Stormbringer: Book 2 of the Wyrd

Five

More time passes. I spend it staring at the ceiling, wishing I had my cell phone. Or, at the very least, a fucking cigarette.

I have neither, however, so instead I occupy myself with delusions of rescue. These mainly involve Sigmund, dressed in some suitably revealing "armor," kicking in the door to the cell, crying my name in an anguished way, then coming to rub himself all over me while stroking my horns and telling me how brave I am and how worried he was.

Because to hell with reality, he's joined a moment later by Sigyn, covered in blood and brandishing Magni's head like a trophy. The pair kiss me senseless for a while, then unlock my chains and suddenly it's time for a nice soft bed and a threesome.

I'm halfway through imagining the taste of Sigmund's tongue and the feel of Sigyn's hand between my thighs when the cell door bursts open once again. Jötunn anatomy is discreet in these matters, which is nice because I'm technically naked and getting caught by Forseti with a raging boner is not a deliverable on my current project plan.

Forseti is grim and stern and, sadly, also trailing Thor's brats behind him.

"Is it time to go yet?" I ask. " 'Cause it's getting kinda dull in here and you really wouldn't like me when I'm bored."

"Silence, silver tongue," Forseti says. "From now on you will speak only when spoken to."

"Or what?" I ask. When Magni grins, it occurs to me I may come to regret the question.

"How does this work, then?" he says. To his brother, not to me. As he speaks, he raises his left hand. There's something on the palm, a tattoo in dark ink, still raw-edged and fresh.

The design on the tattoo is familiar. It should be; it's part of the one repeated over and over on my own back.

"The curse's runes are complex," Móði is saying. "I couldn't quite—" He shoots one look at me, swallows visibly, then continues, "Spit will be pain. Blood, agony."

(oh, fuck)

I know how this goes. Back in the '70s I spent an evening in a bar in Hong Kong, buying drinks for a shitfaced Sun Wukong. Sometime between the "falling down" and "passed out" stages of drunkenness, the Monkey God told me about his so-called Journey to the West. Specifically, the "magic torture headband" part of it.

It hadn't, by his account, been the best experience of his life. Even with a Buddhist priest holding the whip, and a Bodhisattva of compassion watching from the sidelines.

Here, now, in this cell, I have neither of those things. Instead, what I have are three bloodthirsty assholes who still believe in blood vengeance and slavery.

And one of them is licking the palm of his left hand.

* * *

This time, it takes me longer to come back. Bound and trapped, the skin of my back and biceps burning like raw flesh rubbed with sea salt.

It doesn't last long, but it doesn't have to. Not with a thousand years held just beneath the surface. The memory of poison, hissing as it fills the hollows of burned-out sockets, the taste of it running down a throat already left black and full of holes.

When I howl, the earth itself echoes with my pain, but this time no succor is coming. No bowl held in trembling hands will reappear above my head, bringing a comfort timed by the agonizing drip drip drip of the countdown till world's end.

Instead, I get a slap across the cheek.

"—t's wrong with it? You said it would be a moment, only."

I'm hauled upright, eyes blind and Wyrdsight splintered by my own fear, awareness of the world outside breaking further with each trembling shudder of my hearts.