Loki's Gambit, page 115
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
“The capitals of the Ukraine, Russia, and Belarus.”
Bohdi’s jaw drops. His fingers fumble on his lighter.
“What?” says Amy.
“Claire…Claire is in Kiev. Is she okay?”
Is Steve okay? Bohdi feels his gut constrict, not just in dread for Claire, but for his best friend who must be in his own personal hell.
Amy’s face goes slack. “I’m sorry…” She swallows. “I don’t know…”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Steve’s eyes blink open, the pain in his back forcing him awake. He’s sitting against the metal grate headboard of the bed in his parents’ guest bedroom. Even with his sport coat on, the metal is digging into his ribs and spine.
He looks down. He’s sitting on top of the covers, legs stretched out. There’s a blanket over him that his mom must have scrounged up while he was asleep, but it isn’t enough. The old Chicago greystone is drafty. His eyes slide to the side. Claire is tucked under the covers beside him, braids and barrettes spilling out on the pillow. She’s under a comforter, and her body is sprawled out. She must be warm.
He almost reaches out to touch her head. Just to make sure she’s real. His vision gets a little blurry.
He’s never slept in the same room with his kid. He always thought the idea was a little weird; it used to make him vaguely uneasy when Dana used to do it… But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Claire alone last night.
Dana. Dipping his chin to his chest, Steve closes his eyes. He didn’t love his ex-wife. Maybe never loved her. But she was real, and human, alive, and a better parent than Steve. Claire needed her, and Odin took her away. Behind his lids, he sees a white flash of rage.
Opening his eyes, he runs his tongue over his teeth. This fury… It feels like the anger he’s felt a thousand times when he’s been privy to casual discrimination, because of his race, or his humble beginnings. He will handle it the same way. He will wait, watch, and scheme.
Steve looks over to the window. It’s early morning. He smells coffee and hears three sets of footsteps downstairs.
With one last glance at his daughter, Steve swings his feet over the edge of the bed and goes as quietly as he can in the creaky old house to the hallway.
His parents are downstairs—and Dale’s there, too. Of course, Steve’s mom invited Dale to spend the night; she always picks up orphans and strays. And of course, Dale accepted. Steve sometimes jokes that Dale might like him, but that he loves Steve’s parents. They’re all sitting at the kitchen table, looking grave as they stare at a nearly silent television in the corner. As Steve comes in, they stand up. His mother hugs him. Dale touches his shoulder. Henry, Steve’s dad, just nods and looks at the screen.
Steve turns to the TV. The news is about the attacks on Moscow, Kiev, and Minsk.
Shaking her head, Steve’s mother says, “What does this mean? Will they be coming here?”
As Steve sits down, his eyes meet Dale’s. How much can he tell?
“No,” Dale says, abruptly looking into his coffee. “I think they’ve probably gotten what they wanted.”
“Yeah,” says Steve. He swallows. He remembers something Amy said when he debriefed her about her trip to the alternate universes. Odin has had his eye on Earth for centuries…but there’s a deal…
In this universe, the deal is evidently off. “But then why haven’t they left?” says Henry.
Steve’s eyes snap to his dad’s.
In that other universe, Odin hadn’t stopped until he had all of Earth under his control. Steve rubs his jaw.
The Asgardians have set up base at Chernobyl. They’ve pitched tents beside the containment arc shielding Reactor Four and the dangerous radioactive material within. From what Steve has been able to glean from Gerðr, the amount of ambient radiation in the area won’t hurt magical creatures. From what he’s picked up from ballistic experts, firing missiles on the Asgardians would result in destabilization of the reactor’s already questionable foundations and would create an environmental catastrophe the likes of which the world has yet to see.
Ground forces are out for similar reasons. Gerðr says a protracted engagement would give the Asgardians time to blow up the foundations themselves before retreating to the safety of Asgard. Which doesn’t completely dismiss a quick ground engagement—except US intelligence isn’t sure that’s possible. There appears to be a World Gate to Asgard right next to the site of the Asgardian camp—meaning virtually limitless reinforcements are possible.
Steve doesn’t answer his father, just looks back to the television…and sees himself. It’s a shot of him last night entering O’Hare, surrounded by ADUO agents in black suits, followed by his mother and father. For once, he’s not playing to the camera. His expression is grave and he turns away whenever a camera points in his direction.
“Oh, turn the channel,” his mom says to Dale.
“No, turn it up,” says Steve. Might as well see how the press is going to play it.
Dale presses the volume button and a reporter’s voice fills the kitchen.
“…As evident in this recent footage from O’Hare, Rogers definitely doesn’t look cool under fire.”
Another voice interjects, “Alan, the man just lost his ex-wife and is worried about his daughter; of course he doesn’t look cool.”
Steve fidgets in his seat. The shot is of his back as he walks down a long hallway in O’Hare. It hadn’t been far, but it had felt like the longest walk in his life.
The coverage shifts to the studio where the anchor and reporter are seated at the news desk. There’s an inset of the burning Kiev building up in one corner.
The reporter continues, “Until recently, Rogers was the hopeful Democratic candidate for mayor of Chicago. However, there have been accusations of sexual harassment—”
Spinning slightly in his chair, the anchor clarifies. “Accusations without material proof.”
Pressing a finger to his ear, the reporter nods, looking distinctly disappointed.
The anchor looks smug, taps his own earpiece, and says, “It’s just been announced that review of video footage of the incarceration of the Frost Giantess shows no evidence of impropriety on Mr. Rogers’ part…”
Leaning back in his seat, Steve narrows his eyes. He’d expected the accusations—he’s a black candidate in Chicago—but it still pisses him off.
The screen flashes back to O’Hare. The camera is on Steve’s back, the picture is shaky, but it shows Claire walking toward him. Dale is beside her, arm on her shoulder. Claire looks terribly small next to him. Next to Claire, Dale looks large, slightly sunburnt, and every inch the Texan good old boy he is. Two more CIA operatives trail behind. Claire breaks into a run. On the screen she moves so fast. Yesterday she’d seemed to move in slow motion.
Steve blinks. An instant later, the camera is suddenly zoomed in on just Claire’s tear-stained face over Steve’s shoulder. Dale is to one side, giving them both a hug, and Steve’s mom is on the other side.
“I was technically off duty,” Dale says, face going bright red. “It was all right for me to do that.”
Steve shakes his head. He doesn’t remember Dale doing that.
The screen is suddenly filled with Henry’s face.
And then a there’s a quick flash of Dale getting a hug from Steve’s mom. Just barely audible is his mom saying, “Thank you, thank you… You know you’re like my other son,” and Dale replying, “Anything for family,” in his rough twang.
And then it’s Henry again, weathered face, salt and pepper hair and beard. His father’s stern voice fills the kitchen. “Excuse us, but this is a time when our family needs some privacy.”
The screen flashes back to the news desk, but there is an inset of Steve leaving O’Hare, holding Claire tight by his side, Dale following, this time with an arm around Steve’s mom, as Henry holds her hand and scowls at the cameras.
The news changes to the weather, and someone turns down the volume. Standing up, Steve’s mom declares, “Would anybody like some breakfast?”
With a look of puppy-dog-like adoration that makes Steve almost embarrassed, Dale says, “Yes, ma’am!”
Steve’s phone starts to buzz. Pulling it out, he glances down at the number. Standing up so quickly he shakes the table, he leaves the kitchen.
“I hope you intend to call in today!” Henry calls after him.
Steve doesn’t answer, just ducks into the next room, hits accept, and says, “Rogers here.”
“Steve,” says Fats. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Steve says, not thinking for a minute that is the reason Fats called.
Fats clears his throat. “It may be a bad time to say this…but you’ve also gone from divorcee to devoted family man overnight.”
Steve’s eyebrows hike.
“Your family’s all over the news. The party would really like to capitalize on the momentum…”
A buzz of triumph shoots through Steve’s nervous system. He smiles. He almost says yes, but he doesn’t. Henry always said, if you were going to do a job, do it right. And he’s not sure he can do right by Chicago…
“Hmmmm…” says Steve instead.
On the other end of the line, Fats says, “Who is the white guy with your family in all the pictures? Can he be part of your campaign? He does well with a demographic you’ve never done well with.”
Steve doesn’t have to ask what demographic Fats is talking about. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. A bitter laugh almost comes to his lips. Dale got him the “good ol’ boy” votes.
A knock sounds at the front door, and Steve hears Henry get up with a grumble and go answer it.
“Best friend from the Marines. Works for the Feds. No, he can’t be part of my campaign,” Steve responds.
“Oh,” says Fats, sounding both impressed and disappointed. “Well, maybe we can just get some pictures of you and him? From your time in the Marines. Get people better acquainted with your history…”
Henry walks toward the kitchen grumbling, “Skinny white kid at the door. Probably a drug addict if he’s in this neighborhood. I’m calling the police before someone shoots him…”
Steve watches Dale as he heads toward the door, very businesslike. Which in Dale’s case could be dangerous.
“I’ve got to go,” Steve says. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Think about it,” is the last thing Steve hears before he disconnects. He almost runs into the foyer. Dale is standing in the open door, staring down at a thin white “kid” with blond hair.
“Yeah?” says Dale. “What do you want?”
“This isn’t Steve Rogers’ residence?” says the “kid,” breath hanging in the frosty air.
The last time Steve saw the “kid,” he had pointy ears. His name is Liddell. He is a Dark Elf, the same ones who were trading with the Russians.
“I know him,” says Steve, gently pushing Dale out of the doorway.
Liddell looks over to Steve. His ears are rounded again, and Steve’s magic detector isn’t blinking. Liddell told them the Dark Elves cut the tips off to avoid magical detection.
“Well met, Rogers,” he says.
Grabbing a coat off the hook by the door, Steve steps outside.
Raising an eyebrow, Dale says, “You want me along?”
Steve gives him a tight smile. “Nah, got this.”
Dale gives him a nod, and shuts the door.
Turning to Liddell, another rush of adrenaline courses through Steve’s system. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asks.
The day is bright, if cold. The sun gleams on Liddell’s straw blond hair. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we lost our trading partners.” Liddell looks up at the sky. It’s clear, not a cloud or raven in sight. Stepping close to Steve he says, “Perhaps we could work together?”
Steve smiles. The adrenaline coursing through his system feels like it’s turned to lightning…in a good way. Yesterday, he thought his world was coming to an end; now he thinks it’s just beginning.
“I’m listening,” he says.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Amy sits on the couch in their room, the book she “procured” on magic spread open on her lap. She’s flipping through the pages, skimming the shimmering text and images, trying to forget the morning. Bohdi is sitting close, eyes over her shoulder.
“Stop,” Bohdi says, laying a warm hand on hers. Her hand stops, and so does her brain, heat spreading warm and welcome from his fingers. It’s so incongruous after such a horrible day that it takes her a moment to recognize the flush of heat for what it is. But it feels good. Like an act of rebellion on the part of her body. She still belongs to herself.
Not looking at her, Bohdi leans closer to the book and whispers, “Is that a picture of a hydrogen atom?”
It’s light years away from Amy’s own thoughts. And for once, more innocent.
Stifling a rueful smile, she focuses on the image he’s pointing to. It looks like a grainy photo negative of the iris of an eye. There is a light band of pixelated color on the outside, a darker cloud of color within, and a dense splotch of shimmering light at the center. A single dot of light wicks in and out of existence at different places in the cloud and rim.
Her eyes go to the text. “You’re right!” she says. Her mouth drops. The little orbiting dot of light is an electron orbiting a nucleus.
Bohdi leans back and runs his hand through his hair; the other loosely clasps his lighter. “How can they know what a hydrogen atom looks like and not have electricity? Or Kevlar…”
Amy looks at the book. It’s ancient, but in wonderful condition, almost as though…
She looks at Bohdi. “I don’t think anyone here reads this book.” She looks away. “It’s kind of considered unmanly to know magic, and magic is their technology…”
Waving the hand with the lighter in it, Bohdi says, “Unmanly? Why?”
And suddenly Amy’s hit by déjà vu. “But why is it considered unmanly, Mimir?” said Loki in Hoenir’s sitting room, snapping his thumb by a candle. It burst into flame. He was only a child, but he learned this trick years ago. He doesn’t even have to imagine the tiny invisible particles in the wick spinning together with other invisible particles to make flame anymore—it just happens.
He looked to Mimir’s severed head. Sitting on the edge of the overstuffed chair, Mimir’s eyebrows rose and his eyes slid to the side. “Well, it is considered so among the Frost Giants, and most of Asgard is at least partially of Frost Giant descent… Odin himself is half Frost Giant so…”
“But Odin knows magic! And you once told me the greatest schools of magic were on Jotunheim, where the Frost Giants live!” Loki protested.
“Ah, well…” Mimir’s voice stuttered to a halt. Loki turned to see Hoenir glaring at the severed head.
Looking down, Mimir said, “Those schools. It has come to my attention that some of their practices…were immoral… Odin saw that they were shut down.”
Loki whispered, “Does Odin not want people to know magic?”
In the present, Bohdi snaps. “Do they want to be stupid?”
Amy blinks. She meets Bohdi’s gaze and repeats what Mimir told Loki. “No, not at first…but I think it has been convenient for Odin that there are few people who can rival his power.”
And then she realizes that what she said doesn’t quite make sense as a response to the question.
Brow furrowing, Bohdi opens his mouth…but before any words come out, there is a knock at the door.
Amy shuts the book and sits on it.
“No!” whispers Bohdi, grabbing the edge of the book and pulling it frantically. “Under the cushions!”
Amy lifts up as Bohdi simultaneously gives a yank. He promptly falls on his butt on the floor, clutching the book to his chest. The doorknob turns, and Amy rushes to stand in front of Bohdi as he fumbles with the book. Fluffing her skirts, she looks up just as the door opens and Pascal and Gabbar stride in. Gabbar’s mustache is at a slight angle, like the whiskers of a disgruntled mouse.
Pascal seems his normal, happy self. “Mademoiselle, we have requested permission from the head of staff for you and Mr. Patel to join us at dinner.”
“He thought you might be bored,” says Gabbar.
Bohdi’s head darts out from behind Amy’s skirts. “Yes, we are bored. So bored.”
Amy looks down at him. The book is no longer in his hands. He looks pointedly under the couch.
Pascal beams at Amy. “Excellent. Right this way.”
Bohdi sits with Amy at a long table. The ceiling of the dining hall is high and the room is cool. It’s very loud. Einherjar and people he’s come to realize are servants are seated across and on either side of them, engrossed in conversations. Bohdi fidgets in his seat. Pascal and Gabbar are chatting at the other end of the table with some of the other Einherjar.
Elbows on either side of his nearly empty plate, he leans close to Amy and whispers, “Are there supposed to be kids here? ’Cause this looks family-style, but there are no kids…” Come to think of it, he hasn’t seen a child since he’s come to Asgard.
Amy’s eyes soften a little. “I don’t think they have many children,” she says but doesn’t elaborate.
He looks to the enormous windows at the far end of the room. They are open to the orchards, now bathed in the shadows of early evening. Turning around, he looks to the double doors behind them. They are unguarded.
No one expects them to bolt. In fact, every time he meets someone’s eyes, they smile warmly at him. Sometimes they say words in fractured English. It makes him feel less comfortable instead of more comfortable.
Amy looks as tense and unhappy as he feels. Leaning toward her, he whispers, “Learn anything?”
She smiles grimly. “No one has caught the personage Odin seeks.”
“Hmmmm…” says Bohdi. He feels pretty caught.
His eyes flick to Pascal, leaning over some men in brown. They nod and pull out what look like instruments from under the table.
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