Dragged Page 8

  “You gonna tell Freddie he’s Freya or what?” Sparky asks, peering from the opening.

  I pretend not to hear him.

  “Look at me when I talk to you, Loki,” Sparky demands.

  I subtly make a go away motion with my hand.

  “Dude,” Wiggles says, popping his black-and-white-striped head fully out of the bag. “You gotta tell him. It’s your duty as an Asgardian.”

  Alex subtly turns his head.

  “Not the time,” I say under my breath.

  “The time for what?” Gunnar Magnusson asks.

  I open my mouth to answer. Laguz slams the lid on my annoying penchant for honesty with a shocking zap at my hip.

  “Never mind,” I grumble, pressing the spot. Why is my body ganging up on me, damn it?

  Once everyone’s hands are on me like I’m the prettiest stripper in the club, I mentally trip the switch on my back, and Hulinhjálmur makes it rain invisibility.

  Alex leads the way while I tug the others along behind.

  “Go south down Las Vegas Boulevard and take a left onto Flamingo,” Alex directs.

  Smart boy. If Heimdall is watching us from afar with his special sight, he shouldn’t be able to track our voices now that we’ve moved away from where he’s likely looking. Here’s hoping he lost us. Or never found us in the first place.

  Our trek is sluggish, made slower by my stumbling steps, hitching breaths, the awkwardness of my friends not being able to let go of me, and the luggage we’re hauling. When we finally round the corner onto Flamingo, I stop dead and gasp as my gaze fixes upon an animated billboard stretching up the side of a skyscraper.

  Damien Drakkar, the actor who plays me on Asgard Awakening, flips his sunglasses down to reveal a pair of sparkling green eyes. He winks, blows a kiss, smiles. At me. I’m certain he’s looking right at me. Words cycle on a loop across the bottom of the billboard: Tune in as Asgard Awakening’s Damien Drakkar judges the greatest drag show on earth. Fifty contestants. Three big prizes. And one queen to reign supreme. Tune in to the Miss Drag and Bone Pageant on Tuesday, live from San Francisco. Don’t miss it!

  When he resettles the glasses in place, a gaudy silver ring with a frighteningly familiar, cream-colored inset gleams from his finger. The symbol carved in the small chip of bone looks like an X with a diamond at the top:

  “Oh my gods,” I marvel, rubbing the scar over the scaphoid bone in my right hand.

  Othala.

  I forget about the pain hacking away at my side like a pickaxe and turn to Alex. “Do it,” I say. “Hurry.”

  Out of nowhere, Alex’s flattened top hat appears in his hand. He pops it out and drops it on his crown. A soft glow emanates from the underside of the felt. Then he unfurls the black cape from his magic act at Nine Realms. He settles it like a blanket over our heads. The large swath of fabric whispers with an almost human voice, mimicking Alex’s quiet chant, but I can’t understand the words. Pin pricks shower me like a dusting of stinging rain.

  Laguz flares. That’s magic. Lots of it.

  I shiver.

  The cape fades from view like exhaled breath on a cold morning, but it feels like it’s still clinging to my shoulders. Alex lets go of me. “You can turn off the invisibility now.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask as a tourist steps around him with a mumbled, Excuse me. “People can see you.”

  He nods. “Yes, but they can’t.”

  I hope he’s right. One by one, my friends release their holds on me. I shimmy at the tickle on my spine as the rune stave tattoo drops its shield.

  “How do we know if what you did is working?” Darryl Donovan asks.

  Alex shrugs and knocks a brow under the brim on his hat. “We’ll know it didn’t work if they catch us.”

  Laguz may not like Alex’s flippant comment, but Kenaz vibrates happily atop my marijuana-addled brain. That rune lives on the edge. I may as well too since I have less than a week in Midgard.

  I’m on the run from the father of the gods and his estranged wife, racing the clock to preserve my own future with five days to do it. The time for indecision has passed.

  Darryl Donovan was right. A paradigm shift is in order.

  “Who’s ready for another road trip?” I ask.

  “Me!” Freddie shouts excitedly.

  Expression softening, Alex smiles at Freddie. “Me.”

  “I could road trip,” Darryl Donovan says.

  “Why not?” Gunnar Magnusson chimes in.

  “San Francisco, here we come,” I say.

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday/Thor’s Day

  The drive to San Francisco in the minivan we stole from a parking deck on Flamingo is a long one. My friends spend hours singing rock ’n’ roll songs, telling stories, and sharing dreams. I keep quiet, sucking WeedPops and gobbling antibiotic pills every eight hours. I can’t sing or tell stories with a broken rib, and no one needs to know what happens in my dreams.

  So, I listen. Here are some of the lessons I learn along the way:

  Americans are so lazy, they buy treadmills to walk on instead of just walking.

  Americans can (and will) deep-fry anything and everything. Butter, candy bars, cookies—even ice cream.

  Phones can not only call people and use the internets, but they can also answer questions like actual people. “Hey, Siri? What is twerking?” <—That was a real eye-opener.

  Dogs can wear clothing. Imagine that. But cats aren’t fans. Which reminds me, I need to finish the project I started for Huginn.

  Some Midgardians wear “grillz” to make their front teeth glitter like gold. I wonder if Heimdall has a set to match his eyes.

  You can prevent crotch diseases by using “condoms.” Now I understand what was in the box marked “Trojan” that Freddie bought at Wal-Mart on our last road trip.

  You don’t really have to do anything to become famous in the United States of America. All you need are the internets and a mild case of imagination. (Yes, I am considering starting my own YouTube channel, should I survive past Tuesday. Hey, a former god’s gotta make a living.)

  In addition to hormones and pheromones, there are other things called “endorphins,” which are currently giving me the happies. (Thanks, Freddie!) Endorphins are a kind of hormone the human body manufactures in response to pain. Basically, they make you feel good. You can catch endorphins by eating goat, listening to music (Van Halen if you’re Gunnar Magnusson; Amon Amarth if you’re Darryl Donovan), laughing, or throwing a leg over someone.

  Finally, I learned that drag queens are men who dress like ladies. Sort of like me, except I have the anatomical parts of a lady, whereas drag queens hide their sausages and potatoes when they’re performing and let them swing like everyday men the rest of the time. Many drag queens enjoy singing or “lip syncing” to outrageous tunes. They dance precariously on high-heeled shoes. They wear extravagant makeup and clothing. And, according to Freddie, they’re the most loving, welcoming, and fun people I will ever encounter.

  I cannot wait to meet all the drag queens in San Francisco.

  When I’m not expanding my vocabulary and general Midgardian knowledge, I spend some of the long hours thinking about how I’m going to recover Othala. I have five days to find it and Ihwaz before it’s “game over,” as Freddie says. And even if I’m successful in my quest, there’s a slim chance I’ll survive.

  But I have to try.

  If I were in a man’s body, I wouldn’t think twice about joining the drag pageant to get close to Damien Drakkar, but I’m not, so I can’t. However, there are four very handsome men sitting in this vehicle with me who could.

  I won’t ask Gunnar Magnusson for another thing. I’m not taking any chances on straining our already shaky relationship again.

  The task will have to fall to Freddie, Alex, and Darryl Donovan.

  Sucking on a fresh WeedPop to keep my pain under control, I casually remark, “That drag queen pageant sounds fun.”

  Sitting in the dri
ver’s seat, Darryl Donovan doesn’t move an inch, not even to steer the minivan. Beside him, Alex turns his head slightly toward the rest of us in back, his eyes shifting uncomfortably. Next to me, Gunnar Magnusson watches the scenery pass through the window.

  “Nice attempt at subtlety, dumbass,” Sparky says, kicking his hind leg into the air and licking his furry balls. It takes every bit of what little control I have not to retort.

  “What are you plotting, Loki?” Huginn asks, looking up from my lap.

  I barely shake my head and form a silent “Shh” with my lips.

  Freddie lurches forward from behind us, wielding his own WeedPop. He waggles it at me. “You know, I wouldn’t mind entering that contest.”

  I turn, wince at the flare in my side, and say, “Really?”

  Freddie’s lips bow into a mischievous smile. “I mean, you having a friend on the inside might be a golden opportunity to get in close and tight with the judge.”

  Excitement slithers up my spine. I nod, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, maybe.”

  He taps a thoughtful finger to his chin, as if cogitating on an interesting idea. “I wonder what a favor like that would be worth to someone who’s looking for a rune that was last spotted on the very same judge’s finger.”

  I get his message loud and clear. “Perhaps we could discuss it in private.”

  Gunnar Magnusson’s hand twitches on his thigh. He gives Freddie and me side-eye but doesn’t say anything.

  “Right.” Freddie shoves the sucker in his mouth and slumps into his seat.

  A few seconds later, my phone vibrates. Hunching my aching shoulder, I face the window, attempting to conceal my text conversation with Freddie from Gunnar Magnusson. It goes like this:

  Freddie: Tell me who I am, and I’ll enter the contest.

  Me: I can’t tell you.

  Except the words appear as I can tell you, so I erase the truth before hitting the send button and ponder another angle.

  Me: Enter the contest, find my rune, and I’ll tell you.

  Freddie: So, you admit I’m someone.

  Me: Yes.

  It pains me to push send on that one, but technically, he is someone. I didn’t say that someone was a god. Goddess. Whatever. The point is, if I rein in Kenaz’s impulsivity, I can hide under a form of truth and not have to give up Freddie’s actual identity as Freya. Unless, of course, he finds Othala, in which case, it would be worth the high price of revealing the truth.

  A fast, whooshing sound streams behind me. I turn. Wearing a wide grin, Freddie is paddling his feet excitedly in the air.

  “You know, after what Loki’s been through, maybe we should all join the drag contest,” Freddie suggests. “As a show of support.”

  Darryl Donovan targets Freddie in the rearview mirror with a sharp cut of his amber eyes. “Nope. No way. No how. Nuh-uh.”

  “Why not?” Freddie whines. “You’d make an awesome drag queen!”

  “Hell to the no on the Dragnarok front.”

  I snort at the pun. Clever.

  Darryl points his index finger in the mirror at Freddie. “Have you looked at me lately? I’m a giant, former college-football-playing black man with monstrous muscles and a meticulously cultivated goatee. Dressing up in women’s clothing is asking for an ass kicking. Or worse.”

  “A razor will fix your goatee problem,” Freddie argues. “The muscles aren’t that monstrous. And hello? Have you seen RuPaul? Nobody messes with RuPaul.”

  “Ain’t nobody cutting off this masterpiece of male grooming,” Darryl Donovan says, rubbing his stubbled chin.

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the first drag queen with a beard. And there are ways around facial hair. Remember Cesar Romero as the Joker in the old Batman TV series? Makeup can work miracles when properly employed.”

  “That shit was so obvious,” Darryl Donovan groans.

  “Hair will grow back.”

  “Not if you scare it to death with threats of leather corsets and six-inch patent heels.”

  All I can think about as these two argue is a memory of the time when the frost giant Thrym got it in his head that he wanted to marry Freya, so he stole Thor’s hammer Mjolnir. Thor nearly lost his mind looking for it. Suspecting my giant kin were behind the robbery, I borrowed Freya’s feather cloak, flew to Jotunheim, and confronted Thrym, who admitted he planned to hold the hammer for ransom until Freya took his hand.

  When I returned home, I delivered the bad news. Naturally, Freya wanted nothing to do with Thrym—he was a slovenly, fart-blasting pig—and she made it clear to the Æsir she wouldn’t be marrying anyone she didn’t damn well feel like marrying.

  Soooooo Freddie. Am I right?

  Heimdall then proposed that Thor disguise himself as Freya, retrieve Mjolnir, and pay the frost giants back in blood for so rudely stealing Thor’s property. But Thor refused. “I am a man,” he said. “I won’t demean myself by pretending to be a woman. I’d never live it down.”

  I warned the Æsir that the frost giants would make quick work of us if we didn’t retrieve Mjolnir immediately, as the hammer was Asgard’s best source of protection. Thor begrudgingly agreed to Heimdall’s plan.

  A stunning wedding gown was crafted to fit Thor’s stocky frame. In a moment of weakness, I took pity on him and offered to accompany Thor as his maid-in-waiting. Once we were properly attired, Thor hitched up his goats to his chariot and drove us to Jotunheim where Thrym welcomed us to his table.

  Behind the veil, Thor made a hilarious blushing bride. So awkward and bumbling. But he tried to look and act like Freya. It was almost cute.

  We sat down to eat the great feast the giants had prepared. That’s when the trouble began. Thor, being Thor, ate everything. I mean, literally everything. The delicate little cakes intended for the ladies, eight entire salmon, an ox—all of it. He washed the meal down with several gallons of mead and belched so loudly, the sound rivaled his own thunder.

  Thrym stared at him warily and asked me, “Does she always eat like that?”

  I nimbly covered for Thor. “Freya has been so anxious to marry you, not a nibble of food has passed her lips in a week.”

  Thrym grinned, flashing yellowed teeth, and reached for Thor’s veil. “I must have a kiss from my beautiful bride. I can’t wait a second more.” He tugged the fabric and shrank back at the piercing eyes poised to skewer him with but a blink. “I have never witnessed such intensity in the gaze of a woman,” he said.

  Again, I scrambled to explain away Thor’s brutishness. I may have stepped on his foot under the table as I did so. “She’s longed for you so fiercely, she hasn’t been able to sleep for days, hence the bloodshot eyes.”

  Thrym laughed off “Freya’s” quirks and bellowed, “Bring me my hammer so that I may bless our union with it.”

  Thor then stepped on my foot.

  A servant approached, bowed, and reverently laid Mjolnir across Thor’s wide thighs.

  Thor grabbed the short handle, flipped up the veil, and shoved the table over as he leapt to his feet. The biggest, most insane smile spread across his face. A thrill danced over my skin at the prospect of what was about to happen. Looking like a bride from Hel, he launched Mjolnir, cracking Thrym’s skull open and releasing what little brain he had onto the overturned table.

  Women screamed. Men ran. Delicious chaos followed as Thor bashed and smashed and whirled and raged until the entire hall was painted in frost giant blood and the only two heartbeats left were his and mine.

  It was a glorious day. One of the best I’ve ever lived.

  I meet Darryl Donovan’s gaze in the rearview mirror and realize … I kind of miss Thor.

  “Look, it’s not a comment on your sexuality,” Freddie continues. “Plenty of straight dudes dress in drag.”

  “What leads you to presume my sexuality is so fragile? I got no problem with other folks doing drag. I just don’t wanna wear women’s clothes. Or shoes. Or makeup.”

  “But you’d be so pretty,” Freddie nags li
ke a child.

  “I don’t see any of the rest of you mofos volunteering,” Darryl Donovan snaps.

  Alex turns around. “If Freddie enters the pageant, I will too.”

  I subtly tip my head to him with gratitude. My pulse picks up speed, but I try not to get too excited.

  “That’s two mofos,” Freddie says. I’m trying to puzzle out what this word means, but it’s not ringing any bells.

  A couple seconds of silence follow. I open my mouth to thank Freddie and Alex, but Darryl Donovan speaks first. “Fine,” he grumbles. “I’ll enter the contest. I hate you all.” He snaps out his index and middle fingers and points them at the roof of the van while keeping his attention on the road. “But I have two conditions. The beard stays—”

  “Done,” Freddie says.

  “—and my entire outfit, makeup, accessories—everything has to be vegan.”

  “Why vegan?” Gunnar Magnusson asks.

  “Because I’m a vegan,” Darryl Donovan answers sarcastically.

  “I thought you did that for health reasons,” Gunnar Magnusson says.

  Darryl Donovan shrugs with a hint of awkwardness I’ve never seen from him before. He’s always so sure of himself, so calm and controlled. “I do. But I also like animals and don’t want to hurt them, okay?”

  If my eyes had wings, they’d fly right out of my head, cackling uncontrollably. The mighty god Thor doesn’t want to hurt a widdle-biddie creature? I press a palm over my mouth to keep from falling into body-contorting hysterics. Well, also, if I laugh, I’ll end up in the hospital, and I only have five days to live, so it’s best to avoid unscheduled detours.

  Needless to say, that was the funniest thing I’ve heard in quite a while.

  With great effort, I corral my muted tittering into a neutral smile and say, “Thank you, Freddie, Alex, Darryl Donovan. Your offer to help is incredibly gracious. I won’t forget it. When we get to San Francisco, we’ll assess our clothing situation and make a trip to the store for supplies.”