I don’t say much on the way to Damien’s hotel, but he seems to take great pleasure in reminiscing about our past romps and revelries at the expense of my marriage. Perhaps he thinks bringing up such memories is a twisted kind of foreplay. As if I needed to feel worse about Sigyn and me. I suppose if there’s an upside to my predicament, I now have confirmation that my past behavior with Angrboda and a host of other women no longer packs the erotic punch it once did. There’s a smidge of relief in knowing I wouldn’t willingly engage in infidelity again, my current situation notwithstanding.
When we enter his suite, he shuts the door, turns around, and gathers me into his arms. I go rigid despite the pheromones wafting off him. Resisting his magic is difficult, but I do. Progress? I’ll say yes.
“I’ve been waiting for this moment for literally ages, Loki.”
His hands are everywhere, like spider legs searching for purchase on a slippery surface. As soon as I bat one away, the other takes its place, roving across my body. Loathing replaces the lust from before, and I find myself on the verge of a swan dive into a #MeToo moment. I have to regain the upper hand.
“You got anything to drink in this place?” I ask. “If I have to sleep with you, the least you can do is help me dull the memory.”
He frowns. “You never had a problem with bedding me before. If I recall correctly, I had to throw you off a time or three. Such an aggressive god you were. You couldn’t get enough of Angrboda.”
“Probably because I was drunk every time I screwed you. I had to be to endure it.” And horndog Kenaz certainly didn’t help.
“No need for insults. And I don’t remember a single complaint. Perhaps your body knew something your mind didn’t.” His pupils flare, and another blast of his scent taints the air like skunk spray.
My nose twitches. I make a show of rubbing it as I turn away with disgust.
Spreading his arms wide, he glances down at himself. “Does this body not appeal to you?”
I laugh. It did, but not anymore. Gunnar Magnusson’s kiss neutralized whatever desire I harbored for Damien. Now I see him for what he is: a desperate, shitty actor trying to get in my pants.
“Sorry, all I can think about when I look at you is the mockery you make of me every time you vomit up a line on your precious little TV show. Hard pass.” Bitch.
“My performance was designed to get your attention.”
“Oh, so you intentionally made me look like a goat’s arse with a head shoved up it?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“I’m here,” I say. “Make that drink a double.”
I’m gambling he’ll pour one for himself, though there are no guarantees.
He gestures to the bar. “Help yourself. I need to gather supplies.”
I swallow hard. Supplies? What supplies?
Laguz says, Pour his drink, drop the Rohypnol in it, and “supplies” become irrelevant. It’ll be an Ég mun finna þig í fjöru situation for him.
I smile at Laguz’s use of the old Icelandic saying. Roughly translated, it means “I will find you on the beach.” Or, in American: “Revenge is coming.”
Spoken like a true Norse rune.
Damien swaggers into the bedroom. I make quick work with the drinks, careful to keep him in my sights as I drop some of the crushed pill from my purse into his glass. I hope to Hel Freddie and Alex are just beyond the door as we planned, locked and loaded with the biggest “puppet” spell they can muster.
When Damien comes out, he’s dressed in a black silk robe, and he looks good enough to eat. I meet him halfway as he walks toward me, my outstretched hand offering him the special medicine drinkie. He takes the glass and sets it on the nearest table, opting instead for an attempt at a kiss. I duck under his arm and spin, my hair fanning as he barrels toward me.
“Playing shy?” he asks with a lusty grin. “How cute. Get those clothes off. I have things to do.”
“Not so fast,” I say. “I need your word as a god that Othala is mine once I’ve delivered.”
He huffs. “Fine, whatever. I swear I’ll give you Othala as soon as you conceive our child.”
“Absolutely not,” I argue. “There are no guarantees I’ll get pregnant right away.”
“But, dear, sweet Loki, that’s the arrangement. I need more children out of you if I’m to fulfill my mission. You are my destiny. Our children are our destiny. Just like old times.”
I shake my head. “No. For all I know, one or both of us could be infertile. If I play your game, I could be stuck on a never-ending sex loop with you.”
He shrugs. “It’s your decision. But the terms are set.”
My heart does a speed jig. “So, you’re forcing me to bed you, and you’re okay with me being miserable the entire time. Why are you doing this?”
He lurches forward and grabs my arms. Hard. I flinch and try to shove him off, but his grip is solid.
“Why?” he mimics. “Because my name is misery. I live for watching others suffer. Why do you think I enjoyed being with you so much? It wasn’t about you. It was about making her jealous. I got off on seeing her cry. Your cruelty, by the way, was exquisite. I need that again. A thousand times, if that’s what it takes. I want the world to suffer.”
“The Angrboda I remember was all about the experience. If I were the Loki I used to be, I might be interested, but I’ve grown. I’ve learned from my mistakes. I don’t want you. Not anymore.”
I want her.
“You always were a fool, Loki. Now you can add ‘self-righteous prat’ to your resumé. You nauseate me.”
“So, the deal’s off? You gonna give me Othala and call it even?” I hold out my hand.
“Not even close. Time is running out. Decide.” He unties his robe. The silk falls to his sides, revealing his naked form. It’s something, I must admit.
Kenaz hums atop my skull as if issuing a mating call.
Quiet down, idiot.
But as sexy as Damien is, Laguz keeps Gunnar Magnusson front and center in my mind. Resisting Damien is so much easier when Laguz is in charge. Kenaz doesn’t like it, but Kenaz can bite me.
A zap jolts my brain. I fight the urge to grab the spot pulsing atop my crown. The sassy bastard rune.
I need Damien to down that drink. Now.
“What’s the hurry?” I ask. “Let’s get to know each other a little before we jump in bed.”
“You never cared about what was going on in my life before. Why ruin a good thing?” He slinks too close. Gods, he smells good. I almost fall for his musk, but Laguz clears my head enough to resist.
Swallowing my revulsion, I lean into him and draw his hand up to get a better look at Othala. “How do I know this is the real deal?” I trace the symbol with my fingertip. I don’t feel anything from it. Maybe it’s a forgery and I won’t have to sleep with this ass splat after all.
He spreads his fingers and admires the ring with muted amusement. “It’s real. Would I have gone to all this trouble to turn over a fake?”
“Uh, yes,” I say. “You absolutely would.”
“So you don’t sense it?” he asks. “Excellent. The magic is holding.”
He means Alex’s magic. That he stole.
That’s it. The finger is coming off. If I keep him talking, maybe I can stall long enough to locate a weapon in this place. “How’d you do it?” I ask, nodding to Othala.
“I channeled protective energy from some stones I stumbled on and muted its signature so no one but me can sense it.” Stumbled on, my arse. “Then I layered a simple lock spell over my finger, and voilà.” He stares at the ring as if hypnotized.
Lock? Laguz flushes warmth through me like laughter. You have just the key for a lock. Cut Lásabrjótur loose on the thing and be done with this fool.
Brilliant!
With a thought, I prime my back for flexing. Just before I pull the trigger, I remember Othala isn’t the only rune I need. I’m a dead duck tomorrow without Ihwaz. If I break the lock and nab Othala, my mortality problem won’t be solved.
I take a gamble. I have nothing to lose but my life. “What about Ihwaz? Where did you hide it?”
Damien tumbles out of his daze. “I didn’t hide it anywhere. I said I know where it is.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Odin has it.”
His dark gaze flickers to me, like a candle lit behind an infinite black curtain of night. Hatred burns from that flame. “He takes what does not belong to him.”
Not an answer, but interesting.
Keep him talking, Laguz says.
“I agree. You know he has our runes, right? He’s stockpiling them. Without them, the Æsir will die out over time, and he’ll be the last god standing, laughing his way to eternity. He’s a selfish bastard.” I bare my teeth and curl my lip.
“He has all of them?” Damien asks. The uncertainty in his face surprises me. I figured he knew. Since he doesn’t, I now have information to dangle over his head.
Let the buttering begin.
“Well, not all of them,” I say grinding my toe into the carpet. I don’t have Angrboda’s rune, but if there’s another he wants, maybe he’ll trade. “I might know where to find a few.”
“What about mine?” he asks, suddenly very interested.
I hate that I can’t lie. “Give me Othala, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
His green eyes narrow on me, staring through my soul. After the longest thirty seconds of my life, he shakes his head and turns away. “You can’t help me. No one can. I just want to destroy the world. Is that so hard?” he yells at the ceiling.
“You don’t need me to trigger the end of the world,” I say. “Go out and start a war. From what I’ve seen of modern Midgardians, they love their guns and explosives. You can buy them anywhere. Just terrorize a bunch of people in a public place if it gets you off. That ought to set the ball rolling.” And get you shot.
“You’ve read the prophecies,” he says. “You’ve heard the Norns. Ragnarok happens because of you—because of our children. The cycle must continue, and you’re the key.”
“Odin says he wants to stop the cycle,” I say. “That’s why he won’t give me Ihwaz. And yes, the Norns’ words carry a great deal of weight, but how do you reconcile my starting Ragnarok with the prophesy Skuld gave me last week?”
He inches closer, eyes glittering with interest. “Tell me.”
“You haven’t heard?” I turn my tone casual. “Loki is going to die tomorrow. Hard to pull off Ragnarok when I’ll be breaking the fast in Hel come Wednesday morn. Even harder to spawn new hellions in less than twenty-four hours.”
A chime rings from the table. Damien and I glance over to the vibrating phone clattering across the smooth surface. He picks it up. I catch a glimpse of the ID: “Unknown caller.”
Damien hits the button to ignore it and sets the phone down. It immediately chirps with the same message. He grunts and executes some commands, ordering the phone to block the person.
“No doubt a fan who stumbled on my number,” he complains. But before he can put the phone on the table, it rings again. “Persistent, aren’t we?”
He scowls. When he sees the ID, his anger dissolves into shock. The screen reads “Hel.” He pushes the answer button and lifts the device to his ear. “What kind of sick joke is—”
I lean closer and strain to hear. I’m pretty sure the voice says, “Hello, Father. Or should I say, Mother?”
The hairs at my nape stiffen.
Damien’s eyes widen. “What the bloody hell is this?”
It sounds like the voice says, “Turn on your television.”
Damien snatches the remote and flips on the TV.
Three beings appear on the screen. The figure on the left is a wolf with fur blacker than a starless night and a badass punk-rock mane, shellacked spikes and all. Saliva froths from the corners of the wolf’s many-toothed maw. His eyes are twin new moons. A rusty chain and a thin, flimsy fetter hang broken around his broad shoulders. I recognize the latter restraint as Gleipnir, constructed by Alex’s kin from Svartalfheim. The dark elves made the fetter out of the sounds of a cat’s footfalls, a woman’s beard, a fish’s breath, a bird’s spit, a mountain’s roots, and the sinews of a bear.
On the right side is a serpent biting its tail. Its slit, vivid green eyes are fixed on something beyond the screen. Yellow poison froths from the sides of its mouth. Stripes on its glowing scales flash like bolts of lightning as it breathes under the artificial illumination. I shiver as the frightful serpent spits out the tail and flicks its forked black tongue. It settles its unnerving gaze on me as if plotting which cut of my flesh will be the tenderest.
Finally, a young woman with a half black and half white face stands between the two monsters. Like an old movie, she’s a study in contrasts—light and dark. For every white point on her body, there’s a black match. Her eyes and the two halves of her long hair are opposites.
On first glance, I’m shaking in my boots at the prospect of coming face-to-face with the monsters who’ve destroyed the world countless times. But when I look again, something feels off.
I step closer to inspect the image. These three beings are Angrboda’s and my children—or how our children used to appear—but the tiny details are wrong.
The hole in Fenrir’s snout is missing. After he bit off Tyr’s hand, the Æsir tied Fenrir to a stone with Gleipnir and propped his mouth open with a sword. The hilt was anchored in Fenrir’s lower jaw while the tip braced against the roof of his mouth. When he broke free, the sword left a gaping wound in his muzzle that never healed. It’s an easy thing to overlook if you don’t know Fenrir the way I do.
And the liquid sloughing from Jormundgandr’s mouth should be green, not the typical yellow of most snakes’ venom. My boy’s coloring seems off too. He had few stripes and was less vibrant than he appears now. This is a sensationalized version of the serpent I sired.
Having seen Hel in a dream about a week ago, I can affirm that the person staring back at us is not the latest incarnation of her either. She looks younger on the TV. The Hel I recently encountered had aged in subtle ways—more wrinkles around the eyes, slightly sagging skin, and a vacancy in her expression that the old Hel didn’t possess. Her movements are a touch out of sync from what I’d consider normal too. The tilt of her head seems forced, almost robotic.
This must be Freya’s doing. She came through with the best illusion she could conjure on short notice. I owe her and Freddie big time.
“That’s better,” Hel says. “It’s so good to see you both. And you’re back together.” She claps with delight. Very out of character for her. “Big plans, I take it?”
“Hel?” Damien says. A smile streaks across his lips. “Is it you? And Fenrir and Jormundgandr?”
“Quite the family reunion, no?” She wiggles her shoulders and matches his grin.
Definitely not the real Hel. Far too bubbly. I quietly release a sigh of relief. This isn’t what Freddie, Alex, and I planned, but it’ll do.
“We were just talking about you,” Damien says. “Well, not you exactly, but the importance of family.” He throws an arm around me. I force a smile and pretend to like it. “Though we’re in discussions about starting over from scratch to set off Ragnarok properly.”
Hel’s dramatic gasp is as fake as she is. She presses a hand to her sternum. “More children? Whatever for?” She gestures to her brothers. “Jormundgandr, Fenrir, and I are very much alive and quite capable. I should think we’re all you’ll need to get the job done. We’ve never failed you before.”
Fenrir nods his mighty head, his bristly, night-black fur waving with the motion. A dollop of saliva weeps from the corner of a mouth bearing too many teeth to count. He’s beautiful. Freya is quite the artist.
I step forward. “Hel, you’re as stunning as ever. My pride and murder. And my two beastly boys! How I wish I could rub Fenrir between his ears. I’ve missed those pearly fangs, though I’ll bet Tyr doesn’t.”
Fenrir barks a deep laugh that tests the security of the windows. Impressive. I must compliment Freya on her attention to detail.
“And Jormundgandr, you’ve gotten even bigger since last time I saw you battling Thor on the plain of Vigrid, centuries ago. In a fresh match up, I’m certain you could end him first.” I leave off since Thor’s a grass-eating, goody-two-shoes practitioner of the law these days.
The grizzly green and black serpent opens his mouth in a twisted version of a grin, exposing fangs bigger than Fenrir’s and a forked tongue that could impale a mountain range with a flick.
“Where have you been, my beloved children?” Damien asks. “I’ve been searching for you since I awoke. I only resorted to requesting the pleasure of your father’s uterus because I thought you were all dead.”
Hel leans toward the camera. Her voice drops, low and deadly—almost sexy—as she says, “We’re here and participating. Ready to get this party started. Are you?”
Wearing a huge smile, Damien turns to me. “What do you say, love?
“I say, let’s Ragnarok!”
He returns to the television, all smug, fearless, and full of glorious purpose. “We need to discuss our plan in person. Where shall we meet?”
“We’ll be in touch when you finish your little show in San Francisco,” Hel says. “Keep your phones handy and your minds open.”
The screen fizzles into frenetic static.
Freya, you brilliant tart, I’m going to kiss you for this!
Damien turns to me, eyes alight with glee. “Look at us. Just like old times. You. Me. Our three murderous babes plotting to destroy every man, god, and child in the Nine Realms. I can’t wait!” He rubs his hands together.
I cock my head to the side. “And the best part? You don’t have to extort sex out of me after all.”
“I’m not ruling it out if you’re still up for it. Another demon child would only help our cause.” He dips in to kiss me, but I push him away.
“I think the three we already made are plenty,” I say. “In the meantime, I’m gonna need my rune.”
His smile fades, and he studies me for several heartbeats. “I’ll give it to you under one condition.”
“What?” My pulse thunders.
“Swear on your name as a god of Asgard that you’ll be by my side when we pull the pin on the Ragnarok grenade.”
Careful, Loki, Laguz warns. Wording is everything. You must not only state a truth, but you must also be careful of what you promise. The Norns won’t abide broken oaths. The consequences would be eternal.
If I’m going to die tomorrow, what does it matter? I ask.
Laguz doesn’t answer.
“I, Loki Laufeyjarson, swear on my name as an Asgardian to stand beside you when Ragnarok begins,” I say, clasping Damien’s hand.
If, by some miracle, I do live beyond tomorrow, I’m only committing to stand next to Damien at the onset of Ragnarok, not to start it or to remain there for the duration. Nothing in my oath says I have to help him either. And if Ragnarok never happens, I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?
We shake on our deal, and Damien steps back. “I wasn’t lying about the spell on the ring. It’s unbreakable.”
I consider telling him I can unlock it with my rune stave, but when he goes for the knife sticking out of a block of wood on the kitchen counter and sharpens it, Kenaz lights up like an aurora on Midwinter’s Eve. Saliva gushes into my mouth, and I lick my lips as he flips the tool into the air. It spins, and the handle lands in the saddle between his forefinger and thumb. He tosses it once more and catches it by the business end, pointing the handle out to me.
“Would you like to do the honors, my love?” he asks.
I quirk a brow. “You don’t think amputation is a bit … extreme?”
Damien shrugs. “A little blood never hurt gods like us. I’d be honored.” His eyes glitter with a hint of frosty malevolence.
Something in the way he speaks tells me he gets sick pleasure out of making me squirm. What he doesn’t know is, I’m not squirming at all. Kenaz smells his spiked, pounding blood. The rune rages under my scalp like a Viking longship battling unforgiving easterly gales at sea. Kenaz wants a piece of Damien Drakkar. Truth be told, Loki does too.
Our eyes meet and hold.
I grab the knife, shove his hand to the counter, and grant control of targeting to Laguz. The rune guides the point of the blade millimeters behind the ring. I arc down in a fast stab. Flesh rends. Bone cracks. Blood spurts. Damien screams between clenched teeth.
Othala joins the cacophonous chorus as it rockets out of the ring’s setting, straight into my right hand. I drop the knife, launch backward into the far wall, and lose my breath on impact. Pinned to the dent I created in the wallpaper, I’m paralyzed. Othala’s raw energy bounces through my soul like a million mirrors reflecting my entire being.
Damien’s cries and pants fade. Stuffing the stump that used to be his finger into his armpit, he watches me with wide eyes. I flail and twist, trying to assimilate the massive power dump that just blew up my hand and fanned through the rest of me like a hot oil spill.
Then shite gets really weird.
I jerk and seize. My arms fly forward, and I drop to the carpet on all fours. My limbs stretch and thin. My torso thickens. My neck elongates. The pain is exquisitely blinding. When I unclamp the eyes I didn’t realize I’d shut, my perspective shifts drastically. I’m taller, hairier, and decidedly equine. I rear back and stomp a … hoof? I look down. Yep. Hoof.
I’m a mare.
A glossy, jet black, majestic mare. Hair swishing across my vision, I lower my head to look at Damien. From this height, he’s tiny. I could step on him. Bruise a toe at the very least. Trample him at best …
Just as I’m getting the hang of standing on four feet, I collapse to the floor again. This time, my hind legs shorten into a pair of leathery pouches behind me, and my fur thickens to an incredibly dense weave. Leaning on nubby flippers, I try to pull myself forward. It would be a Hel of a lot easier if I were in a tub of water. Heavy whiskers sprout on either side of my face. I bark.
Seal. Aww! I love seals.
Damien’s face lights up. A rivulet of red trails from his armpit down his side. “You’ve regained your shape-shifting ability. Fascinating, though a bit uncoordinated.”
I insult his lineage in a pinniped dialect he doesn’t understand.
Another wave of change hits me, knocking me down to something exponentially smaller. My back explodes as wings wriggle out of my spine. Fur drifts like a dandelion into the air, leaving behind a smattering of stray, hair-like wisps under my enormous compound eyes. Antennae twitch at the top of my head. I pop out an extra pair of legs in the space between my arms and natural legs. Their joints bend at strange angles. I beat my wings a hundred times a second and lift off from the floor to circle the room.
It feels good to fly, even if I’m just a fly flying.
Superfly! (Freddie told me that means a cool, self-confident person, which is exactly what I feel like right this minute—as well as a fly.)
On my flyby, I survey the room. Something black, round, and velvety catches my eye from behind the coat rack next to the door. Alex’s top hat. I smile at my luck.
I continue scanning the place for other goodies I might steal on my way out, but I don’t see anything else of importance.
Damien must be bored with my performance. He retrieves his severed finger and studies it with morbid curiosity.
After making sixty or so laps around his hotel room, I land beside the couch, exhausted but so, so happy. I’m three quarters whole. I just need Ihwaz, and I’ll be complete.
My hand trembles as Othala mutates me once more and releases its hold. I flop on the floor, returned to the body I woke up in, clothed (thankfully), with all appendages intact, which is more than I can say for Damien.
I stretch my rubbery arm and glance at my side, gently poking it. The rib doesn’t hurt much anymore. In the course of my transformation into human form, the broken bone must’ve fused itself back together. I wiggle my left shoulder. The stitches seem healed too. Huh. Buy one, get two free? Sold.
My arms are weak from the sustained wing wagging, and my legs feel like a gelatin snowman in a bouncy house. My heart races. I suspect it didn’t right itself, which is a point of worry on the eve of the Tuesday of my death. I lift a shaking hand to rub my chest and try to catch my breath.
“I need Ihwaz,” I gasp. “Where is it?”
Damien is too busy tearing through the kitchen drawers to answer. He slams each one when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. Finally, he settles on the roll of paper towels sitting on the counter. He tears off a sheet, drops the finger on it, tosses a few ice cubes from the freezer on top, and rolls it up.
“I’m in a bit of a rush,” he says. “They don’t make fingers like they used to, though the healers in this time are so much better than our bloodletters and shamans. This makes the sixth digit I’ve severed over the years, and I don’t want to lose it permanently. I only have four originals left.”
He’s even more deranged than I thought.
I gesture to the compact little roll. “I thought it would grow back.”
He playfully slaps the air and shakes his head. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”
I grin. I love proving him wrong.
“Ihwaz?” I prompt. “I’m running a race against the sundial myself, and it’s either first place or no place for me.” I look at the nonexistent watch on my wrist. “Pitter patter.”
“I lied,” he says. “I have no idea where it is.”
Son of a bitch. I should’ve seen this coming. Once a monster, always a monster.
“You arsehole. You godsdamned arsehole!” My last shred of hope withers and dies. I’m doomed.
“What can I say? I couldn’t help myself. But hey,” he nods to my pulsing palm, “I did give you Othala, and you got to chop my finger off, which, you’ll be pleased to hear, hurts like a complete bitch.”
“A minor consolation,” I grit out, fighting not to hyperventilate. “You just fucked me five ways to Franang’s Falls.”
He lifts his hands in surrender, the red stain from the wrapped nub of his missing finger growing. “I have faith in your enduring ingenuity. You’re a big girl. You’ll find Ihwaz.”
“Maybe if I had another week.”
“I could help you look.” Easing close, he lowers his voice. “We made a smashingly evil team twelve hundred years ago.”
His intoxicating scent wafts toward me like a lure. I mentally bat it away. “Cut that shite out.”
Damien’s pout reminds me of Freddie, whom I owe big-time for concocting the illusion of the kids.
I swallow enough anger to take the edge off my voice and soften my tone. It’ll do me no good to get on Angrboda’s bad side. “I’m playing on a different team now. And if Freddie doesn’t walk away with that trophy tomorrow night, he might kill me before the Norns get a chance to. If you want to help me, let him win.”
Damien barks a laugh.
“Seriously,” I say. “Freddie will cut a bitch if he loses.”
“Then, he better figure out how to earn it,” Damien replies. His eyes sparkle with yet another attempt at diddling my ovaries. It fails.
“Jerk.” I head for the door.
“You’ll be back,” he calls behind me, “and Mummy and Daddy and their three wee ones will be one big felonious family again. The brakes on Ragnarok have been lifted. With Hel, Jormundgandr, and Fenrir awakened, it won’t take long to rebuild our dynasty. The modern world will fall in no time, and our names will live on in glorious infamy for ages to come.”
“Uh, okay.” This mustache-twirling villain speech is worthy of that idiot Loki he plays on Asgard Awakening, not the real-live Hag of the Iron Wood.
Blocking Damien’s line of sight to the coat rack with my body, I tug open the door and turn invisible the same moment my fingers snatch Alex’s hat. I tuck it up the back of my shirt. Through the crack, I scan the hall for Freddie and Alex. I frown when I don’t see either. They must’ve figured out how to cast the spell from a distance.
“Good luck,” Damien snickers.
Saluting him with twin middle fingers he can’t see, I slip out and hop the elevator to the lobby.
When the cool spring air hits me, Othala gets a hankering to reprise an old role the new me has yet to play. I sneak around to the back of the building, flap my arms into a pair of majestic, two-foot-long wings, and fly home as a hawk to Gunnar Magnusson and my friends.
When I reach our hotel room, everyone is there, chatting about the performance tomorrow. Gunnar Magnusson lurches to his feet.
“Good news?” he asks.
“Some good, some bad. I found Alex’s hat.” I sweep its flattened form from my shirt and toss it to him. It pops open midair. The gemstones embedded on the underside glow.
Alex’s dark eyes light up as he catches the top hat. He clutches it to his chest. “Loki, thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”
I wave off his appreciation. “No biggie. I also got Othala back.” I lift my thrumming hand and turn to Freddie. “I can’t believe you did it. How did you pull it off?”
Freddie looks puzzled. “Pull what off?”
“Hel? Jormundgandr? Fenrir? Duh?”
Confusion riddles his face. He slowly shakes his head. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Of course, you did,” I say, hitching my hands to my hips. “All that talk of getting the band back together so we can take over the world? It was brilliant. You knew just what to say to get to Damien.”
“Your text told us to wait, so we’ve been waiting,” Freddie argues. “You said you’d let us know when to fire the spell, but we never got the order.”
A chill shoots up my spine like a fierce arctic wind. Feeling woozy, I sit down on the bed.
“I didn’t send you any texts,” I say, my guts churning like a windmill.
“Yes, you did. Everyone on the group chat got it.” Freddie grunts and pulls his phone out. He scrolls through his messages, frowns, and freezes. “It was just an hour ago. Where did it—”
Darryl Donovan checks his messages. Gunnar Magnusson and Alex follow suit.
Darryl Donovan points at the screen with disbelief. “It was here. We all saw it.”
“What’s going on, Loki?” Gunnar Magnusson asks, his brow wrinkled.
My pulse races. I don’t know whether to be terrified or elated.
“Someone is playing us.”