by C. Gockel
Sigyn shakes her head. “No, no, I would know if that were true! I follow affairs on Midgard more than anyone. I read the tapestries Frigga weaves of that realm and the dregs in Hoenir’s teacups.”
Rubbing his temples, Loki sighs.“The rumors are real.” Whatever Sigyn believes, Loki could tell Odin had not been lying. Dropping his hand, he meets her eyes. “I will investigate. If I find an open World Gate, I will destroy it … those are my only orders.” He leans forward and takes Sigyn’s hands. “Gullveig is a weak leader, perhaps one of her own without her knowledge are—”
“She is not a tyrant!” Sigyn snaps. “Just because her rule is constrained by tribal law, that doesn’t mean she is a weak leader! If she were, the tribes would have ousted her long ago.” Sigyn looks away. “No one would get away with such shenanigans under her nose.”
Loki rolls his eyes. “The Iron Wood just prefer a weak, easily manipulated … ” he almost says woman, but says, “... leader ... as a figurehead.”
Sigyn draws her hands away. “That’s Odin talking. He wants to destroy her … I don’t know why, but he does.”
Loki blinks. “You’re being paranoid.”
Sigyn drops her head into her hands. Her chest heaves. Loki touches her side. “Sigyn,” he says.
She lifts her head, and he sees tears standing in her eyes. “He’s using you, Loki.” She takes his hand. “I’ll say yes, I’ll renew our vows, but only on one condition.”
Loki smirks. “Love is not conditional, Sigyn.” Not that he believes that fairy tale— unconditional love is reserved for children.
“My condition is that we move to Jotunheim, to the Iron Wood, that we join the tribes of Gullveig.”
Loki blinks at her. “You’re mad.”
“What is your answer?” Sigyn says.
“No!” says Loki. “Give up life, youth, health, and wealth for a frozen wasteland and death? I love you, I want to keep you! I went to a cave for two hundred years so that I wouldn’t lose you and our children to the slow disease of age.” He looks at their hands. “That would be our end if we are lucky.” In Jotunheim death at the end of a spear, or starvation, would be just as likely.
“Some things are worth dying for,” Sigyn whispers.
“Yes,” Loki says. “But a fight with Odin over nothing isn’t one of them!”
Sigyn closes her eyes; when she opens them, they are wet with tears. “I will miss you.” She pulls away her hand again. “Goodbye, Loki.” She turns, gathers her clothing and leaves the room.
Loki rolls his eyes and rubs his temple. He’ll go to Jotunheim and find out what, if anything, is happening in the Iron Wood. He’ll probably wind up closing a World Gate and uncovering some Frost Giants who have been pretending to be gods on Earth out of Gullveig’s sight. Loki will try not to be too smug when Sigyn realizes she is wrong and he claims his victory. He looks at the empty side of the bed and feels heavy … he shouldn’t feel like he’s lost. Shaking his head at the useless sentimentality, he goes to retrieve his armor.
x x x x
Amy gulps. That was Sigyn’s and Loki’s last night together. In front of her, Sigyn seems to snap from a daze.
Someone’s voice buzzes over the radio. “Gerðr, how long will this storm last?”
In halting English, the Frost Giantess says, “Maybe days … week?”
Sigyn looks over her shoulder at the blizzard. “The snow will obscure Heimdall’s sight and deter Odin from sending troops. We will be safe until the storm ends.”
Rush’s voice crackles in Amy’s ear. “That will be comforting if we’ve frozen and starved to death.”
It’s probably the first thing he’s said that Amy agrees with.
Chapter 5
Using a piece of duct tape, Steve secures Promethean wire to the highest point of the ceiling. The opening of the glove had been tall, but here, in the “thumb,” it’s just a few inches above Steve’s head. He exhales. In the dim LED light he can see his breath, but it’s definitely warmer than it was outside. Where the “thumb” of the glove meets the palm, Warrant Officer Berry drops a curtain of tarp. The wind that had been whistling this far into the glove decreases dramatically. Larson drops a curtain of Promethean wire, completing the magical seal. Steve feels like his ears are being plugged with cotton and as though he needs glasses. Sights and sounds aren’t as sharp when he’s in a space protected by Promethean wire.
“Mission control complete,” says Larson, swinging a flashlight beam around the space.
Steve’s eyes automatically search for Claire. He sees her in a corner with Cruz and Valli. She’s punching Valli’s hands, while Cruz, the biggest and most dangerous looking of the guys, kneels beside her, giving her pointers.
Steve’s jaw gets tight. The SEALs don’t trust him as their leader. The memory of those brief seconds when they didn’t jump at his orders still burns. He watches Cruz adjust Claire’s stance. He can’t order their respect; he will have to earn it. But even if he doesn’t succeed, they’ll protect Claire if something happens to him—he has to let his anger go. Taking a deep breath, Steve surveys the narrow room. It’s just enough space for the twenty-three of them to sleep like sardines.
One of the guys, Rush, sets down some gear with too much force, and Harding cries in what sounds like only semi-feigned horror. “Be careful with my comm unit; that’s my baby!” As she hops over more gear to get to “her baby,” some of the guys chuckle.
Mills, the tall brunette Marine on the team, goes to work erecting a contraption that looks like a high-tech grandfather clock. She pulls on a cable underneath a round face, and a light goes on. It’s like nothing Steve saw during his time in the service—they have other advanced energy-conserving tech. Steve touches the radio behind his ear, checking to see that it is secured to the slender cable that runs down through his gear to his boot. In the soles of one of his boots is a pressure charger—everyone has one. The chargers keep their radios juiced and can be used to power up cell phones, too. It’s equipment that isn’t standard issue. Steve’s brow furrows—and it’s good for long missions, too. Evidence perhaps that someone high up in the military knew they’d be trapped here and was trying to protect them?
He runs his tongue over his teeth. It won’t be enough. Odin may be busy fighting a war on two fronts—that’s probably why he sent his lackeys the first time—but he won’t make the same mistake again. Next time they’ll be facing disciplined troops, and they’ll be without weapons that work against the Einherjar’s magical armor.
Leaning on a rolled sleeping bag next to where Lewis hovers over Tucker, Bohdi pauses cleaning his blade. Meeting Steve’s eyes, he lifts an eyebrow. There’s no magic in the room, but Steve’s known the kid long enough to read the expression, Everything okay? To anyone else Steve would say everything is fine. To Bohdi, Steve mouths the word, no, tips his head to the rations that won’t last more than a week at the rate they’re going—they had lost a good chunk of the bear meat with Harding’s snowmobile. He lifts his eyes to the low ceiling and glances at everyone around them bumping shoulders. Even a well-trained unit grates on each other in a small space, but with the tension among the civilians, the special ops team, the Asgardians, and the Frost Giantess, fights are going to break out. Steve shrugs to convey the silent message, everything is wrong.
Bohdi grins. Steve allows himself a tight smile in return, wondering when he got in the habit of telling Bohdi the truth.
Bohdi slips his blade away and falls back against the sleeping bag, the only thing separating him from Lewis. His head nearly touches her shoulder. Steve blinks, remembering finding them the morning before they left, Lewis curled up on a couch, Bohdi curled up on a bean bag, their bodies turned to one another but not touching. Something nags at him. Steve looks longingly to the space beyond the thumb of the glove, not covered in Promethean wire. There’s something important he’s missing, if he just clears his head … Almost unconsciously, he takes a step toward the exit.
From behind him Ru
sh says, “So I want to know how Patel managed to take out four armed warriors with a knife.” Steve sighs. Apparently, they’re going to start getting on each other’s nerves right now. Steve turns, about to speak, when Park, the Korean American guy says, “Are you kidding me? You should have seen what he did to the guys kidnapping the little girl. He dropped out of the sky like an angel of death.”
Steve’s eyes slide to Bohdi. The kid is looking at the floor, his lighter is out and he’s flicking it agitatedly. Lewis is looking at him, eyes wide and worried. Larson steps into Steve’s line of sight. The lieutenant’s posture is stiff, his hands are behind his back. “I have a question for Captain Rogers. How did you know Odin’s men had arrived and where they were coming from?” The accusation is loud and clear in his tone.
Steve can feel all eyes on him; he has to play this carefully. Trying to loosen them up, he says, “Because Bohdi doesn’t take ten minutes to hit the head.”
Larson’s jaw remains hard, but some guys around the room chuckle.
Flicking his lighter, Bohdi says, “Unless I have a magazine.”
Suggestive noises rise around the room. Putting a hand to his chest, Bohdi affects an air of wounded innocence. “It takes me hours to get through Popular Science … I don’t know what you guys are thinking about.”
One side of Larson’s lips quirk; it’s a tiny crack in his armor, but Steve has to use it. He decides to divulge a bit of the truth. “I don’t really know why I knew,” Steve says. Thinking on it, he knows Bohdi is a vortex of chaos, and if Asgard was going to attack he would somehow be in the center of it. Still, Steve hadn’t consciously thought that at the time, he just knew. Like he knew there was something wrong with this mission from the start. He meets Larson’s eyes. “Since the serum, my memory is better. My power to make deductions comes faster.”
“The whale, you knew it would come out of the ice right in front of us. If the captain hadn’t said anything I would be dead,” says another man. It takes Steve a moment to remember his name—the man is Brill. Is the Promethean wire is interfering with his ability to remember?
Steve shakes his head. “If I think about it, Claire and I watched a National Geographic documentary about dolphins a few weeks ago. They hunt cooperatively. Some species work together to frighten fish up onto the beach. The dolphins then snap them up, a lot like the orca creatures here, actually.”
“Orcas are dolphins,” says Claire excitedly. “The show said that.”
Steve gives her a smile. He’d only watched the show because she wanted to watch it. He turns back to Larson. “I think my subconscious made all those connections.”
Lewis pipes up. “It’s the magic. It makes everyone more who they are. Steve—Captain Rogers—has always been good at putting things together.” She meets Steve’s eyes. “It makes him the best bureaucracy wrangler on the east side of the Mississippi.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t have to fake being affronted. “What do you mean only on the east side?”
Bohdi and Beatrice snort, and a few of the guys huff in laughter.
Tucker clears his throat. His expression is earnest and open. “You said every one of us is magic … Does that mean we’ll be able to open World Gates? Make ice?”
“No,” says Gerðr. “Too weak.”
“Weak for now,” says Sigyn. “But every day I’ve watched Captain Rogers grow stronger. You will develop talents that are part of your magical natures. In time you may be able to learn to do things that aren’t part of your magical natures, but it will take years, even decades of study. There are two parts to making fire, ice, or World Gates, if those things are not innate: First, you must be able to harness magical energy; and second, you must understand the process you are trying to accomplish at its most basic level—that is the hardest part. Even if you were to have a magical object, without decades of study, you wouldn’t be able to use its power. ”
“Magical object?” someone says.
Without thinking Steve says, “Laevithin.” It’s Loki’s sword and was charged by Cera, and it’s been on Steve’s mind a lot lately. It’s the most powerful magical object they know of; combined with Promethean wire it can be used to open World Gates. He sucks in a breath … The team hadn’t been given Laevithin ... that’s when he suspected something was wrong.
Someone clears his throat, and Steve says quickly, “Magical objects can be used as batteries.”
His mind returns to the blade. He hopes whatever allies they have are keeping Laevithin away from Odin. He presses his hands to his jaw. If Odin had Laevithin’s power they’d all be dead—there are still good people in the FBI fighting for the human race.
Valli snorts. “Real men don’t use magic.”
Taking off his helmet, Berry scratches behind his ear. “Why?”
“Because magic is for women,” says Valli, in a voice that says isn’t-it-obvious.
Sigyn sighs. “Your father, Odin, and Hoenir are all masters of magic.”
“Back on topic,” says Berry. “Are there any immediate advantages to being magical?” He sounds frustrated.
Trying to turn around the collective mood, Steve, says, “You’ll recover from any neural damage you receive.”
There are murmurs throughout the shelter. Traumatic Brain Injury, commonly known as TBI, was one of the hallmarks of the injuries from the conflicts of Iraq and Afghanistan. Steve’s eyes flick among the men. Every one of them has to know someone who suffers from it.
“Really?” someone says.
“Really,” Steve says. “A day before you met me I was completely paralyzed from the neck down. It wasn’t TBI, but the principle is the same.”
Lewis says, “Yes, exactly.”
There are a few whistles. “Wow,” says Mills, pushing back a lock of her dark hair.
The doctor continues. “You’ll also age more slowly, heal faster, and be less susceptible to many types of infections.”
There are a few more murmurs. Park leans against the wall, and says, “So let me get this straight, those things—and some things that are in our magical natures—will just come to us, without real study or effort?”
“Yes,” says Gerðr.
Park grins. “So my magical nature could be fire.”
“Is possible,” says Sigyn. “But you’re all warriors by trade; it’s likely your magical natures will be manifestations of that. You’ll be stronger, your aim truer, nothing specific.”
“How long will it take before we know our magical natures?” says Harding, sitting beside one of her comm boxes.
Before anyone can answer, a shot rings out from beyond the tiny room.
x x x x
Nari’s voice rings out from behind the tarp and in the radio in Steve’s ear. “Norns! What did you do?”
Redman’s voice crackles next. “It’s okay. Just a misunderstanding.” His voice is oddly tremulous.
Steve’s already stepping out from behind the tarp, rifle raised, the team following behind. Through his sites, he sees a bear rearing on its hind legs, jaws open, claws outstretched. The beast is ready to strike Redman, who is standing calmly beside it. Nari is just a few steps away.
Holding up his hands, Redman cries, “Don’t shoot!”
Someone shoots anyway. The “bear’s” head explodes in a burst of snow.
“Awwww….” Redman says. “You shot Teddy.”
There is a moment of absolute silence.
And then Cruz, the big SEAL who had just been teaching Claire to throw a punch, says, “You made a snowbear?”
“When you were supposed to be on patrol?” Larson demands.
Redman coughs. “I thought it might scare away other animals and people, Sir.”
“It scared me,” says Nari. “I was walking the perimeter outside. When I returned, I shot at it immediately.”
“And missed?” says Cruz, tilting his blonde head like an enormous confused puppy.
“It’s snowing out there!” says Nari. “Visibility is poor!”
“It was a really good likeness,” says Bohdi, slipping between Steve and Larson and over to the statue. “Do you think you could give it a new head?”
“I think so,” says Redman, bending over and picking up a clump of snow.
At that moment, Fenrir dashes to the sculpture and begins tearing it apart with her paws. Redman’s shoulders fall. Bohdi looks down at Fenrir. “What are you looking for, Girl?”
“Redman,” Larson says, “You can’t be building snowmen on patrol—”
“It’s his talent,” says Lewis, her voice soft.
Redman begins to stammer. “After I make them the urge stops. I think I can control it if I just make something.”
Steve looks at the pile of snow—he hadn’t considered what magic could do to discipline. Redman can’t be distracted while on guard duty—it could get them all killed.
As if hearing his thoughts, Larson snaps, “That’s not good enough.”
Gerðr’s voice rises behind them. “He can’t help it.” Steve turns to the Frost Giantess. She’s standing just beneath the tarp—it’s draped over one of her shoulders like a curtain. “It is hard … to have a talent you cannot turn off. No punish. Please.”
Steve hears Larson take a long breath.
Steve looks back to the man who is evidently the mission’s resident artist. “Redman, you’re relieved. Get into mission control. Cruz, you’re on watch while we figure this out.”
“Yes, sir,” says Redman, snapping to attention and then heading back into the Promethean wire room. Gerðr and Larson follow. The other SEALs start filing back in, but Steve hesitates, enjoying being out of the small, claustrophobic space, even if he swears it’s getting colder by the minute. Claire comes over to stand beside him. “I thought it was a nice bear,” she says, looking at the statue that has been reduced to a pile of snow by Fenrir’s ferocious paws. Steve rubs her shoulder. Touching his daughter is reassuring—she’s still alive—it’s also terrifying. Her shoulder blade feels so tiny and delicate even beneath the layer of gear she wears.
