a man can be.

  “It’s not over yet,” he says. “We still have to find the rune and sneak it out. There’s sure to be security out the wazoo tonight. Stealing Laguz won’t be easy, but I think we can handle it with a lot of ingenuity and a little bit of luck.”

  Gunnar Magnusson opens his hand. In the center of his palm lies the necklace with the bird on it. The same bird that helped me stow away on a plane from Iceland to America. The bird that brought me back to Gunnar Magnusson. The bird that saved Huginn’s life.

  Without a doubt, this gift of hamingja will provide all the luck I’ll need to find my rune.

  I tentatively pick up the leather thong and dangle it from my finger, admiring the sculptor’s handiwork. I never looked at the raven that closely before, but now I can see this is no modern pendant. Someone from my time made this, I’ll wager. The ironwork is detailed, but not consistent with styles I’ve seen on modern jewelry. Different tools, different materials.

  “Where did you get it?” I ask.

  Gunnar Magnusson shrugs. “It was passed down from my father’s side of the family. Been in his clan for generations.”

  I hold it out to him. “You should have it. This memento must remain with you and your blood.”

  “Yes, it should,” he agrees, “but I’m loaning it to you. You’ll give it back when you don’t need it anymore.”

  He seems so confident. If he knew what—who—I really am, he wouldn’t be so quick to let me borrow it.

  Or maybe he knows me better than I know myself.

  In many ways, I have turned out to be quite the “wuss,” as these modern Midgardians say. Abandoning my trickster life to fit into the twenty-first century. Adopting a girly mindset to match my newfound girly figure. Flirting with every handsome man that crosses my path.

  I blame hormones and a dearth of runes.

  Old Loki would be so disappointed.

  But this is new Loki.

  When Gunnar Magnusson first found me in the snow, he said our souls didn’t care what clothes we wear. At the time, I blew him off, but on reflection, I realize he was right.

  I’m still Loki whether I have great boobs and a fine arse or a red beard and skinny man jeans. Female hormones may have softened some parts of me, but they don’t make me any different at my core. And who’s to say new Loki can’t use her body to her advantage? After all, isn’t that what old Loki would’ve done to get what he wanted?

  The Universe follows certain edicts. To get something, you have to give something. Give an angry giantess your body, get a triumvirate of monstrous kids that bring down the entire world. Give away your penis and testicles, get breasts and a vagina. Give a little blood, sweat, and tragedy, get back your immortality.

  I used to have to work hard for my hustles, tricking people, lying constantly, sneaking around behind everyone’s backs. Plotting, plotting, plotting. Now I can shake my boobs, and magically, things go in my favor.

  This body isn’t a curse. It’s a gods-damn blessing.

  I swing the necklace up and over my head. The raven pendant rests flat against my chest, just above my awesome breasts. “After tonight, I won’t need this anymore,” I tell Gunnar Magnusson.

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself,” he replies. “Should I be afraid?”

  I smile. “When Loki has a plan, you should always be afraid.”

  “You don’t scare me,” he says.

  “Thank you, Gunnar Magnusson,” I say, thumbing his thick beard. “You went out of your way to help me—a total stranger. You put your own life on hold for mine. How can I repay you?”

  A mischievous grin crinkles the corners of his stunning blue eyes.

  My uterus jumps to attention and executes a flip.

  “Save me a dance at the masquerade ball tonight,” he says.

  I was hoping for a more expensive payment than dancing, but I shan’t complain. Vertical dancing can easily lead to the horizontal variety.

  “Freddie got us costumes,” Gunnar Magnusson continues. “I hope you’re okay with yours.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He looks away with a guilty shrug.

  The driver’s side door opens, disrupting my curiosity, and Freddie hops in. He turns and grins at me and Huginn. “I can’t believe they fell for it. Who’s ready to party?”

  “Me!” I shout.

  “Me,” Gunnar Magnusson chimes.

  SQUARK! Huginn squawks.

  Freddie shoves his key into the ignition and turns it. “Strap in, kids. The Asgard Awakening convention is about to get woke!”

  With a full tank of gas, tickets to the event, and a box full of mystery costumes, we fly out of the parking lot toward my destiny.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When we arrive at the massive hotel in downtown Atlanta, I stand near the steps, facing east. I sense Laguz’s power. This is the closest I’ve felt to it since I woke up in Iceland. The thrum in the left side of my pelvis at the spot from which the bone was stripped centuries ago by my mother Laufey pulses steadily. Waiting.

  The bone wants to come home, but Odin, wherever he is, holds it back.

  Not for long, I promise Laguz.

  “I’ll go check us in,” Freddie says, heading inside. It’s hard not to laugh at him shaking his arse in a tight if frumpy strap dress and cloak, a style made popular by the women from my time, while dragging my skull suitcase behind him.

  I’ll give it to modern Midgardians. Today’s clothes are so much more attractive than those of my generation. They accentuate the body by either bringing out its best qualities or covering up the worst ones with glittery fabrics, rhinestone gems, and high-heeled boots. Though, in our defense, the people from the early 800s Iceland needed a lot more warmth than modern Atlantans in spring. We were utilitarian by necessity back then. Today, with heaters in winter and air conditioning in summer, it’s all about the fashion.

  I love America.

  Gunnar Magnusson has made a point of avoiding my outfit ever since I donned it in the back of the van. I’ve avoided his too, but probably not for the same reasons. Much as I hate the costume, I have to admit, he wears it better than the original did.

  “So, my lord Thor,” I spit the name, “do you reckon they have food inside? I’m starving.”

  My stomach rumbles as if to underscore the urgency of my need to feed. I set Huginn down on the ground and rub my bare belly. The bird wanders around, pecking the occasional ant.

  “I’m sure they do, Lady Sif,” he says, clutching his hammer tighter.

  Sif. Bleh. Fair-haired little bitch who got me in trouble when I cut off her precious locks. It wasn’t like she needed them, the vain woman. And she should have thanked me. She got even better hair made of real gold because of me. You’re welcome, Sif. Wherever you are.

  Plumping my blond curls, I ask Gunnar Magnusson, “Why won’t you look at me?” I know why he won’t. I just want to hear him say it. I plan to enjoy the red that’s sure to flood his cheeks when he does.

  He turns to me, slowly. Painfully. I can practically hear the screech of protesting rust in his neck bones as he does. His eyes—along with those of every other man and a few women standing outside with us—fall on my mostly exposed skin and slip over it like it’s coated with oil.

  A grunt escapes his lips, and he looks away quickly.

  I thwack his arm. “What?”

 
“Nothing.”

  “You could’ve picked a different costume,” I remind him.

  “It was Freddie’s idea,” he says. “Besides, you wouldn’t want anyone to recognize you as Loki, would you?”

  He and I both know damn well he doesn’t believe I’m the god Loki. Whacked-out mentally wobbly modern Loki, sure. But not the real deal.

  He’s humoring me like he always does. One day—maybe even today—I’ll prove him wrong. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I do.

  Harrumphing back at him, I wind through the crowd to assess whether my foe is among the costumed.

  People dressed as Asgardians from the television show pack the street, going into and out of the hotel. Groups of men and women loiter outside, puffing cigarettes in the “smoking area.” Plumes of foul-smelling fog billow upward. Some of them argue about their favorite episodes of Asgard Awakening, others compliment costumes, and a few sit alone, watching as outsiders.

  I can empathize with the last lot, having spent much of my time among the Æsir on the outside looking in too.

  I wander over to them, garnering attention from several men. Their eyes follow me. They whisper under their breaths about the swing of my arse and the heaviness of my breasts. I ignore them and plant myself on the ledge with the other “rejects.”

  “Hello,” I say to a younger girl with a boy’s haircut.

  “Hi,” she says shyly.

  “I like your Loki costume,” I lie.

  The outfit is actually painful to look at with its blinding golden tunic, obnoxiously tight breeches, and the ridiculous horned helmet. We Vikings had helmets but never with horns. Horns were used for drinking. I’ve no idea where this dumb trend came from. But the costume is perfectly aligned with Loki’s portrayal on the show. I can’t fault this poor girl for someone else’s erroneous fashion choices. She’s only wearing what her hero wears.

  “Is he your favorite?” I ask.

  She nods, and part of me dies inside at the thought of her loving a character who’s not remotely based on the truth. I’ll assume the girl has enough of a brain to have done her research, in which case, I’ll forgive her for appreciating actor Damien Drakkar’s slapstick rendition of me.

  “Wanna know a secret?” I say, leaning over.

  “Okay.”

  “Loki’s favorite color isn’t gold. It’s black. The deepest, darkest black of Hel. Blacker than his own soul. Loki loves black.”

  A small smile cracks her lips. “Me too.”

  I lift a hand up high, and she slaps it.

  “Loki also loves to trick people, which is why he’s wearing this stupid Sif disguise,” I mumble, catching Gunnar Magnusson watching me from the hotel entrance. “Do me a favor?”

  The girl looks up.

  “If you see me running out of this place later like my arse is on fire, trip whoever’s chasing me. It’s what Loki would do.” I slap her hand again and wander over to Gunnar Magnusson amid a stream of increasingly bold whistles.

  “Who was that?” Gunnar Magnusson asks, blocking the men’s view of me.

  “Nobody,” I say.

  A tingle squirms at the base of my spine, wiggling its way through female organs to the front and landing firmly on the spot where my mother cut me open shortly after my birth, removed the chip of bone from my pelvis, and set her mark upon it.

  Laguz knows I’m here. It’s trying to find me, sending out distress calls I read loud and clear. Just a matter of honing my search radius.

  “I need to go inside,” I say, scooping Huginn up and tucking him gently under my arm.

  “Odin’s here,” Huginn says. “I can feel him. He’s trying to gain access to my sight.”

  “Keep your eyes closed,” I murmur and start inside the magnificent hotel.

  A man in a uniform holds out a hand to stop me. “You can’t bring a chicken in here.”

  I lay a hand on my hip, hoping to draw his attention down to the grandeur of my outfit. It’s amazing that a dress with so little fabric can look so good. Yeah, this body’s definitely gonna be way more fun than the old one.

  “Why not?” I ask, flapping my lashes at him and yanking my shoulders back.

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he falls prey to my charms. “Because it’s a health issue. We can’t have poultry running around in there. What if it defecates on the floor? What if it has salmonella?”

  Gunnar Magnusson steps up, exerting dominance with his mere size. I’ll grudgingly admit the Thor costume with its resplendent gold greaves, royal blue cape, massive codpiece, and intimidating helmet helps. “It’s her emotional support animal,” he explains. “Under the Americans with Disabilities Act, she has the right to bring him inside.”

  I don’t know what “emotional support animal” means, but I have a pretty good idea. I play along and pet Huginn’s head. “He’s trained, thank you. You won’t shite anywhere, will you, Huginn?”

  SQUARK!

  I smile at the man. “See? He’s a good boy.”

  I push past him in a swirl of gold lamé and falling chicken feathers.

  Behind me, Gunnar Magnusson laughs. “I can’t believe he bought the line about the ADA.”

  “I must be rubbing off on you,” I say as we traipse into the hotel lobby. That gets a blush out of him.

  The huge reception area is decorated with the biggest, most intricate light fixtures I’ve ever seen. And I lived in Asgard. Thousands of tinkling crystalline charms dangle in a collective teardrop shape from the ceiling. The lights woven between the strands amplify their reflectiveness on a grand scale. The effect is pure magic.

  The carpet is an immaculate red, fit for a god like me. Dozens of oversized chairs occupied by people sipping from paper coffee cups and drinking horns scatter around the room. I feel like I’m walking into a modern version of Valhalla, except the only heroes here are the smatterings of dudes holding out chairs for their dates.

  Freddie trots up to us. “There you are.”

  He and Gunnar Magnusson execute their elaborate hand-slap ritual. Freddie grabs my wrist and fastens a plastic bracelet around it. Then he does the same for Gunnar Magnusson. “This will get you into the costume contest. That’s where the Asgard Awakening exhibit is.”

  “Let’s go,” I say, brushing the faint scar on my hip as another jolt of recognition delivers a little zap. I sense Laguz like the pull of a powerful magnet, drawing me closer.

  “It’s over—” Freddie says, but he doesn’t need to give directions. I’m already heading the right way. “Here.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stiffen as I approach the door to an alcove off the lobby. When I see who’s standing there, I understand why.

  “You,” I seethe.

  From either side of me, Gunnar Magnusson and Freddie exchange curious looks.

  Huginn flaps his wings fitfully.

  Checking wristbands at the door, the mechanic with the golden eyes who repaired Freddie’s car stands tall and stoic. The oil stains on his fingers are gone and he’s no longer dressed in grungy clothes. He’s dressed as Heimdall. The god who killed me.

  “Shocking that you would choose such a blatantly obvious costume,” I comment. “You never did have an ounce of creativity.”

  The man bristles at the slur, shifting weight between his fur-skin boots. “Loki.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s body tenses protectively beside me. “How the hell—”

  I hold up a hand to quiet him. “You know why I’m here. Where’s Laguz?”

  The instant I say the rune’s name, I sense it trembling beyond the door. Not only that, but in this moment of connection to the part of me that I lost, its energy wakes up and slithers toward me.

  I may have neglected to tell you this, but Laguz is the rune that lends me the power of persuasion, among other things. It’s my intuition. The source of my seduction, charm, and best of all, manipulation. If you thought I was a badass before, wait till you see what this broken god can do when he’s made whole.

&nb
sp; But I’m getting ahead of myself. I won’t be whole until I have all four runes in my possession. And unfortunately, I’m not sensing the other three anywhere near here. Disappointing, but not insurmountable.

  In more upbeat news, I see at least three more “road trips” in my immediate future, so it’s not a complete loss.

  Laguz’s power approaches me like a knowing smile, a plot twist you never see coming. As it eases closer and closer, I’m careful to keep the growing energy thrilling and feeding my blood under wraps. If Heimdall notices anything amiss, I’ll lose the element of surprise.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Trickster,” Heimdall says, turning his weird eyes away, staring off into a distance I cannot perceive.

  “You’re a terrible liar. But have it your way.” I gesture to my friends. “We’re here for the costume contest. Freddie thinks he has a shot at winning with his authentic portrayal of Viking women. What say you?”

  Heimdall refuses to grace any of us with his eyes. He just says, “No chickens are allowed in this building.”

  I clutch Huginn a little tighter as he squawks an angry protest. “He’s my emotional support bird. I’m disabled.”

  Huginn lifts a foot, flashing his middle talon at Heimdall and opening his beak in a taunting grin. “Americans with Disabilities Act, bitch.”

  “If you’re American or disabled, I’m boiled goat liver,” Heimdall says.

  “If the liver fits,” I shoot back. And then, I lean close to his ear. “And the boiled part will come soon enough. Payback for Ragnarok.”

  His lips bow upward in a satisfied half grin. “I look forward to our rematch. But you’re not going in.”

  “I have a right to be here. I paid for my ticket like everyone else.”

  “Exhibition hall is closed until six o’clock.”

  “Then, why not have our rematch now?” I challenge. “An empty hall seems like the perfect venue. Come on, Heimdall. For old times’ sake.”

  “Loki,” Gunnar Magnusson warns beside me.

  I hold up a hand to quiet him. “I got this.”

  Heimdall’s gold eyes go distant again. Communicating with Allfather, perhaps? No matter. I’ll take his arse down with or without Odin’s blessing. I have a serious anger management problem where Heimdall is concerned.