by C. Gockel
Liddell swallows. “That is what I know...” Looking away he says, “More gates are opening now with greater frequency.”
“Because of your sorcery!” says Thor.
Liddell twists his head to sneer at Thor. “If only! We wouldn’t need Cera if we were strong enough to make our own gates!”
“Stop it!” Steve shouts. Turning to Liddell he says, “We’ve had visits from six trolls in the past 24 hours. Do you know what is going on?”
“Cera is getting stronger,” says Liddell, his brow furrowing. “The containment fields can’t restrain all of her...her power is infinite.”
Steve rolls his eyes and snaps. “How can infinite power become more infinite! All our readings suggest that the containment field isn’t breaking down, so what’s going on!”
Liddell’s mouth drops. He appears genuinely stumped. Eyes wide, he stammers. “I’m much better at the practical application of magic than theory.”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Steve stands from his chair. Turning his back on Liddell, he walks across the room. If Liddell is lying, he’s a very good liar. He has all the signs of truthfulness: he isn’t leading with qualifying statements like, “in all honesty.” His eye contact is inconsistent—liars tend to overdo eye contact. He’s anxious to be helpful. He’s furious when accused by Thor of wrongdoing. And usually liars smile at the success of their deceit.
“Don’t leave me with the Asgardian!” the elf cries.
It’s only then that Steve realizes he’s walking towards the door, though he had no intention of walking out. Turning, he tilts his head. Moving quietly to the table he sits down. “There is someone else I’m guessing could tell me more. Someone you know, Liddell.”
Liddell’s eyes widen a fraction, and his throat bobs as he swallows. So yes. And probably the same person the elves are dying to protect.
Leaning on his elbows, Steve speaks slowly and carefully. “If I asked you directly, is there some sort of magic that makes you commit suicide?”
Liddell huffs a laugh. “No, but if you tried to force me to say, I would stop my own heart rather than divulge.”
“Magically?” Steve asks.
Liddell huffs again and looks down. “I’m over 1,000 years old. In that amount of time even a human would be able to learn to stop their heart at will.”
“Why can’t you tell us who you work for?” Steve asks.
Liddell blinks at him, for a moment looking like he doesn’t understand the question. And then his eyes go to Thor. “Isn’t it obvious?”
It’s Steve’s turn to be in the dark. “Thor?”
Liddell’s eyes narrow. “Of course you wouldn’t understand.” He takes a breath. “Odin will not attack any who defy him on Earth. The elves don’t know why. We think that some sort of deal was made. With whom, and for what, we don’t know. But Odin doesn’t attack the people on your world who help supply us with your weapons. On our side we have to hide from Heimdall’s gaze.” Bending his head he says. “It is magically...expensive...and something I don’t have the knowledge to do.”
Steve tilts his head. “But he hasn’t attacked the dark lands yet?”
Liddell shakes his head. “If Odin launched a full-scale attack on the Dark Realms, as you call them, the warring factions would unite.” Glancing at Thor, he meets Steve’s gaze. “We might not win but we would make the Asgardians pay dearly.”
Steve looks at Thor. The large man is looking at the elf, face hard. Catching Steve’s glance, Thor says, “He speaks truly.”
“But if Odin knew exactly who his foe in our realm was...” Liddell's voice trails off.
Steve sits back in his chair. “He’d send in a strike team.”
Liddell nods. Thor shifts in his seat. The elf’s eyes slide to Thor. “Agent Rogers, why don’t you ask the mighty Thor what the strike team would do to the elves they captured?”
“Shut up, elf!” Thor says.
Liddell begins to laugh. “Why, Thor? Are you ashamed?” Turning to Steve, the elf snarls. “Those who were not killed would be violated. The men and boys castrated, and all sold into slavery. You can see why I’d rather die.”
Steve looks at Thor. Jaw tight, Thor won’t meet his gaze. Nor does he dispute Liddell’s words. Steve sighs. He’s not really surprised. Still, he’s disgusted. Goddamn space Vikings.
Everyone in the room is silent for a moment. And then Thor says, “Loki would know why the fabric of space-time is being torn with more frequency.”
Narrowing his eyes, Liddell says, “You can’t trust Loki.”
Thor looks about to say something, but Steve cuts him off. “Yes, well, right now Loki is the only hope for your friend Amy Lewis.”
Liddell swallows.
Steve’s phone beeps. It’s a text from Bryant. Steve clicks to it and reads: Two spikes in unusually high magic readings detected in the building during attack. About time Lewis disappeared. Too much interference from fires to triangulate.
Liddell shuffles his feet and looks down. “Loki is the Destroyer, she is in grave danger,” he says softly.
Bringing a fist down so hard the table cracks, Thor shouts, “You fool! Loki fixes everything!”
x x x x
The woman in front of Amy smiles. Raising her hand, she brings down the knife hard, imbedding it in the baseboard where it reverberates with a twang.
Amy’s eyes go wide and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding...only to suck the breath in fast when the woman falls onto the bed on all fours and starts crawling up towards her.
“You’re pretty, human,” she says with a smirk. “How come I haven’t seen you before?”
Heedless of modesty, Amy scampers off the bed. “To answer that question, I need to know where I am.”
The woman’s brow constricts and she raises herself to her knees. “How curious. You’re not even lying.”
“Umm...Nope,” says Amy, looking frantically around the room. There is a divan, a bed, and a nightstand with a small white book upon it. The ceiling has intricate scalloped moulding. There is a round door set into a deep pocket in the wall, with ornately carved edges. There are bay windows, all covered with gauze curtains. She can’t see outside, but she gets the impression of sunlight. Where is Loki?
“Asgard,” says the woman. “You may not recognize the style of decoration. It’s New Vanir, in honor of our guests, the beautiful Freyja and her oh-so-noble brother Frey.” The last words come out a hiss.
Amy’s breath starts coming fast. Swallowing her fear, she turns to the woman and tries to assess the situation. The woman’s clothes are elaborately embroidered with gold. The room doesn’t look like any sort of prison.
“You’re cute when you’re frightened, Amy,” says the woman, slinking off the bed. “But you don’t have to be. I’m very nice.”
Making a dive for the bed, Amy grabs the heavy golden coverlet and wraps it around herself. The woman snickers. “There’s no need for modesty now.”
Amy turns to the woman, now just a foot away, and swallows. “I’m flattered really...I didn’t catch your name?”
“Lopt,” she says with a toothy smile.
Alarm bells start going off in Amy’s mind. Backing towards one of the windows, Amy says, “...but I’m sort of in a relationship...”
Still smiling, the woman shrugs. “So am I!” But Amy can’t help but notice the shadow that crosses the woman’s features.
Lopt’s smile tightens. “Or I was...or am...but Odin sent him to Vanaheim...with that buggerer Mimir.” Lips curling, Lopt twists her body and reaches out. The knife embedded in the baseboard flies through the air into her hand. With a huff, she starts cleaning her nails with the tip. “If Mimir hurts him...I’ll do worse than I did to Odin.” A crease forms between her brows. “And Mimir can’t reattach his bits.”
“Hoenir!” Amy says. “Your lover is Hoenir! The Vanir-Aesir war ended with a prisoner exchange—Hoenir and Mimir for Freyja and Frey! Mimir does all the talking for Hoenir and t
he Vanir get so pissed they chop off Mimir’s head, but then Odin reanimates it!”
Lopt’s eyes go to hers. “Oh, I can only hope.” Her eyes narrow. “Well, for the first part.”
Amy’s mouth gapes. “That was at the beginning of Asgard.” Has she gone back in time?
Amy runs to the window and makes to pull back the gauzy curtain, but it dissolves at her touch. For a moment she’s staring at nothing but gray swirling fog. But then Lopt approaches and a scene forms in the gray. Lopt’s room overlooks a city. In the distance Amy can see an enormous wall under construction. There are men atop, and below are horses with carts, busily pulling stones. None of the carts have drivers. One horse is going among the others nipping at their flanks.
“The stallion leading the animals is Svaðilfari. The damned beast is going to see that the wall is completed too soon,” says Lopt.
Amy turns to her, but Lopt is looking away, distracted by the sound of footsteps. There is a bang at the door, and another woman’s voice, “Lopt, let me in!”
Lopt walks away from Amy. As she does, Amy glances out the window briefly—the fog has returned.
“I’m coming, Freyja,” Lopt says in a bored voice. Amy turns to see Lopt not going to the door at all, but frantically looking under the bed and behind furniture. “Norns,” she mumbles. “I gave Frigga my cloak as a peace offering. As though I invited her husband to try and rape me.”
At that moment the door bursts open. A woman with long, straight pink hair, blue eyes, and peaches and cream skin stands in the entryway. The woman’s face is so beautiful, it is almost painful to look at. She wears copper armor from head to toe. If its proportions are to be believed, she is built like an Olympic volleyball player, but with more bust. In one hand she is holding a sword.
“Ah, Freyja!” says Lopt, straightening and casting a winning smile. “How nice to see you.”
“It’s too late, Lopt! You treacherous snake!” Freyja says, stepping into the room.
Amy blinks and remembers where she’s heard the name Lopt—it’s another name for Loki.
“We need the wall; the Jotunn are amassing troops!” Lopt cries, running behind Amy. “No one else had any better ideas!”
Raising her sword, Freyja says, “You wagered my body to a common builder! A giant!”
Lopt shouts over Amy’s shoulder. “He wasn’t supposed to win the wager!”
Amy looks sideways at the woman using her as a human shield. Lopt’s face is panicked, her red hair askew. In the myths it was Loki who made the wager between the Aesir and the builder for Freyja’s hand. In the end he wound up turning himself into a mare, luring the stallion away, and presenting Odin with the magical, eight-legged steed Sleipnir 10 months later. Of course, Loki was incapable of shape-changing, so that story was just a tale, a myth.
Stepping forward, quickly, Freya raises the sword until it’s just a few finger widths from Amy’s neck.
“Ummm...” says Amy. “Maybe we can talk about this?”
Freyja doesn’t seem to see or hear her. “You’ll pay for this,” says Freyja.
“I gave you my oath I would take care of it,” Lopt says. “You know I always keep my oaths.”
“I know you’re a liar!” says Freyja.
There is a crackle around the room, like thousands of twigs breaking, and Amy looks down to see flames rise around her body. She gasps and then realizes they’re passing through her, without burning....but Freyja screams as the flames catch her hair. Instead of stopping to put it out, Freyja charges forward, her body passing through Amy harmlessly, but contacting with Lopt’s with a loud thud. Turning, Amy sees Freyja’s sword is through Lopt’s abdomen, pinning her to the wall like a butterfly.
Running forward, Amy tries to pull Freyja away but her hands pass through the Amazonian woman as though Amy is a ghost.
The flames leap in Freyja’s hair, and with a curse she pulls her sword from Lopt and storms from the room.
Lopt’s body sags to the floor. Her eyes are open, staring at Amy.
“Why are you here?” Lopt whispers.
Shaking her head, Amy pulls off the duvet. Maybe she can use it to stop the bleeding? But as she tries to put it on Lopt, it passes through the woman. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Amy says.
Lopt closes her eyes. “It’s nice not to be alone...” her brow constricts, her eyes close. When she opens them they’re completely black, as is her hair. Her skin is rapidly turning blue. Smirking at Amy, she looks down at her stomach. “Wyrm balls,” she mutters.
Standing, heavy gold brocade in hand, Amy looks around. The flames are rapidly approaching, though she feels no heat. The world is shrinking and going black. Her gaze falls on the nightstand and the little white book there. And then all is darkness...
...Amy blinks her eyes and finds herself standing in Loki’s spartan bedroom again. The gold brocade coverlet is gone, and in her hands is Loki’s heavy white duvet. Her eyes are on the nightstand and the little white book sitting there. Loki is on the bed, his skin blue, hair black, and black eyes wide open, limbs still in a death grip on the pillow.
Amy walks forward. “Loki, are you all right?” she asks.
He turns his head to her, brow furrowed. Shaking his head, he says, “I just had the strangest dream.”
Amy swallows. “About Lopt and Freyja?”
Meeting her eyes, he says, “I...I...don’t remember.”
Sitting up, he looks her up and down. “Why do you have the duvet wrapped around you?” He snickers. “There’s no need for modesty now.”
Amy’s lips tighten in consternation. At her unamused expression, Loki lifts an eyebrow, and then his gaze falls to his blue hands. Holding them before his eyes, his lips curl slightly, but he’s silent.
Going to sit on the bed beside him, Amy says, “So, do you project your dreams often?”
He meets her gaze, his face so composed, his features so flat he looks almost angry; and she knows he remembers his dream, and knows that she knows it.
Running a hand nervously through his black hair, he looks away. “If I did, it would be a first.”
He’s so lost. Leaning forward, Amy wraps an arm around him and drops her head to his shoulder. There is a long moment when he does nothing, but then she feels his arm wrapping around her back. She feels like they’re having a real moment, that even if he’s magical, and older than dirt, that maybe she can be something important to him.
Loki kisses the top of her head, and her heart almost melts. And then he sneaks a hand around and tweaks a nipple. Voice half between a laugh and a challenge he says, “Let’s have kinky blue sex!”
Chapter 6
Loki projects another dream later that night. But this time Amy knows it’s a dream. She can still feel Loki’s body wrapped around her even as the room transforms itself into a tiny hut, and she finds herself lying on what looks like a floor, illusions of black-haired children, with full lips and small noses, sleeping beside her.
A man and a woman, both Asian looking and dressed in simple, threadbare clothing, are speaking by the doorway.
“Yuki, you cannot go,” says the man. He looks worn and older than the woman, but he has a symmetrical face and a strong jaw. He is very handsome, even with slightly graying hair, and lines on his forehead and around his eyes.
The woman by contrast is youthful, with a narrow chin that gives her an almost pixyish appearance. She’s very beautiful, but her eyes are too wide, as though she’s afraid. “I must go. He’s coming for me,” the woman whispers.
Amy blinks. They’re not speaking English, but she understands them.
“What will I tell the villagers?” the man says, desperation rising in his voice.
“Tell them I am a snow woman, and I had to go home. It’s true enough.” Bowing her head, the woman says, “Please, Minokichi, they’ll kill you and the children.”
The man nods, tears in his eyes. The scene fades to black, and Amy’s in Loki’s room again, on his bed. He’s still asleep.
She doesn’t wake him. Eventually she falls asleep, too.
When Amy wakes up again it is in Loki’s room. It is darkened by the shades, but she can see afternoon daylight through the cracks. From the other room comes the sound of Loki swearing in another language—she’d guess Russian or Ukrainian. Cera, he’s talking to Cera!
A moment later, Loki opens the bedroom door with a bang. “Amy, get up, get dressed! We’re leaving.”
Amy sits up as Loki strides into the room wearing only his pajama bottoms. Scowling at the space above her head, he starts swearing again, waving his hands, making unfamiliar gestures that Amy doesn’t have to recognize to know are obscene.
“Loki, what’s going on?’ she asks.
Stopping his tirade, he looks at her. He’s very close to the bed. His jaw is clenched, his brow furrowed. He’s not blue. He raises his hand, and it’s hard to tell if he’s just gesturing or if he’s about to strike her. Amy backs up, but then his eyes go wide, and he shakes himself. He closes his eyes and blue washes over his skin, and his hair turns black.
“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers, eyes still closed. He opens them and they’re black again. Staring at a space beyond Amy’s shoulder, he sneers for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he turns to her and speaks with what seems like forced calm.
“Amy, the mayor and governor are suggesting that everyone leave the Loop. It’s voluntary, but they’re sending police and national guard troops through buildings offering to escort people out. Some police are coming into this building now. I would prefer not to go with them.”
Amy blinks. “Well, if it’s voluntary...”
“But we still have to leave,” he says, stepping quickly onto the bed next to Amy, the bed sinking and creaking with the weight.
Feeling a bit frightened by the rush he’s in—not to mention the fact that he’s reaching for his sword—she says, “Why?”
Unhooking the sword that is vaguely Asian, he says, “You, because there are multiple troll sightings now, and me because I can’t find a single restaurant in a 10-mile radius that will deliver here and I’m hungry! Also...” Narrowing his eyes, he turns his gaze to a corner of the room. “Because Cera is being a whiny, demanding, irrational, bitch!”
