I looked her up and down and said, “We’re going to need two spoons.”
“You think?”
“Totally. Cake loves company.”
That made her laugh. “It does?”
“Oh yes. Especially cherry coconut cake. Which, apart from jam tarts, just happens to be my favourite.”
The cherry cake turned out to be everything I’d hoped for. Margaret—Meg, to her friends—soon lost her earlier shyness. She told me she lived in White City—that’s a housing estate in Malbry. She had two sisters and a cat, liked cooking and listening to music, had left school two years earlier, and worked part-time in a bakery.
“I know. A bakery,” she said.
This may be my ideal woman, I thought.
I also learned that she liked to dance, and that there was a club nearby, where she sometimes liked to hang out. “Do you like dancing?” said Margaret.
“Sure,” I said.
Well, to be honest, I had no idea if I liked it or not. But if Meg liked it, I was game. I mean, I had no idea of what kind of dancing people did in this world, or whether I’d be any good, but I’ve always been a quick learner.
She laughed. “Oh, you don’t have to be good. You just have to feel it.”
“I could try.”
“Maybe I could teach you,” she said. “It’s one thing I know how to do.” She told me the name of the club: The Blaze. I made a note of the address.
“It’s a date,” I told her, and smiled.
Like I said. Cake opens doors.
9.
Over the last hour or so I’d been aware of an odd, intermittent buzzing sound. I finally tracked the source of the sound to Jumps’s phone, which I had forgotten was in the back pocket of my jeans. I pulled it out. There were several messages, most of them from Evan.
Jumps. Are you OK? Meet you at the gate at 4. E.
Jumps. Where did you go? Give me a call when you get this. E.
Jumps. I’m serious. Call me. E.
Josephine. Where are you? Mr. Matthews was on the phone. He says you left early. What happened? Also, I hope you haven’t forgotten that we’re due to meet Grandma at the restaurant at 7:00 tonight. Please don’t be late. You know what she’s like. Love, Mum.
The last one was from 5:45, which I saw was more than an hour ago. Not that the time concerned me much, but I sensed that it mattered to Jumps, as did many other irrelevant things, such as dress, hair, school, exams, and turning up late to dinner. I searched the inner directory under EATING OUT, and found multiple references to a restaurant called the Jade Pagoda, beloved of Jumps’s mother because of its relative cheapness, and by Jumps, because of the fact that the food comes in a multitude of tiny dishes and bowls that make it easier to conceal the fact that she barely eats anything. I searched Jumps’s mind, first for my host, and then, when she failed to emerge, for the address of the Jade Pagoda.
I arrived at seven fifteen and, after a quick glance at the Book of Faces, found Jumps’s parents and grandmother sitting at table between a potted palm and a rather bad picture in bas-relief of a tea house by a lake.
“Er, hi. Sorry I’m late.”
I was feeling a little nervous. If anyone was likely to spot the fact that Jumps was not entirely herself, it would surely be her loved ones. Jumps’s mother: a wholesome blonde; her father: a fat bald man in a suit; and her grandmother: an imperious-looking old lady with fluffy white hair and snapping black eyes, all stared at me as if I were a dancing weasel, inadvertently brought to them in lieu of a dish of chicken chow mein.
“Josephine!” said the mother. “Your hair!”
Filed under Mother: Grace Mitchell. Age: 42. Spouse to Brian Mitchell. Profession: dietician. Favourite colour: teal. Favourite film: Dangerous Liaisons. Likes: fashion, sushi, shopping, Chablis. Dislikes: being surprised or wrong-footed, especially by her daughter.
“Cool, huh?” I sat down. There was a bottle of wine nearby; I helped myself to a large glass. The grandmother gave a throaty laugh, but no one else said anything. “I thought I could use a change. Hey, have you ordered? I’m starving.”
The mother gave me a look that conveyed both disapproval and warning. “Well, you’re here now,” she said, showing teeth. “I’m sure Grandma would love to hear all about your day.”
Grandma. Widow. Age unknown. Possibly the only person to intimidate Mrs. Mitchell. Likes: wrong-footing people, disobeying her doctor.
I shrugged. “Well, Grandma, I flunked my exam, walked out of school, stole some stuff from a corner shop, maxed out my debit card, got a radical undercut, and picked up a girl in a coffee shop. Oh yes, and by the way, did I mention I’m a god?”
The grandmother cawed laughter. “You always were a funny thing,” she said, observing me with a critical eye. “What is that outfit?”
I took off my shocking-pink jacket and slung it over the back of the chair. “Too conservative?”
She smiled. “You’re still too thin, though, Josephine.”
“Yeah, well—I’m working on that.”
The food arrived. There was soup, and rice, and noodles, and fish, and roast pork, and chicken, and vegetables. There were new and exciting spices; there were rare and delicious flavours. There were dumplings and skewers of prawn and pancakes rolled around pieces of meat. We ate with something called “chopsticks”—not an implement with which I was familiar, but between Jumps’s muscle memory, the wine, and my own hunger, I did more than justice to the meal. The mother and father watched it all with an air of vague alarm, but the grandmother seemed to enjoy it. Charm comes easily to our kind—besides, old ladies like me.
My phone buzzed several times during the meal. Checking it, I found another raft of text messages from Evan.
FFS, Jumps, where the hell are you? E.
Call me. Call me NOW. E.
And finally, in a different tone:
Listen, Captain. We need to talk. If you think you can just step away from your responsibilities, you’ve got another think coming. This isn’t a game. That cat can’t stay in the box forever. And if you think you can hide from me—
I sighed. Even by mobile phone, the General always had a way of making everything seem a lot less fun. I dropped the mobile phone into a nearby tank of tropical fish. No one noticed, except the grandmother, who chuckled and said, “Boy trouble?”
“Something like that.” I smiled at her. “Listen, do you happen to know anything about a cat in a box, a cat that’s both dead and alive?”
The grandmother nodded. “Schrödinger’s cat. What about it?”
“Well, what would you do?”
“You mean—if I were the cat?” she said.
“Would you stay in the box, or leave, even if it meant you might die?”
She smiled. Her eyes shone like polished jet beads. “I wouldn’t worry about the cat,” she said. “Do you know, they have nine lives?”
Well, as a matter of fact, I did.
“So you go out and enjoy yourself,” she said. “Live a little—or a lot. And don’t let a boy—or anyone—try to tell you what to do.”
I took one of her hands in mine. It felt both hot and papery, with knuckles that were swollen with age. “Thank you, Grandma,” I said. “You are wise. Wiser than an Oracle.” And, then I stood up and picked up my jacket, and, addressing the parents, I announced, “I have to go. It’s getting late.”
The mother made a sound like an orca demanding fish. “Go where? Late for what? Not on a weekday night, you don’t. What about tomorrow’s exams? What about your revision? And where did you want to go, anyway?”
I grinned at her. “I have a date.”
10.
The Blaze was a large and shapeless hall, lit by multicoloured lights. There was a bar at one end, and a stage at the other, upon which a group of musicians played unfamiliar instruments. The rest was a dance floor, crowded with bodies gyrating to the music. The volume was high, the hall packed full; there was an overwhelming scent of smoke, and sweat, and beer. In fact it was strangel
y familiar, even almost nostalgic. Memories of Aegir’s hall, and of Bragi playing the lute, and of Odin passing me the cup with a gleam in his living eye—
Enough of that. The last thing I wanted was to remember Asgard. Asgard was lost, except in dreams and second-rate glamours like Asgard!™. I moved out onto the dance floor, keeping a lookout for Margaret. I did not see her, but a wave of bodies surged around me, and although I had no idea what kind of dancing was fashionable in this place, I found myself moving to the beat. Jumps wasn’t much of a dancer. I saw this in her memory, muddied by thoughts of self-consciousness and the fear of people laughing at her. I had no such fear, of course. Even in this body, I knew I was fabulous.
Frankly, there’s not much to dancing. The trick is to feel the music, barely even moving at first, to allow it to wash over you like a river of fire. Then, you can move; you let it take, first your hands, and then your hips. It pounds like lava, sparkles like glam. It makes you shine. It makes you smile. And you dance.
For a time, that was enough. Around me, people came and went. Most of the people were young here, many of them attractive. Many young men came to dance with me; some brought me drinks. One put his arms around me and we slow-danced (he wasn’t bad, but I was better, obviously); but all the time I was watching—waiting for Margaret.
Finally, I caught sight of her. She had changed her yellow dress for cropped jeans and a peasant blouse. Her hair was tied back, and she was wearing glass earrings shaped like bunches of cherries. I waved. She smiled and came over.
“You made it!” she shouted in my ear.
I put my hand on the nape of her neck.
“Let’s just dance,” I told her.
I don’t remember how long we danced. But her skin was warm, her eyes were bright, she smelt of vanilla and roses. At first we danced like maniacs: spinning, leaping, laughing. She was good—I was better; people watched and clapped and cheered. Then the lights dimmed, the music slowed, the crowd of people drifted away. And finally, I could almost believe that it was just the two of us, rocking gently, hands laced—her head touching my shoulder.
I know. It sounds crazy. All I can say is that I wasn’t quite myself. The exhilaration of being in the flesh, the unaccustomed lights and sounds, the feel of her hair and her skin against mine—I suppose all that was more than enough to turn my head a little. And now that I was free of Jumps—her anxiety, her insecurities, her strange obsessions—I was free to enjoy the gift—this life, this day, this present.
“This is nice,” said Margaret. “But I know something nicer.”
“You do?”
“It’s a kind of dance,” she said. “But you do it with fire.”
I could have pointed out that she was already doing precisely that. But dancing with fire sounded pretty cool, and besides, I was starting to think that it might be a euphemism for sex.
“We go onto Castle Hill,” she said. “That’s where we go, where it’s dark, and where we won’t be interrupted. It’s called fire-spinning. It’s what I do. Sometimes I just go alone and practice.”
That sounded interesting. “Tell me more.”
Turns out it wasn’t a euphemism for sex. But I was right; it was interesting. Fire is the one deity that never goes out of fashion. And Jumps and her friends had been worshipping me—albeit in a different Aspect—through this, this fire-spinning thing, for years, without even knowing it.
I listened as she told me about the fire-spinners, their batons, their poi, their beautiful, dangerous rituals. It sounded too alluring for words. Better watch yourself, Loki, I thought. A fire demon could fall in love.
Draft entry for the Book of Faces: Margaret Brown, aka Meg. Age: 21. Profession: bakery assistant. Favourite colour: lemon yellow. Favourite movie: Chocolat. Likes: fire-spinning, stars, the rain, otters, sunflowers, cats, the sea. Favourite food: cherry cake. Favourite fantasy—
Meg lifted her eyes to mine. A thrill ran down my borrowed flesh, unzipping me like a bodysuit. And then we kissed, and her breasts were soft, and I thought: Yes, a girl could fall in love—
I opened my eyes and noticed a trio of girls staring at us. Well, who wouldn’t? I told myself. After all, we’re fabulous. But there was something about the way those girls were staring that made me feel uneasy. Did I know them? Did they know me? Was my mascara smudged?
A glance at the Book of Faces revealed that they were friends of Stella’s. One of the adoring cliques with which she liked to surround herself. But this clique was special, I understood. These were part of a secret. Something that had happened to Jumps, in the days when she and Stella were friends. And now the door marked STELLA swung softly ajar, and something came out like a swarm of bees—
Omigod she never—she—
Josephine—and STELLA?
There were no pictures, no faces, no words. Just a feeling of shame that ran up and down my body like an attack of hives. Something to do with girls kissing girls. Hardly a cause for shame, I thought, but the Folk can be very peculiar. When I first joined Asgard, one of the things that confused me most was all the rules regarding sex. No sex with animals, siblings, demons. No sex with other people’s wives, no sex with Folk of the same sex—honestly, with all those rules, it was hard to imagine anyone having any sex at all. And here it was again in Jumps’s mind—that sense of something forbidden.
I’d assumed that this anger, this jealousy, was something to do with Evan. There was some reason to think so: I could see he was sweet on Stella, just as Odin had always been more than half-blind wherever Freyja was concerned. But this was something different: a memory of something bright, like a once-fine piece of jewellery all snarled up with dirt and rust, all trace of its earlier glamour gone.
So that’s what Jumps had been hiding from me. This was her big, dark secret. If it hadn’t been so sad, it might have been ridiculous. Such guilt and shame and fear in her mind. So many unnecessary feelings.
My mind now, I reminded myself. Those feelings did not belong to me, but, like unfamiliar furnishings in a darkened house, I kept bumping into them, barking my shins repeatedly on the twin coffee tables of guilt and shame. Ironic, really, that of all the things for which I might have felt genuine guilt or remorse, this was the one I had to endure: the memory of an incident that hadn’t even happened to me, and yet which somehow affected me more than anything in my past life. I understood that this gaggle of girls were somehow connected to this incident. What had they seen? What had they said? One of them—Pippa. Age: 17. Favourite film: Twilight. Favourite pastime: selfies—a smug brunette with glitter on her eyelids—simpered and said, “New girlfriend, Jo?”
I looked at Meg. She looked as if something had woken her from a dream. Her face was shiny and self-possessed; her eyes had lost that golden glow. Worse still, there was a look, a kind of resignation. As if she half expected me to turn away, or laugh at her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I was leaving.”
Dammit, not you too, I thought.
I put my arm around her shoulders. She was trembling slightly. I understood that she, too, felt shame—though for what, I couldn’t begin to guess. And then I looked at the three girls—the Book of Faces now told me their names—and said, “That’s right. New girlfriend. Meet Meg.” And in the silence that followed, I shot my brightest smile at them and said, “You look surprised. Aw. Don’t tell me you three harpies thought one of you might have a chance?”
And with that, the feelings, whatever they were, whomever they belonged to, just melted away into the air. Shame, guilt, jealousy: gone, like snowflakes in a summer sky. And then I took Meg by the hand and led her out into the night, where the neon stars and the real ones met in a bridge as bright as Bif-rost. I walked her home as slowly as my feet would let me, and spent as long on the porch as I could, then sauntered back to Jumps’s house, where the parents had already gone to bed. And then I slept until dawn, and awoke standing naked and freezing in the bathroom, watching myself in the mirror with an open razor in my hand; and
blood on my arms, and blood on the tiles, and blood spattered red on the porcelain—
I watched as my reflection lifted the razor to my throat.
Oh crap.
Jumps was back.
Gold
All that glitters . . .
(Lokabrenna, 5:19)
1.
Please, I said. Can we talk about this?
“What the fuck did you do to me?” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “Get the hell out of my body, right now, or I swear I’ll kill us both.”
I considered my options, which didn’t take long. Barring miracles, I was toast. My left wrist was bleeding freely from a cut that didn’t look too dangerous, which was more than could be said for the blade she was currently holding against my throat.
I said, Put down the knife. Let’s talk. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to die.
She laughed. “You think? What choice do I have? You’ve already ruined everything.”
What did I do? I said, playing for time.
“What did you do? What did you do? What, you mean apart from failing my English Lit exam, cleaning out my bank account, and making me look like a—”
Like a what? You look fabulous. We look fabulous.
She gave a tortured little cry. “You don’t understand! You don’t know what it’s like, being me. Having to pretend I’m like everyone else. Having to fit into a box. Having to look like my mother thinks a normal girl should look like—”
I understand this, I told her.
And then before she could react, I sent her her own reflection, unclouded by fear and uncertainty. I sent her the feeling of being herself—totally and completely herself, and not giving a damn about anyone else. I sent her the taste of food consumed without even once thinking about calories, and drink without fearing drunkenness, and what she might have let slip. I sent her the feeling of dancing like firelight against a wall, and the eyes of many onlookers watching her, wanting her. And then I sent her Meg’s face: her golden eyes, her killer smile, the way her hair shone in the sun. I sent her a kiss still flavoured with the taste of cherry and coconut, the touch of a hand, the turn of a cheek, a dance under the neon stars. I sent her the promise of spinning with bolts of fire in both hands, of dancing on the darkened hill with a pocketful of mysteries.
The Testament of Loki Page 9