I Bring the Fire Part IV: Fates: The Hunt for Loki Is On

by C. Gockel

  Shaking his head, Odin sinks back in his throne. His single eye falls on Amy. “Miss Lewis…” He reaches up and strokes his beard. “Interesting… Perhaps you should go to Hel with Thor…”

  Amy gulps.

  Bohdi’s free hand clenches and unclenches at his side. The hall is dead silent. Even the ravens don’t do as much as ruffle a feather. At last Odin shakes his head. “No, Miss Lewis, you will remain here. Sending you with the war band would be too much of a gamble.”

  Thor steps forward. “I must return them to Earth.”

  Odin waves his hand. “After you’ve completed your task on Nornheim, you will return the boy…”

  Bohdi straightens at Odin’s words; he feels a weight rise from his shoulders.

  And then the one-eyed man says, “…and Miss Lewis.”

  Pinching his nose, Bohdi just barely catches his sneeze. If he’s allergic to lies, then Odin is telling a whopper. With an angry grimace, Bohdi manages to stifle the tickle. But it’s as though the discomfort can’t be eliminated, only transformed. He feels like every hair on his head has been rubbed the wrong way.

  Beside him, Amy has squared her shoulders and is staring directly at Odin. But he can’t miss the slight tremble of her lower lip, and her fingers are very limp in his.

  Sagging on the throne, Odin says, “Court is dismissed.” But he shoots one last look at Amy.

  Bohdi squeezes her hand, trying to say, I’m here. I won’t let you go.

  She doesn’t respond.

  Chapter 20

  Leaning against a wall in a secondary corridor outside the throne room, Amy is only half listening to Bohdi and Thor argue. She is surveying the palace. Even though the hallway isn’t a main thoroughfare, it is still ornate. The walls and vaulted ceiling are cream-colored marble with deep ochre veins. The supports and accents are gold. The floor is polished obsidian. Amy glances up at a skylight made of leaded crystal. Everything she sees is an exact replica of Vanir architecture from about nine hundred years ago.

  …Or that is how it is illusioned to appear. The only things that are real are the Vanir bioluminescent butterflies flitting above their heads. Amy closes her eyes. Beneath her fingers she feels the porous grain of concrete. She slides her hand down and finds the cement seam.

  Bohdi shouts. “You need to take us home now!”

  Amy’s eyes snap open. A few feet away, Bohdi and Thor are glaring at each other. Bohdi’s still not wearing a shirt. Fidgeting with the pink bundle on her wrist holding their phones, she looks away, face going hot.

  She’d been so certain…the fires on Nornheim. How he seemed to literally sniff out lies. The easy way he killed things. Even the way he came running shirtless from the Norn’s lair with a dragon on his heels—it was such a clear echo of her time in Alfheim and Loki’s side adventure with the Elf Queen.

  Amy bites her lip. It shouldn’t hurt that Bohdi would be interested in the Norns. There was nothing between him and her. Although it had felt like maybe there was. Or could have been. But maybe that was just all in her head, because she thought he might be the new Loki. Or because she’d held his head on her lap for nearly a full day, keeping cool rags on his head, begging him not to die, and she’d kissed him just when she thought he was lost.

  Thinking back on the recent events, something about the Norns thing doesn’t feel right. Bohdi may be an unrepentant flirt, but he wants to find his parents very badly…and he’s not stupid enough to blow it with an insulting comment. She remembers The Thong and purses her lips. Maybe.

  Her eyes go to a spark at the end of Bohdi’s thumb. And for a moment, the little hamster wheel in her brain spins without a hamster. And then she shakes her head. He’s flicking his lighter again.

  Raising a hand in Amy’s direction, Bohdi snaps. “Odin has no intention of letting Amy go back to Earth! He knows that Loki would never leave Amy here. Your father is using her as bait!”

  Suddenly feeling very uncomfortable, Amy whispers. “Actually, Loki probably won’t remember me.”

  Thor and Bohdi both turn to her. For just a moment, she doubts…

  But Thor wouldn’t lie to Odin… She doesn’t think he can. Hugging herself, she looks down the corridor and a memory hits.

  Loki was a small child, leaving the throne room. In his hands he held a staff, Mimir was mounted at the top. It was Mimir’s favorite way to get around, if a bit gruesome. He liked being “nearly his old height.”

  “Mimir,” Loki said, “how long has it been since Hoenir made you just a head?”

  Mimir looked down at Loki. “Why, Hoenir didn’t animate my head… Odin did.”

  “Odin?” Loki said. “He can do that?”

  “Why, yes,” said Mimir. “Odin can do nearly everything that Hoenir can—though not as well. And like you, he can sense lies—though not as well. And Odin is also a cunning warrior, as you will someday be.”

  Loki’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t want to be a mighty warrior. Warrior practice is soooo borrringggg.” Being out in the hot sun for hours, repeating endless drills, and then inevitably getting thrown on his back by the drill master was not Loki’s idea of fun.

  Mimir’s eyes narrowed. “Which is why I said cunning, not mighty.”

  “So Odin reanimated your head after it was cut off because you were friends?”

  Mimir’s face went blank. And then jaw going hard, he looked away. “That is a story for another time,” he said.

  Amy blinks. It was a story Mimir never told. And…she’s almost certain Loki told at least a few lies to Odin and got away with it. Although, he was sometimes called the God of Lies so maybe…

  In front of her, Thor raises his hands. It looks like he might grab Bohdi and shake him. But he only growls. “Loki was my friend, my most frequent companion for over a thousand years! What would it say about my honesty…integrity, and my honor if I do not seek him now?”

  Bohdi’s posture softens.

  Thor turns to Amy. “If I pursue Loki in Hel, perhaps that will give you a chance to spend some time with the new Loki?”

  Amy steps away from the wall. She hasn’t argued with Thor because of that reason. Bohdi shoots Thor a dirty look, and she knows how he feels. This whole situation just stinks, and that’s why she hasn’t been able to argue with Bohdi, either.

  Down the hall, four Einherjar round the corner. One steps forward, bows his head, and says in Asgardian, “Thor, your chariot has been repaired.”

  Coming forward, Thor takes Amy’s hand with surprising gentleness. Guiding her to Bohdi’s side he says, “If my father plans to use you as bait, then you can be assured he will treat you well.”

  Bohdi hisses softly.

  “Great,” says Amy.

  Oblivious, or pretending to be, Thor takes Bohdi’s hand and says, “I give you my oath, I will take you back to Earth on my return, if that is what you wish.”

  “Yes!” Bohdi and Amy say in unison.

  Thor sighs and puts Bohdi’s hand on top of Amy’s. Smiling, he says, “In the meantime, enjoy yourselves.”

  With a curt sort of semi-bow, he backs up, and then turning on his heel thunders away.

  Amy stands motionless with Bohdi for a moment, watching Thor disappear around a corner.

  And then her eyes meet Bohdi’s. They both seem to realize at the same time that they’re alone in a hallway, facing each other, and holding hands.

  “Um,” says Bohdi.

  Dropping his hand, Amy looks down. Right at Bohdi’s chest. Which is actually rather nice, which makes her blush, and makes her instinctively lower her gaze…where she sees the line of his inguinal ligament trailing down from his also rather nice abdominals to…

  Feeling herself go so red she swears her eyes may be tearing up, Amy turns on her heel and stares down the hall at the spot Thor just stood. “If we go to the right, we should reach the main foyer…” she says, in order to say something, and then realizes saying it implies that she has some knowledge of where they are.

  “Huh?” s
ays Bohdi.

  A black shadow passes above the skylight. Amy scowls. She doesn’t want Odin to know she has Loki’s memories, and in Asgard spies are everywhere.

  She is saved from having to answer by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

  Amy and Bohdi turn to see two men and two women bowing and curtseying in their direction. Their clothing is brown, and in the style of Vanir servants from about nine hundred years ago.

  Amy smiles tightly. Asgard, the great big dress-up-party in the sky.

  The man at the lead bows. “Take you…to rooms. Please.”

  “Well?” says Bohdi, eye on the servant but leaning toward Amy.

  “After you,” she says, extending her hand toward their guides.

  They fall in step behind what must be the head servant, the other man and women following behind. Amy recognizes the route—they’re being led to the wing of guest quarters. She starts to relax.

  And then the servants bringing up the rear of the train start whispering in Asgardian.

  “Humans!” says one woman. “I never thought I’d see one.”

  “They’re much taller than I’d been led to believe,” says the other woman. “And they seem to have all their teeth.”

  Amy can’t contain the quirk of her lips at that.

  The first woman says, “The boy is kind of handsome…even if he is a little skinny.”

  Both of the women giggle. Amy’s eyes go wide. Her eyes slide to Bohdi; he’s giving her a funny look.

  Quickly looking away, she stifles a sigh. He isn’t romance novel cover material, but he is nice to look at. No wonder he gets around…he can. And if he’s like Loki before he met his first wife, Anganboða, he doesn’t get emotionally ensnared. Which is, objectively, really convenient. She sort of wishes she could be that way.

  The man behind them says, “I hear the girl was Loki’s whore. I wonder if she’ll get lonely in her room tonight?”

  The women’s silence is ominous. Amy turns her head sharply. The women look slightly afraid. Mr. Squeakers, hiding in the fold of her shirt where he is tucked into her jeans, begins to squirm. Stilling Squeakers with a hand, she turns to face front again. Her gaze briefly meets Bohdi’s. His eyes are narrowed.

  The man in front abruptly stops at an intersection of two corridors. Bowing, he says in faltering English, “Sir, follow me. Girl, follow girls.”

  “No,” says Bohdi sharply. “We stay together.” And then he turns to Amy, eyes wide, voice uncertain. “Errrr…right?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  Perplexed, the lead servant says, “It is…protect…girl’s virtue.”

  There is a low snort from the male servant behind them.

  Amy’s jaw tightens and she steps closer to Bohdi. “No,” she says.

  Looking flustered, the lead servant says, “It is orders from Odin.”

  “No,” Bohdi and Amy say in unison.

  The servant raises an eyebrow. “I will call guard.”

  “Go ahead,” says Bohdi, stepping toward the servant.

  Amy scans the hall. There is a window that leads to the garden. She blinks. And the whole palace is filled with hidden tunnels—Loki used them to spy on guests for Odin—and his own amusement. But could they hide until Thor got back?

  Her mind spins. They need help…but who is brave enough to stand up to Odin? Hoenir…if they got to the gardens, to where his home used to be, that would get his attention, surely…maybe he could open a gate!

  She winces and her head ticks to the side. But Hoenir can open a gate anywhere…at anytime…Her vision goes white with a pain behind her eyes.

  The lead servant claps his hands. Amy’s attention snaps to their immediate danger. She hears fast heavy footfalls, and then four armed Einherjar jog around a bend in the corridor, swords already drawn.

  “Ideas?” whispers Bohdi.

  Amy looks frantically. “The window?”

  In Asgardian, the lead servant says to the guards, “Seize the boy!”

  “Halt!” shouts a feminine voice from behind Amy and Bohdi.

  The lead servant’s jaw drops. The guards stop in their tracks.

  Amy and Bohdi both spin.

  Down the hall, leading a train of six women dressed in beautiful gowns is a woman, head held high. Her skin is tan, her eyes a piercing blue, her wavy brown hair is long and upswept. She wears a dress of ivory and sky blue, gathered by a bodice of gold. At her waist dangles a ring of keys. Loki has many memories of her—for once, none carnal. She looks Amy’s age, but the woman was ancient when Loki was a child.

  “Queen Frigga,” Amy whispers. Mother of Loki’s archrival, Prince Baldur the Beautiful. Wife of Odin, Frigga had to know about Rind, and Odin’s other extramarital meanderings. Yet she’d stuck with him for over a thousand years.

  The servants who had been following Amy and Bohdi drop to their knees and thump their hands to their chests. Glancing behind, Amy sees the guards are still standing.

  Beside her, Bohdi whispers. “Whose side is she on?”

  Turning, Amy finds the queen’s eyes on her.

  Swallowing, Amy says, “I don’t know.”

  x x x x

  “Nari did what?” Loki shouts, shaking the walls of his and Sigyn’s cottage with the force of his voice.

  Putting her hands on her hips, Sigyn says, “He went to fight beside Queen Elizabeth—she is ruler of…”

  “I know who she is!” Loki says, wiping his brow.

  “It is not so bad, the Spanish Armada wasn’t able to land—”

  Loki’s heart is beating too fast, and he feels lightheaded. “But they haven’t been defeated either! They’ll regroup in Spain, have a bit of holiday, and then pick up ten thousand or more troops. Spain is the most powerful nation in Midgard! Elizabeth is a queen of a bunch of scraggly pirates!”

  “Loki…” says Sigyn.

  Starting to pace, Loki says, “England is a tiny, foggy, damp, armpit of a nation—they can’t possibly win. Why did Nari hear their prayers?”

  Much too calmly, Sigyn says, “He admires their Magna Carta, and their parliament.” With a smile, she adds, “He has the scabbard you gave him. It will protect him from harm—”

  “Only if he manages to keep it on! What if he is taken prisoner?” Loki snaps.

  “It’s a cause he believes in, Loki,” Sigyn says, much to calmly.

  Loki roars. “He could die for his cause!”

  Sigyn’s shoulders straighten, her fists curl at her sides, and she shouts, “If nothing is worth dying for, what is worth living for?”

  Loki draws back. In the fireplace, flames leap. Sigyn’s eyes stay fixed on him, her fists rise. He wants to strangle her but knows he couldn’t, even if she didn’t have a decent left hook.

  He wipes his forehead again. A knock sounds at the door.

  Neither Sigyn nor he moves. And then magic seeps through the air, wisps of glowing ivory with the faintest tint of sky blue. Loki turns toward the source. It’s creeping through the door.

  His posture must shift, because Sigyn’s voice is quieter when she speaks. “Who is it, Loki?”

  “The queen,” he whispers.

  Sigyn’s fists uncurl. Her eyes go to Loki, wide and afraid.

  When he was a child, Queen Frigga was like a kind aunt until her son Baldur had been born. The queen became distant, more and more enamored with her “golden” child, and completely blind to his flaws.

  After Baldur’s death, the queen had often noted that Loki did not cry at her son’s funeral. Not that she’d wept for Helen…

  There is another knock. To not answer would be treason… But answering may be a ticket to the cave again. Loki’s fairly certain Frigga could find something to accuse him of.

  “Shall we answer?” says Sigyn. “Or flee?”

  Closing his eyes, Loki sends an invisible projection of his consciousness through the door. He expects to see the queen and a host of guards, or at the very least her ladies in waiting. Instead he sees only a lone fig
ure shrouded by a sky blue cloak.

  Loki looks to his wife. “Answer.”

  Together they cautiously approach the door. Odin has come by to the cottage upon occasion—Loki actually acquired it from the Allfather in a wager. But the queen has never visited. Loki finds himself unaccountably nervous. He notices a slight sheen on Sigyn’s brow, too.

  Biting her lip, Sigyn turns the doorknob, pulls the door open, and then both of them drop to their knees. Loki thumps his chest, but Sigyn can’t thump hers; if she does the door will slam in Frigga’s face—which would probably be an act of treason in and of itself. Loki restrains a snort at all the ridiculous formalities that have developed in the court.

  “You may rise,” says Frigga, striding into the cottage.

  “Oh, please come in,” Loki mutters as he climbs back to his feet.

  Raising an eyebrow at him, Sigyn also stands.

  They turn to see Frigga has dropped the hood of her cloak. She stands facing them in the foyer, her back stiff, and face pinched. “Loki.”

  Loki bows his head. “Queen Frigga.”

  “I need your help,” the queen says, in a tone one might use to say, “This fish is off.”

  Loki does not snort. He thinks it shows an amazing amount of self-restraint.

  Casting a nervous glance in his direction, Sigyn says, “How, My Queen?”

  Frigga rubs her temple. “I hear the prayers the wives and mothers of England and the Netherlands utter…even though they are offered to their new gods.” She closes her eyes. “They pray for their husbands, brothers…and their sons.”

  She raises her eyes, and Loki is shocked to see they glisten. Except for Baldur, he’s never known her to weep for anyone. She puts her hands to her temples and bows her head. “Every night, I hear them.”

  Loki’s lips tighten into a thin line. Prayers are humanity’s one magical trick. Magical creatures don’t hear every request from humans; Odin says they only hear prayers that relate to their higher purpose. Loki, who isn’t particularly selfless or noble has always wanted to respond to the few he’s heard. He’s always found them a gift—like the prayers from Hothur and Nanna requesting help to slay Baldur. But Frigga seems haunted by her human requests.