Dragged Page 18

  “Surveillance cameras,” Huginn whispers.

  I didn’t anticipate those. Shite. There’s one at every intersecting hallway, including a few feet from where we’re standing. I have some nail polish in my purse, but without something to stand on, I can’t use it to paint the camera’s lens.

  I don’t have time to second guess myself. “Let’s just hope no one’s watching.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Huginn clucks.

  I flex my back muscles to activate Lásabrjótur. The annoying itch, followed by a click, signal the lock tumbling. The staff must’ve replaced the door Gunnar Magnusson broke. I tug the handle as quietly as I can, open the door wide enough to slip through, and shut it.

  The room is empty of Damien Drakkar’s effects.

  “No, no, no!” I say, spinning around.

  I venture into the bedroom and bathroom. The place has been cleaned and restocked with fresh towels and new tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The closets and drawers are devoid of clothing. And there’s no sign of the laptop I came to hack.

  “He either checked out or got another room,” Huginn says.

  Laguz says, Perhaps the staff moved him while they fixed the lock.

  “There are hundreds of rooms in this place,” I say, flipping a loose hank of hair out of my face. “He could be anywhere.”

  “You’re invisible,” Huginn says. “Go down to the front desk and look at one of their computers.”

  “If I knew more about how computers work, maybe I could, but with my poor skills, I’ll need time. I’ll only have a few seconds at most, and that’s assuming there’s an unmanned station.”

  “Have you forgotten our roots?” Huginn tsks. “I’ve proven I’m an effective distraction countless times for you. Remember the airport in Reykjavík? And when we arrived in New York City? Toss me into the lobby. I’ll give the hotel staff a run for their money.”

  I glance at my watch. “It’s almost 1:00. Drakkar will be wrapping up at the auditorium soon.”

  “And most hotel guests who were leaving have already checked out. Check-in isn’t until 3:00. This is the perfect opportunity. Now or never, Loki.”

  I agree, Laguz echoes.

  I swallow my concerns and nod.

  We slip out of the room. I see a sign for stairs farther down the hall and go that way. It’s out of direct line of the camera’s view. When I open the fire door to the stairwell, I realize too late there’s another camera just inside, monitoring the landing.

  Relax, Laguz says. If anyone’s watching, it’ll just look like someone opened the door and changed their mind about going forward. Midgardians would rather invent an explanation for things that don’t make sense than believe in magic or invisibility.

  Excellent point. They’re happy to believe in a God who looks like an old white man piloting a fluffy cloud through the sky, but if you turn invisible in front of their eyes, they lose their minds.

  Down thirty-eight flights of steps we go.

  By the time I reach the bottom, I’m out of breath and clutching my side. I inspect my stitches. Thankfully, they’re holding. I’m gonna need a WeedPop or three tonight to neutralize this pain.

  “At least you didn’t have to climb up,” Huginn quips.

  “Thank the Norns for that,” I agree.

  I crack the door at the lobby level and wait for the Midgardians to clear. Then I squeeze out through the smallest opening I can get through and head to the front desk.

  “Where shall I meet you?” I ask.

  Huginn says, “I’ll run for as long as I can, but if they get close enough to catch me, I’ll make a break for the street through the main doors. I saw some shrubs to the left. They should provide plenty of cover. I’ll wait for you there.”

  “Be careful,” I tell him and give him a quick squeeze.

  “You too,” he says.

  I unhook him from the baby carrier and wait until the last customer steps away from the service desk. I release Huginn behind an oversized chair in the lobby to the right and sneak over to the counter.

  I wait for the attendant to notice Huginn, who comes barreling in, flapping his wings and squawking like his tail feathers are on fire. A staff member bearing the word Connie on her nametag gasps.

  “Oh my God,” she says to her male coworker, whose tag says Jordan. She squints in Huginn’s direction. “Is that a chicken?”

  Jordan straightens and cautiously steps around the counter, his mouth slack and eyes wide behind his glasses. “How the hell did it get in here?”

  Connie grabs the telephone. “I’m calling security.”

  “It is a chicken.” Jordan inches closer.

  Huginn punches out his wings in a threatening display and crows threateningly, sounding like he did when he was a raven. Good show!

  I dart to the spot Jordan vacated and try to make sense of the computer, but unlike Gunnar Magnusson’s laptop, this one doesn’t have a trackpad.

  Mouse, Laguz says.

  I look at the floor for a rodent.

  No, you idiot. The little plastic contraption to the right of the keyboard. It moves the cursor. The buttons on top click.

  Of all the times to be computer illiterate, this is the worst.

  Squark! Huginn clucks, his small feet pattering over the tile. Squark! Squark!

  Now would be the perfect opportunity for him to drop a shite.

  With the phone nestled in the crook of her neck and shoulder, Connie watches Huginn. I wiggle the mouse, trying to figure out how it works. The cursor appears on the screen. Oh! I get it. Moving this thingie also moves the cursor. Check.

  Didn’t I just say that? Laguz groans.

  I scan the screen for clues. So many boxes full of information. Guest listing, search, clear, criteria, room # … CRAP! What does it all mean?

  There, Laguz says. Try arrivals, next to status.

  I click it. A slew of new choices appears: arrivals, departures, in house, relocated, all.

  In house, Laguz suggests.

  I tap the button, and a list of names appears in alphabetical order. I scroll to the Ds and search for “Drakkar.”

  He’s not here. I panic and look around for Huginn.

  The squawking and scratching and stomping shoes have created a commotion. Several guests leave the sitting area beside the lobby and investigate. Good. I return to the screen and scroll some more.

  Any guesses about a false name he might’ve used? I ask Laguz.

  Wait a minute, Laguz says. Go back to the status menu. Try relocated.

  I follow the rune’s instructions. A new list pops up. I scroll through the names, but still no Drakkar.

  Search by room number.

  I type in “3859.” The name David Rakkard appears. I slap my forehead. Drakkar spelled backwards. Ugh.

  When I click his name, a new window opens with his personal details and … yes! He moved to room 2900.

  I hope you got it, Loki, Huginn shouts and unleashes a barrage of angry clucks at the unfortunate bellboy blocking the door. Huginn pecks at his shoes. The lad dances like he’s standing on an active lava flow. I’m going to the rendezvous point. Hurry!

  The main doors open as a couple enters the hotel. Huginn ducks past the bellboy’s grabbing hands and races outside.

  “Should we go after him?” Jordan asks the man standing by the door in a long, flashy coat.

  Coat man shakes his head. “He’ll probably get run over any minute.”

  Laguz says, Jordan’s coming back. Exit out of this screen. We can’t leave any indication that Drakkar’s file has been accessed.

  I do my best to click away from the screen, but I’m not sure if I did it right. Too late. I leap out of the way just in time for Jordan to resume his post. He pauses for a moment, frowns, looks directly at me—through me—and returns to the screen with a shrug.

  I don’t stick around for his reaction to whatever mess I left behind. I follow a couple into the elevator, ride up to the twenty-ninth floor, and
listen at door number 2900. I tap lightly on the wood. No answer.

  Flex. Itch. Lock twist. I’m in.

  This room is nice but smaller than Damien’s other suite was. He’s probably not pleased to have been downgraded. I smile.

  With a quick scan of the environs (no sign of Alex’s missing hat, damn it), I locate the laptop on the desk and flip up the top. A password request appears in a white box. I type “Rakkard.”

  Incorrect password, the sassy screen says.

  I try “Loki.”

  Incorrect password.

  If you get the next one wrong, you might be locked out, Laguz says. I wonder if Lásabrjótur can open locks that aren’t physical.

  Like passwords? I ask.

  Exactly like passwords.

  “Can’t hurt to try.” I crack my knuckles and engage the rune stave again, aiming its magic at the patiently waiting input box.

  Itch. Pop. Voilà.

  I clap once. “Brilliant!”

  The screen presents a variety of cute, colorful little blocks. I know what many of these are. They take you to the Internets and give you mail. “What should I look for first?”

  Open his emails.

  I double click the red envelope button. Twelve lines of text appear. Each contains a name, subject, and the date. I scroll through today’s emails but don’t find anything interesting. Lots of advertisements for “erectile dysfunction,” though. I snicker.

  Work backward from today, Laguz says.

  I find messages from his agent. They don’t contain any juicy bits, just information and schedules for upcoming appearances, including Drag and Bone. The pageant seems to be the predominant theme for this week’s emails.

  More scrolling produces a lot of unanswered fan mail and requests for fundraiser appearances, hosting gigs, and a sponsorship offer from a credit card company asking Damien to be a spokesperson in a commercial campaign.

  “This is futile,” I groan after fifteen minutes of searching. “I gotta rescue Huginn. He’s been waiting for ages.”

  Wait, Laguz says as I hover the cursor over the X to close the mail app. What’s that one on Thursday?

  I squint and roll the page up.

  My mouth goes dry.

  To: Damien Drakkar

  From: Alexander Alfheim

  Re: Payment for Services Rendered

  Chapter Seventeen

  I race outside to collect Huginn and stuff him into his baby carrier. Still invisible, I hitch a ride on the trolley and get off at our hotel. Gunnar Magnusson sits surrounded by luggage in the lobby. Huginn and I rematerialize in a vacant bank of shadows. Without a word, I run over, grab a couple suitcase handles, and wave Gunnar Magnusson toward the exit. He doesn’t ask questions.

  Wiggles and Sparky peek their heads out of the bag slung over Gunnar Magnusson’s shoulder as we trudge across the blacktop toward the parking garage.

  “What’s the hurry, man?” Wiggles asks.

  “We’ve got big-time trouble,” I murmur.

  “What did you find out?” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  “Alex set us up.”

  He halts his steps and whirls on me, disbelief steaming off him like a geyser in December. “What?”

  “What?” Sparky echoes.

  I check our surroundings. Since leaving the Armstrong Regency, my paranoia feelers have been twitching off the charts. “Too many people. I’ll tell you in the van.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s lip curls as we lug our heavy loads. My rib is killing me after the thirty-eight flights of stairs I ran down, and these suitcases aren’t helping.

  “I thought that guy was shady,” Wiggles says. “You can’t trust magicians, man. With their spells and their … their magic.” He seems to have forgotten that Freya was a master of seidr, the ultimate Norse magic.

  “But Freya likes him,” Sparky says. “This’ll devastate her.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve heard you show an ounce of empathy for anyone besides yourself,” I say to the cat. “Well done.”

  “She’s our mistress. We’re her servants. We’re supposed to empathize with her. You, not so much,” Sparky says.

  “Yeah, slut-shamer,” Wiggles accuses.

  “I thought we were friends,” I say to the black-and-white traitor.

  “That might be a little much,” Wiggles replies. “You did slut-shame her. Multiple times.”

  “True,” I concede, “but not since I woke up.” I tap my temple. “I’m working on being more open-minded and less judgmental. Didn’t you notice?”

  “Freddie’s next project needs to be an animal translation device,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “It’s infuriating trying to decipher what you’re talking about when I only hear one side of the conversation.”

  “Trust me, it’s better this way.”

  “So you say,” Sparky snipes.

  We reach the minivan on level two of the parking deck, pop the back door open, and unload our bags. The cat tower fills most of the storage space, so we get creative with luggage arrangements. Once everyone’s strapped in, Gunnar Magnusson uses the room key card to exit the deck and points us toward the auditorium.

  “Spill it,” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  “On April 5, Damien Drakkar sent an email to Alexander Alfheim.” I open my phone’s photo app, pull up the picture I took of Damien’s laptop screen, and read the first email I uncovered aloud. “It says, ‘Greetings, Mr. Alfheim. I’m aware that you recently came into contact with a mutual acquaintance named Astrid Jones. I’ve been following her exploits for a while now and would very much like to meet her, however an arranged introduction smacks of phoniness to me. I prefer to cultivate personal relationships organically. That said, I’m not above manipulating situations to make such introductions appear to develop under the guise of serendipity.’”

  “Pretentious much? What is this guy, an English major or a screenwriter wannabe?” Gunnar Magnusson interrupts.

  “He does have the gift of gab,” Sparky says dryly.

  I continue reading. “‘That’s where you come in. My sources tell me you’ve befriended Miss Jones. I think you’d be the perfect person to guide her to me. On Thursday, April 11, a billboard on Flamingo Road will be running an advertisement for the Drag and Bone Pageant. I’d like you to arrange for Miss Jones to see it. If you complete this task, I’ll direct deposit a sum of $30,000 into your bank account.

  “‘Please remember, I’d like to surprise her, so I’ll kindly ask you to keep this request to yourself. To ensure this transaction remains between you and me, I’ve already dropped $10,000 into your account as a signing bonus, so to speak. Once you deliver Miss Jones to Flamingo Road on Thursday, you’ll receive the balance of your $30,000. If you choose not to accept my offer, keep the down payment as a token of my appreciation for considering it.’”

  “What the hell?” Gunnar Magnusson’s brow wrinkles with consternation. “Drakkar wanted you to see the billboard so you’d come to San Francisco.”

  “It was a setup,” I say. “He planned it all, knowing his Othala-embedded ring would bring me here. Then he tried to seduce me in his hotel room. The only question is, why?”

  “He’s someone from your past,” Gunnar Magnusson surmises.

  “I agree. But who? There are dozens of possibilities.”

  “Then, we need to start laying them out,” he says. “What about the runes you recovered from the World Tree at Nine Realms? Do you know which gods they belong to?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “What if Drakkar knows you have his, and he wants it back?”

  “The email was dated April 5. That was the Friday before I found the runes. He couldn’t have plotted to steal his rune back from me if I hadn’t taken it yet.”

  “Unless he has a seer on his side who told him what was going to happen,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “Or maybe he is the seer.”

  Damn, Laguz says, Check out the big brain on Gunnar.

  “The only gods who have clairvoyant abilities a
re Frigg, Mímir, Freya, and Skuld,” I say. “We’ve established that Frigg is Saga. She’s got plenty to keep her busy with the collapse of Nine Realms, and I’m ninety-nine percent certain she already has all of her runes. Seems unlikely she’d be masquerading as Damien, but she could easily have fed him information.

  “I spent several hours with Skuld at the tattoo parlor, and I’m sure she’s who she says she is. Whether or not she’d divulge my whereabouts to Damien, I don’t know.

  “My gut tells me Freya wouldn’t get wrapped up with Damien.” I keep my head turned so Gunnar Magnusson can’t see my guilty face at the mention of our friend. “Mímir’s head might, though. He’s tight with Odin and tells him everything.”

  If Damien is in cahoots with Mímir —or, gods forbid, he’s the reincarnation of Mímir—we’re screwed.

  “The volva could be involved,” I add. “There were a few other sorceresses from my time, but they weren’t immortal.”

  “What about Odin?” Gunnar Magnusson asks. “You yourself accused him of practicing seidr in the Poetic Edda. The volva gave him visions, did she not?”

  I pause to chew on that idea. “She did. Allfather could’ve fed Damien information regarding my whereabouts. I don’t recall ever seeing Damien and Odin at the same time, so I suppose Odin could be him. Doubtful, but anything’s possible where gods are concerned.”

  “So, we have a short list of suspects who might’ve given Drakkar foreknowledge of your plans,” Gunnar Magnusson says. “I think it was Mímir, Odin, or Freya. Based on my understanding of them from the old texts, they seem the most likely. Odin for obvious reasons. Mímir because he and Odin were close. Freya because—considering what I’ve read—you were pretty shitty to her.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I mumble.

  “Am I the only one who’s worried that Drakkar used Alex to get to you?” Huginn peeps. “Alex was supposed to be our friend. What will Freddie say about this?”