“So you took them.” It sounds so tawdry when Sigmund says it, but I nod. His eyes go wide suddenly, and he falls down onto the neat white leather sofa. It’s been that sort of a day. “Hale. Cameron Hale.”
I nod again. Australia had seemed so far away to me, then. So perfect. So I’d cowered in this dark corner of the world, carving out my own niche, surrounding myself in the wards and leys I’d need to keep hidden from Ásgarðr’s roaming eyes.
“I had to do something with myself when I got here,” I say. “Turns out, I’m excellent at capitalism. Go figure.”
Now it’s Sigmund’s turn to nod, looking down at his ash-smudged hands as if he’s never seen them before. “What I don’t understand,” he says, “is why me? Why choose me? Why even tell me all of this? Surely you don’t have to, right? I mean, you could just, like, wipe my mind or something with magic god powers or whatever?” He looks up, wild eyed, as if the thought only just occurred to him and he’s still digesting its implications.
“Because you’re her,” I tell him. It seems as good an opening as any. “I don’t know how or why, but I can feel it. You’re Sigyn.”
Sigmund goes still at that. I’m not sure what response I was hoping for, but it occurs to me that this probably isn’t going to be it. Too fucking late now, I guess.
“You’ve been hanging out with me because you think I’m your dead wife?” he says, and I take an ill-advised step forward at the tone.
“Sig—”
“No!” he says, standing up. “No, come on man. Give me a— Fuck! Of all the…I thought it was about me!” He laughs, but it’s a broken sort of sound. “How fucking stupid was that? I thought…Fuck, what does it even matter what I fucking thought!”
He’s angry, bright-dark and flaring. I have no idea why, and, after everything else that’s happened, for some reason this is the thing that scares me. This isn’t supposed to happen. Sigyn is supposed to help when the bad shit goes down, not get angry.
“Sig,” I say. I reach out to touch him, but he jerks away.
“Don’t! Just…just don’t. Fuck. I can’t fucking believe—” There are tears in his eyes, and he blinks them away. “Fuck you,” he finally declares.
Then he runs.
“Sigmund!” I’m halfway across the room and halfway through the word when the bathroom door slams. The stark and trendy chrome clock on the wall reads 1:37 a.m.
This was not, in retrospect, how I was planning on spending my Saturday. My fingers itch for a cigarette, but Nic will kill me if I set the detectors off. So I sigh, curse Baldr and the universe, and walk over to the closed bathroom door. I could open it, I suppose, except I don’t. I’m a coward at heart, and I never was very good at this sort of thing.
Instead, I stand in the sterile gulf of a display home I call my penthouse, lean my head against the bathroom door, and listen to Sigmund cry himself to sleep.
BALDR
[A]xe-age, sword-age,
shields cloven,
wind-age, wolf-age,
ere the world falls;
no man will
spare another.
—“Völuspá,” stanza 45
ELEVEN
Considering Sigmund spent the night sleeping in a bathtub, Saturday morning wasn’t as horrible as it could have been.
Someone had brought him blankets.
Blankets and pillows, in fact. They looked stripped straight off the bed outside and were cocooned around him. It was comfortable, despite the porcelain beneath, and Sigmund didn’t want to get up.
He had a killer headache.
It felt like a hangover, but at least that would’ve been kinda manly. Not like crying himself to sleep in his
(husband’s)
boyfriend’s bathtub. That was just embarrassing. Sigmund wondered, if he concentrated hard enough, if he could manage to sink through the tiles and die.
Five minutes later he had to admit that plan just wasn’t working. So he poked his head out from under the covers, blinking at the blur beyond. The bathroom was still a bathroom. All expensive stone and meticulous gleaming fixtures. Frosted-glass windows ran around the tops of the walls, and by the light it looked to be fast approaching lunchtime on a blinding summer’s day.
Sigmund’s glasses were waiting within arm’s reach on the counter. He didn’t remember taking them off. He certainly didn’t remember leaving them on top of a pile of clean clothes from his drawer at home. It must’ve been a miracle.
There seemed to be a lot of those going around, lately.
In the mirror, the same mud brown eyes blinked at him from underneath the same tousled, nothing-colored hair. He had stubble, and acne, and the beginnings of what was going to grow into a prodigious double chin, given a decade or so. He didn’t look like a boy who’d spent last night watching gods fight in the parking lot of Torr Mall.
He certainly didn’t look like a goddess. Not even the one he’d dreamed about. The one with hair like matted straw and the dark, nearly mono brow. The one who’d glared at him like ice. The one he’d failed.
“Fuck you,” he said, but the only thing in the bathroom to hear him was his reflection.
His clothes were wrecked. Covered in ash and holes from where that…stuff had leaked out of the thing he’d once thought was Lain. His ankle ached from where he’d twisted it coming down onto the roof…
(we were flying!)
…and the grazes on his palms and knees stung. Plus, his shoulder hurt again. He wondered if this was what his life was going to be like from now on. He wondered if he was okay with that or not.
He was dating a god. A god who was apparently convinced that Sigmund was the reincarnation of his dead wife. Or…something. He’d been a bit vague on the details.
A god that Sigmund had yelled at. A god who’d brought him blankets and a fresh change of clothes in the night, because (a-har) gods forbid Sigmund to be uncomfortable sleeping in a bathtub.
Jesus.
Bereft of a coherent plan of action, Sigmund decided to have a shower.
It was a bloody awesome shower. Showerheads everywhere, and Sigmund turned the water up hot and hard and just stood there, trying not to think. There was an alcove of expensive-looking soaps and lotions at eye level, so Sigmund used them, and then he finally dragged himself from the shower’s comforting spray, smelling like one of the New Age crystal shops Em used to drag him to before ditching paganism for skeptical atheism.
He wondered what she’d make of last night.
Fancy wifi scales in the corner of the room informed him he was still fat. A search through the medicine cabinet revealed a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a razor, all neatly packaged up and waiting to be used. By the time Sigmund had cleaned his teeth, shaved, dressed, and spent a minute trying to tame down his hair, he had to admit he was running out of reasons to procrastinate.
He could hear someone moving around outside. Not close or impatient, just normal walking around this-is-my-house-thank-you-very-much sort of sounds. He wondered who he’d open the door to.
It turned out to be Lain. He was standing in the kitchen, dressed in a black tank top and loose lounge pants, all broad shoulders and slim waist. Movie-star beautiful, effortless in that five-hours-with-the-stylist sort of way. Sigmund tried not to notice, failed, then wondered whether Lain was doing it on purpose or he really just always looked like that. Maybe it was a god thing.
The whole penthouse smelled of hotcakes.
Lain looked up when Sigmund walked over and gave a brilliant, if slightly hesitant, smile. He really did have very sharp teeth. Inhumanly sharp.
“I made hotcakes,” he announced when Sigmund sat down on the other side of the breakfast island. Sigmund thought the claim was probably an understatement. The counter was covered with containers of honey, whipped butter, caramel glaze, and a variety of fruits. Lain was assembling everything into café-style stacks, finished off with a dusting of powdered sugar because of course he’d be a Michelin-star chef as well as a CEO, outd
oorsman, filthy rich, ridiculously attractive, a god, and whatever the hell else he was.
Still. He’d made hotcakes.
“I love hotcakes,” Sigmund said, trying not to wince at the flatness in his voice.
“I know.”
Sigmund didn’t bother asking how, instead just watching Lain arrange their breakfast. Or, well, brunch, if the clock on the wall was anything to go by.
It occurred to Sigmund that he’d never actually seen Lain’s arms before; they’d always been hidden under long sleeves and jackets. The mass of scars crisscrossing freckled skin probably explained why, not to mention the tattoos or…whatever they were that wrapped around Lain’s biceps. The ink was black today, not the near-iridescent white of last night, the pattern made of scrolling knot work and runes. Looking at it too long made Sigmund’s eyes hurt, so he looked at Lain’s hands instead. There were bandages across the knuckles.
“How are you feeling?”
Lain looked up at him, confused, and Sigmund gestured to the bandages. The ones complementing Lain’s split lip, abrasions, and masses of purple-green bruises. Lain looked, Sigmund thought, like Bruce Willis at the end of a Die Hard film. All he needed to complete the cosplay was less hair and a Band-Aid somewhere on his face.
Lain glanced down and did something Sigmund almost thought could be a blush. “Oh. Um, the blood is, um, poisonous. As well as, uh, caustic. So I didn’t want to, like, bleed in the food?” It was part question, part apology. “I was really careful!”
“I trust you,” Sigmund said. For a second, Lain blinked, as if the notion was novel and foreign, and maybe it was. “I’m not angry at you anymore,” Sigmund continued, because it seemed like an appropriate time. Lain almost looked relieved, so Sigmund added, “Because there’s no point, is there? I mean, getting angry at you—of all people—for thinking up some shitty romcom con is like getting angry at fire for being hot.”
Lain winced. “Ouch. Touché.”
So maybe Sigmund was still a bit angry. He’d get over it, probably right after he figured out why, exactly, he’d been so mad in the first place.
Lain finished dusting on the sugar and presented the plate to Sigmund with a flourish and a “Ta-dah!” Sigmund gave him a smile for his efforts, and Lain returned it. He was still watching Sigmund, keeping his movements small and nonthreatening, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. For a god in his own temple, it was sort of sad.
Sigmund ate a bite of hotcake. Then, “These are…really good.”
Lain gave one of his toothy grins at the praise, then started eating from his own plate.
As it turned out, Sigmund was ravenous. He tore through the stack, making himself slow down only on the last hotcake out of embarrassment. Then again, with the way Lain ate, he wasn’t in a position to judge.
“So, how much trouble are you in, exactly?” Sigmund asked, if only to slow down his eating. Besides, he should probably know the answer. He had the feeling that Lain’s kind of trouble was contagious.
Lain gave a look, as if in agreement with this unspoken assessment. “Exactly? On a scale of one to ten? Eleven or twelvish, I think.”
“Awesome.” The irony there was practically rusting. “And me?”
Lain opened his mouth, then closed it again and seemed to reconsider.
“Incidentally, I can tell when you lie.”
“Ah.” Lain seemed relieved at that. Like an alcoholic nursing a soda, watching with bitter satisfaction as the last of his friends’ glasses emptied. “Yeah. I suppose you can.” A long pause, then, “You have to understand, Baldr is the Good Guy. He wants me dead, because I’m the villain, and killing the villain is what the Good Guys do. Ásgarðr”—Lain said it with all the umlauts, his real accent coming through—“will never be restored so long as I’m alive.”
Sigmund tried to convey his incredulity in his expression. “Do you believe that?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is the Wyrd. Fate. It’s off-kilter, it’s been off-kilter since everything went wrong at Ragnarøkkr—”
“Since your wife screwed it up by saving you, you mean?”
“Yeah. And you’ll have to forgive me if I fail to get too cut up about that fact.”
“I take it Captain Aryan Nation doesn’t share your sentiments?”
“Something like that.” Lain gave the edge of a fang-tipped smirk.
“So I’m back to my original question,” Sigmund said. “Am I in danger?” A horrifying thought struck him. “Ohmigod, Dad.”
“Your dad is fine.” Lain’s brows furrowed, his hands raised as if in warding. “You’re maybe fair game, because of Sigyn’s involvement in the war. But going after your dad would be níð. Shameful. Something the Bad Guys would do.”
“ ‘Bad Guys’ like you?”
“Now you’re catching on.” Lain’s grin split open. It was sharp and unpleasant, and his eyes burned poison green, even against the bright light of the penthouse.
It was hard to meet that gaze, so Sigmund didn’t, pushing the last of the crumbs around his plate instead. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
He half expected some convoluted plan, some twisting mess of cons and traps and blinds. Break-ins and montages and at least one set of big red numbers, ticking down the time. But, in the end, all Lain said was, “I’m going to kill Baldr.” He sounded resolved, though it lasted only a moment. “Admittedly, that might be easier said than done.” When Sigmund looked up, Lain was frowning.
“I sense this is a long story.”
“You sense correctly. The short of it is that things don’t injure the coddled bastard. Wood, metals, stone, diseases: They gave a promise, years ago.”
Sigmund was dubious. “How does wood give a promise?” He got the feeling the answer was going to be something inane, like, MAGIC!!!, so he added, “Besides, you seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it last night.” Or, well, earlier this morning.
“Well, obviously I never promised anyone anything. Jesus, I couldn’t stand the snot-nosed little kid. Fucking golden-haired wunderkind.”
Sigmund didn’t doubt it. He knew the type. Most of them worked in Sales. “So can’t you just, like, I dunno, rip out his heart with your claws or something?” Which, okay, was totally not a cool thing to say, but the whole day was just so surreal. Heart ripping was totally fine. It would be, like, self-defense and everything.
Sigmund wondered when he’d started running on video game logic. He figured this was the sort of thing lobbyists warned about.
Lain didn’t look particularly impressed either. “It’s a bit uncivilized,” he said, as if this was some major deciding factor. Hell, maybe it was.
“So, what happens now?”
The question earned him a huff of breath and a scowl, not quite directed his way. “Now I figure out what the alternative to hiding is when running’s out of the question. Pandemonium is my city. I’m strong here, and Baldr knows it. That limits his options. But luring me out somehow, getting me onto his turf instead…” Lain ran his hand across his lips, across the scars. “That’s what I’d do, in his place.”
“Great. That’s doing a lot to bolster my confidence in my safety, just FYI.” Sigmund’s enthusiasm for ending up In Another Castle was at an all-time low. If that was the price of dating a god, he wasn’t sure he’d be prepared to pay it.
But Lain just waved his hand. “That’s níð again.” Then, after a moment, “Er. I think.”
“You think?” Sigmund was still a bit unclear on what that word was, exactly. It sounded a bit like neath, but he could practically hear the italics.
“Look, it’s been a while since I’ve done this sort of thing, and I never was very good at it to start with.” Lain was agitated, gesticulating with his fork in one hand and drumming his fingernails on the countertop with the other. Although, fingernails might not have been a strong enough word. They were a dark, reddish brown today and almost looked like claws. It occurred to Sigmund that maybe Lain
was less human that he had been previously. Maybe more of the shape from last night was bleeding through. Maybe Sigmund was noticing it only now.
He must have been quiet for a while, because when Lain spoke again his voice was softer.
“I know this is a lot to dump on you all at once. Believe me when I say I didn’t plan things being quite this…full on.”
Suddenly, the countertop was the most fascinating thing in the room; expensive reconstituted stone, thickly cut and tastefully off-white. No chips, no marks. Perfect. The Kitchen Counter of the Gods. “When were you planning on telling me, then? Before you’d fucked me, or after?” Full on was an understatement.
But Lain laughed. “Is that what you’re worried about? Sig, if I’d just wanted to fuck you, I would’ve done it as Travis.”
Sigmund looked up, Lain’s expression hovering somewhere between fond and perplexed. It was terrifying, that expression. It promised things.
“Then what do you want?”
Lain shrugged. “At first? Satisfy my curiosity.” He was doing honesty again. Sigmund wasn’t sure he liked it. “Then, attempt to repay a blood debt. Now, I want to play Dungeons and Dragons and cook hotcakes.”
That was almost saccharine, but it was true and probably one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to Sigmund. One of the nicest things anyone had bothered to try saying to him.
“I think I’m just, like, in shock or something,” he said, eyes dropping to the countertop again. “I’m sure in a few days I’ll think this is just about the coolest thing ever.” He tried a smile, then stood and collected up their empty plates. “What should I do with…?”
Lain’s eyebrows hiked, then furrowed, as if cleaning up his own dishes was something unusual. Maybe it was. Maybe he was rich enough to have people who came in and did that stuff for him. Maybe being a god meant never having to do housework.
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