Stormbringer: Book 2 of the Wyrd

Twenty-Five

Sigmund's getting better at kissing, but he isn't great at sex. That's not a criticism. It's an invitation to practice. Which I'm sure we'll be doing a lot of at some point in the future. Hopefully soon in the future, when we get out of this miserable mountain.

I wait until Sigmund is long asleep before moving. It is nice, lying there, feeling the weight of his body and the coolness of his skin. The way he snuffles softly and nuzzles against the pillows when I stroke his forearm, his shoulder, his chest.

His neck.

My hand is clutching his throat before I realize I can't move it.

(no!)

("you owe me a debt, boy. now you will repay it")

My whole body is frozen. I scream, or try to, but my lungs won't breathe and my lips won't open and my hand won't move, the flesh of Sigmund's neck soft enough for me to feel the thunder of his pulse beneath the skin.

("what do you see in him? this hearth-warming weakling?")

(he fucking stabbed you through your filthy black fucking heart just fucking fine, you piece of shit!)

I laugh. Except it's not me who does it, the sound crueler and more broken than I'm used to hearing from my own lips.

"Perhaps if I gut him in his sleep, my love will slither out amongst his bowels." Loki's not speaking English, which is nice, even if Sigmund is still asleep and, Jesus Christ, I hope he can't hear.

The hand—my hand—moves away from the exposed flesh of Sigmund's throat.

(if you touch him, Sigyn will kill you)

Loki sighs, wistful and frustrated. He won't actually hurt Sigmund. I don't think. But he's not great at making life choices, either. And if it came down between the two, I know which Sig he would choose.

I know which I would, too.

Loki extracts himself from the bed. Careful not to wake Sigmund, despite his earlier threats. This is the problem with Loki. This is always the problem with Loki. The word mercurial is only a start.

(get the fuck out of my body!)

This earns me a scalp covered in flattened feathers. "This body is mine," Loki hisses. "You are merely a mask I wear to amuse my heart's inscrutable designs. Do not think highly of your independence."

He is everywhere. In my hands, my limbs, my tail. The tiny muscles at the base of every feather and the taste buds on my tongue. Everything, and there's not a single thing I can do to push him aside.

I try. Christ, but do I try. In the end, all I succeed in doing is screaming inside our head.

"Hush." Loki pads across the room, lighter and faster than my own movements. Lithe and feral. "You promised me a debt. Now it is time to pay."

Fuck. I did do that, didn't I? In exchange for a single bullet fired into the center of a shield.

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.

I scream my silent scream. If nothing else, I'm going to give my asshole alter ego one hell of a fucking headache.

We cross the floor. Well, he crosses the floor and I come along for the ride. As we do, our flesh rearranges on our bones. Our bones rearrange beneath our flesh. Shrinking, skin turning a rich bronze beneath the firelight, wool and fur and gold weaving their way into existence. Real Viking-style clothes, the sort we used to wear, back in the day.