Dragged Read online

  Sjofn was a goddess of love and marriage who was close to Frigg. It could be her, but again, we didn’t talk often. She’d have to be working under Frigg’s direction.

  Damien can’t be Freya because Freddie’s already claimed her. The only other possibility I can think of would be Frey, the phallic wonder. That guy has serious length and girth. And he also has a motive for wanting to humiliate me. I kinda sorta mocked him for falling in love with a giantess named Gerdr and giving away his sword to woo her. Without his weapon, he was defeated at Ragnarok. It’s entirely possible Frey’s holding a grudge for the way I treated him. But seriously, who gives away a magic sword in exchange for a woman’s hand in marriage? It was a total bitch move.

  A bitch move you’d pull in a second if the hand in question was Gunnar’s, smart-arse Laguz says.

  “I don’t like you very much right now,” I say.

  “You can be mad at me all you want, but there’s one thing you didn’t count on,” Gunnar Magnusson replies.

  I cross my arms and stuff my fists into my armpits. “I wasn’t talking to you, but what didn’t I count on?” I ask grudgingly.

  “The little device I dropped in your purse? It recorded everything Drakkar said. The threats, the aggressive sexual comments, and disparaging the LGBTQ community. If we want to, we can take the recording to the press and bury this guy.”

  Well. I didn’t see that coming. “Really? Will they kill him first or bury him alive? I vote for the latter.”

  Gunnar Magnusson chuckles. “Neither. I mean we can expose him for sexual misconduct. I’m sure the Asgard Awakening producers and his fans wouldn’t approve of the way he spoke to you. And considering how he treated people at the pageant, I’ll bet this isn’t his first exploitation rodeo.”

  My brow furls. “What is ‘rodeo’?”

  “It’s a sport for cowboys. But that’s not important. What I meant was, he’s probably guilty of bad behavior with others as well. Maybe some of them will come forward with their own stories. Taking the recording to the press is about justice for those who’ve been wronged.”

  “Let’s hold off sharing it for now. I’m not opposed to ‘burying’ him once we find Othala. In the meantime, we need a new strategy.”

  Laguz hums playfully at my hip like a child trying to get my attention.

  “Got any suggestions?” Gunnar Magnusson asks.

  “No,” I say, “but I think Laguz does.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday/Sun’s Day

  While my boys wait their turn, round three of the Drag and Bone pageant begins with drama. Frazzled and agitated queens flit hurriedly around us, spraying their wigs with sticky shellac, replacing dropped eyelashes, and adjusting the fake boobs they glued under their extravagant dresses. Helga Boomslang and her unsavory ilk flash threatening glares and obscene gestures my way as they storm past in a hot fury to get to the stage, but I’m not concerned about them or their petty jealousy. I’m focused on us.

  This morning’s “lightning round” (the term gives me the shivers, especially with Darryl Donovan in the house) of auditions focuses on stage presence. Participants must charm the audience on the “catwalk” with not only their outfits, hair, makeup, and accessories, but also confidence and style.

  While Alex and I put the finishing touches on Gunnar Magnusson’s wig, we overhear gossip about the first queen who stepped onstage—Helga.

  “She twisted her ankle as she walked down the runway,” a woman wearing a turquoise mermaid outfit gushes. I thought runways were exclusive to airports. Apparently not. “She fell and split her dress from her cakes to her knees. Girl, you shoulda seen it. Them chicken cutlets spilled outta her gown, and her crusty wig launched off her head like a drunk purple peacock trying to beat his hen home to the nest.”

  A shot of unfettered glee races through me. One down, many more to go. But I’ll take this small victory.

  “So, she’s out?” another queen asks, a little too excitedly to be disappointed by this turn of events.

  “No,” the first one says. “Can you believe it? Damien didn’t eliminate her.”

  What the Hel?!

  Freddie’s head snaps up. He targets the gossips, narrows his eyes, and quietly says, “How the hell does a mean queen who crashed her own heels party and busted her ass get to stay when Alex’s performance was flawless?”

  I sigh. I know the answer. “It might’ve been my fault,” I admit. “I was sitting next to Damien when Alex made his debut. Damien cut him on purpose. Because of me.” Though I’m still not sure why he would. At that point, I hadn’t rejected Damien’s advances yet. Thanks to him, I was building up to a climax to end all climaxes when Alex was onstage. Unless Drakkar dismissed Alex to toy with me.

  But why let that bitch Helga through? She’s been throwing her weight around since we arrived, and I’m not the only one she’s harassed. She yanked off another girl’s wig after chewing me out in the queue on Friday. Freddie said he’s pretty sure she sabotaged someone’s makeup case on Saturday, and there are rumors that she’s behind the mysterious food poisoning that knocked out two contestants.

  “I doubt it’s your fault,” Alex murmurs.

  I start to ask him why, but loud dance music interrupts me. Heath Saxon weaves among the contestants, telling everyone to get in line and be quiet.

  Darryl Donovan is number twenty-five, and Freddie is second from the last at thirty-one. I wish them luck, and they take their places. I give Gunnar Magnusson a final once-over. He’s in position number four.

  Despite his six-foot-three height and his 200-pound frame, he looks pretty. Some of the other queens call him “vanilla cheesecake,” which must mean he’s sweet like cake. Freddie braided Gunnar Magnusson’s long locks into two plaits on either side of his head. Bigger is always better at a drag show, including hair, so Freddie added extensions to the mix to thicken his braids.

  Gunnar Magnusson wears a short, form-fitting royal blue dirndl whose skirt billows and falls to his knees. The bodice boasts “breasts” bigger than mine. In addition to foam inserts, Freddie used brushes and makeup to create the illusion of cleavage and curves. The art job looks so real, I touched Gunnar Magnusson’s chest to make sure he hadn’t sprouted actual boobs. His calves are hard and shapely under slimming black hosiery. It took him an hour to shave the thick leg fur. You should’ve heard the swearing that followed every time he nicked himself with the razor. All I can say is, he’s lucky he didn’t have to endure a Brazilian wax.

  But the best part is his face. Alex and Freddie collaborated on Gunnar Magnusson’s and Darryl Donovan’s makeup. Gunnar Magnusson’s azure eyes are more arresting than usual, thanks to the boosts of color from various shadows and liners. They even managed to tame his beard and hide it under a thin layer of Alex’s magic and a little latex, which might hurt as much as waxing when it comes off. The effect is quite convincing. Freddie and Alex are masters of disguise. They make a great team.

  With my thumb, I smooth away a tiny smudge of misplaced lipstick from the corner of Gunnar Magnusson’s mouth and smile. “You make a beautiful woman.”

  “Thanks. I feel kind of silly,” he says with a faint blush, “but I wanted to do this. For you.”

  My stomach flutters. “I’ll never forget it. Good luck.” I peck him on the cheek and step away as the next contestant heads for the stage.

  Swooning after him, I slip into the auditorium and commandeer one of the seats in a darkened section off to the side. Damien Drakkar sits in the middle of the front row, surrounded by women who can’t stop staring at him. He’s wearing black with the usual sunglasses. His body language is prickly; his expression is one of bored irritation.

  When it’s his turn, Gunnar Magnusson struts out confidently on his four-inch heels. We couldn’t find higher ones that fit his big feet, which is probably a good thing. He’s tall enough already. His arms swing, his overstuffed hips sway, and he looks like he’s having the time of his life as he shimmies down the catwalk
.

  I wish I could make him as happy in regular life as he seems right now.

  When he reaches the end of the runway, he flips his braids, shakes his butt, and winks. The crowd goes crazy with whistles and screams. Shouts of “Work, girl, work!” ring through the hall. I laugh and clap. He’s brilliant.

  Then a loud “Pass” groaned through the speakers ruins everything.

  All eyes turn toward Damien Drakkar, who drops the mic in his lap. He stretches and yawns, settling his arms across the backs of the seats on either side of him. Even the women filling those spots look surprised that he nixed Gunnar Magnusson. The fast tempo of the music continues, oblivious to Damien’s rude snub. Gunnar Magnusson falters, missing a beat. The excited smile drops from his lips, and my heart squeezes. A hush falls over the incredulous crowd as he returns backstage, still strutting but with decidedly less flair.

  I run back there. When I find him, several queens surround him, shaking their heads and saying they’re sorry.

  “It’s okay,” he tells them. “The beard wasn’t doing me any favors.” He pulls off the latex with a wince and a forced laugh that lost its happiness.

  “If I’d known what a dick Damien Drakkar was gonna be about this pageant, I might’ve skipped it,” someone says with a cluck. “He’s sending all the best man meat off to the slaughterhouse. Ain’t gonna be nothing left but scraggly necks and gizzards if he don’t slow down.” She chucks a disgusted look toward a smugly smiling Helga Boomslang, who titters and finger-waves in our direction.

  This is what Damien wanted: to humiliate Gunnar Magnusson for breaking his hotel room door and to get back at me for scorning him.

  Several of the queens pat Gunnar Magnusson’s shoulders and mumble their support as they return to their spots in line.

  “Hey,” I say, tipping his chin up. “Do not feel bad about this. You were perfect in every way.”

  He lowers his head. “I don’t care about winning. I just wanted to help. If Freddie and Darryl don’t make it past this round either, we may not be able to get close to Drakkar again. I don’t want you to miss your shot at—”

  I throw myself into his arms and hug him tight. He stuck his neck out for me. Again. The only other person who’s ever shown me this much kindness was Sigyn. He—she—they are my heroes.

  The hug doesn’t last long. A commotion onstage whips everyone into a tizzy. Queens rush to peer through the curtain. Another contestant fell and hurt herself.

  “This is our cue to leave.” I grab Gunnar Magnusson’s hand. We sneak through a back door and run for the parking lot.

  When we get to the minivan, he says, “I need to change. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves if we’re doing recon, and this outfit is definitely a head turner.”

  “Good point. Let’s go to the hotel. If we caught anyone’s notice,” I whisper and glance at the sky, half expecting Heimdall or Odin or Frigg to descend in front of us with the fire of vengeance burning in their eyes, “we’ll lose them when we go back out.”

  Gunnar Magnusson opens the passenger door for me and climbs in the driver’s side. A minute into our ride, he says, “You really think I make a good drag queen?”

  “Would I lie to you?” I reply.

  “You say you can’t anymore, so I guess not. Unless you’re lying about not being able to lie.”

  I laugh. “I’m not. You were perfect.”

  He narrows his focus on the road. With a grunt, he tugs a stray strip of latex off his face. “So, after we change, we’re going to his hotel.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be invisible. I’ll keep watch in the lobby and text you if I see Drakkar.”

  “Right,” I say. “I just need a few minutes. The only lead I have is his computer. If I can get inside it, maybe I’ll dig up some clues about where he put Othala. Laguz can’t trace it, but if Damien is using heavy magic, which I’m sure he is, he could be cloaking Othala like Odin did with the runes in the World Tree at Nine Realms.”

  Perhaps he and Odin are in league together, Laguz thinks. That would explain a lot.

  I don’t want to go there. Ugh.

  Gunnar Magnusson nods. “The contest should keep Drakkar busy long enough, but Alex is on standby if we need him to whip up a distraction. I think we’ll be fine.”

  “Did you give any more thought to our date?” I ask.

  He grins. “I did.”

  “Are you going to tell me, or is this a surprise?”

  “Let’s keep it a surprise.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I can’t wait to see what he has planned.

  I glance at the calendar icon on my phone and gulp. Today’s Sunday. Tuesday is only two days away. The balloon in my head deflates with a groan.

  “Sooner rather than later, okay?” I say, trying to sound upbeat.

  He glances to me. “You in a hurry?”

  I draw my legs up and wrap my arms around them. The pressure on my rib feels good. “Another date would be the raisin at the end of the sausage that is my life.”

  He laughs at my twist on the old Icelandic proverb. For those of you not in the know, a raisin at the end of a sausage is an added bonus to something that’s already great. Because despite the trials and tribulations I’ve weathered in the few weeks since I woke up in the ice, it’s been a pretty good, if short, life.

  And Gunnar Magnusson is my raisin.

  “Then I’d better make it the best damn date you’ve ever been on,” he declares, grabbing my hand. He pulls the human knot to his lips and kisses the backs of my fingers.

  My only “date” has been with him, and it was Valhalla. “I have no doubt it will be.”

  When we return to the hotel, Huginn’s still bingeing Robot Chicken episodes. He looks up from the tablet on my bed. “Where have you been? The cats won’t shut up about Freddie and Freya, and housekeeping has been in here three times.”

  “Three times?” I ask, alarmed. I turn to Gunnar Magnusson. “Is that normal?”

  “What did he say?” he asks. “I don’t speak Chicken.”

  “Sorry. Housekeeping has visited thrice today. Are they supposed to do that?”

  He frowns. “Once is normal. Twice isn’t completely out of the ordinary. But three times seems excessive.”

  “When they came in the last time, Sparky and Wiggles ducked under Freddie’s bed, and I hid under yours,” Huginn explains. “I didn’t see what they were doing, and they didn’t say anything, but I saw two pairs of feet. One with women’s shoes and the other with men’s shoes. They moved fast. It sounded like they opened some drawers.”

  I relay this information to Gunnar Magnusson.

  “Definitely not normal for staff to look through a guest’s personal items. It might be time to move hotels,” he advises.

  I clutch my purse. The runes have been with me all day, so no one took those. What the Hel were they looking for?

  “How fast can we pack everything?” I ask.

  Gunnar Magnusson shrugs. “Half an hour?”

  “We’ll have to do it when we get back. This might be my only opportunity to sneak into Damien’s suite.”

  “I could stay here and pack while you go,” he offers.

  Sparky and Wiggles amble into our room. They sit, swish their tails bitchily across the carpet, and stare up at me.

  “Hey man, a lady took something from Alex’s suitcase,” Wiggles says.

  “What was it?” I ask.

  “Hold on.” Gunnar Magnusson points at the black-and-white cat. “Did you just talk to him?”

  “It was about the size of those plates you eat off,” Wiggles replies. He stands on his hind legs and spreads his front ones to illustrate.

  “What color?” I ask.

  “Black.”

  “Flat, like a disc?”

  Wiggles shrugs. “I guess. He usually wears it on his head, man. He looks dope with it too.”

  “It was a hat,” Sparky confirms. “My boy over there don’t exactly have
the vocabulary I do.”

  I run into Alex’s room and pick through his stuff. Clothes, decks of cards, a wand. His balled cape is stuffed behind a suitcase. I don’t see the top hat he wore when he cast the protection spell over us.

  “What did they look like?”

  “The lady had red hair. Tall. Real pretty. Short green dress with flowers on the top. Nice rack. The dude looked like the other hotel guys. Suit. Boring.”

  The woman who sat next to Damien and fed him registration papers on the first day of auditions.

  She must be his assistant, Laguz says.

  Yes. It had to be her. Sparky’s description matches, and I didn’t see her at the venue earlier today.

  A chill climbs my spine. What does she—or Damien, as the case may be—want with Alex’s hat?

  I emerge to find a confused-looking Gunnar Magnusson waiting for me outside the door.

  “You didn’t tell me you understood the cats too,” he says.

  It’s not important. “It’s important,” I reply. Then I smack my head twice on the door frame. Stupid rune stave.

  “I gathered that.”

  “I mean … Never mind. Yes, I can talk to the cats, but other things are more important at the moment. I really need to get over to Damien’s hotel before he does.”

  “Go.” Gunnar Magnusson waves to the door. “And take Huginn. I’ll pack. Text me when you get there.”

  I grab the front-loading baby carrier and strap Huginn to my chest. We head for the door.

  “Be careful,” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  I will. “I won’t.”

  Huginn clucks a chuckle. Gunnar Magnusson shakes his head and resumes throwing things into suitcases.

  I command Hulinhjálmur to make me invisible. One insatiable itch and a failed attempt to scratch it later, Huginn and I are on our way. We hop on a packed cable car and hang off the side. The ride takes us down California Street to Nob Hill. At the end of the route, we get off at the Armstrong Regency.

  I wait for someone to trigger the door opener and dart into the hotel’s main entrance behind a group of businessmen. We do the same for the elevator. I’m careful to cover my tracks. I don’t want to raise any suspicions. Huginn and I take the elevator to the thirty-eighth floor. When we get to room 3859, I look down both sides of the hall. No one. I listen at the door. It’s quiet.