Gods on Earth: Complete Series (Books 1-3): Paranormal Romances with Norse Gods, Tricksters, and Fated Mates

by Andrijeski, JC

  Tyr nodded, barely listening to the last of her words.

  He got the gist.

  He understood everything.

  It looked like he was headed for the Caribbean.

  3

  Marion

  S he looked out over a crystal blue sea, sighing as she raised a hand to shield her eyes. She tried counting yachts dotting the waters, coming and going from the harbor of Gustavia, the largest town on the small island.

  She’d arrived here, via yacht herself, only a week ago.

  Already, she was restless.

  Her friends, which included the children of rich oil barons and tech giants, and even a few Hollywood starlets and stars, had gone down to cruise the expensive boutiques in the main strip in town, likely to end up having brunch at one of the high-end cafés.

  Marion told them she might meet them there later.

  Truthfully, though, she wondered what she was doing here.

  She’d spent the past year running, running, running.

  She’d taken advantage of who she was now, but only to run further and faster.

  Of course, she, Marion Ravenscroft, was no one.

  All of her fame came by proxy, thanks to her father. Being the daughter of the President of the United States came with perks, and its own set of problems. She loved her dad, but she’d more or less given up trying to toe the line and be the perfect presidential daughter.

  She felt immense guilt for that fact, but powerless to change it.

  Her reputation as the presidential party girl was pretty much carved in stone.

  Marion knew her photo splashed on tabloids was likely an ongoing migraine for him, but she had no idea how to stop it. Even when she tried to keep a low profile, they always seemed to find her. They always seemed to find her at the wrong time.

  They also read the wrong things into everything she did.

  Marion didn’t feel great about putting her dad in that position.

  She knew he didn’t deserve it.

  He deserved a better daughter, but the better daughter died… along with his wife, Marion’s mother, on a slick road in upstate New York at ten o’clock on a Thursday.

  Marion wished it had been her who died, not her sister.

  She wished it had been her, instead of her mom.

  But it hadn’t been Marion who died that foggy night.

  It had been the two of them, and now her dad was stuck with Marion.

  She’d fantasized about disappearing totally, if only to make her dad’s life easier. She’d fantasized about hiding herself away in a mountain monastery somewhere, eating rice and meditating on the nature of things, giving the paparazzi nothing to write about at all.

  She knew it was a fantasy.

  They would find her.

  They’d find her, and within a week, new headlines would be screaming that Marion had lost her mind, that she’d joined a religious cult in the mountains, and was clearly brainwashed by evil, anti-American extremists funded by China.

  The tabloids just seemed obsessed with her.

  Photo after photo showed up on front pages, in supermarkets all across the country, screaming headlines about her, no matter how hard she tried to disappear.

  “MARION DRUNK ON PRIVATE NUDE BEACH!”

  “NEW MAN FOR MARION – MARK MODERI, LADY KILLER?”

  “IS THAT A RISQUE NEW TATTOO, MS. RAVENSCROFT?”

  “MARION DUMPED BY SON OF TECH GIANT!”

  “MARION ARRESTED IN ROME ON DRUG CHARGES!”

  All but the last of those had been more or less true.

  She didn’t get arrested in Rome, but she did get questioned by police because of a party she attended by a guy who turned out to be one of the biggest dope runners in Europe. Marion hadn’t known that, of course. It had been more bad luck.

  But she couldn’t claim to be entirely innocent, either.

  Glancing at the two men in dark suits and earpieces standing just inside the open French doors of her rented villa, she sighed a second time, although she bore neither man any ill will. They were just doing their job. Having twenty-four-hour protection was part of who she was now; Marion would have men like those two shadowing her everywhere she went, likely for the rest of her life.

  Ironically perhaps, Marion herself felt mostly unmoored.

  It was why she moved around constantly, perhaps, accepting invitations from friends far richer than herself. They invited her to homes in cities and party beaches around the world: Paris, Rome, Ibiza, San Trope, the Seychelles, the Maldives, the Italian Riviera, Los Cabos, Istanbul, Monte Carlo.

  Every place was gorgeous.

  Every place was filled with beautiful people.

  Marion knew how lucky she was, to experience even a fraction of what she’d seen over the past thirteen months. At the same time, all of it felt unreal. Since her mother’s and sister’s deaths in a car accident about a year and a half earlier, Marion felt like she floated through life, without any idea of where she was going or what any of it meant.

  She felt horrible guilt at leaving her father alone with his grief, even as she felt abandoned by him, now that he had significantly more important things to worry about.

  If she went back to D.C., she’d only make things worse for him.

  Out here, she felt like he was protected from her, at least.

  Out here, she felt sometimes like she was playing a role in a movie, only no one would give her the script. Being in strange, beautiful places, surrounded by rich people who didn’t seem capable of seeing her, or giving a damn about her, or even noticing her really, at least as an actual human being, felt strangely… safe.

  Yes, safe.

  Despite the paparazzi, the headlines, the Secret Service, the crazy parties…

  Marion felt invisible.

  Right now, invisible was exactly what she wanted.

  4

  Introductions

  T yr walked into the underground tavern, carefully pushing past a group of people by the door screaming with laughter, all of them wearing different-colored wigs. Some wore white face-paint and dramatic eye-makeup. All wore thick, fake eyelashes, dark lipstick and brightly-colored clothes. All appeared to be high on more than just alcohol.

  He’d been forced to use elements of supernatural persuasion to get in here.

  He couldn’t create mirages, as Loki did, to convince people he wasn’t there at all, but he did have ways of altering his appearance… and of pressing people into thinking he belonged somewhere he perhaps didn’t.

  This particular bar billed itself as a “safe haven” for the rich and famous who did not wish to be photographed or videoed.

  No reporters were allowed inside.

  No one was supposed to film anyone else, either. Guests had to be members, and membership was exclusive. Even members and friends of members were required to hand over their phones at the door, and handed a receipt.

  Tyr managed to keep his phone on him.

  There were some advantages to being a god.

  At any rate, he had no intention of filming anyone.

  He’d only just arrived at St. Barts, at the island’s main city of Gustavia.

  In the end, he’d decided to use supernatural means to get here.

  Technically, he could have flown; that was something Tyr could do on this world. Now, however, in this modern era, Tyr used the ability sparingly. It was too easy to be noticed, or photographed, or otherwise documented––whether by satellite, drone, radar, or any of the other ways humans protected their airspace from potentially hostile incursions.

  For the same reason, unless it was an emergency, Tyr tried not to fly during the day.

  The last time he’d done it, on the coast of Malibu in California, the distance had been short, it had been an emergency, and he still hadn’t liked it much.

  To go to St. Barts from France would have been a much longer flight.

  Given the time difference, the shape of the planet, and the time of day, the sun would have bee
n out nearly the entire trip.

  His other options for Earth travel weren’t ideal, either.

  Human forms of transport were slow.

  It would have taken him eleven hours, minimum, if he did it that way––likely closer to fourteen or sixteen hours with layovers and plane changes.

  In the end, he did the most god-like thing he could do.

  He used the Bifrost to go to Asgard.

  From Asgard, Tyr used the Bifrost a second time to travel inter-dimensionally back to Saint Barthélemy, the island where Marion Ravenscroft was last seen.

  Odin would have seen him do it, since he monitored the Bifrost, but if it bothered Tyr’s father, he hadn’t intervened.

  As for Tyr himself, he spent the majority of his remaining daylight hours learning the layout of the island, determining which hotel housed Marion Ravenscroft, and assessing Marion Ravenscroft’s Secret Service detail, not to mention her movements around the city.

  Her father had increased the number of people watching her.

  For the same reason, Tyr didn’t allow himself to venture too close until now. He hadn’t even gotten a good look at her really, but only glimpses on the beach, walking along the promenade, and drinking coffee in sidewalk cafés.

  He had some idea of where she was at all times, even when she wasn’t in his visual range, mostly from casing her hotel and listening in on her security detail. Again, he wasn’t Loki, so he had to take care not to be seen; he couldn’t glamour humans into not seeing or hearing him at all, the way his brother could.

  He could move quietly, almost invisibly, however, when necessary.

  He managed to make his way up to the balcony of her room, where he overheard the head of her detail speaking to the agents with her on the ground.

  Once he’d heard enough and witnessed enough to have some idea of their procedures, he climbed back down, and made his way over city streets to the main strip along the harbor, where Marion planned to eat dinner with her friends at this exclusive island club.

  He’d expected a relatively quiet, expensive restaurant.

  Instead, he found himself inside what felt like a burlesque show, only filled with people in costumes that made no sense, not in terms of a restaurant with crystal glasses and real silverware, and not in relation to any sort of theme Tyr could discern.

  He saw full adults, some with wrinkles and silver hair, wearing twenties-style flapper outfits and pirate hats and low-cut tops and high-heeled shoes. He saw young people, in their twenties and thirties, wearing clown hair and red noses, jeweled crowns, masks, wild makeup, lingerie. Some carried around bottles of champagne, or martinis, or smoked sickly-sweet cigarettes and pungent cigars.

  Some just wore bathing suits and a lot of glitter.

  Tyr wound his way through the crowd, taking in the different outfits, noting the dance floor with its lit tiles, filled with people laughing and shrieking and jumping up and down. He watched them throw streamers, beach balls, wave glow-sticks, bat around balloons.

  In here, it felt almost like the American holiday of Halloween.

  But it was the wrong time of year for that. Halloween occurred a few weeks ago, at least, possibly even a few months prior, from Tyr’s memory.

  It wasn’t yet time for New Year’s celebrations.

  Wasn’t Christmas coming, relatively soon?

  Tyr found himself confused, even as he retreated to the bar, looking for a place to sit that would give him a view of the comings and goings of most members of the club. Marion Ravenscroft’s security detail seemed to think she would be here by now. They seemed to think at least a half-dozen of her high-society friends would be here now, as well.

  She shouldn’t be difficult to spot, particularly if they’d all come together.

  He’d spent some time studying photos of her.

  She was striking, difficult to miss.

  Unusual, calico-colored eyes. Athletic. Long legs. Dramatically high cheekbones. A full mouth. Her natural hair color was dark brown, almost black.

  The most recent photos he’d found of her showed her hair that same color, but he’d also seen it dyed various tints and shades over the years: dark red, platinum, blue-black, golden blond, streaked with different colors such as plum, violet, sky blue, dark blue, fiery red, pale green, sunset orange, shocking pink.

  Tyr looked around, frowning.

  He felt sure he would find her easily.

  He looked for people who might be part of her security detail.

  She had at least two of those with her, inside the club.

  Tyr saw one man he guessed to be security, and watched him surreptitiously.

  Blond. Military-style haircut. Nondescript suit. Expensive watch.

  Secret Service, Tyr guessed.

  Tyr grew even more certain of his guess after he caught the blond human murmuring into his sleeve; the agent likely wore an earpiece in the opposite ear, the one Tyr couldn’t see.

  Of course, given the clientele in the club, it was possible he was part of another person’s security detail, but Tyr didn’t think so. Regular, paid, private bodyguards didn’t tend to be so fastidious, or so good at blending in. This man managed to fade into the background effortlessly, even as he side-stepped all of the costume-wearing and wasted locals.

  Tyr had already noted a few who fit the paid bodyguard mold, as well, and likely worked for celebrities inside the club, or rich people worried about ransom kidnappings.

  They were big guys, usually, wearing guns they didn’t do a very good job of concealing. They were effective at their jobs for the most part, which was largely gatekeeping, running interference, and looking menacing. They were conspicuous as a general rule because part of their job was to be conspicuous. Younger versions of the same looked a bit greener, and less like ex-cops, but tended to be even larger in size.

  The blond guy was different.

  The blond guy looked ex-military.

  He was lean, sharp-eyed, and meant to be invisible.

  No. Tyr was betting he was right. The blond was Secret Service.

  He found the blond’s partner a few seconds later, leaning on the other end of the bar. A black man in his mid-thirties, he wore a darker suit, and slightly more club-appropriate clothing, but also blended in utterly apart from the barely-conspicuous earpiece and wrist microphone.

  The fact that they were here both relaxed Tyr and confused him.

  Where was Marion Ravenscroft?

  If her protection was here, in the bar, why wasn’t she in visual range?

  Could she really have been in the bathroom all this time?

  Did she have a third, possibly female agent with her?

  Frowning, still glancing around the dark space, studying faces in the flashing, colored lights, Tyr contemplated doing something more drastic. Like possibly asking people if they knew Marion, if she was here, inside the club, or even checking out one of the nearby clubs, or convincing a female human to go into the bathroom for him to look for her…

  When the dance music abruptly died down.

  After a silence where the house beat stopped shaking the floor, and people on the dance floor looked vaguely confused––a loud cheer broke out.

  The lights dimmed, all at once.

  A spotlight flicked on, illuminating the dark red curtain hiding a small stage.

  Tyr’s eyes followed everyone else’s…

  Right as those blood-red curtains began to open.

  B urlesque music flooded through the overhead speakers, just long enough to make everyone in the room fall silent.

  Tyr’s stare never left the small stage.

  Painted black, surrounded by mirrors, the wooden platform had a silver pole running up the center of it, along with a silver chair, the legs and back covered in blinking, multi-colored Christmas lights. Christmas garlands and tinsel hung in loops around the edge of the stage.

  Cutouts of silver reindeer framed the top edge of the mirror, wrapped in tinsel and red and green Christmas ornaments.<
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  Tyr barely saw most of this.

  Hs eyes remained fixed on the woman in the center of the stage, with one long leg wrapped elegantly around the silver pole.

  Whistles broke out in the club, shouts and laughter.

  People yelled out words, but Tyr only caught smatterings of these.

  One man with a particularly loud voice stood out above the rest.

  “MARI!” he yelled, throwing handfuls of silver and gold glitter at the stage. “YOU SEXY MAMA! I LOVE YOU!”

  The woman with her leg wrapped around the pole didn’t move.

  She remained utterly still as the initial few bars of the burlesque music died down.

  Once everyone was focused on the stage, the music changed.

  The long-legged woman in the white fur bikini continued to hang down from the pole. With the bikini, she wore striped red and white knee-high stockings with white fur on top, bright red, sparkly, high-heeled shoes that had to be six inches tall, striped white and red elbow gloves, and a furred Santa hat.

  She looked like a really sexy candy cane.

  Tyr shifted on his seat, unable to tear his eyes off her, or that leg curled around the pole.

  The new song that started over the loudspeakers was one even he recognized.

  He’d heard it before, during his visits to Earth over the years. He even knew it as a holiday song, although Christmas wasn’t a holiday generally celebrated in Asgard.

  As the first few bars of “Santa Baby” began to play over the club’s loudspeakers, the whistles grew louder as the woman undulated, swaying her hips in perfect time with the music.

  Tyr stared along with the rest of them, mesmerized as she gripped low and high up on the silver pole, pulling the rest of her body up into a perfect handstand, using only her arm, leg, and stomach muscles. She reached the top and flipped seamlessly up and over into full splits, her black hair hanging down after she reached up, pulling off the Santa hat and tossing it into the crowd.