by C. Gockel
“The nurse said the father is here!” Steve says, grabbing Bohdi by the collar.
The lights above them flicker. Meeting his eyes, Bohdi swallows. “I lied to get into the ambulance.”
For the second time in one day, Steve resists the urge to strangle him.
Behind him he hears the sound of rapid footsteps. Bohdi’s eyes slide to the side. “Why are all the agents here?”
Men in black file by them and head down the hallway beyond Bohdi and Steve. The recovery team. Steve watches them go and reminds himself it’s not a baby, it’s a fetus, and it is already dead.
Turning back to Bohdi, he lies. “Someone told the hospital that the father was here, I had to be prepared.”
Bohdi’s nose wrinkles up like he might sneeze, and Steve lets go of his collar.
“Where’s Beatrice?” says Bohdi, falling back into his chair and rubbing his nose.
“She’s coming,” Steve lies.
Bohdi lets loose a furious, sneeze, and looks up at Steve with weepy red, narrowed eyes.
Steve feels a twinge of guilt. Putting a hand on Bohdi’s shoulder, Steve says, “Come on, I’ll make sure you get to the recruitment center.”
Drawing back, Bohdi wraps his hands so tightly around the chair’s armrests, his knuckles go several shades paler. “No. I have to make sure my wife’s okay.” He says it loud enough for a passing orderly to hear. The man gives Steve a dirty look.
Rolling his eyes, Steve waits for the man to pass, and then says, “Why is this an issue for you?” He’s hoping the question will help Bohdi cut through the clutter of his own internal bullshit. The kid doesn’t talk about Lewis, they’re not friends, and they’ve said maybe a dozen words to one another since Bohdi “arrived.”
Bohdi drops his head. His long bangs falls in front of his eyes. Steve expects him to confess something along the lines of, “I’m afraid to join the service…”
Bohdi shrugs and swallows audibly. “She and I…” he shakes his head, looks up, and gives Steve a bitter smile. “We were both screwed by Loki,” says Bohdi.
The kid’s eyes are a little unfocused. He sounds so lonely and so lost. With an exasperated sigh, Steve sinks into a seat beside him.
Chapter 1
2 YEARS LATER
Stepping out of the coffee shop, Amy glances down LaSalle Street. Lifting her head, she gazes up at the former Chicago Board of Trade building, still listing to one side. The windows are dark. Weathered scaffolding protects the sidewalk below from falling rubble. The building has been leaning since the largest earthquake in Chicago’s history wrecked its foundations. Coincidentally, at the exact same time, Loki had been dancing in an ADUO interrogation room.
“Such a lovely day!” says Amy’s grandmother, Beatrice, cheerfully.
Amy blinks at the sky. There is no snow, just a blanket of early morning fog. It’s warm for December, but gloomy. Turning to her grandmother, her lips quirk. “Do you mean the weather… Or are you referring to the troll this morning?”
Amy’s staying with Beatrice until she finds an apartment. This morning, a troll popped up in their neighborhood, and their commute involved an hour-long detour. Periodic trolls, wyrms, and others visiting Chicago through magical World Gates is why the city hasn’t been repaired.
“It is just so nice to have you back!” Beatrice says, sipping at her coffee. Her pink flower umbrella swings on her free arm.
Amy raises an eyebrow. “Grandma, you drove down to check on me every weekend while I was at school in Oklahoma.”
Beatrice nods and smiles happily. “And now I can check on you every day while you’re in the office, too.”
Amy stifles a sigh. Not that she doesn’t love her grandmother, but Beatrice has been a little over-protective of late. Amy only managed to keep Beatrice from moving to Oklahoma with her by finding her a job at ADUO. Beatrice is fluent in English, Ukrainian, and Russian. Just before Loki attacked Chicago, the city had been visited by Dark Elves bearing AK-47s. After the attack, Russia, the Ukraine, and Belarus had pushed for the elves to have the rights of the Geneva Convention. The US government even released the captured elves to the Russians. No one knows precisely what the elves are offering the Russians in return for weaponry, but Steve has Beatrice monitoring communications from those countries, looking for clues.
Amy appraises Beatrice. She walks with a spring in her step that belies her gray hair and wrinkles. Beatrice has the energy and sharpness of mind of a twenty-something. Before Cera and Loki destroyed Chicago, her grandmother had been in a nursing home, unable to remember her own name. And then…something happened.
Suffering from wounds inflicted by an ill-advised SWAT team raid, Amy watched the battle of LaSalle Street from Loki’s apartment. When the battle was over, Amy’s injuries were healed and Beatrice was there, her mind and body restored, the outrageous flower umbrella in her hands.
Steve and Beatrice posit that Loki healed Amy and Beatrice as a parting gift to Amy.
Amy rubs her temple. What Loki did give her as a final parting “gift” was his memories…and in all his memories, Loki was incapable of healing. Someone else had healed Beatrice and Amy, someone who was a master of biology, someone immensely powerful, and it could only be…
Pain flares behind her eyes, and she stops sharply. She winces. Sometimes this happens when she tries to think about that time…
“Are you alright, dear?” says Beatrice.
Amy drops her hand from her temple, and finds her grandmother’s eyes peering at her from beneath neat, gray bangs. Beatrice has a rather fashionable bobbed haircut. And she’s wearing a sharp white skirt beneath her fitted, black down jacket. She looks more put together than Amy does in jeans, tennis shoes, and casual ponytail; but Steve promised Amy a troll to dissect today. No way is she getting formaldehyde on good clothes.
“I’m fine, Grandma,” Amy says, trying to give a reassuring smile. Why should she care how she and Beatrice got better? The important thing is that they are better…
“Hmmm…” says Beatrice.
As they resume walking, a shiver runs down Amy’s spine. But she shakes her head, and it’s as though her apprehension is swept away by invisible hands. Her mood lifts, and she takes a sip of her coffee. It’s delicious, and she finds herself smiling.
They pass under some scaffolding. Construction has stalled, and there are no workers about. Across the street, a park appears. Off in a corner of the park, Amy notices a woman in garb that looks vaguely priestessy, talking to a group of camera-toting tourists. A bus bearing the slogan “City of Gods Tours” is idling on LaSalle a few feet away. For a minute, Amy gawks, but then she shakes her head. Scientists, the military, and tourism are the only things keeping Chicago afloat.
“This is the place I was telling you about,” says Beatrice. “Lovely spot for a coffee break.”
The park is pretty. There is a gentle bluff in a wide-open clearing. At the top are semi-circular half walls made of smooth stone sheltering a seating area. At the center is a statue commemorating the fallen firemen, police officers, and city council members who died defending the city. Following her eyes, Beatrice whispers, “Some people said it should be a statue of Steve. That man is golden in this town. If he doesn’t run for mayor…” she shakes her head.
But Amy’s eyes have alighted on the four men sitting at the bottom of the statue. There is Steve, Brett, and Bryant, but it’s the last person that makes her smile. “Look, Grandma! It’s Bohdi Patel. I thought he was in the Marines?”
Beatrice taps her chin. “Oh, he was. But he was discharged…something about a bum spleen.”
“Let’s go sit with them,” Amy says as they approach the gentle sloping walkway that leads up to the seating area. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“Hmmmm….” says Beatrice. “That boy…” she tsks.
Amy bites her lip, a little nervous as they cross toward the bottom of the stairs. To most people, Loki isn’t the person who saved the world from a mind-warping sou
rce of infinite magical power bent on world domination. Instead, he is a psychopath who took out a large portion of the city, its defenders, and thousands of civilians. Most of those who know of Amy’s “association” with Loki do not care for her. Or even feign respect. She smiles ruefully.
Bohdi has as much reason—or more than most people—to hate Amy. But when she’d woken up in an unfamiliar bed after her miscarriage, in a haze of blood loss, the first thing she’d seen was Bohdi’s eyes on her. Framed by startlingly long lashes, they were warm, wide, innocent, and earnest. “Hi,” he whispered.
And then he’d taken her hand in his. She’d followed the motion with her eyes. Leaning closer, Bohdi whispered, “I lied and told them we were married.” He licked his lips nervously. “I’m sorry, I just had to make sure…” He stammered. “I’m glad you’re okay.” And then his face had gone a little pale, and his eyes had opened wider. “I mean…you’re not okay, but…I’m sorry.”
Amy had squeezed his hand. She didn’t know Bohdi really, but she was grateful he was there. She felt lost, empty, and alone. His hand was like an anchor to humanity, and the look of concern on his face was like a balm. If he could care if she lived or died, she could care. And if he could forgive her, then she could forgive herself.
She’d dozed off a few minutes later, but she remembers waking a few more times after that, just briefly, to see him sitting there, hand still in hers, gazing at her intently, Beatrice standing just behind him.
Now, as she and Beatrice approach the first of the stairs, she begins to hear the murmur of the men’s conversation, and she has a little flutter of panic. What must Bohdi think of her? He’s a nice Indian boy, probably from a nice Indian family—even if he can’t remember them. All of his compassion in the moment aside, what must he think of her getting “knocked up” by the guy who wiped his memory?
Beatrice and Amy are almost at the top of the stairs when the first of the conversation becomes intelligible.
“You did not,” says Bryant.
“I did too,” says Bohdi.
Amy’s and Beatrice’s heads clear the stairs. Bohdi’s back is to them; all of the men’s eyes are on him.
“I’m telling you, I slept with her!” Bohdi shouts, whipping something hot pink from his pocket and hurling it at Bryant.
Amy gasps. Brett’s eyes meet Amy’s and go wide.
Bryant shouts as whatever it is lands on his shoulder. Amy blinks. It’s a thong.
Hopping and shouting, Bryant flicks it back at Bohdi who snatches it from the air and stuffs it back in his pocket.
Brett clears his throat loudly. Beatrice huffs. Rolling his eyes, Steve says, “Hello, Dr. Lewis. Welcome back.”
“Hi, Amy,” say Brett and Bryant in unison, Bryant still wiping at his shoulder.
Bohdi spins around, his eyes wide, mouth open in a startled “O.”
Amy’s coffee crashes to the ground at her feet.
Bohdi has filled out over the past two years, in a good way. He’s still a little on the skinny side, but his shoulders are broader. His hair is also neater. His face, with his wide almost orange brown eyes, adorable slightly squished nose, and full lips, is just as open and innocent-looking as she remembered.
She feels a blush rising to her cheeks. Innocence—that’s a lie, obviously. Maybe it’s Amy’s imagination, but the sky above her seems to darken.
With a shaky exhale, she looks down at the spilled coffee at her feet. “Grandma,” she says, “I think I need to go back to the café.”
Beside her, Beatrice says, “Of course, dear.”
As they turn and walk down the steps, Amy tries not to take off in a jog. Beside her, Beatrice tsks. “That boy is an alley cat…”
A strong wind buffets Amy’s back. She and Beatrice look up. The sky had been clear when they left the office, but now dark clouds are moving in.
Beatrice scowls. “I don’t remember rain in the forecast.”
x x x x
The crimson that had crept into the edges of Bohdi’s vision when Bryant had taunted him starts to recede. Bohdi’s eyes are trained on the retreating forms of Amy Lewis and her grandmother, but in his mind, he’s seeing only the look on Amy’s face—her blue eyes very wide, her full lips parted in shock. His throat feels tight. When had she come back to Chicago? Why hadn’t anyone told him she was back?
Why had she just looked at him like he was a puppy kicker?
He straightens his shoulders. And why should he care? He thought they’d shared a moment there back in the hospital—but who was he kidding? She had been practically unconscious the whole time. And Amy’s not just cute, she’s a doctor of veterinary medicine, which makes her smart. Caring what smart, cute, girls think is just asking for trouble. You go gaga for them and then they dump you for a neurosurgeon because you don’t have a college degree.
From behind him, Steve says in a dry voice, “And that is why I have told you time and again, gentlemen tell no tales.”
Bohdi turns. Steve is cradling his coffee in one hand, arms crossed over his chest. The expression on Steve’s face is so severe and unforgiving—like every drill instructor Bohdi ever had in the Corps—that Bohdi’s body automatically snaps to attention. He almost blurts out “Yes, sir,” before he catches himself. Face heating, he slouches deliberately and gives Steve a devil-may-care smile. “I thought you kept me around because you like living vicariously through my tales?”
And besides, Steve had also told him never to “get involved” with anyone in the office, but Bohdi had with Marion, and that had turned out all right.
Steve raises an eyebrow, his jaw set into a hard line. “I keep you around for comic relief,” he says, his tone hard, and not comical at all.
Bohdi winces and averts his eyes. Besides being his boss, Steve is probably Bohdi’s best friend. But the bastard’s taller than Bohdi’s six foot and change—which gives Steve the unfortunate ability to literally look down on Bohdi when he’s figuratively looking down on Bohdi. Like now.
“We’ll just head back to the office now,” says Brett, making his way to the stairs. “Right,” says Bryant, following his brother.
Steve doesn’t budge.
Bohdi’s eyes slide to the side. “You’re not mad at me, are you? You left the bar, and after you did, Frieda seemed upset so I…”
“Offered to comfort her?” Steve supplies.
Bohdi rotates his shoulder and pats his arm. He’s still sore from last night’s comforting session. “Errr…”
Steve rolls his eyes and looks away. “I’m not mad at you,” he says. It sounds a little forced. “Better it was you.” He shakes his head and lets out a huff. “If it had been me, it would be all over the news that the black mayoral candidate couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
Rotating his shoulder again, Bohdi says, “But you’re not even officially running yet.”
Still not meeting his eyes, Steve says tersely, “Doesn’t matter.”
Bohdi takes in the hard set of Steve’s jaw. Steve doesn’t talk about racism much. Bohdi has experienced racism from the opposite end of the spectrum. He’s taken for the nice Asian boy—not the stereotype you want attached to you in the Marines—but in the real world, kind of convenient. He doesn’t know what to say to Steve, so he says nothing.
A wind buffets Bohdi’s back.
“Come on,” Steve says, voice still tight, walking toward the stairs.
Bohdi remembers how Steve had been so animated talking to Frieda, the woman who’d approached them—well, Steve—last night. It suddenly occurs to Bohdi that the tight set of Steve’s jaw isn’t about sex, or even racism. Steve’s lonely.
“So, that date your mom set you up on last weekend…” Bohdi starts to say.
Steve’s eyes slide toward him. They’re dangerously narrow. Bohdi belatedly remembers that little tidbit is something he learned from Steve’s mom, Ruth. Bohdi doesn’t live with Steve’s parents anymore, but he regularly shows up at their house for dinner. He likes Steve’s parents.
Also, there is free food.
Steve’s glare shifts to an indefinable point in the distance. Feet flying down the steps in an unbroken rhythm, Steve grunts noncommittally. “I don’t have time for dating right now.”
“But when Claire moves with her mom—”
“We’re not talking about that,” Steve snaps.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Bohdi finds the familiar comforting cool surface of his lighter. He looks down at the sidewalk. Steve’s ex-wife, Dana, just married the US Ambassador to the Ukraine. Dana and Claire are relocating there to be with him.
Claire’s smart, daring, and funny. Although Bohdi doesn’t really know what it’s like to have a sister, he thinks Claire is like a little sister to him. He’ll miss not seeing her around.
Steve won’t just miss her. Steve sees his divorce and inability to provide Claire with a stable two-parent home as the two greatest failures of his life. Having someone else step into the role of father, and not being able to see his daughter more than a few times a year…
Steve lightly swats the back of Bohdi’s head.
Bohdi lifts his eyes.
“Throwing underwear? What were you thinking?” Steve says.
Recognizing the change in subject as an escape from unpleasant realities, Bohdi gives his most charming smile. “I wasn’t really thinking.” He feigns a yawn. “Probably because of all the sleep I didn’t get last night.”
Steve scowls at him. “You need to take a sexual harassment seminar.”
“What?” squeaks Bohdi. “No, I was…”
Above their heads comes the sound of loud rawking. Bohdi and Steve both look to the sky. Two ravens are circling between the skeletal remains of unfinished construction.
“Huginn and Muninn,” Steve says, jaw tightening again. “It’s been two years…Why are they back?”
In the sky, Odin’s winged messengers laugh. “Hey, Steve, miss us?” Bohdi squints up at the birds, he’s only seen them a few times. They used to trail Steve quite a bit, but had stopped shortly after Loki blew up large sections of downtown.
