Dragged Page 4

  “I’m not gonna ask where your clothes are,” he says gently. “That’s your business.”

  I try to defend myself by admitting that I felt like flirting with mischief when I woke up in Darryl Donovan’s bed this morning, but he cuts me off. Thankfully.

  “You may be a god, but you’re no healer,” he says. “You beat yourself up last night, and now your body is protesting.”

  “I’m not the only one who beat himself up last night,” I blurt before I can catch the words.

  Gunnar Magnusson fails to restrain his flinch. I feel bad. I should stop talking altogether. Perhaps a muzzle or a ball gag would help? I can’t tell the truth if my mouth is obstructed.

  I sigh. “I’m sorry, Gunnar Magnusson.” Apologies seem to play on a never-ending loop for me, but at least this time, I mean it.

  He eases away. His wounded expression toughens like a scar, sealing over the slice I cut into it. Now I feel even worse.

  “I’m taking you to a doc-in-a-box. They can re-stitch you,” he says, shifting focus to his feet.

  A car with its back window covered in plastic film rolls to a stop on the street. Its horn honks. The driver yells, “Hey, baby, you want a taste of this trouser snake?” A shiver darts up my spine at the mention of a snake. I look around for a serpent but don’t see one.

  Oh. Trouser snake. As in, a penis. Clever.

  “I got ten bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Slip me a little of that sweet tongue, and it’s yours.” He grasps an invisible todger and makes a suggestive movement toward his mouth.

  “He’s obviously never met my tongue,” I mumble.

  Gunnar Magnusson tenses and steps between me and the rude solicitor. My skin pebbles as I absorb the fury rolling off him like electricity from an incoming storm. My cheeks warm. His anger is quite a turn on.

  “Hello, nipples!” Huginn squawks, ogling my breasts as if he just noticed them standing at attention.

  “Pervert.” I set the chicken on the ground, and he scrambles away.

  I reach around either side of Gunnar Magnusson’s wide shoulders. With a gallant flourish, I thrust two middle fingers in the guy’s direction. Freddie calls this behavior “throwing a bird,” though I’m not sure what it has to do with tossing winged creatures. All I know is that the gesture is offensive, and a lot of New Yorkers employ it. That’s good enough for me.

  “Firstly, you couldn’t afford me,” I yell around the Viking mountain blocking my nakedness from view. “Secondly, you wouldn’t know a snake if it dripped venom in your face and bit you on the arse. Judging by your willingness to harass an innocent woman, I reckon yours is more of a trouser worm than a snake. Call me when you hit the lottery and your balls drop.”

  “Crazy bitch!” the guy shouts. The car’s engine revs, and he drives away, tires caterwauling like cats in heat.

  Gunnar Magnusson turns to me. His molars seem glued together. A muscle in his cheek ripples. I’m keenly aware of how close he is to my naked body. I clamp my mouth shut to tamp down the words itching to fly from between them: I’d like to ride your trouser snake.

  I whimper.

  “Ignore that idiot,” Gunnar Magnusson ekes out. His gaze ventures south. “Maybe you should … uh …” he motions in the vicinity of my breasts.

  I look down. “Yes. Clothes. I’ll get some. Then can we talk about … things?”

  He narrows his eyes. “After the doctor.”

  “On the way to the doctor,” I counter.

  “On the way,” he agrees after a moment’s debate.

  I turn. Pause. Flap my lashes up at him. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before,” I tease.

  Fun Loki fact: I was naked when I woke up in the snow in Iceland. Gunnar Magnusson was the first and only human who helped me.

  He stretches his neck as if testing its elasticity and slams his lips into a tight line.

  Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I’ve made a fool of myself yet again.

  With a thought and an itch, I activate Hulinhjálmur and blink out of sight. Gunnar Magnusson shakes his head and releases a lungful of air in a heavy whoosh. I return to Darryl Donovan’s room where Huginn waits. The door is locked. Another itch, and Lásabrjótur lets us inside.

  “Jesus, Loki,” Darryl Donovan says when I barge in. “A little warning? I keep thinking there’s a ghost in here when you pull that shit.”

  Water drips on the carpet from under the towel hugging his slim hips.

  What is it with my male friends walking around in towels?

  I don’t bother trying to lie. “I’m not sorry,” I say, pitching clothes from my suitcase.

  “I know,” he fires back. “What’s on the agenda today?”

  I don a fresh pair of underwear and jeans, followed by a clean purple shirt—at least I think it’s purple. Hard to tell with the invisibility forcing everything gray. “I have to go out for a bit. Freddie mentioned something about food. If you want to eat, go with him.”

  Darryl Donovan sits on his bed and looks to the right of me. “And then what? Are we staying in Vegas?”

  I wander over to my mattress and feel around for the lump of my purse. Phew! It’s in the same spot where I left it last night and seems to be untouched.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m waiting for a sign.”

  “From the Norns?” he pokes with a mocking tone.

  I shrug. “From whoever wants to send me one.” Come to think of it, Laguz has been pretty quiet today.

  In what little free time I’ve had between dealing with the fallout from your new skin art and staving off Kenaz’s desire to kickstart World War III for the fun of it, I’ve been cogitating, Laguz hums condescendingly.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Well, I’m sorry your elevated sense of self can’t appreciate the freewheeling, fun parts of me, smart arse.”

  Darryl Donovan frowns. “I know I can be a little cocky, but—”

  “Not you,” I snipe. “Never mind. I’ll be back in a few hours. We’ll figure out where to go then. Keep an eye on Huginn for me?”

  “Sure,” Darryl Donovan says. He stands up, heads to the bathroom, and tosses over his shoulder, “Stay out of trouble.”

  I laugh. “No.”

  I pick up Huginn, set him on the bed, and tear through the linens until I find my bag. “I need a few minutes alone with Gunnar Magnusson. Will you be all right with Darryl Donovan?”

  “As long as Wiggles and Sparky aren’t around,” he says, flicking his wonky gaze toward the door.

  “I’ll see if I can find you some cat-repelling armor.” I poke his side playfully and smile.

  A quick rifle through my purse confirms all the runes are there. Brilliant. I’m out the door and knocking on Gunnar Magnusson’s a minute later.

  “Are you gonna turn the invisibility screen off?” he asks.

  I’d almost forgotten about it. “I can’t. Huginn thinks Odin will have Heimdall looking for me. If I’m invisible, it’ll be harder to find me.”

  “Odin can’t just tune into Huginn’s eyes? If he knows where the bird—or any of the rest of us—is, he knows where you are.”

  “As long as he recognizes you.”

  “I don’t like where this is heading,” he says as we walk toward the van.

  A thought occurs to me. If Heimdall is mortal as I suspect, then he has to sleep sometime. If the boys and I shift our activities to after dark, we might have a better chance of eluding him. Sure, he could track our movements for a while, but eventually, exhaustion will kick in, and he’ll have no choice but to rest. We just have to stay one step ahead of him.

  That plan could work, Laguz agrees. It will require some heavy lifting. Let me think on it while you … pine.

  I do not pine. “I’m pining,” the truth rune stave forces me to say.

  Gunnar Magnusson looks at me. “For what?”

  Ugh. “Never mind.”

  Without much conversation, Gunnar Magnusson drives me in Darryl Donovan’s ren
tal car to the “doc-in-a-box,” which is a doctor in a building that looks like a box. Go figure. Forced to make myself visible, I’m hyperalert and plotting possible escape routes. One can never be too careful when powerful gods are gunning for you.

  The locked stairwell to the left in the waiting room must lead up to the roof. In a pinch, I could kill the lock, turn invisible, and head there if the ground level exits get blocked. I noticed a sign for employee parking in back when we arrived. Must be a staff entrance behind the office area.

  Gunnar Magnusson fills out countless forms for me while I stare through the window in the waiting room, fully expecting Odin, Heimdall, and/or Frigg to come bounding inside at any moment.

  They don’t, despite us having to wait over an hour to be called back. There sure are a lot of sick Midgardians in Las Vegas. Or maybe they’re just stupid, like me.

  Once we get into a private room, we wait some more. I start to speak five times, but with each opening of my mouth, I warn myself to shut up. With this cursed truth stave etched into my back, I’m bound to say something I’ll regret. So, I pretend not to stare at Gunnar Magnusson. I pretend not to think about what Freddie saw on the monitors in the security room. I pretend not to be jealous of Saga Leifsdóttir’s hands on Gunnar Magnusson’s skin, tracing grooves of muscle and feathering kisses over his flesh and welcoming his trouser snake—

  “I need to get something off my chest,” he says out of the blue, avoiding my gaze.

  I swallow and shuttle a sideways glance at the chest in question. “Okay.”

  He stares at his thumb chipping away at a cuticle. “I like you, Loki. A lot.”

  Another swallow. My hands are shaking in my lap. I can feel the “but” coming like a hot spring’s belch before an imminent eruption.

  “But I can’t compromise myself for you anymore.”

  KA-BLAM! The blast is bigger, stronger, and harsher than I expected. It burns bone-deep.

  “From the moment I found you in the ice, I’ve done what I could to help you. And—don’t get me wrong—I’ve been happy to do it. But last night—”

  He turns his face up, and the sad expression pinned on his features guts me. He tries to hide it with a gentle smile, but I see it. The ache that suffuses me is like a punch to the gut.

  He’s Sigyn to the core. Protective, loyal to a fault, and willing to do anything for me, even at the expense of his own soul.

  I am a scoundrel of the worst sort for letting him—asking him to recover Kenaz for me. I should’ve been man enough to do it myself.

  I bound out of my chair and throw my good arm around his shoulders. His hair smells like trees. He’s warm. So warm.

  He doesn’t know it yet, but I belong here, in this time and place, with him. I’ve always belonged with him. I just didn’t believe it until today.

  “I understand your sacrifice, and I appreciate it more than you’ll ever realize,” I whisper into his neck. “I will repay you. For everything.” The words come out as I intended, which means they’re true. I don’t know how, but I will pay him back.

  I pull away to look at him as the door opens …

  … and a smug, grinning, murderous Heimdall strides in like he just won the award for God of the Year.

  Chapter Five

  “Son of a reindeer’s arsehole!” I shove away from Gunnar Magnusson and scan the room for something I can use as a weapon. Bandages, ointments, gauze, latex gloves. Nope. Exam table, sink, paper towels, clear gooey liquid in a container on the wall. Without knowing what it is, probably not. Flat little wooden slabs in a jar? I grin. I shall improvise.

  “I had nine mothers, and none of them were reindeer,” Heimdall says. He’s dressed like a doctor, wearing golden scrubs that perfectly match his weird eyes.

  “Get out of here, Gunnar Magnusson,” I shout as he rises to his towering, six-foot-plus height.

  He ignores me and fixes his fiery gaze on Heimdall.

  I casually slip a hand over the countertop behind me until it bumps glass. I could go invisible, but then Heimdall would target Gunnar Magnusson. After what he did for me, I’m not letting Gunnar Magnusson weather the heat on my behalf ever again.

  The two stand chest-to-chest. Defiant male energy ripples between them. Thirsty Kenaz forces me to draw in a sharp breath, sampling them both. Hidden under the dueling smells of cloying soap and sharp disinfectant, the men’s essences fill my head. Heimdall’s is light, golden, honeyed. Gunnar Magnusson’s is heavy earth and autumn pines sacrificing their needles to a crisp breeze. Kenaz mulls him over like fine wine rolling across the tongue. My skull lights up at the rich, seductive flavor. Arousal swims lazily through my system, igniting my bits in all the right ways.

  Meow!

  “What do you want?” The accusation flies from Gunnar Magnusson’s lips like the grunts of a rutting boar.

  “I’m here for Loki,” Heimdall answers. “Step aside, and you won’t get hurt.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s scent flares into a protective shield around me, and I’m overwhelmed by an undeniable urge to jump his bones.

  Stop thinking with your dick, and clobber Heimdall! Laguz screams between my ears.

  Oh, right.

  I grab the container at my fingertips, swing, and smash it into Heimdall’s face. The glass shatters against his thick skull, showering us both with crystalline fragments. The flat wooden sticks fly in every direction. With my good hand, I catch one in midair (thanks for the sharp reflexes, Laguz!), snap it in half longwise, and pound the sharpened shafts into Heimdall’s eyes as he lunges for me. He screams. Sticky viscera and blood spackle my fingers and arms. The remaining glass containers in the room explode at Heimdall’s howl of rage, raining more destruction.

  Heimdall doubles over, clawing at the ruins of eyes I’ve now destroyed twice. I grab the shocked Gunnar Magnusson’s hand and hightail it out of the room, dodging nurses and patients as they rush to see what the fuss is about.

  A guy in the lobby leaps from his seat, brandishing a gun, and blocks the exit. “Everyone stay down! I got this under control.”

  Someone shouts, “Active shooter!”

  People shriek and dive for cover. I curse and change direction. With a grunt and a flex of my Lásabrjótur rune stave, I break the lock on the door to the stairwell and drag Gunnar Magnusson toward it. Using the chaos as cover, I usher him in and shout, “The roof! Hurry!”

  Halfway up the stairs, the tension in Gunnar Magnusson’s sweaty hand tightens to the point of breaking bones. Without warning, he digs his heels in midstride and stops like a petulant goat.

  He looks up the steps. His face pales. “I can’t.”

  “What? Why not?” I hiss, breathless. “The roof is our only option. There’s a psycho with a gun and a god with a grudge as big as my ego blocking our other exits. If nothing else, we can hunker down out of the line of fire until things settle.”

  Lips pressed tight and brow furrowed, he shakes his head. I can tell by the resolute lines in his face and the ripple in his cheek, he’s not budging.

  I huff, dart down the stairs, and peer through the little window in the door to reassess our situation. The whack job with the weapon scampers toward the exam rooms where Heimdall is still howling. “Out of the way,” the guy says. “I’ll take care of the perp.”

  I blurt a laugh. I can’t help it. Dude thinks he’s some kind of hero because he has a pistol? He’s obviously never met a god before.

  A mass exodus of terrified humans from the building follows. Gunnar Magnusson and I exit the stairwell, hunch forward, and blend in with the crowd.

  By the time we make it outside, everyone is running and shouting and acting like the world is on fire. Cry me a river with “world wars” and “terrorism” and “Ebola.” I survived Ragnarok. These Midgardian morons don’t have a clue about proper destruction.

  People in the parking lot who were walking toward the building turn around and duck-run to their cars.

  I giggle. I can’t help it.

>   My wits return as intuitive Laguz steals the reins of control from impulsive Kenaz. I squeeze Gunnar Magnusson’s hand and activate the invisibility stave. “Don’t let go.”

  “Holy shit, Loki!” Gunnar Magnusson exclaims as the landscape shifts to gray. “What did you—”

  I ignore him. “We have to ditch the rental. Heimdall probably saw us get out of it.” I scan the lot and beyond for possible carjacking targets. There. A sleek car that says “Torino” on the side thrums at the curb, its driver waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

  “Everything’s gray. Am I invisible?” Gunnar Magnusson asks, awe seeping into his voice as he stares down at himself.

  “Yes,” I say. “Hold on tight. I’m going to steal a car.”

  “What? No!”

  A scuffle of feet and protests, followed by a threatening shout of “Loki!” near the building’s door, signals Heimdall hasn’t given up looking for us, eyes or not.

  “It’s our only option,” I say.

  Tugging Gunnar Magnusson over to the Torino, I flex my back muscles. The car’s locks disengage. I yank open the door.

  The driver, a thick-lidded young man whose head bops to music with a heavy beat, stares through us, bloodshot eyes wild. “What the hell?”

  I reach across his lap, unclick his seatbelt, and drag him out. He turns invisible the instant my hand touches him. The Torino lurches into the car in front of it. Horns blow. I let go.

  “What the hell?” the kid shouts again as he staggers into the street, mouth agape, eyes darting everywhere. “I got punked!”

  The driver in front of us launches a fist through her open window and shakes it. She climbs out and stalks toward us, the Torino riding right up her car’s butt.

  “Get in. And don’t let go of me,” I tell Gunnar Magnusson. “I don’t know how long it’ll take for Heimdall’s eyes to grow back. This may be our only chance of losing him.”

  We scamper into the front seat in a tumble of arms and legs. Gunnar Magnusson sits on the driver’s side. “I thought we agreed I wasn’t going to compromise myself again,” he reminds, but I can tell by the lack of force in his tone that with the right amount of prompting, he’s totally going to compromise himself again.