Dragged Page 13

  “Where’s he going to stuff his giblets?” I ask.

  “Hey!” Huginn protests.

  I pet his head in apology. “There’s no margin for error in that outfit.”

  “A little duck and tuck never hurt anyone,” Freddie says.

  I squeeze my thighs together, happy for once that I don’t have to worry about storing external equipment. The scrape of freshly ripped-off skin against my underwear reminds me I have other concerns in the pelvic region, though. The nerves down there are still pretty stabby.

  “Jacinda Juggs,” Freddie continues, snapping up a short but wide-waisted blue skirt and cropped white peasant blouse, “I have your milk maid outfit.”

  Gunnar Magnusson blushes and accepts the hanger, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger like it’s contagious. “You owe me for this, Freddie. Visions of middle school plays come to mind. You know I’m not good with this kind of stuff.”

  “Dude, you killed it today,” Freddie assures him. “Have no fear. Just flaunt what the good Lord gave you, and you’ll be fine.”

  Gunnar Magnusson doesn’t look convinced, but he takes the clothes into our bedroom.

  Hitching my hands to my hips, I say, “And what about you?”

  Freddie’s fawn-colored eyes sparkle with muted excitement. “Rebel Larkspur will be wearing the finest dress of the bunch.” He unzips a long gray bag. The plastic covering vomits the vilest, most frou-frou piece of rainbow shite I’ve ever seen. It’s a full-length gown with puffs of tulle gathered at the hips. Starting at the top of the sleeveless monstrosity, the colors cascade down the visible light spectrum in order: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and ending with purple at the hem.

  “It’s absolutely disgusting. You’re so going to win the contest,” I beam.

  Freddie nods vigorously. “I know, right?” He tosses the insult to fashion on the couch and holds out another bag on a hanger to me.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Your outfit,” he says and nods to it. “Go on.”

  “But I’m not participating,” I say.

  “No, but you’re our manager, and you’ve already made quite an impression on the pageant staff. With your charm and charisma backing us up, one of us is bound to win, most likely me, of course.”

  I carefully swipe the zipper down … and blink to keep my eyes from popping out of my head. The black and shiny “clothing” (I use the term loosely), seems more appropriate for one of those scuba divers who swims in the ocean hunting for krakens than for a drag queen manager. My finger brushes the material, and I squeal. “It’s slimy!”

  Freddie’s eyes widen with glee. “It’s rubber. I had it polished for you. That’s why it feels slick. We’ll probably have to shine you up again once you’re wearing it.”

  “Shine me? How?” I’m not wild about the texture, but I am curious about how this body-hugging slime will look on me.

  I remove the thing from its protective husk and find it’s actually a couple pieces rather than one. The top has long sleeves with a trailing edge of black tulle. The bottom is a tiny skirt that would better fit a toddler than an adult woman. I curl my lip and pass the bundle to Freddie.

  “Too small,” I say.

  “No, it’s not.” He grasps either side of the skirt’s waistband and pulls it apart. “See, it stretches with you.”

  “I’m not a smart Midgardian like you, Freddie, but I know when something will fit me. That thing is dwarf sized. I’ll never be able to get into it, especially with a broken rib. And undergarments would be out of the question.”

  “Then, you’ll have to ask someone for help. He winks at me and nudges his head toward my bedroom door. “And you’re right. No undies allowed under this bitch.”

  I slam my mouth shut with a pop. It was one thing when Gunnar Magnusson helped me undress in the bathroom. He was just assisting an injured friend. And when he found me naked in an Icelandic snow drift, there was nothing sexual about him offering me his sweater and a ride on Sleipnir the bus. But things between us have changed since then, and he won’t be seeing me nude again until he’s ready to show me what he’s got too.

  “No,” I say. “I can’t wear it. I’ll stick with my feather coat and black boots. I look good in those.”

  Freddie shrugs, but the disappointment is clear in the defeated dip of his shoulders. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, just say the word, and it’s yours.”

  “I won’t,” I say, trying to convince myself this is the right decision. The outfit really is interesting. But I can’t. “Also, I need my feather coat back.”

  “Oh. Right,” he says and slinks into his room. A moment later, he returns with the black-feathered coat of awesome and holds it up, admiring it. “I love this so much. If you ever decide to part with it …”

  “You’re the richest person I’ve ever met,” I say. “You can’t buy another one on the internets?”

  He shakes his head sadly. “I’ve tried. Yours is different from the ones I’ve seen. It just … works for me.”

  Freya had a feather coat I borrowed on more than one occasion, though unlike this one, hers was magical. Even reincarnated as Freddie, Freya still knows what she likes.

  “When I die, it’s yours, Freddie,” I say. Might as well leave it to someone who’ll actually enjoy it, right?

  He frowns. “That’s a rather grim comment, but thanks. I’ll take good care of it.”

  I hold out a hand and wait. Freddie fluffs the feathers, stares at the coat longingly for a few more seconds, and thrusts it into my open palm.

  “If you won’t wear the rubber outfit, will you at least consider some accessories?” Freddie asks, eyebrows raised.

  “Such as?”

  He leans over, rifles through a plastic bag on the couch, and produces two leashes studded with what I assume are fake diamonds. “For Sparky and Wiggles.”

  The cats lift their heads in tandem from separate points in the room and say, “Wait, what?”

  “What better way to highlight your badass attitude than to add a couple of feisty cats to your visual mixtape?” Freddie says, admiring the glittering tethers.

  “No way, dude. Come on,” Wiggles groans.

  “I’m not wearing that shit,” Sparky protests.

  “Sparky, Wiggles, come here,” Freddie commands.

  Surprisingly, they oblige. Ha! The cats are in thrall to Freya. They have to do whatever she commands. Well, isn’t this an interesting turn of events?

  “They listen to you,” I say as Freddie fits the cats with their collars and hitches the leash hooks to them.

  “Of course,” he says with a shrug. “They love me.”

  Wiggles purrs and Sparky rubs his cheek on Freddie’s wrist.

  “They do seem quite attached,” I muse. “You should teach them commands. Like, ‘follow Loki.’”

  Freddie cradles the cats’ faces in his palms and baby talks to them. “You wanna follow Loki?”

  “No,” Wiggles says.

  “Hell, no,” Sparky says.

  Freddie obviously can’t understand them the way I do. He makes kissing noises at both and ruffles their fur. “Yes, you do. You’re such good boys. Go get her.”

  As if possessed, the feline devils pitch their tails up perpendicular to their bodies, march over to me, and wait for further instructions.

  Freddie is their version of catnip. If it didn’t hurt so much to laugh, I’d be rolling on the floor.

  I clap twice and grin as I scoop up the leashes. “I’m honored.”

  “Sure, you are,” Sparky snipes.

  “This is uncool, man,” Wiggles complains.

  Freddie bends down to the cats’ level and waggles a finger. “I’ll take you to the next round of competition, but you have to do whatever Loki tells you. She’s the boss when I’m not around. Got it?”

  “Ugh,” Sparky meows.

  “You’re totally gonna bogart our mojo, aren’t you?” Wiggles asks, also meowing.

  I
lift my eyebrows and grin with mischievous glee.

  “Good boys.” Freddie seems satisfied. He folds his arms across his chest and assesses the three of us, me holding leashes hitched to two reluctant cats on either side. “This picture would be a hell of a lot more exciting if you were wearing black rubber. I suppose black feathers will have to do.”

  “If I’m taking the cats on Saturday, what will we do about Huginn?” I ask. “I don’t want to leave him here alone.”

  Freddie seems to think for a moment. Then a beam of sunlight filters into his expression. “Gunnar’s playing the wholesome farm girl milk maid. He could use a chicken.”

  Squark? Huginn scuttles out from under the table and stares up at me. “I’m with the cats on this, and you know I never side with the cats.”

  “Oh, come on,” I say, “It’s just for a couple days. Do it for me?” I flap my lashes at him and fold my hands in prayer.

  “Loki. Seriously. This is humiliation at its lowest. Have you forgotten I was once Odin’s raven? The keeper of thought for Allfather?”

  “It’ll get the cats off your back for a little while,” I offer.

  “Ha!” Sparky scoffs. “Fat chance.”

  “Why did the chicken go to KFC?” Wiggles asks.

  “Because he wanted to see a chicken strip,” Sparky answers.

  Laughing hysterically, they tumble onto their sides and beat the carpet with their tails.

  “They’ve been doing this all day,” Huginn says. “It’s not the least bit funny.”

  If I knew what “KFC” was, it might be funny.

  “I’m working on a special project,” I tell the bird. “If you’ll be Gunnar Magnusson’s sidekick for this contest, I’ll accelerate my timeline to finish it.”

  I don’t want to exit this world owing anyone a thing, and the least I can do is leave Huginn a reminder of how much I appreciate him.

  “A project, you say. For me?” he asks hopefully.

  I stroke his comb. “Just for you. Tailored, even. I think you’re gonna love it.”

  He sighs. “Okay. I’ll do it. But only if Gunnar makes it to the final round. I’ll be fine here if the cats are gone tomorrow.”

  “You’re the best, Huginn.”

  “I wish I could speak Chicken,” Freddie says, not for the first time, shaking his head. He wanders into his bedroom. The door shuts. An excited gasp and the squeak of a mattress jouncing follow. Then …

  Yodeling.

  He and Alex will be busy for a while.

  On a whim, I pull out my phone and google “KFC.” It stands for “Kentucky Fried Chicken,” a restaurant founded by a man called Colonel Sanders. It specializes in cooking chicken.

  Oh. Now I get the cats’ joke.

  “Finger lickin’ good!” I giggle and scrunch my own chicken wing over my smarting rib as I do.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I know little about drag queens or lip syncing or dressing like a girl, so I leave the finer details of our plan to win the Drag and Bone Pageant to Freddie. “My boys” (Huginn included) spend the rest of the day experimenting with makeup, memorizing song lyrics for lip syncing, and developing routines while I work on my special project for What’s-up-Chicken-Butt. <—That’s another joke I learned about chickens after falling down a Google hole into another dimension dominated by poultry and cocks.

  Here are some more:

  Which day of the week do chickens hate the most? Fry-day. (Does this boiling oil look hot to you? Bock, bock, bock!)

  Why did the newly hatched chick disappoint his mother? Because he wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. (Oh, Virgil, I wish you’d never been fertilized. Bock, bock, bock!)

  What’s the difference between meat and chicken? If you beat your chicken, it dies.

  I’m not sure what the last one means. I’ll have to ask Darryl Donovan. He’s the vegan who knows everything about the evils of meat, after all.

  Huginn’s surprise is coming along nicely. I’ve been head bopping along to the music playing in the living area while I work. Every time a song I like creeps under the door, I text Freddie, and he sends me a link to buy it. My playlist now contains tunes by Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Janet Jackson, Nicki Minaj, Diana Ross, Gwen Stefani, Whitney Houston, Cyndi Lauper, Queen, Mariah Carey, Lizzo, Katie Perry, the Pointer Sisters, and Nine Inch Nails. I’m on my way to becoming a token Midgardian.

  With the help of entertaining music, I should have Huginn’s project finished in another day or two. I hope he’ll like it.

  A rap at the bedroom door prompts me to stuff my project under the bed. “Come in,” I say.

  Gunnar Magnusson enters. He’s wearing outlandish makeup with huge eyelashes that look like tarantulas crawling across his lids and a pair of four-inch heels. Red kisses his cheeks. I’m pretty sure the color is natural, not rouge. Toeing off the shoes, he nods toward the bathroom. Even his feet are sexy. “I need to wash this stuff off.”

  “Of course,” I say. You look pretty comes out as, “I like you better without it.”

  That draws a spike of laughter from him. “Agreed.”

  Damn my infernal honesty.

  While Gunnar Magnusson cleans up, I clear some of the mess I made when I was working on Huginn’s gift. He comes out patting his fresh face with a fluffy towel and says, “You wanna go out?”

  “Out where?”

  “On a date.”

  “Umm …” There goes my ticker again, plodding away like a herd of Icelandic horses galloping across the highlands on a freedom quest.

  “Or we could grab the guys and go as a group,” he adds quickly.

  “No,” I say. “I’d rather it be just the two of us.” Would I have admitted that if the truth rune stave weren’t buried in my flesh? I’m not sure. But it is the truth.

  “We could wander around until we find a place to eat,” he suggests. “A little exercise might be good for your lungs.”

  I glance down at my injured side. It doesn’t hurt as much as it did yesterday. Breathing exercises and WeedPops have helped. And the stitches feel better too. “Yeah. As long as we don’t go too far, I should be okay.”

  “We can call Freddie for a pickup if we need to,” Gunnar Magnusson offers.

  I nod. “Let’s do it.”

  His cheeks color again, and we slip out of the room together, neither of us knowing what to do with the hands that keep bumping into each other. We tell our friends where we’re heading. Freddie agrees to keep the cats off Huginn. Then, we’re off.

  With my arm hooked through his for support and maybe a little closeness, we find a restaurant two blocks away that serves Mediterranean food, which I’ve never had. Once we’re settled at a table, we make small talk about the pageant. Gunnar Magnusson tells me about the lip sync routine he’s planning, and I laugh, imagining him dancing in those heels that make him at least six and a half feet tall.

  “This whole drag thing is so ridiculous, isn’t it?” he asks with a smile.

  “You’re secretly enjoying it,” I tease.

  “I am,” he admits. The flickering light thrown by the candle on our table reflects off his spectacles. His blue eyes glitter. I could stare into those orbs all night.

  “Have you thought about what you’ll do after you find Othala and Ihwaz?” he asks.

  “You mean if I find them.” I pick up a triangle of flat bread and study it before plunging it into the little pot of “hummus” between us. I sniff the creamy goo. Smells faintly of garlic and lemons. I take a bite. Not bad.

  Gunnar Magnusson indulges in the hummus and pita too. “I have faith you will.”

  I’m not so sure. “If all goes well, I plan to return the other gods’ runes I collected from the World Tree. Maybe if enough of them learn that Odin and Frigg used the power from their runes to fuel his little edifice to himself, they’ll revolt.”

  “And what then?” he asks. “Say you start a revolution and overthrow Odin and Frigg. What happens next?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “
But I’ll have my revenge, and so will the others.”

  “Will it be worth it, though?” He leans across the table and brushes the back of my hand with his thumb. His touch is so gentle, it’s like a lullaby. I could close my eyes and fall asleep to it.

  “What’s your point?” I say.

  “I just want you to start thinking beyond the here and now, beyond recovering your runes, beyond reclaiming your godhood. I want you to think about what comes after.”

  I study the lines trapped in his face. He wears age that shouldn’t be there. He carries weight that doesn’t belong to him. With Tuesday looming, I want to jump across the table and bury my nose in his hair, kiss the scruff on his cheeks, and let him smother me with his soul before it’s too late.

  “Whatever the Norns have in store for me is what will be,” I hedge.

  He nods and pauses for a long moment. “Something happened when I was with Saga,” he says.

  The abrupt change in subject jolts me. I swallow and wait for him to continue, afraid of what’s coming. A slew of scenarios races through my mind: He loves her. She was the best sex he ever had. He wants to marry her. He’s gay. She awakened feelings he never had be—

  “As we were … you know,” he says, fiddling with the pita he’s nervously ripped into six pieces.

  I nod and swallow again. My throat is arid, but I’m afraid to reach for my glass. I don’t even want to breathe.

  “I thought for a fleeting moment that maybe she and I could, I dunno, be together. It was irrational, and I recognized it as such. My subconscious batted the idea away the second it came into my head, and I felt bad for even considering it.”

  “Why?” My voice registers a notch above a whisper. “If you like someone and they like you, there’s always a possibility you could be together.”

  He aims his gaze directly at me, and the white-hot truth of it sears me. “It’s not her I’m supposed to be with.”

  My heart skips a beat. “You think the Norns have plans for someone else in your life?”

  “They introduced me to you, didn’t they?”

  The increasing tempo of blood whooshing behind my eardrums drowns out the sounds from the other tables. Fifty or so people sit in this restaurant, but I see and hear only one of them.