by C. Gockel
There is a sound of an engine behind him, and the scamper of footsteps. From further in the garage come shouts, and then agents are spilling out of a door that must lead into the building, Jameson at their lead.
Keeping his gaze fixed on the agents around him, Steve says,“You’ve got the wrong unit! The target has played you, gentlemen.”
Two agents sweep past Steve. “We’ve got the cuffs! They were just finished minutes ago.”
Cuffs. What cuffs? Steve blinks and looks at Jameson. He’s smiling smugly. “We got the target, Agent Rogers.” He steps aside, and Steve sees Loki, hands cuffed behind his back. Loki’s head is bent and he’s cursing. For a minute, just a minute, Steve falters. The two agents who just ran past are holding up a strange pair of cuffs that look like they are made of golden netting—it’s Promethean wire, but Steve’s never seen it molded into something so small.
The agents shove Loki forward, as they affix the cuffs behind Loki’s back.
“Those will keep you from performing any tricks,” Jameson says, turning back to Loki.
“I’m not Loki!” says Loki.
Jameson snorts.
Behind Loki one of the agents says, “Um, Director, Sir. Something is wrong. His wrists don’t look right. They’re thin and...”
“Because they are my wrists,” Loki hisses.
Everyone’s attention is riveted on Loki, but Steve sees Ron put a hand to the bluetooth connection in his ear and whisper, “I’m in my garage, Uncle Ronny...I’m being accused as an accomplice in some sort of raid. They held a gun to Sally. To Sally, so help me God if...”
Steve meets Ron’s eyes. They are wide with fear. Steve gives him a tight nod and then walks across the garage to Loki, Jameson and the agents standing around him.
“What?” says one. Jameson’s brow is knit in concern. As Steve rounds behind Loki he sees why. Loki is wearing a blue peacoat, but at his wrists, where the Promethean cuffs are placed, the peacoat fades away. There are delicate feminine wrists, the beginning of tapered fingers—that fade into oddly masculine hands.
The feeling of schadenfreude is rich. Steve has to fight to keep from smirking. “Did anyone frisk her?”
“Her?” says someone.
Loki’s face goes red, and his—or more likely her—lips curl. “Yes!”
An agent steps forward, face red. “I did, it felt strange....but I thought...I thought...it was magic.”
Loki—or more likely Agent Hill—gives a snort.
In the background, Steve hears Ron give an incredulous laugh, and beyond that there’s the wail of police sirens.
“Just get this illusion off of me!” Loki hisses, shaking his—her wrists, behind her back.
“I um...we can put you in one of the Promethean sealed rooms...” Jameson stammers.
The police sirens and screeching tires sound just outside the garage, and then there is the slam of car doors and shouts.
Jameson looks up.
Steve doesn’t smirk. But it’s hard. “That will be Chicago’s finest. Your boys just tried to arrest Mayor Ronnie’s favorite nephew. You’ve been played.”
Footsteps sound behind them. A voice heavy and distinctly Chicagoan says, “What’s goin’ on ‘ere?”
At that moment the illusion of Loki fades, and Agent Hill is suddenly standing in the garage wearing a black garter belt, bra, thong and high heels with her arms behind her back. As she gives an exasperated sigh, Steve does his best to keep his gaze professional. Unique assets indeed.
Shaking his head, he turns to see CPD Sergeant George Carey, a burly man he recognizes from his days as the FBI’s Chicago Branch of the Department of Public Liason’s. Five of Chicago’s finest, hands on their hips, stand around George.
“Steve?” says George. “You’re not in charge of this fiasco, are you?”
Before Steve can reply, Ron points a finger at Jameson and shouts. “No, he is!”
Jameson holds up his badge. “FBI, I’m within my—”
“Save it. Mayor Ronnie wants to speak to you,” says George, pushing his coat back so his hands are on his hips, right next to his piece.
Steve’s never been so glad to be in the middle of a jurisdictional turf war in all his life. Putting a hand over his mouth he coughs to hide his laughter.
x x x x
The cops are gone and the FBI have cleared out of the condo building’s garage. Ron has his SUV turned around facing the garage door, and Steve’s standing by the driver’s side. Ron’s leaning out the window. Eyes wide, he says apologetically, “I’m sorry, I just felt like I had to call my uncle.”
Meeting Ron’s gaze, Steve nods. “I understand. You did what you had to. I would have done the same.” Turning his attention to the passenger seat, Steve says to Ron’s wife, Sally, “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”
Sitting with her arms wrapped around her full midrift, Sally’s pretty face is pinched and she looks tired. But she nods at Steve and says, “Yes, thank you.”
Steve gives her a small smile.
“I’ll never forget what you tried to do here,” Ron says. “How you stood up for us.”
“How you were the only person talking rationally,” says Sally.
Ron holds out his hand and Steve gives it a firm shake, and then takes a step away from the SUV. Ron turns on the engine and the garage door opens. Snow is falling heavier than before and has begun to stick; there is about an inch on the alley pavement. There is a flash of lightning as Ron pulls out and an almost immediate roll of thunder.
Steve follows the SUV out of the garage on foot, watching its lights disappear in the curtain of snow. They’re going to a relative’s house. Ron and Sally had wanted to return to their condo, but the Chicago Police Department and the FBI both want to go over it with a fine tooth comb.
Steve looks up at the sky and blinks at the thick wet flakes landing on his nose. The world is hushed by the snowfall, the noise of morning commuters muffled. It’s nearly 6 AM, but the thunderstorm is almost directly overhead now and the sky still has the eerie orange glow of streetlights on snowflakes. Steve’s raven minders are still out of sight.
Shrugging his shoulders against the cold wet flakes on his neck, Steve walks down the alley to the side of the building. There is a fire exit for the condos on the side abutting the row homes. It’s wide enough for a car and paved over. Hernandez moved Steve’s car there so that the police, FBI, and commuters could get out.
Steve’s exhausted and looking forward to a snooze on the couch in his office, but he can’t help but smile. He didn’t really think that Jameson would succeed, but he hadn’t counted on how spectacularly Jameson would fail. It could only have gone better if Sally had gone into labor. Unlocking the car door he shakes his head and mentally admonishes himself for even thinking that. His grin widens anyways.
Steve’s just got his hand on the door handle door when he hears a slam behind him. Turning, Steve's hand goes automatically to the gun at his hip. Loki is standing by the condo building’s side door, but not like Steve has ever seen him before. His skin is a bright cerulean blue and his ginger hair is black, as are his eyes. Amy’s described Loki’s blue look as magical—like he’s lit from the inside. Brett and Bryant described it as weird.
Now as Steve stares at Loki, framed by a thunderstorm, he can only think of wide open skies. Where Loki’s skin is visible, it does seem to glow a little, as though he’s a break in the clouds to the blue beyond.
There is a flash of lightning, a boom of thunder, and then Loki’s voice cuts through through the cold air like a knife. “That was pathetic, Steven.”
Steve stares at him for a moment, exhaustion making his brain move slowly. Dropping his hand from his hip, Steve tilts back his head and laughs so hard tears come to his eyes. When he recovers himself, Loki’s head is cocked to the side, his eyes narrowed, but the look is more curious than hostile.
Wiping his eyes, Steve says, “Yes, yes, it was.”
Loki walks over and idly wipes
some snow from the car hood. “You’re not going to try and arrest me?” He raises an eyebrow. “Now’s your chance.”
Steve smiles. “I’m sure you’re just an apparition,” he says, although he’s sure he’s not. “Real frost giants aren’t blue, after all.”
Loki looks down at his blue hand and scowls, and Steve remembers that Amy says Loki doesn’t like turning blue.
To keep the mood from going sour Steve says quickly, “But why would I want to arrest you? You’re the Good Guy, right?”
Loki snorts.
“Come on,” Steve says. “You’ve helped keep the good citizens of this city from becoming wyrm and troll food.” His jaw tightens. “And you don’t send ravens to crap on my car and terrorize my little girl.”
Scowling, Loki looks to the sky. “Ahh...your feathered friends. The weather seems to be keeping them away...” There is a moment when the only sound is the faint fall of snowflakes, and then Loki says, “They used to terrorize Helen, too.”
There are few things that Loki could have said that would have shocked Steve more. ADUO doesn’t know much about Loki’s daughter, Helen, other than she is deceased, and somehow she became associated with Hel, the Norse land of the dead—though Loki insists such a land does not exist. Amy Lewis has theorized that she may have been handicapped.
The surrealism of the moment suddenly hits Steve. He is standing in a thunder snow storm, talking to a blue man about daughters. Recovering as quickly as he can, Steve snorts and says, “Winged rats.”
Loki huffs a low laugh. “I tried to kill the things so many times, but it was Nari and Valli who managed it. Nari distracted them with chatter, and Valli put an arrow through Huginn.” He shakes his head. “Odin just reanimated her.” His expression turns bitter. “A trick I’ve never been able to manage.”
Steve is used to knowing what to say in any situation, but talking about Loki’s three deceased children, he is at a loss. The thought of losing Claire...Steve’s little girl had spent the first 18 months of her life in hospitals. It was worse than all the time he spent in Afghanistan. Chest tightening, Steve says, “I’m sorry.” It tumbles out of his mouth before he’s thought about it and sounds hollow even to himself.
Loki lifts his eyes to Steve’s and his brow furrows, but he says nothing.
Steve’s hands and are cold and wet, and he shoves them in his pockets and is silent.
Turning his head away, Loki straightens, and looks like he is about to leave.
“We need you here...” Steve says quickly. “You know there is nothing you’ve done now that is so bad I can’t make it go away...with a little time.”
Loki turns his head to Steve, his expression flat and unreadable.
Steve shrugs. To make sure Loki understands the value of what he is about to offer, Steve says, “In the past 24 hours you’ve managed to get on the bad sides of the mob, certain segments of the FBI, the Chicago Police Department, and undoubtably the mayor’s office as well.”
Loki’s face brightens, and he puts his hand to his mouth in a very good impression of a giddy school girl. “I believe that might be a record, even for me!”
That wasn’t the reaction Steve was expecting or hoping for, but he keeps going. “I can make it all go away. You could be legit here, I know it, if you can help us with Cera...”
“I’d rather help myself to Cera,” Loki says with a smile.
“And if you could, I wouldn’t stand in your way,” says Steve.
Loki’s face hardens.
“But we both know that isn’t going to happen,” Steve says.
Snow accumulates on their shoulders as they stand for a few moments in silence. And then Loki says, “You have a lovely world, Steven. It is tempting.”
They’re in a rather ugly alleyway, and Steve can’t help but raise his eyebrows.
Loki smirks. “Truly.” His expression hardens again. “But I have business with Odin, Cera or no.”
Loki blames Odin for the death of his children. Steve’s dealt with tribal people before, and from what he’s gleaned that’s pretty much what the Aesir are. “Honor is a hard thing to set aside,” Steve says. “But—”
“Oh, Steve, haven’t you realized that I am a man without honor?” Loki’s lips form a hard line.
Steve tilts his head. “I know you are a man that keeps your oaths.”
Breath hanging in the air, Loki takes a step closer to Steve. His lips curl in a sneer. “I cannot rest until Asgard burns, but it has nothing to do with honor.” For the first time Steve is aware of just how black the other man’s eyes are—they’re like pits into nothing.
“It is about making Odin hurt!” Loki snarls.
Steve blinks, and Loki draws back. Lightning flashes above and thunder rumbles.
Loki looks up at the sky. He smiles. “I’d best be on my way. We’re both going to have a busy day.” He shimmers and is suddenly ginger haired, pale skinned and gray eyed again. From Steve’s pocket comes the faint beep of a magic detector. Turning his back to Steve, Loki walks away, his feet leaving footprints in the snow.
x x x x
“Plague in Asgard...They’re banishing the afflicted to Niflheim...They’ve taken our little girl. It was Baldur.” Sigyn’s words swim through Loki’s head as he pushes Sleipnir to a gallop along Vanaheim’s main road to the World Gate. It is no small mercy that Odin lent Sleipnir to Sigyn. The eight legged horse is the fastest steed in the Nine Realms. But it has nothing to do with his extra legs.
Dusty wind is whipping against Loki’s face and hands, and the world is already a blur; but Loki gives one more kick to the steed’s sides. Sleipnir goes from a gallop, to a canter and then a trot, but the blur around them increases as his gait slows. Sleipnir is slipping through time—a magical ability inherited from the mare that died giving birth to him. The wind on Loki lessens. Because gravity is a function of velocity, and velocity is a function of time, Loki feels his body become lighter. Sound is strange and muffled. Light is diffuse and hazy. Loki knows that he could not go any faster by any means, but the strangeness of it, the odd gentleness, makes him feel as though he is in a dream, running in place, trapped with his thoughts.
He cannot save Helen. Healing is a magical ability he only possesses for himself. His only hope is to beg that she be allowed to remain in Asgard, and that he be allowed to take her to Hoenir’s hut. Hoenir created a gateway to Vanheim literally from the back door of his hut to just a day’s ride from the mages’ gathering he is attending. If Thor can get to the gathering in time, and take Hoenir to the back door that opens into Asgard, Hoenir may meet up with Loki and Helen in as little as a day. There is no ailment that Hoenir cannot cure.
Beneath him Sleipnir shudders, the blur around them takes shape, gravity increases, and the sound of hooves ring in Loki’s ears as Sleipnir emerges in real-time. Travelers jump out of the way in surprise. For a moment they are going too fast, and Sleipnir’s legs stretch out into a gallop as he tries to regain control of his momentum.
Sleipnir already bore Sigyn and Loki’s sons to Vanaheim before this mad dash; although not in a lather, the steed is tired, its magical energy nearly spent. Fortunately, they are very close to their destination. Loki weaves the steed between the other travelers until the World Gate comes into view.
The World Gate between Vanaheim and Asgard is one of the most ancient in all the realms. The area where the World Tree’s branch intersects with this planet is marked by an area of circular stones, nearly the length of 40 men in diameter. It has been used in the past to ferry armies—and to banish the Vanir from Asgard after the last great war. Although not used for warfare in millennia, it is heavily guarded. There is a metal fence, two times the height of a man around it, and the entrance is blocked by armed men, toll takers, and custom agents. There is a small town just off to the side, and the road is crowded with local peddlers and visitors from other realms—dwarfs, elves, and even a few Jotunn are shoulder to shoulder with the dark-skinned, dark-eyed, black haired Vanir. Alt
hough this gate goes to Asgard, the quickest, most efficient way from one realm to another is through Asgard first.
Loki kicks his heels into Sleipnir’s sides and gallops forward. Travelers and the guards start to shout. Veering from the busy road, Loki steers Sleipnir towards the impossibly high fence. On instinct Sleipnir slips through time and bounds easily over the barrier in the decreased gravity. Landing lightly within the gate, the tired horse immediately crashes into real time and struggles to find his feet as he plunges across the circle’s flat stones. They are nearly at the far fence before Loki turns him around.
To open the gate requires magical knowledge and energy. On all sides they are surrounded by gatekeepers bearing magical staves that concentrate magic and help them do the job. One of them dressed in opulent red robes steps forward. “Halt! We will not open the gate for you!” the guard says as more guards pour in.
Loki grits his teeth. Sleipnir has one more magical ability he inherited from his dame. Pulling back on the reins, Loki drives his heels into the horse’s ribs. Sleipnir rears and light spills around them in rainbow colors. The light subsides, and they are on the World Gate to Vanaheim in Asgard. Would-be-travelers to Vanaheim retreat from them in shock. Sleipnir, like trolls and a handful of other magical animals, has the ability to walk the branches of the World Tree without aid.
Loki looks around. Asgard is unique in all the realms. It has eight wide world gates on a single open plane. At the center is a raised dais that is entrance to the void, where used magical items are sent—and once long ago where the Vanir, when they ruled Asgard, would send prisoners to die. Baldur has suggested ‘in jest’ that the tradition of execution in the void be rekindled for Loki.
The dais is also where Heimdall, the all-seeing gatekeeper stands. Loki urges Sleipnir towards him, barely aware of the milling crowds. The horse whinnies, gait unsteady.
“Heimdall,” Loki shouts. “Where is my daughter?”
The gatekeeper’s face is expressionless. “She has gone to Niflheim, Loki,” Heimdall says, voice calm and even. There is the rawk rawk of ravens.
Loki’s chest tightens. “Let me through the gate to Niflheim!” His shout is so loud, so anguished it shocks even Loki himself. There is absolute silence on the plain. Travelers still, and turn to stare.
