Dragged Page 14

  “I don’t understand.” I refuse to make any suppositions, especially with Sannleikur legislating honesty from the depths of my subconscious.

  He wets his lips, and my sex drive shoots off at top speed. “You’re not the only one who’s at a turning point,” he says. “I’ve been struggling for years to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I thought archaeology was my calling. I love the field. But when I found you in the ice … you screwed everything up.”

  Gut sinking, I dip my chin and stare at the trembling fingers twisting in my lap. “I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I mean, you scrambled my life like an egg, bypassed the skillet, and threw it directly on the fire. In the process of watching everything burn, I realized how boring and mundane and artificially perfect everything was before you. With you, everything is messy and strange and uncomfortable and … wonderfully—beautifully chaotic.” He pauses as if gathering his thoughts. “Being with Saga proved something I didn’t want to admit to myself.”

  “That you have a thing for Norse goddesses?” I joke.

  “Maybe one Norse goddess. God. Deity.”

  “Deity,” I settle on. Clasping my shaking hands together, I plant my elbows on the table. “I like the genderless sound of that.”

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is despite the turmoil and blurs and twists and turns … I think you and I were meant to find each other.”

  Truer words have never been spoken, Laguz says solemnly.

  “And maybe … more,” he adds. The pitch of the last word lilts upward like a question.

  “More?” My voice cracks.

  He straightens his shoulders and glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “I don’t believe in them, but I’ve been having dreams about you. And me. Us.”

  Oh boy.

  “The one last night really set me off. After what happened with …” He pumps the brakes on his train of thought and starts over. “When you and I went to bed, I wanted to curl my arms around you and squeeze you so hard. I … needed you. But I didn’t want you to think I was …” He pauses again and erases his words with a wave of his hand. “Anyway, I dreamed of us all night long. Our first date. Our second and third and fourth dates. Our wedding. The birth of a child. Then another. The four of us going on adventures around the globe. Our kids leaving us to make their own families. Us growing old together. And eventually, we died, entwined in each other’s arms in our sleep.

  “The dream wasn’t sad. It left me happy. As if I—we—accomplished something bigger than both of us. Like, we were meant to do these things, be these people, live this life. Together.”

  Hot saltwater pools in the corners of my eyes. I look away and blink until the blurriness clears. I want to tell him his dream was just that: a silly story his subconscious made up. I know this because I’m scheduled for deletion like spam hitting the Norns’ inbox in a few days and there’s no way we’ll have more than a handful of dates let alone a marriage or kids or adventures or growing old in each other’s arms. He might do all those things but not with me.

  The friendly waitress breaks the tension between us as she sets our meals on the table with a smile and flits away. I’m grateful for the distraction. Things got a little too close for comfort for a moment there.

  Taking advantage of the interruption, I inspect the food. I ordered four gyros—not exactly goat, but lamb is close enough—and Gunnar Magnusson got a sampler with chicken shawarma, baba ghanoush, falafels, and dolmas. I don’t know what any of that is, but it smells divine.

  I grab my fork, stab one of his dolmas, and drag it onto my plate like a fresh kill. He tips his dish toward me, offering full access. I snatch a falafel, swipe it through the baba ghanoush, and pop it in my mouth. The spices ignite the pleasure center in my brain.

  “Thass goo,” I gush as bits tumble from the corner of my lips.

  When I finish chewing and swallow, he reaches across the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth and thumbs away some baba ghanoush that leaked out.

  Pew! Pew! Pew!

  Did you hear that? It was the sound of my ovaries forcefully ejecting a clutch of eggs.

  I drop my gaze to my plate and pick up a gyro. I hold it to his mouth. He leans forward and takes a bite. Another ovary I don’t even possess explodes as some creamy white stuff oozes out the back end, dribbling into his beard. If we weren’t surrounded by people, I’d clean it with my tongue. Since we are, I dab at the spot with a napkin.

  “So, what do you think?” he asks.

  Distracted by the pouty slant of his lips, I say, “About what?”

  “My dream.”

  “I think it was just a dream.”

  “No truth to it?”

  I shrug. “Who can tell?”

  His expression loosens and falls. Now I feel bad. Until curiosity grabs me by the throat.

  “Who were you in the dream?” I ask, pointing my gyro at him. “What did you look like? What did I look like?”

  “I was me, and you were you.”

  Careful, Loki, Laguz says. Choose your words before they grow wings and fly from your mouth on their own.

  “I looked like,” I gesture to my torso, “this?”

  He nods.

  Why would the Norns send him such an omen? He’s Sigyn, and I’m Loki. Female and male, not the reverse. We weren’t originally born to these bodies. Does that mean we’re destined to remain as we are now—him as a mortal man and me as a mortal woman?

  It’s irrelevant. Skuld said I was going to die on Tuesday. Norns don’t do take backs.

  I stand by my original assertion. His dream is no more likely to come true for an un-awakened god than it is for a Midgardian.

  “Human dreams are products of the imagination and can’t be trusted,” I say and stuff a dolma into my piehole. The rice, lemon, and grape leaves set off a perfection bomb in my mouth.

  “I never said I believed it, but it gave me something to think about,” he says. “And maybe it’ll give you something to think about too.”

  I wipe my olive oil-slicked lips with a napkin. “Okay. I’ll think about my future—our future—beyond the runes.”

  “That’s all I ask,” he says. “And if you want to give dating a shot, I’m game.”

  “Dating,” I repeat. “You’re not hung up on the fact that I used to be a male god?”

  He meets my eyes with muted hunger and shakes his head slowly. “Whoever you were before isn’t important. I like the person sitting in front of me now. She’s the one I want to date.”

  Hull breach on imaginary ovary number four. Ka-POW!

  “So, you and me … together?” I ask, barely able to contain Kenaz’s spiking intrigue. “Like husband and wife?”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But if things work out, maybe someday.”

  I don’t have many days to spare, but I’m willing to give whatever I have left to him. “Yes,” I say. “I will do the dating.”

  His sweet smile tickles my stomach into a fit of giddiness. “We should take it slow.”

  I nod. My cracked rib appreciates slow, though Kenaz’s raging libido wants to close a deal yesterday. If my time on Midgard is limited, I don’t want to squander it with restraint. But I’ll respect his wishes.

  “Let things happen as they will,” he explains.

  “You mean, if the moment is right for you to kiss me, then you’ll do it?” I lean into my chair and twirl a length of blond hair around my finger.

  “When the moment is right, I will absolutely kiss you.”

  “I hope it’s right soon,” Sannleikur blurts for me.

  Gunnar Magnusson ducks his head and returns to his meal, cheeks as red as ever. “Speaking of husband and wife …”

  Oh, Hel.

  “What was Sigyn like? You never talk about her.”

  I sigh. I should’ve expected this question from the Scandinavian Studies major sooner.

  “She was a beautiful lass. A
good woman. A wonderful mother.” I look at his shoulder. Can’t face the scrutiny in his eyes. “I didn’t deserve her.”

  He lowers his fork. “Did you love her?”

  A long pause follows. “I don’t know.”

  He tips his head to the side. “Love isn’t that complicated. You either feel it or you don’t.”

  “For me, it was very complicated.” Far more so than it should’ve been.

  “Ah,” he says, returning his attention to the meal and stabbing a hunk of chicken with a little more force than necessary. “Let me guess. Angrboda.”

  I wave the demoness’s name away like an overripe fart. “I definitely didn’t love her. But I should have tried harder to resist her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Angrboda only cared about herself. Sigyn loved me despite me. She went out of her way—even put herself at risk—to make me happy. She understood me when no one else did. She ignored my every flaw. Believe me, there were many.” Still are. “I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I did without her.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s chewing slows. He swallows and meets my gaze. “The texts don’t explain what happened to her. How did she die?”

  A shiver nips up my spine. I look away. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Do you think she’s been reincarnated like you?”

  I don’t even try to lie. “Yes.”

  His brows lift with surprise. “Are you going to look for her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I shift in my chair. “She’ll find me when—if she awakens.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll ask her forgiveness and pray she grants it.”

  Gunnar Magnusson seems to sense my discomfort. He detours the conversation to frivolous things like dresses and heels and lip sync routines. But I can’t stop wondering how he’ll feel when he learns the truth about himself. And how disappointed he’ll be when he discovers how far I went to hide it from him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday/Saturn’s Day

  The next day, while my boys wait their turns backstage at round two of the Drag and Bone Pageant, Heath Saxon guides me to the front row in the auditorium. I’m daydreaming, remembering holding hands with Gunnar Magnusson on our walk to the hotel after dinner last night, waking up to his warm tree scent this morning, and picking his stray hairs off my face. There have been no kisses but lots of closeness. Tenderness, even. I find in his hands what his lips refuse to share, and I’m good with it.

  So good that I almost forgot why we’re here.

  Until Heath Saxon escorts Damien Drakkar to his seat right beside mine.

  Kenaz wakes up, smells the sexy, and punts me in the lady balls with a roar like a runaway berserker smelling war blood for the first time.

  What’s with this guy?

  My eyes dart to Damien Drakkar’s fingers before they land anywhere else. Othala sat on the middle finger of his left hand last time I saw him. I lean over for a gander. My breath catches at the missing ring. I discreetly check the right hand. All ten digits are naked, damn it. He does have some wicked scars, though.

  I sit up straighter and sniff the air. I don’t sense Othala anywhere. Could magic be concealing the ring?

  Oh, there are the pheromones again. Those delicious, slutty, hungry little sex molecules trip over themselves to get at me. The cardioverter-defibrillator modulating my thready pulse punches the clock and reports for duty.

  Damien Drakkar wedges an elbow on the wooden arm between our seats, lowers the sunglasses, and plants his chin in his upturned palm. He’s dressed in a stylish leather jacket accented with shiny silver studs over a black T-shirt bearing a band name I don’t recognize. Black skinny jeans topped off with biker boots hug his legs. Beyond his face, there’s zero resemblance to his Loki character.

  “Looking for something?” he asks.

  Those eyes. Sparkling green like the churning depths of the summer sea when the plankton bloom. They practically vibrate with life.

  Kenaz initiates a striptease atop my noggin.

  Proceed with caution, Laguz warns. He’s not what he seems.

  Yeah, well who around here is?

  Damien Drakkar prompts me with an arched brow that promises to reveal secrets I never knew I wanted to be in on. “Well?”

  Avoiding the truth, I straighten and give my hair a quick pat down. “Do I know you?” I ask, leaning toward him a smidge. My cleavage smiles up at him.

  He turns his body toward me, just enough to make me think he’s interested. Probably in my boobs, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I give them a jiggle and watch for his reaction. His steady gaze remains locked on mine for a few seconds. Then he offers his right hand. “Damien Drakkar.”

  The moment our palms kiss, erotic waves of unfettered bliss pummel me, starting in my gut and radiating outward to breasts, neck, arms, and core. Heat gathers down there, blossoming, growing, rolling back on itself in a seemingly endless cycle that only stops when he retreats from our handshake.

  Kenaz’s top is now off, and the rune is swinging it like Thor winding up Mjolnir for an attack.

  I empty my lungs with a long exhale and try unsuccessfully to catch my racing, painful breath.

  “The actor?” I say too thirstily, refusing on principle to mention his character on Asgard Awakening.

  “Yes,” he says with distaste. He replaces the glasses, and the spell shatters. “The actor.”

  Laguz, I need you to keep Kenaz in check. If I’m gonna blow my stack every time this guy looks at me, the Norns might as well take me now.

  I’ll do my best, Laguz promises shakily, but Kenaz doesn’t respond well to containment. Or threats.

  The power struggle between the runes tips my stomach off balance. It’s like eating a bad clam or expired meat that wasn’t cooked long enough. A touch of nausea after drinking too much.

  Damn, Kenaz is doing a number on both of us. Settle down! I silently command the unruly rune.

  The belligerent beast flares on top of my skull as if sticking out its tongue.

  “Astrid Jones,” I say, leaving the runes to duke it out. “You’re judging the pageant?”

  Yes, I know he’s judging, but asking a question isn’t lying any more than stating a name without claiming it as mine, so Sannleikur lets both pass without editing. I’m getting good at this circumventing-the-truth thing.

  Damien Drakkar’s hand flutters dismissively. “A stipulation of my Asgard Awakening contract.”

  “Ah,” I say. “You don’t want to be here.”

  He smacks his sultry lips into a frown and looks away. “No.”

  His rugged cheeks bear faint freckles. The sight of them makes my uterus twerk. I lay a hand over my stomach to quiet the rump shaking within.

  Mind on business, Laguz says. Flirt with him or something. You need to get into his house or dressing room—anywhere he might’ve stored the ring.

  “There are a few places I’d rather be too,” I say, wondering what his bedroom looks like.

  Kenaz shimmies seductively out of its pants and kicks them into Laguz’s face. Aggressive, hungry fire threatens to flash-burn the dregs of my restraint to ash.

  Laguz answers with a sharp lash to the hip. I flinch.

  “But I’m representing my boys,” I continue, nodding to the stage where Alex lip syncs, dressed as a goth babe.

  Damien Drakkar flips his gaze to Alex, then he returns it to me. “You’re much more interesting.”

  “I know,” I purr, Kenaz topping off my flirt tank with high-octane sexual prowess, “but at least give him a chance.”

  His shrug is fluid and serpentine. Deliberate. He focuses on Alex as the music starts. A heavy bass beat rattles the floor. Alex’s subtle sway slowly builds into more aggressive hand motions as guitars and drums layer in.

  Ignoring the pain in my side, I lean closer and say near Damien Drakkar’s ear, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look
much like your character.”

  Keeping his attention on the stage, he cracks a wide smile and covers his mouth with a hand. “Thank God for that.”

  “He really is a drip, isn’t he?” I say as the music swells.

  That elicits a chuckle. “I hate the way the writers made him so impotent. Nothing like the Loki from the myths. He was the real hero of the old stories, not Thor or Odin or those other fools.”

  With each minute I spend in his presence, I like this guy more and more. I venture deeper into his personal space and lay a hand on his arm. “Ragnarok proved it. Loki and his spawn brought down an entire world. Not even Odin could survive.”

  “Loki keeps his promises. The ultimate delivery man.” Gaze still fixed on the performance, he speaks just loud enough to be heard over the thudding music. “Kind of like me.”

  My eyes drop south. Was that a subtle pelvic thrust or a crotch adjustment?

  Alex dances in my periphery, but I’m fixated on Damien Drakkar. My nostrils flare as his hypnotic scent floods my nose. Dizziness filters into my head, spinning it uncontrollably. He makes me want to do bad things. Primal things. Raucously sexual things.

  “And what do you deliver, Mr. Drakkar?” I whisper breathily in his ear.

  The corner of his lips curls upward. “Come to my hotel room and find out.”

  Magma creeps up the column of my resolve, a volcano waiting for the right moment to erupt betwixt my thighs. Say the word, Damien Drakkar, and I’ll do it. I’ll cut loose.

  Loki, Laguz shouts with alarm from my hip. Control yourself.

  I ignore it.

  My simmering blood fizzes up to a low boil, and my face flushes with heat. I fan myself. “And where would that be?”

  “Armstrong Regency Hotel, room 3859,” he murmurs.

  The temperature continues to rise. Lightning crackles in my veins, superheating organs and tissues and stimulating my most private parts. Damien Drakkar’s hypnotic scent billows around me like a fog I can’t escape. I drink it in harder, faster. More, more, more. I need it. I need him. On me, in me, through me—

  Loki, Laguz snaps again, but I’m focused on the tremor roiling my pelvis, picking up speed as it tumbles toward madness.