by C. Gockel
“No, Dad.”
“It’s Saturday,” Henry says. “Why are you at the office?”
Steve restrains the urge to pound his head into his desk. “Because Bohdi and Bea’s girl are missing, Dad.” And missing people, opening World Gates, sending off drones, and shooting sorcerers—even in self-defense—generates a lot of paperwork.
“What about Claire—”
Steve’s gut clenches. “She’s with her mother.” Unexpectedly. Steve was supposed to pick her up at noon, but Dana had decided spur of the moment to get Claire’s teeth cleaned before she goes to the Ukraine. They’re leaving in just three days. Steve takes a breath. He’ll get her tonight.
Changing the subject, maybe out of pity, Henry says, “You still haven’t announced if you’re running for mayor.”
“Because I haven’t decided if I am yet,” says Steve.
“You either want it or you don’t,” says Henry.
Does he want it? Steve doesn’t like setting himself up to fail. Even if he won the election, can he do anything to help the city? Chicago, Cook County, and the State of Illinois are notorious for corruption, inefficiency, and being flat-out broke. The destruction of the financial district and the subsequent visits by trolls and wyrms don’t help Chicago, either. Besides losing its downtown firms, large swaths of the population have left. The only people who come to the city now are scientists, government workers, and some religious sects.
Chicago is a sinking ship, and Steve doesn’t want to go down with it. If he stays in the FBI and keeps the trolls and wyrms from slipping out into the ’burbs, he stays the hero on the front lines of the new war. When he wants to jump into politics, he’ll have a good shot—someplace else.
All Steve tells Henry though is, “I’m not giving you any gossip to feed the guys at the barbershop.”
Henry grumbles but doesn’t say more.
A few minutes later, Steve flips his phone closed. The only sound in the office is the tick of the radiator. He checks his email hoping to see something from the contact that calls himself Prometheus, but there is nothing.
All his paperwork is done. There are no plans to open the gate again for another twenty-four hours when they’ll get readings from the drones. He can leave. But his apartment is an empty place.
He glances at the clock. It is lunchtime. He takes Tara Inanna’s card from his pocket. Lunch is a good time for a chat about physics—or a first date. Dropping his hands to his keyboard, Steve Googles her name, because, doesn’t everyone?
He gets zero results. Steve pulls back from the computer. A BBC science correspondent who doesn’t have a web presence? He looks down at the card and rubs his eyes. A fake. Just his luck.
There is a knock at his door. “Come in,” says Steve, pushing the card to the side.
Beatrice enters the office.
Steve goes for the preemptive strike. “I don’t have anything new for you, Beatrice.”
Beatrice frowns. “I know that. I just had some translations to finish, and I’d just rather be at work than at home right now.”
Steve sighs. And that’s the truth of it for both of them. “Well, what can I do for you?”
Helping herself to a seat, Beatrice says, “We still don’t know what the Russians, Ukrainians, and Belarusians were getting from the Dark Elves in exchange for AK-47s?”
Steve leans back in his chair. “No.” Or if they do, no one is telling him. Dale, an old Marine buddy who went into the CIA after his service, is somewhere off in Eastern Europe, but he wasn’t able to shed any light on the situation, other than to say, “Weird things are happening.”
Beatrice nods. “Well, you know I used to come from that region. When my schedule allows, I take a peek at the bloggers from those regions who post their pickle recipes. We have so many more varieties of pickles than you have here in the states.”
Steve stares at her. Maybe he should go home. “And this is important to ADUO…because?”
Beatrice’s eyes get sharp. “Well, they’ve had access to extremely good produce in the last few years at extremely competitive prices. And recently someone traced where the produce came from. And some of it is coming from just outside Pripyat, in the Ukraine.”
Steve’s jaw twitches. “And…”
Beatrice’s eyes narrow at him. “That’s inside the Chernobyl control zone, Steven.”
Steve blinks. “Is produce contaminated with radiation showing up in produce stands? That’s terrible, but I’m not sure—”
“It’s not contaminated. One of the bloggers measured it with a Geiger counter.”
Steve blinks again.
Leaning closer, Beatrice whispers, “And some people are talking about the lights in the Chernobyl power plant and in Pripyat proper going on at night.”
Steve crosses his arms. None of the countries in the former Soviet block are particularly strong on environmentalism, but if lights are going on…
Standing up from his chair, he says, “Come on, Beatrice. We’re going to talk to Gerðr.”
He instantly feels his body flush at the memory of the last time he spoke with Gerðr…and sits right back down again. Putting his head in his hands, he says, “No wait, Beatrice, I need you to talk to Gerðr…”
He rubs his temples. Steve can handle rabid press, hungry wyrms, angry trolls, and playing the diplomat when it comes to interdepartmental BS.
He glances up at Beatrice. But a magical science mystery through an interpreter?
Why not bang his head against a wall? He already has a headache.
x x x x
Had Amy thought she’d reach Thor with subtlety and tact?
Trying to be diplomatic is a pain in the ass.
Wind is whipping her hair, three glorious moons are hanging in the sky. Here and there white canopies cover the dense dark trees in the low rolling mountains below them. The river they’re following glitters like a silver snake in the moonlight as it twists through the mountains. Now and then, they see the iridescent glint of adze wings below them—from this height, they look like nothing more than a swarm of large dragonflies. To the east, the hints of a pale pink dawn are on the horizon.
All awesome wonders of the Nine Realms. None quite so awesome as the deliberate density of Thor’s big head. She can’t get it through to him that Asgard might not be the best place for Loki.
Standing beside her, he laughs good-naturedly as he recounts a story. “So because Loki was being blamed for stealing more than his fair share of Idunn’s apples, I built a squirrel trap, he made it invisible, and we caught Ratatoskr in it! Odin ransomed the rat for one free answer from the Norns, Ratatoskr being their most faithful servant and—”
“Doesn’t it bother you that when apples first started disappearing, everyone’s first impulse was to blame Loki?” Amy says. She digs her hands into her down coat to ward off the chill. Down on the ground, Nornheim is comfortably warm, but up here, at high altitudes it’s cold. She and Bohdi have both put their winter coats back on.
Thor waves a hand. “My father believed in Loki’s innocence. That is all that matters.”
Beyond the great man, Bohdi lifts his hand to his mouth in a yawn.
Amy’s tired, too, and her feet hurt. “Your father will treat him as a servant!” She says, the words snippish. She blames her exhaustion.
Thor’s good-natured chortling stops. “Aren’t we all at our best when we are servants of peace and order?” He brings a hand to his chest. “And my father will never abuse him.”
The slight inflection on abuse makes Amy’s memory flash to Baldur’s comments about buggering, and Odin’s response. Her skin heats. But before she can respond, Bohdi says, “You keep saying he, what if the next incarnation is a she? How would Odin treat a her?”
Coming from Bohdi, the question leaves Amy a little imbalanced. He doesn’t seem particularly sensitive to gender issues. Her eyes slide to him. He’s leaning against the wall of the chariot on the other side of Thor, one side of his mouth quirked. He�
��s just asking the question to provoke a reaction. Still…she looks expectantly at Thor.
Thor’s jaw is set in a hard line, his nostrils are flared, and his flame-red hair whipping about his head makes him look just that much more angry.
“Loki wouldn’t come back as…” Thor’s voice trails off.
Amy rolls her eyes. Bohdi grins. “Wasn’t he sort of the god of transvestitism? One of his better qualities—”
Thor spins to him, the chariot lurches and Amy barely holds on. Bohdi makes a strangled “gurp” as Thor grabs his collar and snarls. “You little…”
Stamping a foot, Amy shouts, “It’s a valid question, Thor! How would Odin treat a girl?”
As soon as the question is out of her mouth, she feels like she might throw up. She knows…
Dropping Bohdi, Thor stammers, “I’m sure he’d treat a…woman with respect.”
Bohdi promptly sneezes all over the back of Thor’s head. Thor turns with a snarl, and the chariot lurches again. “Watch yourself, human!” Thor shouts.
Memories start to spill before Amy’s eyes. Her legs give out beneath her. Grasping the side of the chariot, she slides to the floor.
x x x x
It’s Baldur’s birthday, but Baldur is dead. Loki saw to it, giving the human warlord Hothur the secret of Baldur’s allergy to mistletoe. That doesn’t keep the Aesir from celebrating the birth of the golden prince. Loki stares at the gigantic golden statue in Baldur’s likeness that stands just outside Odin’s hall. Even more flower wreaths than normal adorn its base.
Beside him, Tyr says, “So, Loki, are you going to Aegir’s feast?”
Loki doesn’t bother to respond. Of course he and his wife Sigyn haven’t been invited.
Baldur killed Loki’s daughter Helen. So Loki killed Baldur, or rather, helped a human warlord kill Baldur. But even though Loki carefully covered his tracks, he’s still blamed for the crown prince’s demise.
Irritated, and a little depressed by how events have conspired against him, he veers from the main pathway and into the gardens. He needs to be with someone who is nearly always on his side. Also, he’s hungry.
Before long, he has reached Hoenir’s hut. The main door stands ajar. Sleipnir grazes outside. Loki looks around the hut; Odin must be here, but where are his guards?
Giving Sleipnir a friendly pat, Loki goes to the door. Before he enters, Odin’s voice makes him pause. “I haven’t been able to sleep, not since Baldur died.”
Loki hesitates. This is a conversation he is sure Odin does not want overheard. The polite thing to do is walk away. Loki doesn’t. But he refrains from interrupting—which he thinks shows amazing self-control.
Odin continues. “Would you give me some more of that sleeping draught, Hoenir?”
Loki blinks. The mighty Odin, in such a state, because of the death of his worthless son? “I fear I won’t be able to sleep tonight without it…”
The hairs on the back of Loki’s neck stand on end, and he feels like he’s covered in ants. Odin is lying.
“He was my boy, the most beautiful of all my sons…” Odin says. Loki’s jaw twitches. Odin has had many healthy, hale, and distinguished sons. The Allfather’s descendants litter the royal lines of Midgard’s Europe. But the words don’t make Loki itch; Odin believes them. Loki frowns. Frigga all but put an end to Odin’s whoring centuries ago, and Odin’s mortal sons are now dead. But there is still Thor. Thor is dense at times, not imbued with Baldur’s glamour, and not conniving enough to be a king. But Thor is real in all his faults and strengths. Even Loki will admit Thor has more character and a greater sense of justice than anyone he’s ever met. Foolish traits, but Loki has benefited from them and doesn’t chide Thor for them—not much, anyway.
From Hoenir’s hut there is the sound of creaking floorboards, and then Odin says, “Thank you.”
Hearing footsteps coming his way, Loki slips quickly over to Sleipnir. Odin emerges from the hut. Hoenir comes with him, carrying a staff with the head of Mimir mounted on top.
Sleipnir nuzzling his hand, Loki says brightly, “Hello, Allfather!”
Mimir raises an eyebrow at Loki, and mouths the word, “Hush.” Odin doesn’t do more than grunt. Giving a nod to Hoenir, Odin mounts Sleipnir, gives the horse a quick kick, and rides off.
The Allfather’s lack of acknowledgment niggles at Loki, like a splinter too small to pull out. His skin heats and a spark lights in his fingers. He has done nothing wrong. Odin asked Loki to kill Baldur, and Baldur was vile.
“You know, Loki,” Mimir snips. “Things would be better between you and Odin if you showed some remorse.”
“I have no remorse for Baldur’s death,” Loki snaps. “Why should I? Odin himself said his golden son would bring Asgard to ruin.”
Hoenir sighs.
Mimir huffs. “Odin sacrificed Baldur for the sake of Asgard! But no matter what sort of monster Baldur was, Baldur was also Odin’s son, and Odin loved him, even if he wasn’t perfect. Surely you can identify with that?”
Loki’s skin heats at the implied reference to Helen and her blue skin and twisted limbs. He takes a step toward the head. Hoenir draws Mimir, and the staff he is mounted on, back quickly beneath the eaves of the house.
Loki restrains the fire itching to spring from him for Hoenir’s sake. But he is unable to keep from shouting at Mimir. “My daughter. Was not. A monster!”
Mimir closes his eyes, and inhales—though he has no lungs for air to go to. Opening his eyes, he says, “Odin came here because he can’t sleep. He had to borrow a sleeping draught from Hoenir to—”
Loki cuts Mimir off with a sharp laugh and a slow, “Pffffffttttt!”
“I beg your pardon!” says Mimir. Even Hoenir puts one hand on his hip and fixes Loki with a glare.
Rolling his eyes and waving a hand, Loki says, “He’s lying about the draught.”
“What?” says Mimir. The glare washes off of Hoenir’s face and he just looks confused.
Loki shrugs and says, “I overheard.”
Hoenir’s eyes go wide. Mimir’s eyebrows rise. They both know Loki can detect lies.
Motioning for Loki to follow him, Hoenir abruptly turns into the hut, thunking Mimir’s staff hard on the ground as he does. As Loki enters, he finds himself in Hoenir’s kitchen. From his perch, Mimir says, “Hoenir, you shouldn’t get involved. You can’t confront Odin.”
Ignoring Mimir’s words, Hoenir leans Mimir’s staff against the wall and grabs a nearly empty teacup from the table.
Mimir sighs exasperatedly. “I know you think you know what he’ll do with the draught—”
Hoenir cocks an eyebrow and glares in Mimir’s direction.
Mimir looks to the side, “—and I know he’s done it before, but it’s been a long time…not since that business with Andvaranaut.”
Andvaranaut? Loki tilts his head. He feels like he’s heard that name before.
Atop the staff, Mimir continues. “Do you think you’re letting your…sensitivity…to this subject cloud your judgment?”
Hoenir’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t acknowledge Mimir. Lifting his balding head, Hoenir gestures for Loki to approach. Loki does tentatively. He’s never seen Hoenir this agitated before.
From his perch, Mimir rumbles. “Hoenir, he could be anywhere in the Nine Realms.”
Peering into the cup, at first Loki sees only the dregs of tea, but then a scene appears: the honey-colored plains of Vanaheim, filled with peacefully grazing unicorns.
“Well, he wouldn’t be there,” snorts Mimir. “You don’t know where to look. The odds of you finding Odin are impossible—”
Scowling at Mimir, Hoenir thrusts the cup toward Loki. Holding up his hands, Loki catches one side of the tiny cup automatically, lukewarm tea sloshing onto his hand. Hoenir doesn’t release the cup, and his fingers brush Loki’s. Mimir abruptly goes silent.
Loki blinks. What does Hoenir expect? He’s never been able to manage the trick of sight and… He blinks again. In the teacu
p, he sees snow-covered mountains jutting into an overcast sky like wicked teeth. Just before the mountains is a utilitarian fortress, surrounded by a ramshackle village.
Loki smiles in recognition. “Oh, it’s King Billings’ fortress on Jotunheim.” Pulling the cup back to himself, Hoenir swirls the contents, and suddenly, Odin appears beside Sleipnir in a copse of trees in front of the fort. Loki blinks. Odin shimmers, and in his place stands an ancient Frost Giantess wearing the robes of a medicine woman. Loki’s eyes go wide. He never thought the Allfather would stoop to disguising himself as a woman.
The hag that is Odin lifts her eyes and looks directly at Hoenir and Loki.
Mimir sighs. “He saw you. Now he’ll block your view.”
The image in the teacup swirls and disappears.
From where he leans, Mimir says, “Told you he’d do that.”
Hoenir frowns and swishes the cup.
Loki grins. The sly old fox knew he was being watched. But it’s too late, Loki knows his shame. What fun!
Hands shaking, Hoenir drops the teacup onto the table. It rolls onto its side, spilling its contents, but doesn’t shatter.
From his perch, Mimir says, “If he is up to what you suspect, Hoenir, you can’t stop it.”
Hoenir runs his hands through his hair. He looks like he will cry. Mimir continues. “You don’t even know where he’s gone! He could have gone into the village, the fortress, or to some remote hut in the mountains.”
Hoenir begins to pace the room, hands still in his hair. Maybe he needs a distraction? Clearing his throat and rubbing his stomach, Loki smiles and says, “You know…it’s always easier to think on a full stomach.”
Hoenir doesn’t even lift his head.
In a pitying voice, Mimir says, “There’s nothing you can do, Hoenir. You can’t kill a bug, let alone fight Odin.”
Loki knew that about Hoenir, that he can’t kill or maim, but he can’t remember ever being told. His eyes flash toward Mimir. There’s no need for the head to rub in Hoenir’s inadequacy.
Hoenir stops pacing and abruptly grabs Mimir’s staff. He pulls back a hand as though he might strike the head. Mimir doesn’t even flinch. Hoenir’s hand begins to shake and then abruptly drops.
