Dragged Read online

  Gunnar Magnusson rubs his forehead. He looks exhausted. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  It always comes back to gender, doesn’t it? Half the time, I hate being a woman, and the other half, I feel as if I should be defending my sex. It’s a never-ending struggle, and I still don’t know where exactly I fall on the spectrum of acceptance.

  I look down at my breasts and wish them away.

  They’re still here.

  “I’m sorry he was rude to you,” Gunnar Magnusson says, “but maybe you should try treating others the way you want to be treated.”

  “You expect me to put humans on the same pedestal as a god?” I laugh. “You must be joking. These Midgardian fools don’t deserve such reverence.”

  Gunnar Magnusson flinches. “I’m one of those Midgardian fools. So is Freddie. And Darryl. And Alex.”

  I start to say, No, you’re not, but Laguz, my main source of common sense, cuts me off. LOKI. SHUT UP.

  I slam my lips closed with a pop and wait a beat for the fury to pass. It doesn’t. I rub at the itch throbbing at the top of my skull. Kenaz again.

  My freshly recovered rune hasn’t had much time to settle in yet, so I can’t tell if the combination of rage and lust suffusing me is Kenaz’s doing or some hormone-related feminine nonsense. At this stage, it could be either. Or both.

  “I’m hungry. You look good enough to eat,” I blurt to Gunnar Magnusson.

  His eyes widen. Mine do too. I cover my mouth a second too late. I’m sorry. “I’m not sorry,” I admit.

  Damn this truth tattoo!

  We stare at each other for a moment. I’ve clearly lost my mind, along with any semblance of restraint.

  “It’s been a long day,” he finally says.

  “Yes,” I agree, stepping closer. His back is inches away from the door to our room. I have half a mind to shove him against it and climb him like a tree.

  “I think …” He pauses. A ridge forms between his brows, and he awkwardly swipes his palm down the back of my arm. “I think I need a night to myself.”

  The force of the blow knocks me off course.

  “Oh,” I mumble, searching for my feet or Huginn or anything but Gunnar Magnusson. Heat rushes into my cheeks. I understand. “I don’t understand.”

  I stomp my booted foot and back away, determined not to let him see the disappointment encroaching on my eyes.

  “It’s not you,” he says defensively. “I gotta work through some stuff. Just give me tonight, okay? I’ll sleep in the van.”

  I shake my head. “No, you take the room. It’s the least I can do.” I barely manage to swallow the after you slept with Saga to get my rune for me before it has a chance to escape.

  I shove the key into his hand and craft a fake smile. Is my face immune to the truth curse? Judging by his tight expression, it’s hard to tell.

  “Where will you sleep?” he asks, his brow creasing.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I reply with another smile. I don’t even try to make this one look genuine. “Get some rest.”

  Without waiting for his answer, I turn away and motion Huginn over. We head for the stand of trees off to the side. A tear sneaks past the corner of my lids and hits the pavement with a splat.

  I am such a fool.

  Chapter Two

  With a thought, I activate Hulinhjálmur, the rune stave tattooed on my back. A rash of incorrigible itchiness accosts the skin there for a couple seconds. Then the world flips to black and white, signaling my invisibility. I shovel Huginn into my arms, and we blend into the falling darkness. I suppose I shouldn’t think ill of Skuld. The Norn’s gift of concealment is a powerful one. It, along with my new lock-breaking rune stave Lásabrjótur, almost makes up for the truth curse Skuld set upon me with her thorns and immortal ink.

  Almost.

  “What’s wrong, Loki?” Huginn asks from the crook of my arm. His tone is gentle, empathetic. Maybe he feels as sorry for me as I do.

  “You know,” I moan. “You’re Thought. You know everything.”

  Odin’s former raven jerks left and right, shaking his head. “Not everything. Not anymore. Without my runes, many things escape my notice.”

  If he doesn’t know, then I’m not going to tell him. I don’t want him to think I’m a whiny child, even though I may as well be.

  I straighten, pull myself together, and dab my eyes with the sleeve of the flannel shirt I stole from Gunnar Magnusson. I reach into my bag and sift through the sixty-odd carved bone chips that powered the World Tree at Nine Realms Resort and Casino mere hours ago. Frey, Bragi, Vidar … Forsetti, Kvasir, Skadi … Modi, Eir, Aegir … Ah, there’s Huginn’s.

  Sneaking into the shadows behind the motel, I release the invisibility shield. Colors return to my vision as my corporeal form reappears. I lift Huginn’s rune. “I said I’d return your runes if you helped me. This is the only one I have. I vowed to find the others, and I will uphold that promise. You’ve been a good friend to me, Huginn. Your loyalty means a great deal.” Especially since he ditched Odin for me.

  I present the small, whitish-blue chip to him. His outward-pointing eyes converge on the rune and light up. “I don’t know how to thank you for this, Loki,” he breathes as he wraps his claws around it. “I’m in your debt.”

  “Your debt is paid,” I say.

  The muted blue glow from the bone strengthens as magic transforms it into a metal cuff that encircles his leg. I can’t read it, so I don’t know what this rune does for him—such things are personal matters, and it’s impolite to ask—but I hope its return to Huginn’s possession brings him joy.

  “You’re a good friend, Loki,” Huginn clucks.

  “So are you.” I give him a little squish.

  Huginn’s glossy eyes alight on mine and soften as the shimmer from his rune diffuses and fades. “Where do we go from here?”

  Now that I’ve secured Laguz and Kenaz, I need to find my other two runes, Othala and Ihwaz, but I have no idea where to look for them.

  “Muninn said Frigg and Odin will be coming for me after what I did at Nine Realms.” That’s a euphemistic way of saying my head will likely be relocated to the tip of Odin’s spear Gungnir when he and his wife have their way with me. There won’t be any atonement for pulling the magical plug on the resort/casino in question and exposing it for the mundane structure it truly is. There will only be vengeance. “If they can penetrate my invisibility shield—”

  “They can’t,” Huginn interrupts. He glances around nervously. “And it might be wise to turn it back on. Never know who might be listening.”

  Hmm. Maybe the rune I gave him is providing insights he didn’t have before. This is good. And all the more reason to search for Huginn’s other runes as well as my own. A little back scratching between friends never hurt anyone. Much.

  With a tickle racing up my spine, I shift us into the realm of the unseen once more and watch the colors from my surroundings bleed into variations on a dull gray theme.

  “Great that they can’t see us,” I say, “but they can still find Gunnar Magnusson, Freddie, Darryl Donovan, and Alex. With Muninn and Heimdall in their thrall, Odin and Frigg have eyes everywhere.”

  Heimdall. The mere thought of the ever-watchful, all-seeing clam fart who killed me at Ragnarok makes my butt cheeks clench. I’d love another go at him. When we last met in Atlanta at an Asgard Awakening convention, I popped his golden eyes like egg yolks with my boot heels. (Don’t worry. They grew back. Read book one for the delicious, gory details.) If only I could do it again—this time, permanently.

  “If the guys touch you when you activate Hulinhjálmur, they’ll become invisible too,” Huginn says. “But they can’t touch you all the time.”

  Much to my dismay, I think as my attention drifts again to Gunnar Magnusson. I shake my head.

  “They need disguises,” Huginn says.

  I nod. “Heimdall has at least one of his runes, hence the far sight. I have another. I doubt Odin gave him any additional ones
. He’s remained a step behind me since we left Atlanta. It seems reasonable to assume Heimdall isn’t functioning at full power. If his vision is limited, disguises might muddle our trail—at least for a little while.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How much time do you think we have before Odin and Frigg come after us?” I ask.

  Huginn’s feathery body thrums in my hands. Minute vibrations wriggle through him as if he caught a chill. I wonder if he’s channeling his inner raven and accessing Odin’s stream of consciousness. When the tremors stop, he says, “They’re running damage control with the media and dealing with the fallout from the resort’s demise. My guess is they’ll begin their search for you tomorrow.”

  “Cool trick,” I remark with appreciation. Apparently, the raven lives on.

  Huginn squawks proudly.

  Freddie and I have been collecting costumes since we left Atlanta a week ago. If Odin and Frigg hold off until the morning, I can keep us covered long enough to escape this miserable town.

  If only I knew where to go …

  Doesn’t matter. Anywhere but here will do for now, Laguz says in my mind.

  “It’s settled,” I say. “Disguises for everyone, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “Works for me,” Huginn replies.

  I head toward the motel. Corralling my wandering gaze away from room 196, I rap three times on the door marked 190 and wait.

  A moment later, a shirtless Darryl Donovan answers, sans the usual round glasses, his brow creased with confusion. He’s wearing a pair of thin sleeping pants that would be kick-ass if not for the Asgard Awakening logos all over them. He looks through me. Shakes his head and starts to retreat inside.

  “You weren’t kidding about those vegetables,” I say. Maybe there’s something to his so-called “vegan” diet after all. His human body puts his Asgardian one to shame. I can only imagine the havoc a modern version of Thor could wreak with his hammer Mjolnir, his power belt, his iron gloves, and an actual brain.

  Darryl Donovan startles. The thick, hard ropes of muscle holding him together flex in a most alluring way. I arch a brow. Impressive. But not for me.

  “Loki?” he says, squinting.

  I push past him and strut into his room with Huginn.

  “Where are you?” he asks, closing the door. His gaze darts in my direction but falls a couple feet short of landing on me. “Turn that invisibility shit off. It’s creepy.”

  I deactivate Hulinhjálmur long enough for him to see me wiggle my fingers coyly at him and then pop out of sight again. “I can’t let them find me,” I explain. “I may have Huginn, but Odin has Heimdall.”

  “Uh-huh.” Darryl Donovan curls his arms into a knot over his firm pecs. “What are you doing here?”

  Feeling playful, I slink up and lean close to his ear. “I need a bed for the night.”

  To my delight, he jumps backward. “Okay, enough of that. For real, if you’re gonna come in here acting all invisible and shit, you’re not allowed to freak me out. I spook easily, okay?”

  I stifle the laugh about to break free from my throat. Thor spooks easily? If Darryl Donovan ever discovers his previous identity, I’ll never let him live this down. Well, assuming he doesn’t kill me first.

  Squark! Huginn chuckles.

  “Shut up, bird,” Darryl Donovan points threateningly in Huginn’s direction.

  I wrangle my amusement under the veneer of a calm voice. Sorry comes out as “I’m not sorry.”

  Damn you, Skuld. I menace the ceiling with my invisible fist.

  “Yeah,” Darryl Donovan snarks, “I’m well aware.” He gestures for me to sit on one of the beds. I do. “You’re not sharing a room with Gunnar? After that smooch in the parking lot, I thought you two were … you know.”

  Yeah, me too.

  “We’re not,” I answer. “Can I sleep with you instead?”

  He draws a circle in the air with his chin as if he misheard me. “Uh …”

  “I mean, just here. In your room,” I explain.

  “I prefer to sleep alone,” he hedges.

  “You will be alone,” I assure him. “In your own bed. Huginn and I will share this one.”

  “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  We’ll be quiet, I beg, but it comes out as, “We won’t be quiet.”

  “Shocker.” He huffs loudly. “Fine. But just for tonight. And no more invisibility pranks, you hear me, woman?”

  That last word stings a little. “I hear you, man. Thank you, Darryl Donovan.”

  He wanders to the sink and brushes his teeth while I talk. “Can I be honest with you?”

  Looking at me in the mirror, he shrugs. White foam trails down his chin and plops into the basin under running water. He spits and says, “You don’t have a choice anymore, do you?”

  “Ha, ha,” I say, setting Huginn on the floor. His drab feathery form shimmers into vivid brightness. “I’m upset, and I don’t know if I’m justified.”

  Darryl Donovan pauses his brushing. “Upset about what?”

  “You saw how the man in the office treated me like I wasn’t there. Is this … normal?”

  He resumes scrubbing his gleaming teeth, spits again, and towels off his face. He drops his toothbrush into a plastic cup by the basin and turns around. “It’s a man’s world.”

  “Always has been,” I agree. “But now that I’m a woman, I’m not very fond of this unwritten rule.”

  “As I see it, you have three choices.” He ticks off each point on a finger as he speaks. “You can accept the misogyny and deal with being treated like crap by mansplainers and annoying old white men. You can step up and call people out when they act inappropriately. Or you can change the paradigm.”

  Those aren’t the answers I’m looking for. Sounds like a lot of submission, work, or more work.

  I huff. “This isn’t my world. Why should I have to change anything? Why don’t you change it?”

  He winds his arms through a white T-shirt. When his head clears the collar, he grins. “Not my problem,” he says, his tone teasing. “I’ve already fought my battles. Now I’m sitting pretty with my X and Y chromosomes over here, getting along with everyone, happy as a Partridge Family song. I ain’t changing shit.”

  I furrow my brow. Freddie taught me about chromosomes on our recent road trip, but I need to google Partridge Family later.

  “So, I have to do everything myself? That’s no help at all,” I whine. “If I wanted to become one of those ‘feminist’ people, I’d be flashing my tits in front of the Westboro Baptist Church and demanding equal pay for women.” I saw some angry ladies doing that on a news story. I switched the channel. Social justice isn’t nearly as entertaining as movies and TV shows. It’s pretty depressing, really.

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself. But you’re not allowed to complain if you refuse to even try changing things.”

  He’s as infuriating as he was a thousand years ago, except now he has fancy clothes, money, and a fast car. And highly evolved swagger that occasionally makes me question my confused sexuality more than I already do.

  “Why are you here?” I demand. Frustration oozes from my pores.

  “Because you can’t get enough of me,” he says and sprawls out on the other bed. He kicks his bare feet up, crossing them at the ankles. With an arm curled behind his head, he grabs the remote and flips on the television. “And you frequently need me to bail you out of jail and defend you in court, if memory serves.”

  I throw a pillow at him. His arm flies up, blocking my attack. He doesn’t even blink as the pillow deflects harmlessly to the carpet.

  Huginn squawks a chuckle. “You do get in trouble a lot.”

  I bean the chicken with the other pillow. He runs under Darryl Donovan’s bed, tittering along the way.

  You’re both incorrigible, and I hate you comes out as “You’re both right, and I adore you.”

  I cup my cursed mouth with a palm and scream into it, which only makes Darryl Donovan and
Huginn laugh harder.

  I cannot win.

  Stuffing my fists into my armpits, I glance to the TV. Asgard Awakening is on, of course. It’s a Thor episode, of course. Darryl Donovan seems enthralled, of course.

  YAWN.

  I grumble something about the uselessness of changing paradigms and retrieve the pillows, which turn invisible as soon as I touch them. While Darryl Donovan laughs at something Damien Drakkar’s Loki does on the TV, I scoop up Huginn and my purse full of runes, pull down the covers, and crawl into bed. The bag gets quietly shoved under the sheets and kicked to the bottom of the mattress. Gotta keep the runes hidden from my god friends who don’t know they’re gods. Huginn struts in a circle three times until the linens meet his nesting standards and settles down to roost by my knees for the night.

  The incision on my left shoulder where a cardioverter-defibrillator was recently installed throbs just enough to set my teeth on edge. I superglued the skin back together after ripping a stitch or three out during my daring rune rescue mission at Nine Realms Resort, but it still hurts. The spot where my heart ticks hurts even more, but it’s not a physical pain. More like a guilty one.

  A few rooms away, Gunnar Magnusson is probably reliving the night’s events as I am but through a very different lens. He compromised his morals for me by sleeping with Saga/Frigg, and all I gave him in return was a woefully inadequate “thank you.”

  Maybe I’m not the only one around here who thinks he’s underappreciated.

  I yank the covers over my head to make myself even more invisible. I have to prove to Gunnar Magnusson how sorry I am for taking advantage of his kindness. I have to avoid Freddie and his never-ending questions about his former self. I have to find Huginn’s and my runes while keeping my friends from finding theirs.

  “Sweet dreams,” Darryl Donovan chants mockingly from the other side of my unhappy place.

  If he only knew how unsweet my dreams have been of late. They’re downright bitter with booming bass notes of doom and destruction. I gently rub the hot incision above my heart and peek over the covers at Asgard Awakening. Thor, after finding his wife Sif’s golden hair lopped off, spins Mjolnir in a lightning-fast whir around his finger and roars from the television, “Loki, you’re a dead man!”