by C. Gockel
“Odin will know, Laugaz, this is dangerous,” says the other man softly. Amy’s eyes go to him. He is softer. He has a farmer’s tan—he’s not overweight, but he isn’t as defined. His hair is dark brown. He turns his head in Amy’s direction but it’s obvious he doesn’t see her.
Amy’s mouth drops a little. It’s Hoenir. But younger. He doesn’t have a beard, and she can see that besides large green eyes framed with dark lashes, he has a small delicate nose and generous lips. His face is still wide, innocent, and honest.
“Ronnkk, ronnnk, ronnkkkkk....” says the hadrosaur softly. The spidermouse squeaks from the ceiling.
Laugaz, the blonde one, puts his hand on Hoenir’s chin and turns his face to his. His eyes are orange and literally glowing. “If he does, Hoenir, I will kill him.”
Hoenir looks down. “You’re still too young.”
“Shhhhhhh....” says Laugaz, putting his lips against Hoenir’s. Hoenir is startled only for a moment and then melts against him. Amy stands speechless for a moment, and then Laugaz starts backing Hoenir in her direction.
Amy blinks...presumably they’ll pass through her and through the door and possibly terrify the guests. “Ummmm...I don’t suppose either of you can see me?” she says.
Laugaz stops and lifts his head. “What was that?”
“You heard something?” says Hoenir, his voice panicked.
Over Hoenir’s shoulder Laugaz’s eyes meet hers and narrow dangerously. Amy draws back against the door instinctively.
From beyond Laugaz and Hoenir comes Loki’s voice. “No!”
And suddenly the projection is gone. Amy’s standing alone in the entryway to the suite.
From the bedroom she hears a soft thud. Biting her lip, she makes her way in that direction. Loki is full blue again. He’s rubbing his face with both hands, his breathing uneven.
“Hi,” says Amy. “Another dream?”
Loki pulls his hands from his face and stares at the ceiling. “A nightmare.”
Amy’s brow furrows as she tries to process that. “Personally, I think watching Lopt get murdered was more disturbing,” she says. Is it nightmarish because this dream featured two men? That doesn’t feel right. Whatever the rules of Asgard, Loki seems pretty blase about the whole man-on-man thing—at least from the one conversation they’d had about it a few weeks back when Loki wore his pink-rainbow-triangle ‘Bifrost shirt’ to a greasy spoon. In Loki’s words the Aesir acknowledged two types of people. “Those who fuck, and those who are fucked.” Men who ‘fucked’ women or other men were manly. Those who ‘were fucked’ were unmanly, or argr. Being argr was Asgard’s highest insult.
Slouching in his seat at the diner during that enlightening conversation Loki had said, “The Aesir are a bunch of hypocrites. Some of the mightiest warriors enjoy being buggered. And the Valkyries are fiercer than most men.” Snorting, he’d licked some ketchup off his fingers and added. “Personally, I prefer women, but I was always called argr for practicing magic.”
When Amy’s eyes had widened he’d laughed some more. “It was very convenient. It made it easier to go behind men’s backs and have sex with their wives.” And then turning from her he’d looked at some men giving him dirty looks across the diner and blown a kiss. Turning back to her he snickered. “I think I’ll keep this shirt. It upsets people.”
Besides being the god of mischief, lies and chaos, in human myth Loki is also the god of unrestrained intellect. Amy’s pretty sure that means he can’t keep his mouth shut—but she also thinks it means he can think outside the box of social taboos.
She looks at him now. Besides sleeping with him, she’s been on his computer and seen his porn, and yes, he definitely prefers women, but that doesn’t make two men kissing nightmarish. Still, he’s staring at her like he just watched a puppy get kicked. Maybe he’s not so open minded after all?
Swallowing, Loki says. “Amy, I don’t ever want to see Hoenir have sex.” She blinks and he adds, “Even with Lopt.”
Oh. Well. She sits down on the bed. “Yeah. I can see where that might be like seeing your mother—” Before she finishes, Loki closes his eyes and shudders so forcefully the bed shakes.
Amy tilts her head and snickers.
“It’s not funny,” Loki says petulantly.
Amy raises an eyebrow and turns the subject to something she’s been meaning to ask. “Loki, how much of these dreams are real?”
Opening his eyes, he runs a hand through his hair. For a long moment he says nothing, and she thinks he won’t answer. But then in a soft voice, he says, “I’m not sure. Laugaz and Lopt lived and died in Asgard before I was born.” He stares at the ceiling. “Laugaz the ‘blazing one’, was the last fire giant to be allowed to live in the realm eternal.” He shakes his head. “How he died I’m not sure...”
“But is it possible?” Amy asks, reclining against his duvet-covered hip.
For another long moment he stares up at the ceiling, his blue body a break in the white clouds of linen. And then he says softly, “Magic has a peculiar relation to time. For the most part, our physical forms exist in time linearly, but magic, and the magic matter within us is different.”
“So yes?” says Amy.
Loki’s face contorts. “Hoenir doesn’t look like he did in that dream! Hoenir is chubby, plump, old and bald. His tummy jiggles like a bowl full of pudding! And he can’t talk—Mimir does all the talking.”
Amy’s brow furrows. “I thought people in Asgard never got old?”
Loki looks up at the ceiling. “Unless they chose to. Odin chooses to appear older because he believes it gives him an air of authority. But Hoenir has never cared for power...He is one of the most powerful magic wielders in all the Nine Realms, but I think most everyone thinks he’s Asgard’s gardenerer.” His fingers twist in the duvet. “Which I guess he also is.”
And then his jaw clenches. “Was,” he says, eyes falling down to stare intently at a spot on the duvet.
Amy takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. Loki doesn’t pull away but says nothing. After a few moments of foreboding silence, Amy says, “How come Laugaz, Lopt and little you can see me in your dreams but no one else can?”
For a moment Loki only stares at her, and then he bats his eyelashes and grins. “Little me?”
“Yes, I saw you in a stable with a foal—you’re were upset because it didn’t have eight legs and you were trying to impress Sigyn,” Amy says.
Loki smiles. His hand tightens on hers. “Ah, yes. That was the day of my first kiss. I still remember it...”
“You’re dodging the question,” Amy says, squeezing his hand in turn.
Loki gives her a twisted half smile. “Who knows? Dreams seldom make sense.”
He’s still evading, but Amy doesn’t push.
Letting out a long breath, Loki gives her a sunny smile and looks her up and down. “Those clothes fit you very well. Why don’t I take a shower, and then we’ll go get something to eat?”
Straightening, Amy smiles. “That sounds good. Maybe someplace not the hotel?”
Sitting up, one hand still in hers, Loki smirks. Kissing her cheek and running his fingers down a lock of hair he says, “If you insist.”
“I do,” she says as he maneuvers around her and out of bed. He towers over her a moment, a lean blue shadow looking down at her with black eyes.
Amy will check her email while he’s showering. She just has to let go of his hand.
She doesn’t let go.
Smirking, Loki pulls her up and towards the bathroom with him. Heat rising in her belly, Amy says, “What are you doing?” But she already knows, the world around her seems to go foggy, and it has nothing to do with magic.
She’ll check her email. Just not right now.
Chapter 8
In his office, nearly 48 hours after the elves made their play for Cera, Steve checks his email and frowns.
“Still nothing from Loki or the lady?” asks Thor.
Steve glances at the lar
ge man sitting on his desk, fingers twitching on his hammer. For a minute there is a disconnect in his brain, a feeling of being disembodied, or in a dream. There is an alien in Steve’s office. Engaging him in conversation.
Shaking away the feeling of surrealism, Steve says, “No.”
Eyes sliding away, Thor nods and stands. “We should join the others then in the ready room.”
“Yes,” says Steve, the feeling of surrealism returning as they step out the door and walk down the hall. Oddly, the FBI is working with the Guard relatively well, and that is strange enough. They’re also working with an alien. There are protocols for aliens—protocols involving confinement and white suits. But somehow those protocols have all been thrown out the window. Or maybe they haven’t. Maybe in a few days someone in the FBI will make a stupid decision and the white coats will come for Thor. But for now, Chicago, the country, and probably the world is still reeling, trying to take in all that’s going on—reacting, and not thinking. And for now, Thor’s killing a lot of trolls.
As they step into the Ready Room, agents and Guardsmen edge out of Thor’s way. Jameson, standing off to the side, straightens and looks decidedly uncomfortable. Bautista, standing in front of a map, looks to Thor and says, “Ah, good you’re here.” His voice is calm and even, as though having an alien once worshipped as a god on his team is the most natural thing in the world. He’s probably part of the reason the city is doing as well as it is. The general rolls with the punches—and Jameson seems a bit intimidated by the man—or maybe just outnumbered because the Guard’s presence is larger. Whatever the reason, Jameson has stayed blessedly out of the way.
“There have been sightings of a Loch Ness-like creature in the lake,” says Bautista, eyes still on Thor. Steve snaps from his reverie. Bautista gives a grim smile. “Ordinarily I’d think it was a hoax...”
Thor’s brow furrows. “It is not the monster of Loch Ness. I killed him centuries ago.”
Steve blinks. Around him eyes go wide. The ambient hum of conversation dies in the room.
Looking somewhat hurt, Thor says, “Certainly you’ve heard of the myth of myself and the sea serpent?”
Steve has no idea what Thor is talking about, so he improvises. “And we are very grateful.”
Thor beams.
“About this sighting—” says Bautista.
Thor scratches his beard. “It could very well be a sea serpent...or a common wyrm. I shall take my chariot and my hammer and dispatch it!”
Bautista stares at Thor for a moment, and then nods, and raises an eyebrow at an aide. Picking up a phone, the aide says, “I’m warning the Coast Guard about the...ah...sea serpent...and,” His eyes go to Thor. “...and Thor.”
With another curt nod, Bautista raises a hand to the map. The Loop is dotted with red push pins; each one represents a troll. The General traces a hand along a snaking line of pins that follow Wacker Drive. Marker of the north and west boundaries of the Loop, the drive consists of Upper Wacker which runs below ground, and Lower Wacker, that runs beneath.
“There is most likely a World Gate in Lower Wacker. If we can catch a troll emerging, we may be able to seal the gate on this side.” The General taps the map with the side of his hand. “Mayor Ronnie is still adamant that we not seal all ramps leading to Lower Wacker.”
Steve looks at the pins, each is marked with a time of first sighting. “Is it my imagination, or is the rate of troll sightings increasing?”
One of the aides, laptop in front of him says, “It appears that way, but statistically the sample is too small.”
Steve’s jaw twitches. The statement is scientifically accurate, but damn lies and statistics...
“Agent Rogers,” Bautista says. “Has there been any contact from Miss Lewis or Loki?”
“No, my staff and I have sent her numerous emails—”
From across the room, Jameson says, “You should desist trying to contact her. Anything to her will be intercepted by Loki. The email from her is either a fraud, a sick trick to make us think he is on our side, or he’s kidnapped her and she’s too naive to realize it!”
“He rescued her!” says Thor. He sputters. “The myths of him kidnapping Idunn are false! That was Laugaz!”
Steve turns to Jameson. “I haven’t divulged any confidential information.” Not even that Loki is suspected as the orchestrator of the mess in Chicago.
Jameson huffs. “This is his plan to distract us so he can take the World Seed.”
The General shakes his head. “A poor scheme. We’ve doubled the watch around the World Seed.”
One of Bautista’s aides says quietly, “Maybe he is just opening gates to cause chaos?”
“Trolls can open gates on their own,” Steve says sharply. “They don’t need Loki’s help.”
Thor snorts. “And these are new gates. Loki can’t create gates, only exploit them.”
Pointedly ignoring Thor, Jameson’s eyes narrow at Steve. “Why do you insist on defending him?”
“Why do you insist on implicating him?” Steve snaps, and instantly regrets letting himself be pulled into needless sniping.
Jameson’s nostrils flare.
“He is your best hope for understanding your city’s latest rash of unfortunate incidences,” says Thor.
Trying to regain the high ground, Steves says, “I agree with Thor.”
Everyone’s eyes turn to Steve. Most stare at him like he is the alien in the room. Jameson’s gaze is openly furious. Thor’s smiling, as though he’s proud of him. The General’s gaze is the most neutral. Steve meets it head on. Turning from him, the General says, “I want you on the next patrol of Lower Wacker, Agent Rogers. The team you chose to work with is waiting for you downstairs.”
“Yes, Sir,” says Steve. ADUO agents are teaming up with the Guard patrols to lend their expertise with magic to the Guards’ manpower.
Bautista nods, “You’re dismissed.”
A few minutes later, Steve stands at the exit to HQ.
Sergeant Johnston stands at the front door. “Ready, Sir?” Johnston is in his mid-thirties, but the lines in his forehead make him look much older. He’s built like a fire plug, and oozes competency. Next to him is Corporal Kane; he’s younger than Johnston, but looks older than his twenty eight years as well. Time under the Iraqi sun will do that to you. When Steve chose his fireteam he made sure to go for combat veterans. These two are Marines.
Steve nods at Johnston and Kane.
Johnston tilts his head, “No Thor? I heard you were working with him...”
“Not this time,” Steve says, not really thinking about it. “He’s off looking for a giant snake...be glad we’re not with him.”
Johnston frowns but opens the door for Steve. Steve steps out—right into the gauntlet of the press.
As they cross the sidewalk towards the waiting Humvee, flashbulbs immediately go off in Steve’s face. Johnston and Kane start pushing people out of Steve’s way, and everyone is shouting at once.
“Captain Rogers! Captain Rogers!” someone shouts, using his old military rank. “How long do you think the state of emergency will last?”
“Will the governor allow assistance from the Wisconsin or Indiana Guard?”
“Is it true that a troll was just shot down on Lower Wacker Drive?”
“Are they the result of government testing?”
“Is this the zombie apocalypse?”
As Johnston steps into the vehicle, Steve turns around and shouts, “No comment.” Just before he follows the Sergeant into the Humvee, Steve looks up at the Chicago Board of Trade. It’s completely cordoned off. When Cera’s prison impacts the foundations, the building will be empty. Exhaling deeply, he thanks God for small favors and ducks into the Humvee. To the woman at the wheel he says, “Van Buren and Wacker—do you know where that is?”
Hitting the gas, the woman says, “Hey, South Side Irish do wander North sometimes.”
Kane snorts. “What MacAuley means to say is, yes. But don’t ask
Jarett to drive.”
Steve tilts his head to Jarrett, the last member of the team in the car. He’s African-American, but a little lighter than Steve. He shrugs. “I’m from Glenview.”
“And working on a degree in IT!” says MacAuley.
Gripping a hand rest as MacAuley takes a sharp turn, Johnston chuckles. “You are the whitest boy in this car, Jarett.”
Grinning good naturedly, Jarett says, “Well, I guess the Swede would know.”
Steve finds his heart lightening a bit at the easy camaraderie. He misses that about the Marine Corps. Misses how guys in the field use humor to cover up fear and uncertainty. MacAuley makes another sharp turn onto VanBuren and guns it. The street ahead is almost empty, since residents and businesses were told to evacuate. Steve sees MacAuley’s eyes go to the rearview mirror. She groans, “The press is following us.”
Johnston looks at the roof. “Too bad we don’t have a gun on top of this Hummer,” the Sergeant says, using the casual slang for Humvee. “We could aim it at them.”
Jarett shakes his head. “The press was better controlled in Iraq.”
Steve agrees. The press here is out of control...they need an embed program, they need to have restricted access. But everything in Chicago has happened too fast.
Tilting his head at some of the weapons in the cab, Jarett says. “We could open up the back of the Hummer and stroke the grenade launchers menacingly.”
Steve eyes the grenade launchers. They’ve run out of plastic explosive-laced goat meat. A grenade doesn’t kill a troll, but it can knock them over and wound them enough that a clean shot to the eyes or mouth is easier.
In front, MacAuley snickers and then calls out, “Shit!” as a black shadow nearly collides with the windshield.
