by C. Gockel
He hears another bugling sound behind him and another crack of ice. An instant later he sees another whale bobbing across the snow and ice in front of him. The snowmobile he’s on can reach speeds of one hundred fifty miles per hour when it’s not in stealth mode, but that’s with one rider, not with three. “Hold on!” he shouts. Hitting the gas, he swings around the new whale in a wide arc, and then hears a ripping noise and prays it isn’t his parka.
Someone’s voice cracks over the shared frequency. “Two more bogies. Ten o’clock and two o’clock!”
Ten, two o’clock, and two more at six o’clock … Something in Steve’s mind sparks. He sees his teammates as though suspended in slow motion, like he is just an observer behind glass. Suddenly, he knows what is about to happen. “Prepare for incoming twelve o’clock!” he says, veering his own snowmobile to the left.
He hears the ice explode exactly where he thought it would, someone shouts, and there is the roar of one of the snowmobile’s forward guns.
The whale at ten o’clock lunges toward Steve’s vehicle, the whale at twelve o’clock does likewise—probably picking the straining one seater as the weakest target in the herd. Harding swears. The whale at ten o’clock collides with the tail of the snowmobile and they go skidding toward the whale at twelve o’clock, furiously clawing its way onto the ice. Steve turns into the skid and throws down a leg, barely managing to keep his snowmobile upright.
Before they come to a stop, Steve hits the gas, and the overloaded vehicle strains forward. Over the engine he hears the ripping sound again, and the sound of whale talons clicking on the ice. The ice starts to crumple under them, and cracks directly in front of them as the whale behind them tries to haul up its weight. Even gunning the engine the snowmobile barely moves.
He hears a Barrett rifle firing very close, and he feels Claire jolt against his back. Harding whoops, “Got it!” There is a splash, the incline flattens out, and the snowmobile shoots forward right over the crack. If they can just keep ahead of the one to their right ...
A shot rings out, again Steve feels recoil, and Harding shouts again, “Two for me!”
Another shot fires and Berry’s voice crackles. “Got our friend at two o’clock.”
Air rushes out of Steve’s lungs—he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. Over the sound of engines, and the distant bugle of the one remaining whale, Steve hears Harding chuckle. “I win.”
Steve almost laughs in relief. Shaking his head, he says, “Marine, how are you holding on?”
“Duct tape.”
Over the radio he hears someone laugh. “You can’t see her, Captain. She’s taped herself on side saddle.”
Steve almost smiles, but then he feels Claire’s head slip lower behind him. He’s soaked with sweat beneath his gear. Still, he shivers.
x x x x
Amy gulps as they clear the whales. At the front of the sled, Fenrir has stopped barking. On the snowmobile, Beatrice is slumped to the side, only in a sitting position because of the duct tape.
She looks down at Bohdi passed out in her lap. Putting the rifle next to her, she puts her hand on his forehead. His lashes don’t even flutter. Despite his dip in the snow, he’s still too hot. He’d gotten deathly ill in Nornheim, too. Amy’s been to Nornheim, Asgard, and Alfheim, and this is the only time she’s gotten even a tiny bit sick. Her brow furrows. Asgard and Alfheim have had enough recent contact with Earth to explain why she didn’t get sick there, but she should have gotten sick in Nornheim, like Bohdi ...
Searing pain flashes behind her eyes. Squeezing them shut, she shakes her head. In Nornheim, Bohdi’s lungs had been flooded with water, but not hers. That’s why he’d gotten sick. Taking a deep breath, she takes off Bohdi’s cap and runs her fingers through his now short hair. She’d done the same in Nornheim. She bites her lip. Bohdi’s an unrepentant flirt, a serial bed hopper, and the most dependable friend she’s had in a crisis since … ever. The sled hits a bump, they are airborne, and their snowmobile lands with teeth-rattling force. Bohdi doesn’t even moan. Amy’s shoulders slump. “Don’t do this to me, Bohdi,” she whispers, dropping her face to his.
His lips split in a wide grin. “Are you going to kiss me again?”
Amy sits up with a gasp, expecting him to laugh. But his eyes don’t even open, and the smile fades away.
Amy swallows at the reference to the kiss in Nornheim. It had been part of her ploy to convince him that his mind was stronger than the disease that was killing him—and for a little while it had worked. He’s never teased her about that, until now … Her brow furrows. Maybe he isn’t teasing. Her head hurts and her stomach flutters, but not in a good way. Under usual circumstances she wouldn’t want to kiss anyone feeling like this.
Larson must change the snowmobile’s course, because the sled slides sideways, and Bohdi nearly rolls off. As they straighten out, Amy adjusts his body as best she can. He is absolutely silent, his body completely pliable. It’s terrifying.
Fenrir gives a little bark. Amy turns her head and sees an island coming up fast. She looks to the side, they’re at the back of the snowmobile pack, and no one can see. She drops her lips to his and kisses him.
He doesn’t respond. Not that she expected him to, but maybe she had hoped. She almost pulls away, but then his lips move softly against hers. It’s just relief that makes her press her lips more firmly against his. And then heat floods her, burning away the unease in her stomach, and the headache behind her eyes. The power of that heat is so unexpected she jerks away. Bohdi opens his eyes. She expects another joke, but he just looks up at her with deadly seriousness. It’s the same way he’d looked at her when she told him the magic serum is contagious. “Thank you,” he whispers. And then his eyes slip shut.
Closing her eyes, Amy silently wills Bohdi, Beatrice and Claire to hold on, and desperately wishes she knew some way to help them. She blinks in the darkness, and looks back at her pack, eyes wide. She does know how to help them.
x x x x
Putting his feet down on either side of the snowmobile, Steve tears off his hand protection with his teeth and starts ripping off the duct tape strapping his daughter to his back. Harding, loose locks of blonde hair encrusted in snow, bolts off the sled and out of his way. Moments later, he’s gathering Claire in his arms, reminding himself there are three magic users on the team and one will know how to make her well. Still, as Steve ploughs his way to the tent that’s already been put up in record time, the first name on his lips is, “Lewis!”
A light goes on within the command tent. The doctor pokes her head out. “I know how to help them,” she says, drawing back in. How did he know she would?
Steve strides into the tent. Bohdi and Beatrice are already stretched out on sleeping bags on the floor. Fenrir is sitting at attention beside Beatrice’s head; Steve would swear the dog’s grown since that morning. She looks to be the size of a small German shepherd, but with outlandishly large paws and head. Members of the SEAL team are milling around; he can read their uncertainty in their furrowed brows and uncharacteristically fidgety stances. They all have advanced emergency trauma training. Any of them would know immediately how to patch up a gunshot wound, or set a bone, but this is different.
Steve kneels down beside a bag opened for Claire, but doesn’t put his daughter down; instead he clutches her more tightly to him, resisting the urge to kiss the top of her head.
“Nari and I can offer some aid,” says Sigyn, stepping into the tent, her son beside her.
“And I too,” says Gerðr, too quickly, as though she’s afraid of being left out.
Dropping to her knees beside a pack, Lewis says, “We should do that, but it will only be a temporary fix… until they… we... get sick again.”
Steve looks up at Sigyn. She nods. “What the doctor says is true.” She swallows. “And I should say, none of us specialize in medical magic.”
Gerðr puts her hand on Beatrice’s forehead. “Thor trained long years in biolo
gical magic. He can heal you humans in minutes, but not us.” Sighing, she comes over to Steve. She reaches toward Claire, but before she can touch her, Steve draws Claire closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. He doesn’t meet Gerðr’s eyes, and the giantess withdraws.
Pulling a rolled article of clothing from her pack, Lewis shakily unwraps it and reveals a plastic first aid kit. Opening it, Lewis exhales in audible relief. “They aren’t frozen.”
“What’s not frozen?” says Steve.
“We’re sick because we’re not magical,” Lewis says, waving to Bohdi, Beatrice, and Claire.
“But we’re not magical, either,” says Jung Park.
“Yes, you are,” says Nari.
Berry’s face flushes a deeper shade of red, and he clears his throat. “We should probably tell them about that, Captain.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” says Lieutenant Larson. Murmurs rise in the tent.
Ignoring them, eyes on Lewis, Steve blinks. “You’re sick too?” He takes in her flushed cheeks, her too bright eyes, and her slightly sloppy movements. “I see,” he says. “Why aren’t you unconscious like them?”
Lewis sighs. “I’m not as sick for the same reason some people don’t get AIDS and some people survive smallpox, cholera, and the Black Death without modern medical care.” She pulls out a hypodermic needle and a test tube. Stabbing the top of the test tube with the needle, she says, “Lucky genes.”
Steve feels like his hair has been rubbed the wrong way. She didn’t get sick on Nornheim, either. He’s heard people of European descent have greater resistance to disease. The theory goes that during the Middle Ages, Europe was a cesspool and those who survived had to have hardy immune systems. His eyes drop to Beatrice. European ancestry can’t be the only factor. He has the nagging sense of missing something important, but Claire’s body sags hopelessly in his arms, and he pushes the thought away. “What is that, Doctor?”
Lewis taps the air out of the needle. “The same serum that made all of you magical.”
Steve’s chin drops, a dark thread of suspicion entering his mind. “I thought that was confiscated?”
“Nope,” says Lewis. “I knew they’d do that, so I kept some for Bohdi, Beatrice, and me so we could get our memories back and …” she nearly falls over, clutching her head with one hand.
One of the SEALs, Corporal Tucker, drops beside her and puts a hand beneath her elbow.
Amy mumbles, “I’m okay, really.”
Steve’s jaw ticks. The serum has given Steve access to memories he hadn’t known he’d had. Loki had wiped out Bohdi’s memories when he made him the incarnation of Chaos. Bohdi braved going to another realm to recover them, so of course he would brave an injection of a barely-tested drug. He probably convinced Lewis it would be good for her and her grandmother to get the serum, too. Steve exhales. He’s furious at the deception, but it was understandable, and maybe now it will save Claire. Steve tilts his head. “You have enough for all of you?”
Lewis rubs her forehead. “No, I only have three doses.”
For a moment Steve cannot even find the energy to breathe.
Lewis continues. “Enough for my grandmother, Claire, and Bohdi.”
Pulling down his muffler, Corporal Tucker says, “What about you, Doctor?” His blue eyes are on her, a furrow is between his brow, and his hand is still beneath her elbow. Steve tenses; his brain calls up everything he knows about Tucker: good kid, stable two-parent home, father a retired factory worker in Kansas.
The doctor shrugs. “I’ll be fine. This illness isn’t any worse than a nasty cold for me.” She smiles thinly. “The longer we stay here the more likely we are to be attacked. My grandmother and Bohdi are as good in a fight as anyone.” Steve hears some harrumphs and men clearing their throats in the tent. Lewis doesn’t respond to them. Eyes on Steve, her face crumples. “And no one is going to give the serum to me when it can be used to save a little girl.”
The room falls silent. Steve wills no one to argue, especially Tucker, looking too earnestly at the doctor. It’s the choice Steve would have made. Bohdi and Beatrice will be useful when Odin’s men attack—and Claire—well he would always choose Claire. He closes his eyes, gives in, and kisses Claire’s head. Beneath his lips she’s too hot, and she smells like fever. She doesn’t stir. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says. He opens his eyes, tries to meet hers, and wills her to see his gratitude, but Lewis’s eyes are unfocused. Staring at a point on the floor, she says, “I really need to take a nap. Does anyone here know how to administer an intravenous injection?”
“All of us,” says Tucker.
Lewis hands him the needle, walks on her knees over to her grandmother, and falls over.
“Lewis!” Steve says.
She waves a hand. “I’m fine. Like I said, I just need a nap. Best way to let the immune system take over.” Her eyes slip shut.
“Someone check her out,” Steve says, his heart jumping. Take care of Lewis, Prometheus had said.
Tucker puts his bare hand on Lewis’s forehead, looks up at Steve and shrugs. “She’s only a little hot.”
Lewis makes a raspberry noise with her lips, but doesn’t open her eyes. “Nobody listens to me. Sometimes I don’t even know why I bother to speak at all.”
Steve feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle. There’s something about her words…
Still holding the needle, Tucker says, “Sir, should I give your daughter the first injection?”
Steve looks down at Claire, her skin flushed dark. He looks up to Sigyn. She nods. “The doctor’s logic is sound. Being magical gives an extra boost to the immune system—it’s why we are so poor at dealing with infections. We rarely have to.”
Kneeling next to Beatrice, Nari says, “I would recommend administering the serum immediately.”
“I agree,” Gerðr says softly.
Steve looks down at his daughter. She hasn’t been so pliant since she was an infant. “Do it,” he says, laying Claire down on a sleeping bag spread out on the ground. He begins unzipping her parka.
“Someone get the old woman and Patel prepped,” Larson says.
A few minutes later, Claire and Beatrice have both received their injections. Bohdi’s arm is bare, and Steve is kneeling beside him. Tucker is just about to inject the serum when Steve catches his wrist. “Stop,” Steve says, heart picking up in his chest.
“Captain?” the SEAL murmurs.
Steve looks down at the kid. Odin hadn’t been able to identify Bohdi as the incarnation of Chaos because Bohdi’s humanity made his magical aura invisible. Sigyn can only detect Steve’s aura when she’s very close, but she says it grows stronger every day. If Bohdi receives the serum, it will only be a matter of time before Odin and others recognize him. What would Odin do to Bohdi if he found out he’d known he was Chaos and still fled Asgard?
“Worried about him becoming more powerful?” Sigyn says above him, her voice sharp.
Steve’s eyes snap to hers, the meaning of her words connecting in his mind. She’d pieced together who Bohdi is. Now she thinks Steve is stopping the injection because Bohdi will become … well, Loki.
“No,” Steve says, and it surprises him how much he means it. His jaw ticks–the choice is between death taking him now, or Odin trying to take him later. To Tucker, Steve says, “Do it.”
As the SEAL slips the needle into Bohdi’s vein the kid doesn’t even twitch.
Crossing her arms, Sigyn watches Steve through narrowed eyes. He sighs. He is a manipulator, and sometimes walks the line between manipulating for personal gain and the greater good. But this time … Shaking his head and meeting Sigyn’s gaze head on, he whispers, “I’m afraid for him.”
Chapter 2
Bohdi is in a room he doesn’t recognize, lying on a strange bed, completely naked, but he is not afraid. His legs are covered by a duvet, his chest is bared to cold air and it feels like someone left the window open. He is absolutely not going to do anything about it though, because Am
y is straddling his hips wearing nothing but a plush white robe, open in the front. The curves he’d imagined when she’d worn the princess get up in Asgard are on beautiful display. She’s hovering above him, smiling—a little coyly, a little shyly—and it’s perfect. Their bodies are not joined, but he is ready for them to be. He reaches up to stroke her cheek, to entice her closer … and for the first time notices his skin is the same sapphire blue as the pools of Lake Balstead. He flexes his fingers before his eyes in wonder.
“You’re blue, again,” Amy whispers, taking his hand and kissing his knuckles. Her lips are even softer than he had imagined, and her skin is shockingly pale against the blue hue of his.
He is the color of a cloudless sky and in bed with Amy, and it feels completely natural. Obviously, it’s a dream, and there’s only one rule for a dream like this: don’t wake up. Giving her a smile, he slips his free hand down her side. She feels warm and silky and Bohdi’s not sure if he wants to slow this dream down or speed it up.
“The blue doesn’t bother me,” Amy says, massaging his hand. Her fingers are very small next to his. She bites her bottom lip, the pink fold beneath her teeth going white. “Don’t let it bother you.”
Bohdi pulls his hand away from hers and brushes her cheek. The fingers on his other hand come to rest on her hip. “Don’t worry, I am so not bothered.”
She smiles, warm and wide and genuine. “Oh, Loki, I’m so glad.”
Bohdi wakes up.
He takes a deep breath. The air is shockingly cold. He catches a whiff of burning wood and roasting meat. Someone is snoring. Outside he hears footsteps and Larson’s voice. A snowmobile revs. He finds himself staring at a grayish ceiling—the tent—but without the Promethean wire up, which means Heimdall, Asgard’s magical all-seeing sentry, can see if he’s looking in this direction. More immediately, his top half is freezing and he’s very, very, hungry. He rubs his eyes. Why did he wake up? He really feels the cold now, and he’s still aroused and …
Amy’s voice sounds to his left. “Bohdi?” And suddenly she’s in his line of vision, distressingly dressed in full winter gear. She smiles, warm and wide and genuine and his brain short-circuits. He almost reaches up to stroke her cheek.
