"Where are you going?" Loki shifted, so the wicker chair creaked.
"I need to take a piss." Jake padded across the room toward the master bathroom.
"Ah, doesn't it suck to be mortal?"
Sometimes it did, but Jake wasn't about to grant his nemesis the satisfaction of an admission. He stepped into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. The unexpected midnight visit annoyed him more than surprised him. A few months ago, Jake had made the mistake of engaging the Trickster while at the hunter's primary facility, which was located on Red Butte in the mountainous desert north of Phoenix. Ever since, he'd expected to kick over some rock and have Loki come crawling out. The rascal craved attention like a troublesome child, but even more so, he delighted in provoking his rivals.
He returned, hoping but not expecting to find Loki gone, however, the obstinate Trickster still occupied his chair. Cranky from the lack of sleep, Jake walked to the bureau and pulled a pair of shorts from the top drawer.
"Couldn't this have waited until morning?"
Loki snickered. "It could've, but it wouldn't have been as much fun as waking you up. Nor as satisfying."
"Go ahead." He stepped into his boxers and pulled them up his muscular legs. The elastic of his waistband snapped against his abdomen. Obviously, the other god wasn't leaving.
The redheaded youth sat straighter. "Are you listening to what I'm trying to tell you?"
"Yes, I'm listening." Suspicion and paranoia defined his mindset, but as a fatalist Jake preferred to follow the path of least resistance. He understood Loki too well. The only way to be rid of the overgrown pest was to humor him until he got bored and wandered off. Besides, he might as well take advantage of the opportunity to learn what his rival was up to.
"Are you? This is important."
"Yes." If he could have breathed fire, an inferno would've consumed the wicker chair. "I'm listening."
Their gazes locked.
Loki paled with rage. He embodied seething, pent-up anger. A manipulative creature to his core, the Trickster wore many masks. He could fake any emotion from grief to joy, and Jake had seen countless performances in the eons they'd known one another.
The white-hot anger was real.
"Has it ever occurred to you that you ask too much?" Loki leveled an accusing finger. "You take too much for granted."
"Your brain is addled," Jake snapped. The accusation wasn't what he'd expected. Not in the least. Here, another Loki truism held—the Trickster always surprised. Even those with the longest and closest associations, friends and lovers with insight into that duplicitous heart, could seldom predict what the god of lies would do in any given set of circumstances.
"Those wretched Norns cursed us to this. They predicted we'd become enemies and so we have... I attack your forces. You retaliate. Thousands of mortals die and we redraw the maps." Loki struck his palm with his fist for emphasis. "Can't you see? We've played right into their hands?"
"Don't play the hapless victim with me. I know you too well." Disgusted, Jake turned away and got out a pair of faded denim jeans, a shirt, and socks. With swift efficiency, he dressed and then once again pinned Loki with his gaze. "The Norns didn't force you to murder my son."
Loki drew a sharp breath. His mouth turned down at the corners even as he forced his lips into a smirk. "No, they didn't. That makes it even worse." Disgust curdled his voice. "I've become predictable—playing the villainous role as I was cast."
"How galling for you."
"You've no idea." Loki's slump morphed into a crouch, reticent of an irritated cat. His eyes fixed on some far off point, the focus of his frown. His ring finger tapped out a rapid beat upon the armrest.
Gauging the Trickster's demeanor, Jake paced closer, moving with measured, unhurried steps. He couldn't tell whether the redhead's body was a real physical manifestation or an illusion. Magic always made his skin itch and Loki invariably set him off like a swarm of fire ants.
Nostrils flaring, Jake stopped before Loki. Braced to get down and dirty, he leaned over and rested both of his hands upon the armrest. When the Trickster looked up quickly, he was ready.
Surprise flickered in Loki's green eyes. Long centuries of experience clued Jake to the Trickster's true feelings. Everything about the Jötun's appearance and behavior were predictably fraudulent, but even the god of lies had tells.
"Why so pensive, Loki? Have you tricked yourself into a corner?"
Loki's frown deepened to a scowl. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?" Given the opportunity, Jake wasn't too big to pass on a self-satisfied smirk. "Read you?"
His narrow chin lifted and then flowed into an elongated snout. Wolf's eyes. Glistening canine teeth. Pointed ears migrated high on his skull and flattened. A snarl curled in his throat. "Accurately."
"Your hubris exceeds your cunning."
"Well, duh." Loki rolled his eyes.
"I see you. I see you for who you are. Not who you'd have others believe you to be." Jake ditched irreverence, imbuing his words with the full force of personality. Loki stopped laughing. The stared at one another with cat-like intensity.
"What is it you think you see?" Loki's voice modulated into a sibilant note and turned his final word into a hiss.
"I see that you're skittish. Keeping your distance physically and relying on illusions when you can't..." Stoic detachment settled over Jake. He stated facts and watched his opponent squirm.
"I suppose you've analyzed my behavior and drawn conclusions utilizing your vastly superior intellect..." Loki threw out the taunt like a gauntlet.
"I have." He allowed himself a small smile but otherwise refrained from reacting. "Want to know what I've discovered?"
"Sure, let's hear it. This should be amusing if nothing else." The Trickster grinned but little things betrayed his unease—the color of his irises and the tension in his lips. His wolfish features restored to elven.
"Fifteen of my hunters were MIA after Tucson. I didn't know where they were or what had happened to them but I owed their families answers," Jake said in a slow, unhurried manner. "So I did something I hardly ever do anymore and opened my second sight."
"I'm surprised you're not catatonic," Loki snapped in a churlish tone.
"Your greater form is still imprisoned. This—" Jake swept his fingers up and down to indicate the other's appearance. "Is just a fragment, and a weak one at that. So I'm wondering..."
"What?" The Trickster's teeth snapped together with an audible clash.
Smiling dangerously now, Jake made his old friend wait before he answered. "If I kill this avatar will you finally go away and leave me alone?"
Bright anger flared in the Trickster's eyes and he bolted upright, ready to fight or flee. Glee and satisfaction flooded Jake, because he knew at a glance that he was right. Loki may as well have just confirmed it aloud.
"I'd go away now if you'd only listen." Loki's lips pressed together. Shaking, he shrank in on himself. For a time, he gave the impression of being on the verge of changing shapes, perhaps to a fly or a hawk. Jake wondered if he'd take off, leaving the whole inane conversation without resolution.
Yet minutes ticked past, and the Trickster remained. Whatever the god of lies had to say, he must think it was important to be so damn persistent.
A resigned sigh escaped Jake. "Speak your piece."
The silence stretched, pressure building, until the Trickster looked ready to burst. Then, all the sudden, his face twisted into a grimace as though something bitter filled his mouth. He stumbled into speech. "I don't want to do this anymore, Jake. I've run the scenarios through my head a million times. It always ends the same. Your sons are your only real vulnerability. I go after them—"
Real, gut-curdling fear slammed Jake. His rigid hands locked Loki's forearms and dug into the hard muscles beneath his fingertips, broke skin, drew blood. His voice shook. "Loki, what have you done?"
Loki's head jerked in denial. He licked his lips. "Nothing. I had a plan b
ut I called it off—"
A child's piercing scream shattered the serenity of the house. Michael’s cry struck dread into the depths of Jake’s soul. His heart stopped. He ghosted within a hair's breadth of stepping out of his mortal body to assume his full glory and supremacy as a god.
Shouting in pure rage, Jake threw his arms wide. A burning blade manifested in his hand, a thick haft that fit perfectly to the span of his palm. Jake acted without hesitation. His hands locked about the hilt, poised directly overhead. The knife swept down in a swift stroke. The point pierced Loki's breastbone, sliced clean through, and serrated his heart.
Arms flung wide, the Trickster screamed in agony while the dagger seared his heart to ash. His head jerked back, throat fully exposed, and he convulsed. Smoke rose in curling columns and the room stunk of charred flesh. A writhing serpent-like ribbon peeled off Loki's arm and dropped to the floor, followed by another and then another. Until his entire body collapsed into a pile of wriggling colorful bands that dissolved into a sparkling shower of confetti.
An illusion.
Funny little tingles traveled the length of Jake's fingers. Like the opening chords of a song, the melody resonated throughout this being. The strangest emotion transferred into him—forlorn longing.
Having passed through the Trickster's construct, the blade of his dagger struck the seat of the chair, setting the wicker on fire. A conflagration claimed the whole thing in seconds. Cursing, Jake swept his arm before him and incanted the runes.
The fire went out.
From down the hallway, the boy's yells ceased abruptly.
Wielding his tattoo dagger, Jake sprinted from the room. He met one of his sons in the hallway. The seventeen-year-old carried a rifle and stood outside of Michael's room, holding the firearm with the muzzle aimed toward the ceiling.
"Michael's fine, Dad," JD said. "It was just another nightmare."
Calm suffused Jake. His anger cooled as quickly as it had ignited. He would have sworn his heart resumed beating. "He's okay?"
"Yeah, he's fine." JD offered a lopsided smile. He titled his head. "Gage's with him."
"Thanks. Go back to bed. I've got this." He turned sideways as JD stepped aside, and entered the room that used to belong to his firstborn son. Loki had arranged Daniel's murder in early December of the previous year.
JD sat on the edge of the queen-sized bed. His hand rested upon the middle of Michael's back. The six-year-old lay on his stomach, arms folded over his head, face buried in his pillow. He cried steadily, the sobs muffled against the cushion.
Rascal stretched across the foot of the bed. The dog's head rested on his front paws. He whimpered as Jake entered.
"Good boy." Jake placed his hand on the dog's large head in a reassuring pat.
Rascal wagged his tail and replied with a sorrowful whine.
"He had another bad dream." Gage looked up and met his father's gaze, biting his lower lip.
Jake tilted his head toward the door. "I've got this. You and your brother should go back to bed. Get some sleep. It's a few hours yet before you have to be up for school."
JD and Gage exchanged a long glance, the sort of unspoken communication shared by twins and soul mates. "We're not tired," Gage said. "I think we'll stay up for a bit."
Jake gave a curt nod to signal his assent. His sons were close enough to being men to make their own decisions. In a movement so smooth it could have been choreographed, he and his son traded places. He settled on the edge of the mattress and laid the flat of his palm against Michael's back. His hand from pinky to thumb spanned the width of the child's shoulders, a powerful reminder of how young and fragile the boy was even in comparison to the twins.
The boy drew a final stuttering breath and his sobs ceased. Demonstrating laudable courage, Michael rolled onto his side, dislodging Jake's hand. Wide, red-rimmed eyes blinked away the wetness that clung to long lashes.
"How're you doing, kid?" A fierce protectiveness swept him. He couldn't help thinking about what could have happened—so many awful possibilities and dangers. Loki had already orchestrated the death of his oldest son. He wasn't so foolish as to think the Trickster would spare the youngsters.
The boy swallowed so his throat worked. "I had a bad dream."
"Was it about the beast that killed your mother?"
Michael licked lips visibly dry and cracked, and then shook his head. "It was different. There were huge icemen. We were someplace in the mountains—a cabin or a cave. Gage and JD were there. They wanted to kill us..."
Stony silence settled over Jake. Deep down, magic throbbed, the runes rising beneath his tanned skin, writhing and crawling. Dread curdled his gut. "Was there anything else?"
Michael hesitated. "There was a wolf."
"Did the wolf want to harm you or help you?" His voice was hushed. Awareness of their audience fed his unease. He would've preferred the twins not hear any part of the conversation, but it was already too late.
Michael blinked. His small teeth bit into his lower lip and his fists clenched. "I don't know. It wasn't a white wolf."
"Not Victoria then." He glanced to the opposite side of room. On a silken thread, a tiny black spider hung suspended from the windowsill over the toy chest.
A dozen crayon pictures decorated the wall, pinned so closely together they overlapped. The images formed a nightmarish collage—a black two-legged goat beast, crying children in cages, drums filled with black liquid. Blood in trickles, trails, streams, and pools. A white wolf attacked the monster. A decapitated beast and joyful children running from open cages.
The art would have given a teacher or school psychologist fits, but it fairly represented the child's ordeal and salvation. Jake and Michael had a deal—the boy was free to display whatever he wanted on the walls of his own room, so long as he drew bright, cheerful images for his educators and anyone else who wasn't a member of their family.
"I'm thirsty," Michael said in a rough voice. Then he sat up, tucking his knees against his chest, and extended his arm toward his dog.
Rascal surged toward his master. Tail waving, he pushed his nose against the boy's hand, licking furiously. His antics coaxed a strangled giggle from the Michael.
"Come on, Champ. Let's get you a glass of water." He stood.
"Okay." The boy nodded and scooted off the edge of the bed. The dog jumped down also, sticking to his master's side.
The four of them sat together in the family room for a time, talking in low voices. During such family gatherings, Jake experienced the loss of his wife most acutely. His gaze strayed to the empty spot on the couch where she'd often sat, and he caught the twins following his gaze. Their faces mirrored the heavy sorrow he carried in his heart. Only Michael, who'd never met Sarah, remained untouched.
Eventually, JD and Gage went back to bed, and Michel fell asleep on the couch with his arms wrapped around the dog that doubled as guardian and pillow.
Jake sat up the rest of the night, standing guard. Loki didn't return.
As dawn brightened the sky, the twins emerged from their rooms and chased morning pursuits—competing for the shower and trying to locate their discarded shoes. Exhausted from his sleepless night, Michael dozed on the couch beside Rascal.
Jake wandered out to the kitchen. He started breakfast—eggs, bacon, pancakes, and fresh-squeezed orange juice—enough to feed an army, or the four Barrett men, anyway. The morning meal was always a time when he most acutely felt the loss of his wife. Sarah had always been the better cook. Jake's food passed muster, but no one had ever rolled their eyes heavenward and settled both hands over a swollen stomach with a gluttonous moan of satisfaction.
As the first batch of bacon came off the press, Gage surged toward the counter. He loaded his plate high with crispy strips and then thrust it out, gripped between both hands. "Dad, are the eggs done yet?"
"Yep." Jake seized the handle of the frying pan. Using the spatula, he dumped about half the frying pan of scrambled eggs onto his son's plate and
scraped the rest onto the platter. JD was still in the shower, but he'd emerge soon enough.
"Thanks." Gage sat at a stool on the breakfast bar. Gripping his fork in his fist, he dug in with gusto. The boy shoveled food into his mouth, chewing no more than twice between bites. He ate like a wolf.
"If you don't slow down you're going to choke," Jake cautioned.
"Sorry." Gage stuffed his face and made a show of chewing with his mouth closed at least six times before he swallowed.
"Your mother would have a fit."
"Mom's not here." The teenager grinned around a mouthful of chewed bacon and yellow eggs.
"Don't be so damn sure of that," Jake intoned ominously.
Gage choked on his food and grabbed for his juice. He gulped the entire glass before he recovered. After that, he slowed down.
Under the pretext of cracking more eggs for a second batch, Jake turned away to hide his smirk of satisfaction. Served the boy right for being so damn smug...
"Dad?"
"Yeah?" Jake asked without turning. He cast an empty eggshell into the sink, turned on the water, and pulsed the garbage disposal. When he whisked the eggs and the milk together, the mixture came off just a shade too light to be right so he reached for another egg to balance it out.
"Is Mom the reason the apple is back in the fruit bowl?" Gage asked.
Jake's hand clenched, crushing the raw egg. Bits of shell bit into his flesh but none of them sharp enough to penetrate his callus-toughened skin. The cold, slimy insides seeped through his fingers into the bowl. His mouth twisted into grimace. He cast the whole mess into the sink and washed his hands before he turned back to his son.
Gage sat with his elbow propped on the counter, fingers spread to support the fruit balanced on the tips. The apple glowed—glossy and golden—as fresh as the day it'd been plucked from the tree of life by the Norse goddess, Iðunn.
Jake's gaze locked on the apple. It possessed the mystical properties of tremendous rejuvenation—healing, fertility, and youthfulness. When Sarah's cancer had been discovered, he'd pulled strings on earth and in the heavens to obtain the miraculous curative.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 4
