Tyr

by JC Andrijeski

“And maybe some long-johns,” Marion added. “Especially on top. I swear, I’ve been freezing my butt off for hours now––”

  “I should come, too,” a much deeper voice said.

  Marion heard the warning in it, and tensed, right before she turned, flashing a bright smile in Tyr’s direction.

  “Oh, you know you hate watching me try on clothes, honey,” she said, tilting her head as she widened her smile. “Why not just wait for me out here? I saw a hunting store next door… I could meet you in there in a few, if you’d prefer.”

  Tyr frowned, staring at her.

  He didn’t argue, but she saw that fire in his eyes flash brighter as the shopkeeper led her away. The woman took her to a back part of the shop, walking her right past the curtained areas that were likely dressing rooms, and into what looked to Marion like an office. She led Marion inside, then turned around and closed the door firmly behind them.

  Marion watched the clerk lock the door.

  Then the older woman turned to face Marion, all hint of that blank cheerfulness gone.

  Her brown eyes grew as serious as a heart attack.

  She spoke in a low murmur, presumably in case Tyr followed them.

  “Is this a domestic violence situation?” the woman said. “Are you being held against your will, honey? Or is it something else? Do you need me to call the police?”

  Marion had been thinking the whole way back here.

  Weirdly, she still didn’t want Tyr to get in trouble.

  Not until she knew for sure whether he deserved to be.

  Maybe that was completely moronic, or just more insane Stockholm Syndrome crap, but it was how she felt.

  On the other hand, the police might really slow him down.

  They might even get Tyr running in the opposite direction, and Marion could probably use them to get back to her father. If there really was some plot to use her to blackmail Dad, the sooner she got someone to bring her to the White House, the better.

  For all Marion knew, someone could be blackmailing him already.

  She should call her dad first, give him a head’s up. He’d probably want to send someone federal to come get her, but maybe that was for the best, too. The sooner she warned him about what was going on, the better.

  As all of this ran through her mind, she realized the police were probably her best bet.

  They would at least call someone from the Secret Service to come pick her up.

  She nodded to the woman.

  “Okay,” she said. “Call the police. But I need to use your phone first. I have to call my father, and let him know where I am––”

  “I think you should call the police first,” the woman protested.

  Marion shook her head.

  “You don’t understand.” Swallowing, she bit her lip, then just blurted it. “You might even recognize me… I’m the President’s daughter. I was kidnapped. My father needs to know right away. They might be blackmailing him right now.”

  Seeing the woman’s eyes widen to saucers, Marion fought to think.

  The woman was already pulling the phone out of her purse, thrusting it into Marion’s empty hands.

  Marion had a number her dad made her memorize.

  She tapped it into the woman’s phone now.

  “…I need him to come get me,” she said, still muttering under her breath, maybe more for herself than the poor store clerk she’d dragged into this mess. “They’ll probably want to put me somewhere until they catch whoever is behind this. Or maybe lock me down in the White House.”

  Looking at the sixty-something clerk as she put the woman’s phone to her ear, Marion added,

  “This guy claims it’s another group. He might even be right. But my dad’s people need to sort all of that out. He didn’t hurt me,” she added, motioning towards the office door. “He’s not the one who hurt me. The guy here, in the store. If the police ask you, he didn’t hurt me, okay? He might have even saved my life.”

  Watching the woman’s eyes continue to look confused, Marion frowned, focusing on the phone when it began to ring.

  It was still ringing when Marion looked at the woman again.

  “Is there another way out of the building?” she said. “Something out back? This guy is a fighter, a trained fighter, and really strong. If he hears the police coming, he might just run away. Or, if he thinks I’m his best ticket out of here without getting shot or arrested, he might come after me. I need to not be here when he hears those sirens.”

  Marion swallowed, thinking about all of this, even as she said it out loud.

  Everything she was saying was starting to feel really real all of a sudden.

  Still thinking, she motioned at the clerk.

  “You shouldn’t be here, either,” she said apologetically. “You should come with me. I don’t think he’d hurt you, but just in case I’m wrong––”

  Someone picked up at the other end of the line.

  Before she could get out a word, a hard, dense voice spoke.

  “Hello, Marion,” the voice said. “Where are you?”

  Something in that voice was wrong.

  Something in that voice was very, very wrong.

  Marion hesitated, gripping the shop clerk’s phone tightly in both hands.

  She opened her mouth, fighting for words, with whether she should answer––

  “Hang up the phone, Marion.”

  The deep voice cut through the silence of the room.

  Marion turned, staring at the man who somehow appeared in the doorway, despite her watching the clerk lock the handle from the inside. She found him staring at her, his dark eyes looking through hers, seeming to communicate with her even in silence.

  He didn’t look angry.

  His words didn’t sound like a threat.

  Still, something in his eyes made her pull the phone away from her ear.

  “Marion?” the voice in the phone said, growing softer as she pulled it away, even though she could tell the man was shouting. “Marion! Where are you? Tell us where you are!”

  Hesitating a bare beat, she looked down at the phone’s glass screen and hit the hang up button.

  “You can’t be in here!” the shop clerk said, her voice shaking as she faced a man probably ten inches taller than her and made of solid muscle. She pointed at the door. “You need to go, sir! You can’t be in here! We’ve already called the police!”

  The man with the dark eyes looked only at Marion.

  “We don’t have much time,” he said. “They know. They’re coming.”

  Marion continued to stare up at those dark eyes.

  She knew he was right.

  She didn’t just believe him… she knew.

  As that much sank in, she turned to the shop clerk, handing back the phone the woman lent her. Briefly, she had to restrain herself from hugging her.

  “Thank you,” she said, meaning it with all of her heart. “You can still call the cops, but we need to go. Thank you,” she repeated, briefly squeezing the woman’s hand. “I know you tried to help me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. You’re a really good person.”

  The woman stared at her, obviously tongue-tied.

  Without waiting, Marion released her, turning to go.

  She was about the leave the small office with Tyr, when the woman spoke up.

  “Wait!” she said.

  She practically shouted it.

  When Marion and Tyr turned, the woman frowned, looking between them.

  “The least I can do is give you warmer clothes to wear,” the woman said, pursing her lips. “Will you at least allow me that?”

  Tyr looked at Marion. Marion looked at Tyr.

  Then they both looked at the shopkeeper.

  “Okay,” Marion said. “But fast.”

  She watched the shopkeeper disappear through the doorway as Tyr moved out of her way, letting the woman squeeze past him to return to the shop’s floor.

  The woman looked Marion over in a glance,
as if memorizing her measurements in two swipes of her eyes. She barely slowed her steps to do it, moving at a near-jog and now muttering under her breath.

  Tyr and Marion looked at each other again.

  Then Tyr offered Marion his hand.

  Marion barely hesitated.

  She took it, winding her fingers around his, gripping him tighter as he led her back onto the shop floor, following after the clerk.

  She was all-in now.

  12

  You Already Know What I Am

  Marion climbed into the passenger seat of the McLaren, a bundle of clothes in her arms.

  The shop clerk was still handing her things in the seconds before Tyr closed the door behind her––a thick pair of woolen socks, hiking boots that would go a lot better with the jeans and cable-knit sweater the woman already found in roughly Marion’s size, a down jacket.

  Marion smiled up at her, even as the McLaren’s door began to close.

  “I’ll reimburse you for all of this,” she promised, gripping the clothes and boots awkwardly in her arms. “Thank you again, so much. You’re wonderful––”

  The door clicked shut, locking in place from where it descended into the car’s frame.

  Tyr started the engine.

  He revved it once, then backed swiftly out of the parking space in front of the small store, and gunned it down the street.

  Marion didn’t wait.

  She threw the clothes into the area down by her feet, and reached behind her to unzip the dress. She managed to get the thing undone, awkwardly, with her back to the car’s door, then she was wriggling out of it, sitting up to pull it over her head.

  She didn’t bother to glance over at Tyr, but felt him glance at her.

  It occurred to her only then that she was sitting right next to him in nothing but lacey white underwear, not even a bra to cover her on top.

  In broad daylight.

  The car’s windows might be dark to anyone outside, but Tyr could see her just fine.

  Shoving aside the thought, she leaned down, looking through the clothes the clerk had given her. She found a bra first, and put that on, hooking the clasp awkwardly behind her back. Next, she grabbed the pair of black jeans. Sticking a foot into each leg hole, she felt Tyr’s eyes on her again and glanced up at him, arching an eyebrow.

  He continued to look at her, more or less unapologetically.

  “Maybe don’t run us off the road, okay?” she said, motioning towards the windshield.

  She couldn’t help smiling a little when his eyes followed her pointing finger, and he swerved a bit, realigning the sports car with one hand.

  Then she was yanking up the jeans, sitting forward to get them over her butt and then zipped up the front.

  The shopkeeper had a good eye. They fit her perfectly.

  She grabbed the sweater next, shoving her head through the opening on top and then twisting it around to align the sleeves with her arms.

  She pulled it down to her waist before she reached down a third time, now looking for the socks and the boots.

  She glanced up at Tyr after she had both of the wool socks on her feet.

  She already felt about a hundred times better.

  “Where to now?” she said, grabbing the first boot and pulling paper out of the toe that had been stuffed in there by the manufacturer. “This car isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

  Tyr nodded, giving her a bare glance before his eyes returned to the road.

  “I am unsure,” he admitted. “I had thought, before, that we might go to New York, see if we could get in contact with your father’s people in a city likely to have a lot of federal agents. But now I am wondering if we can trust any of those normal avenues of communication. Clearly, they have some means of picking up calls to protected lines.”

  “That was them?” Marion said, frowning. “The Syndicate people? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Marion felt her skepticism fighting with the part of her that believed him.

  “You’re absolutely sure?” she said, shoving her foot into the second boot. “You didn’t even hear them. You couldn’t have traced the call.”

  When she glanced at him that time, he gave her a flat look.

  Snorting a little, she shook her head.

  “More of that ‘it’s complicated’ stuff?” she grunted wryly, beginning to lace up her first boot. “The same stuff that gives you two brothers named Thor and Loki? And a father who lives in another dimension? A father who may or may not be named Odin?”

  When she looked at Tyr that time, he only inclined his head.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked politely. “It occurs to me that I haven’t fed you adequately.”

  At that, Marion couldn’t help it.

  She burst out in a laugh.

  He got them cheeseburgers, fries and sodas at a drive-thru window.

  Honestly, Marion couldn’t remember the last time she’d had that kind of food, but the second the bags hit her lap, and the smell hit her nose, her stomach was growling at her angrily to put as much of it inside her as quickly as she possibly could.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so hungry.

  “I am sorry,” Tyr said, watching her munch on still-steaming French fries. “I should have realized how badly you needed food. I confess, I’ve been worrying much more about keeping you alive in the less-mundane ways.”

  Marion laughed, her mouth full of French fries.

  She swallowed most of her mouthful, still chuckling.

  “You are a weird one, Tyr,” she said, her voice verging on affectionate.

  “Let me know when we can discuss options again,” he said, barely seeming to hear the humor in her voice. “I am thinking you might have more opinions, and more clear thoughts on this, once you are no longer thinking about food.”

  She grunted, still eating fries, and now eyeing the cheeseburger in her bag.

  “You’re not wrong about that,” she said. “But if you were hinting earlier that we should go straight to D.C., try knocking on Dad’s door direct-like and get them to let us inside, then yes. I agree. That’s seeming like the best plan to me… even with my brains scrambled on fries and cheeseburger grease.”

  He nodded, glancing over periodically to watch her eat.

  She looked out the McLaren’s window as he pulled onto the highway, feeling something in her body start to relax as the food hit her system.

  Tyr wasn’t the only one who forgot about food during the rest of this insanity. She must have been hungry for hours, but some part of her was too busy producing adrenaline and fighting off being drugged by psychos to notice.

  Now that the food was starting to reach her bloodstream, she felt almost calm.

  “Yes,” she said, after taking her first, almost-leisurely bite of cheeseburger. Her eyes closed briefly in blissful appreciation, right before she turned to look at Tyr. “Yes,” she repeated. “I think we should go to D.C. Right to the White House. Immediately. As soon as possible. We could maybe try to listen to the radio on the way, see if there’s anything on there about where he is, what he might be doing… and if there’s any news of me being missing.”

  Pausing to swallow, she added,

  “Do you really think they’re following us?”

  There was a silence.

  In it, Tyr looked only at the road.

  She was getting used to him now though, and strongly suspected he was thinking seriously about her question before he gave her a definitive answer.

  “Yes,” he said finally, glancing at her after the pause. “Yes, I think they are. I suspect your friend in the store called the police, and they likely had that line tapped or diverted. At the very least, they would have traced the woman’s cell phone.”

  Marion was still savoring her second bite of cheeseburger.

  Swallowing the last of it, she stared at him.

  “But how is that possible?” she said. “See, this is why I start thinking you’re n
uts. The things you say… they’re just too paranoid and far-fetched to be true, even if you’re really good at sounding credible when you say them.”

  Tyr seemed unmoved by this.

  “I can only tell you what I know,” he said.

  “But how could you possibly know that?” she said, exasperated.

  “I’ve heard that man’s voice before,” Tyr said, looking at her. “The man on the phone. The one who picked up when you called, trying to reach your father’s people.”

  “Where?” Marion said, frowning. “Where have you heard it?”

  “On one of the videos. Lie Jie spoke to him once, along with the man you told me about. The Secretary of State… the one with the scar on his face. The man on the phone worked for him.” He glanced at her again. “I think you saw one of the clips with him in it. He was with the man with the scar. He also had short hair… only brown.”

  Tyr turned the wheel of the car, stepping on the gas to pass an eighteen-wheeler truck. He didn’t glance over at her again until he had straightened the trajectory of the McLaren, aiming them down the center lane, between an SUV and a small Honda Civic.

  “It was the same man,” he said, glancing over. “I recognized his voice. I am sure of it.”

  Marion continued to stare at him, the burger resting on its wrapper in her lap. She hadn’t forgotten about it, but for the first time since he handed her the bag of fast food, she wasn’t one hundred percent focused on it, either.

  She studied his black eyes, her mouth pursed.

  “Are you telling me you heard that guy’s voice?” she said finally. “On the shop clerk’s phone? When I had that phone to my ear? And you were standing a few feet away?”

  He glanced at her. “Yes.”

  “Well enough to recognize him? Well enough to be sure you recognized his voice? Even though he only spoke a few words?”

  He glanced at her again. “Yes.”

  “But how?” she said. “How did you hear him at all? Much less hear him well enough to be absolutely certain it was the exact same guy you saw in that surveillance video? No one has hearing that good, Tyr. No one.”

  He hesitated, looking at her.

  For a few seconds, he looked about to speak.