Loki's Gambit, page 112
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
“Oh,” Bohdi whispers.
Amy’s hand starts to shake as she skims the page. “But it doesn’t require that the victim be devoured—a single scratch, or bite, is enough to ensure the transformation.” At just that moment a butterfly alights on her scabbed knuckle. Bohdi glances down.
Amy looks at the neatly healing cuts.
“Where did you get those, Amy?” Bohdi says.
Clutching her hand to her stomach, Amy says, “When you were unconscious…but it must have been the tree branch.” She shivers and glances at the text. “Apparently, if it was an adze scratch, I’d be an adze by now.” She lets out a slow breath of air and looks up at him. “Still scary to realize how close I was to…”
“Yeah,” says Bohdi. She glances up. His jaw is very tight. He gives her a wan smile.
Looking away, he slips the book of elven mating rituals beneath the front of his tunic. Smacking where it’s caught in the fold above his trousers, he says, “So can you find the physics section?” He gazes upward. “Or would that be the magic section here, or are they one and the same?”
Amy’s mouth drops. “Yes, but…are you stealing that book?”
Bohdi flutters his long lashes at her. “I am appropriating new knowledge for the benefit of all mankind.”
Amy’s eyes narrow. “You do know that it will be appropriated by ADUO as soon as we get back to Earth?”
Bohdi’s nostrils flare slightly. “How dare they plunder my plunder!”
Amy sighs. “Believe me. They don’t let you keep anything you pick up in another universe…or even just when you disappear from the face of the Earth for an hour.” She looks down. “They badger you with questions until you think you’re not even allowed to keep your memories, or not-memories. If Squeakers wasn’t able to scurry off and hide on his own…” And if Loki’s journal hadn’t been so small, so easy to slip into the front of her bra, she wouldn’t have that either.
Bohdi shifts above her. “What do you mean when you disappear for an hour?”
Amy blinks up at him. “Oh, it’s nothing.” Bohdi sniffs. She looks past the butterflies into the darkness. No, that’s not right. It was something…
“What happened?” Bohdi asks.
Amy looks up at him. “I don’t remember.”
Bohdi’s chin dips. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“No… Maybe it should?” She hardly ever thinks about it.
A crease settles in Bohdi’s brow. Leaning closer, he says, “Maybe?”
Amy bites her lip. “But before that time, I was really hurt. There’d been a SWAT raid of Loki’s apartment, and they shot me in the neck, and my stomach was a pincushion for shattered glass.” She remembers the itch caused by the morphine, and the smell of antiseptic and shivers. “And then when I came back, I was better, and Beatrice was with me, and she was better, and so was Ratatoskr…so it must have been okay?”
The crease in Bohdi’s brow grows deeper and his lips part. He looks slightly worried.
Amy shakes her head. “Really, the only thing that bothered me was the interrogation afterward. They kept asking me questions.” She winces at the memory. Like they thought she was hiding something.
Her head ticks to the side. Is she hiding something? Yes, Loki’s memories…But that’s not it, is it?
“Come on,” says Bohdi softly. “Let’s go check out the physics section.”
Grateful for the change of subject, Amy starts climbing down the ladder. “I didn’t know you liked physics,” she says.
Following her, Bohdi ducks her gaze. “It’s just a hobby. I’m not a Ph. D. candidate or anything. I…” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not like math, computer languages, Hindi, or English. I like it, but I don’t know it…” he huffs softly. “Well, I know it better than Steve does.”
Amy hums a small laugh. “Is that hard?”
Bohdi snorts. “Yeah, maybe not.” In a perfect imitation of Steve’s voice, Bohdi says, “Bohdi, how come World Gates keep popping up in Chicago when the World Seed is gone?”
Amy laughs at the impression and then says, “He just is so stuck on the linearity of time!”
Shaking his head, Bohdi says, “Newtonian physics… Sometimes you just have to let it go.”
He gives a small smile and says, “But I shouldn’t make too much fun of Steve.” Putting his hands in his pockets, he shrugs a bit. “He’s kind of my best friend.”
Amy’s gaze slips sideways. His eyes are on hers and they seem…softer. It’s terrifying. Looking away, Amy says, “It’s kind of hard to imagine you and Steve as friends. He’s so…straight-laced.”
“It’s true,” Bohdi says as they pass a cozy reading nook and enter a section that houses the physics-magic books. “Without me, he might die of boredom—but without him, I’d be in Gitmo, so it all evens out.”
Gitmo? Amy opens her mouth to ask and then hears a noise. On her shoulder, Squeakers goes rigid. Bohdi halts at her side. The butterflies continue to swirl in the air above them.
Amy’s eyes slide in the direction of the sound. It’s footsteps, coming from around a corner in front of them—an alcove that leads to the main hallway beyond the library. A voice says in Asgardian, “I’m sure I saw lights in here.” There is another sound—a clinking noise. Armor?
Amy looks behind them. The door to the tunnels is too far away; they won’t make it, even if they run. Mr. Squeakers gives an ill-timed cheep on her shoulder.
“Did you hear that?” says the first voice.
A deeper voice says, “Yes.” And then there is the sound of fast footsteps.
“Hide!” Bohdi whispers, inclining his head in the direction of the nook.
Amy nods, and they turn into the tiny space just as the footsteps enter the library proper.
“Quick, behind the chairs!” Amy turns and slips into the dusty corner behind an enormous, overstuffed chair. Bohdi slips behind the other.
The butterflies follow, dancing just above the chair backs. From beyond the nook comes the sound of their pursuers. “Do you see butterfly lights?”
Amy reaches up and tries to catch the flitting insects. Bohdi does, too…but with much more luck.
The sound of her heart is competing in volume with the footsteps that are only a few feet beyond the nook. Amy bows her head. Maybe if they play dumb…just tell Frigga they happened upon the tunnels. And were bored. And if they apologize profusely…
“Look, the butterflies!” says the first voice. “What’s making them so excited?”
“I’ll check,” says the deeper voice.
Amy looks up. Her eyes lock with Bohdi’s. This is it.
She hears the sound of a sword being drawn. “Come out, whoever, whatever you are!” says the deeper voice. There is another footstep. She can see the armored boot of its maker around the corner of her chair.
Amy sits paralyzed. So does Bohdi.
Squeakers does not.
Leaping from her shoulder, Squeakers catches a fluttering butterfly midair, and lands on the back of the chair. Settling back on four legs, he bites into the butterfly with a crunch.
The screams that come from the man’s mouth sound inhuman. Which Amy guesses, they technically may be, but still, it seems excessive…
“A spidermouse! Kill it!” the first man screeches.
“No! The whole library could be infested with them!” shouts his comrade. There is the sound of thudding retreating footsteps.
“We must get the mages!” says first man, his voice now very far away. Amy and Bohdi creep out from their hiding places. Amy peeks around the corner of the nook. “They’re gone,” she whispers.
She turns and sees Bohdi holding Squeakers in his palm. Smiling and scratching Squeakers behind the ears, he says, “Who could be afraid of such a cute little mouse?”
Amy’s lips purse. Considering that Bohdi is holding Mr. Squeakers in his palm, it seems an inopportune time to point out that in another universe, she’d learned that Squeakers is venomous enough to knock out even a very powerful Frost Giant—and probably could kill a human.
“Errr…” she says instead. “We better go before they get back.”
Bohdi nods, and then says, “Can I get a book on physics first?”
Amy blinks at him. Bohdi shrugs and smiles. Rolling her eyes, she runs to where they first heard the footsteps and pulls the first book she sees from the shelf. The Theory and Practical Application of Magic, by a Hellbendi so-and-so.
Waving it at Bohdi, she says, “Can we go now?”
“Yep,” says Bohdi with a grin, still holding Squeakers in his palm.
They’re just slipping into the tunnel, the few remaining butterflies flitting in behind them, when they hear voices rise from the library. Bohdi and Amy twist the crank. There’s only a centimeter left to close when Amy hears a man’s voice say, “Are you sure you are up to this task?”
“I’m sorry, Sir…but with the invasion and skirmishes with the Fire Giants, all the more adept mages are busy.”
Amy puts her hand on top of Bohdi’s before he can finish closing the door.
He stops and looks at her.
Holding a hand to her lips, she says, “They’re talking about an invasion…”
“Invasion? Where?”
Beyond the tunnel, one of the men says, “How many mages can be needed for an invasion of Earth?”
Amy looks at Bohdi, her eyes go wide, and she sinks to her knees.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Shrugging his coat against the cold, Steve quickens his steps. He’s almost across Jackson when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Stepping onto the curb, he pulls it out and scans the screen. A new text from Prometheus.
Still no news on the whereabouts of Miss Lewis and the other human?
Steve starts walking again, somewhat surprised by the question. They’ve been assuming that Prometheus was at least located in Asgard part-time. Maybe he isn’t. Or maybe he is and this is just a ploy to uncover how much Steve knows. So Steve punts that ball right back at their sometime source.
No, Steve types. It’s a lie. From the last transmissions received by the drone, ADUO is almost dead certain that Lewis and Bohdi are in Asgard.
Tapping his thumbs on the screen, he asks, Do you have intel?
Three little dots flash on the screen.
For a few seconds, there is nothing. And then a message appears. I cannot see into Nornheim, but I do not believe that the Norns will harm Lewis. When will you send in a recovery team?
So much emphasis on Lewis. And certainty that she is still alive. Interesting.
Logistics under review, Steve types back.
A one-word reply appears on the screen: Understood. And then Prometheus disconnects.
Steve sighs. Well, at least someone understands that a mission to Nornheim is a little more than a walk in the park—or even a rescue from Somali pirates.
Slipping the phone into his pocket he walks across the courtyard that separates the Board of Trade from the building to the east of it. He spares a look up at the Board of Trade—a hulking, bent shadow against the weak winter sun. His heart sinks. There has been no progress on rehabbing the structure. It’s a monument to defeat. He’d almost rather see the damned thing torn down, but it’s a national landmark, and that’s not going to happen.
Shaking his head, he reaches the east side of the courtyard and ducks into the restaurant there. He’s met by a new waitress. She’s pretty, in a typical way. Blonde, busty, with a tan that is too expensive for a waitress salary.
“Just one?” she asks. Her accent sounds vaguely Norwegian. There has been a small surge in immigrants from Scandinavia since the appearance of Loki.
“Meeting some people,” Steve says.
Picking up a menu, she says, “Oh, you’re Steve Rogers. I’m Cindy. Your party is in my section. Right this way.”
A few minutes later, Steve is sitting down at a table with three members of Chicago’s Democratic Party, “Fats” MacNamara, a stout, ruddy-faced man in his fifties, and two young guys. Harrison, an African American with an East Coast accent and Harvard degree who Steve has mentally nicknamed “Two-for,” and Richard, a young white kid with stringy, dirty blond hair and a baseball cap. “Two-for” and Richard have convertible tablets open in front of them, every now and then their fingers dance across the keyboards. The conversations of scientists and tourists fill the restaurant. In the corner a TV is tuned to CNN.
“Thing is, Steve,” Fats is saying, “you’re divorced, and still unmarried. And voters don’t like that…”
Richard blinks up over the screen of his tablet. “Oh, come on, unmarried divorcees have become mayors before…”
Two-for shoots a withering glare in Richard’s direction. Fats’s face goes a little ruddier.
Steve’s lips twist into a bitter half-smile.
Looking embarrassed, Fats says, “Steve is black.”
Steve rolls his eyes and resists the urge to hold up his hands and say, What? I am? If Bohdi were here, he’d make that joke for him. Tapping a finger on the table, he smiles tightly.
“Cory Booker!” Richard says. “Mayor of Newark!”
Two-for shakes his head. “Never married. Not divorced. And everyone thinks he’s gay.” He turns to Steve. “Are you gay? Because we could work with that. If you’re gay, that makes the divorce more excusable. You were finding yourself, your divorce is amicable…”
Steve narrows his eyes. “No.”
Richard perks up. Face becoming animated, hands leaving his keyboard, he says excitedly, “No…you’re not gay? Or you don’t like that plan? Because, dude, being gay would go a long way to easing the younger generation’s anxiety about your membership in the Republican Party when you were in college.”
“Might also help with the allegations of sexual harassment of that Frost Giantess,” says Two-for.
“Those allegations are baseless and I will be found innocent,” Steve snaps. Two-for and Richard draw back.
“Steve’s not gay,” says Fats.
The two younger men turn to Fats, shoulders slumping slightly.
Steve leans back in his seat. “And it wouldn’t play with the older generation in this town.”
Turning to Steve, Fats says, “But the divorce is an issue. If there was—”
With a brusque wave of his hand, Steve cuts him off. “There are no sordid stories of clandestine affairs, Fats.”
Fats leans closer to Steve. “You’ve given full access to surveillance of the giantess in your custody. Transparency is going to solve your sexual harassment issue… If you gave that same transparency to your divorce, opened up your divorce papers for the press…”
Lowering and shaking his head, Steve says, “No. It would hurt my daughter. And…no. Not happening.”
Fats sighs. “Steve…isn’t your daughter in the Ukraine now?”
Steve lifts his eyes, his insides turning to lead. Claire is in the Ukraine. This very day going to the Kiev Ballet for a tour, and then to the president’s residence for a reception. What had Claire said? Her dress was like a real princess’s?
“Think about it, Steve,” says Fats. Looking at his empty plate, he says, “Where did our waitress go?”
Steve looks at his own empty coffee cup. He suddenly needs more. And he wants to step away from the table. Scanning the room, he sees the coffee maker at the bar underneath the television. Grabbing his cup, he says, “Anyone else want more?”
The three political gurus shake their heads, and Steve steps away. The only person at the bar is a woman in a neat pantsuit, a tablet in front of her. She looks up at Steve and his breath catches. Her features are very African. She has a wide mouth with full lips, and a flat nose. Her skin looks like it’s been cut with cream, though. She is a light tan, her hair slightly darker. But her eyes are stunning, wide and nearly black. Her lips stretch into an easy smile. “Hello.”
Steve’s brain blinks off for a second. As he gathers himself, his first thought is that this is why marriage is preferred in politicians. If you don’t have someone, you’re always looking.
His eyes take in the hard hat on the counter beside her. The architectural designs laid out on the tablet, and the black portfolio leaning against the bar between their feet. Someone on the Board of Trade rehab team, maybe?
Almost against his volition his own lips turn into a smile. “Hi,” he says, feeling himself lean imperceptibly closer.
From behind the bar, a man’s voice says, “Oh my God. Is that real?”
Steve and the woman both turn. Steve’s eyes lift to the screen. At first, he thinks he’s looking at a trailer for a movie. A winged woman in armor is on the screen, a spear upraised in front of her, a silent scream on her lips. The end of the spear is glowing red. A heartbeat later, a drop of what looks like lava congeals on the tip and blasts toward the camera. The screen goes black. All voices in the room go silent.
The frame switches to a building too engulfed in flame be recognized…but the fire is wrong. Too red, and too bright. Magic.
Steve steps closer to the bar. The bartender turns on the sound and an announcer’s voice fills the room. “This is a shot of the Kremlin… We’ve also got reports coming in that the residence of the president of Belarus is targeted…and wait, wait…” The screen flashes to another building bathed in the same too-red fire. The announcer says, “And this is a shot of the residence of the president of the Ukraine.”
Steve’s jaw drops. Someone says, “Are you all right?”
“The parties responsible have not been identified. Some are wondering if it is the work of the elves. However, some reports on the ground are that the attackers look more human than—”
Steve pulls out his phone and frantically goes to check the time in the Ukraine.
Someone is patting his shoulder. It’s Fats. He’s saying something.
Hands shaking on the phone, Steve can’t hear him. His fingers are searching for the time in the Ukraine. His body goes cold.
“She’s there,” Steve shouts. “She’s there for the reception…”
“Who?” says Fats.
“Claire…Claire…” says Steve, now almost a whisper. “And Dana…”
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