Loki's Gambit, page 131
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
Bohdi puts his hands on the back of her shoulders and steers her toward the door. “Yes,” he says.
At the door, she exchanges her lab coat for her jacket. She doesn’t meet his eyes as she slips out the borrowed lab keys to lock up. Trying to shake her from her funk, Bohdi says, “That was some excellent sneakiness earlier.”
The keys to the lab fall from her hands. “What? Sneaky?”
Bending to pick up the keys, Bohdi raises an eyebrow at her. “The feather … bribing James.”
Amy exhales. “Oh. That.”
“Very impressive,” says Bohdi.
Amy sucks in a breath and stands a little straighter. “Thanks, I guess.”
Opening the door for her, Bohdi smirks. “Were you always that sneaky, or is that just because Loki swirled your brains?”
Amy scowls. “No! I did not become sneaky because Loki swirled my brains!”
He’d rather see her fighting than afraid. So he plays it up. Looking down his nose at her, he affects his best air of dubiousness. “Really?”
“I helped him escape Alfheim!” she says, sounding very indignant.
“Pfffttt … I don’t believe you.” He bites back his smile. She’s fallen right into his trap.
By the time they’re in the convenience store a few minutes later, Amy is talking very animatedly. Waving some hummus and carrots she says, “And then I hit Thor with my car!” She stops abruptly and scowls. Her mouth falls open. She looks upwards and winces. “I think that was supposed to be top secret, and I don’t think I’m supposed to have told you that.”
Bohdi grins. “What’s a few felonies between friends?”
Her eyes come to his and her jaw drops a little more. Bohdi looks over his shoulder. Is she worried about being overheard? She wasn’t that loud, and the two African American guys debating the merits of Red Bull versus coffee are really drowning them out. Bohdi tilts his head toward the register. The Southeast Indian-looking guy behind the counter is looking nervously at the black guys. Bohdi scowls. He knows people from his part of the world know only about African American culture from rap videos, but the guys are obviously students prepping for an all night studyathon. He shakes his head, and his eyes fall on the white guy over by the beverages. The man’s face is haggard and worn, his hair is a little too long, but slicked back to look neat. He’s wearing a very expensive-looking leather jacket that is a size too big and a cut too modern. Bohdi almost sighs aloud. That guy is a shoplifter. Almost to prove his point, the guy casually slips a beer up his sleeve.
Rolling his eyes, Bohdi turns back to Amy. “Convincing the Light Elves that they’d offended your car was really awesome.”
Looking down at the floor, Amy scuffs her sneaker against the linoleum. He can just barely make out her smile. “Yeah.”
They pick up a few more snacks, Amy selecting a few more vegetarian options, Bohdi picking up a few sandwiches. They’re walking toward the register, following the students, when Bohdi realizes something he forgot. Stopping at the edge of the aisle, Bohdi whispers. “Uh … I don’t have any money.”
Sighing, Amy rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”
“But I invited you! That wouldn’t be right,” he whispers, skin heating.
Amy purses her lips. “It’s not like it’s a date.”
Bohdi narrows his eyes at her. He glances up and sees the thief walking toward the register, a pack of gum in his hand. Bohdi’s brows go up, suddenly struck by inspiration. Setting the sandwiches on top of her tabbouleh, he says, “No, I’ve got this. Wait here.”
She gapes at him. “Are you thinking of stealing something?”
Bohdi takes a step back. His nostrils flare. Doesn’t she understand he only uses his powers of theft to help people? Okay, sometimes just himself … but only if no one else gets hurt. Keeping his voice down, despite his anger, he hisses. “Amy, that would be wrong!” He waves a hand toward the middle-aged clerk. “He probably has adorable, little big brown-eyed babies to feed!”
Amy’s shoulders drop. Her mouth snaps shut.
Behind him, Bohdi hears the cash register slam shut. Before she can say a word he holds up a finger. “Wait here!” Spinning around, he runs out the door.
From just outside he watches the thief finish purchasing the single pack of gum. Bohdi waits for him to turn from the register and walk to the door. Before the guy can open it, Bohdi barrels in, knocking the guy so hard the beer in his sleeve falls to the floor with a crash.
“What?” shouts the clerk.
“I am so sorry!” Bohdi says, fighting a smirk, as the man tries to move around him. “Here, let me help you!” He begins patting the man down.
“I’m calling the police!” shouts the clerk.
“Stop it!” the thief snarls, trying to step around Bohdi. Hopping to stay in front of him, Bohdi keeps patting. Snacks start falling from the guy’s coat like rain.
“Get off me!” the thief shouts. He tries to shove Bohdi out of the way, but Bohdi slides to the side and swipes a foot against the other man’s. The guy’s momentum works against him and he falls face-first to the floor. Stepping neatly over him, Bohdi grabs the guy’s arms and wrenches them behind his back. It’s so easy he has to fight to keep from laughing.
“The police are a block away!” the shop owner shouts.
Putting his knee into the guy’s back, Bohdi says, “Great.” He turns to Amy. “Hey, Honey, why don’t you pay for those?”
The keeper’s eyes go to Amy, and then back to Bohdi. Shaking his hands, the man says, “Oh, no! No! No! Those are on me!”
A few minutes later, Amy and Bohdi step away from the convenience store, police lights flashing behind them.
“That was really great, what you did back there,” Amy says.
Bohdi blinks at her, and then the laughter he’s been suppressing finally comes out. “Who needs to steal when there are so many thieves in the world who will do it for you!” he says.
A furrow appears in Amy’s brows. Looking ahead she says, “And suddenly something that seemed altruistic becomes morally ambiguous.”
“Morally ambiguous?” says Bohdi, walking a little taller.
Amy looks down at her hands. “You do realize, the things we got for free probably were more expensive than what that other guy stole.” Her brow furrows. “Especially when you threw in the extra ice cream and cigarettes.”
She actually has a point. Which is more annoying than if she didn’t. Bohdi sniffs. “The shop guy asked if we wanted anything else.”
Amy tilts her head. “Still.”
Bohdi’s free hand finds his lighter. He flips the thumbwheel and his brain stumbles on the loophole. “See, you’re not taking into account the greater good in all of this.”
“Greater good?” says Amy.
Bohdi waves the hand with the lighter. “That one shop guy lost out. But the shoplifter is going to jail, which means one less thief for all shopkeepers everywhere.”
Amy’s head bows. “The good of the many … ”
Bohdi finishes. “Outweighs the needs of a few. You can’t argue with Spock.”
He hears her gulp. “It’s a lot easier to say that with moral authority when the needs being sacrificed are your own.”
“We didn’t take that much food from the guy, Amy.” Slipping the lighter back in his pocket, he begins rifling through the bag. Pulling out a sandwich, he says, “So, are you going to dose up Fenrir tonight?”
Lifting her head, she says, “I was planning on it.”
“Can I sleep on your couch again?” he asks. Even with overprotective grandmothers, it’s a little more like a home than the place he’s staying. Or maybe it’s more like a home because of overprotective grandmothers. And he wants to be there, just in case—
“It probably won’t work…” Amy says. And then she mumbles. “I shouldn’t worry.”
Bohdi blinks. Worry? “Is this about the mutants, Amy?”
She looks at him but doesn’t answer.
He gives her a tight smile. “All I care about is Steve.”
“Not me,” she says, and bows her head.
Chapter Five
The Promethean wire on the windows makes Steve’s room dim, but it’s visiting hours, and that must make it what, eight o’clock? Steve would ask, but talking takes a lot of energy. It’s not just that his mouth is parched and dry, it’s that his thoughts are swimming through a morphine haze.
A chair squeaks. Steve can’t turn his head to look and maybe that’s a good thing, because if he could he might cry.
“This should be me,” Henry says.
Steve can see, in the periphery of his vision, the speed of the rise and fall of his chest increase—but he can’t feel it. Or control it. Steve grits his teeth and grinds out, “Where’s mom?”
Henry slides a bit closer, but Steve still can’t see him. “Nurse said you’ve got visitors—”
“Claire?” says Steve, and there’s hopefulness in his voice … even though he doesn’t want her to see him, he wants to see her. He just wants to know at least some part of him is well, is thriving and will endure.
Henry clears his throat. “No, you’re still in intensive care. She’s too young.”
“Bohdi?” says Steve. Please, be Bohdi, be Loki … Steve squeezes his eyes shut as the names slip together in his mind, blurry with painkillers. He can’t say that aloud. If it got back to Odin ...
He hears the door open and the sound of his mother’s footsteps. She walks slowly into his line of vision, as though afraid she’ll spook him. Steve can’t look directly at her, either. He has trouble meeting his parents’ eyes. He is supposed to be taking care of them now; instead he’s become worse than a child. He bites his lip and internally winces. He often finds himself biting his lips and the inside of his cheeks, because that is all he is physically capable of. He hates it, knows it must make him appear weak. A bitter laugh comes to his lips. He is weak.
“Steve,” his mother says. “Dale flew up from D.C. He’s here.”
“I don’t want to see him,” Steve snaps, and he knows that it will rip Dale up; he knows if the circumstances were reversed he’d need to see Dale. But Goddamn it, he’s the one who’s hurt—his neck hurts and itches, and everything below the neck burns—even though he’s been told he can’t feel anything at all there. Can’t he be a little selfish?
“He’s brought a friend with him from headquarters,” she leans closer and whispers. “The Frost Giant lady.”
Steve’s eyes snap open and slide to his mother.
Her mouth is pulled down into a frown. Her face looks puffy, like she’s been crying. She licks her lips. “I know the elves said they couldn’t help you, but maybe she can?”
Steve looks toward the door—as much as he can. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out a sigh. “Yeah.”
Because as much as he has faith that wherever Bohdi is he’s working with Amy to make him better, he wants out of this prison that is his shattered body right now.
“Do you want some water?” says his mother.
Steve closes his eyes. He can’t even nod, and that almost makes hysterical laughter bubble up in his chest. But he manages to grind out, “Yeah, yeah, I do.”
His mother lifts the small bottle of water and a straw up to his lips. Steve opens his mouth and sucks when he feels the straw on his tongue. He feels his skin heating in shame as he sucks in a few gulps. He pushes the straw out with his tongue when he’s done. The whole time he can’t look her in the eye.
“I’ll go get them,” his mom says. He can hear the tremor in her voice, and it makes him feel sick, weak, and selfish.
He hears the door open and close. A few minutes pass. Henry might take Steve’s hand. He can’t feel it, but he thinks that’s what his dad is doing. The door opens again, and this time, he hears Dale’s and Gerðr’s footsteps. His brows draw together. He hadn’t realized he could recognize Gerðr by her steps.
A moment later she is standing by his side at the foot of his bed. She’s wearing a knit cap that hides Promethean wire—not that she needs it in this room, but it would have protected Dale outside. Without the aid of magical blocking devices, Gerðr has the ability to turn any man that has any inclinations toward women into a lust-addled ineffectual fool. He swallows. Would it work on him now in his current state? He’s afraid to know … with even less control it would be worse than ever.
“What have they done?” she whispers. Steve swallows again. He can still do that. He can see it becoming a compulsive habit.
He closes his eyes. “Can you help?”
He sees a shadow behind his lids and opens his eyes to see her leaning over him. “Yes,” she says softly.
In the background he hears his mother gasp, and his father softly shushing her.
Gerðr’s nearly white hair drapes down in a stringy curtain. Her eyes are the empty blue that always sets him a little on edge. A lot of the men in the office think she’s beautiful, even without her magic. Steve has never thought her unattractive, but at that moment, with that one word, he thinks she looks like an angel.
“Everyone must leave,” she whispers.
Dale steps forward. “If you need to talk to Steve alone, I could help translate.”
Steve’s eyes flick to his friend. He stayed on a few months after Amy and Bohdi returned to study Gerðr’s native language. Without magic to aid translation, Gerðr is far from fluent.
“No,” says Gerðr. “My English … good enough…for this.”
“Dale, Mom … Dad … ” says Steve. “You can go.”
His parents take a step back.
Dale takes a step forward. Dale’s the picture of the “the man,” with slightly mussed straw colored hair and skin that ranges from slightly peach to permanently flushed across the cheeks. Next to Gerðr, he looks tan. He also looks like a sad hound dog. His hand taps against his thigh. “Steve…”
“It will just be … a minute …” Steve says. He raises an eyebrow at Gerðr. “Right?”
She nods, her head rising and falling in short, staccato, movements.
He hears his parents step away, but Dale hovers near him. He shoots a worried look at Gerðr.
“Dale … ” Steve says. It comes out a sigh.
Dale’s hand taps fast against his thigh. “Alright,” he says. “But … ” Shaking his head, he turns and goes to the door.
Gerðr watches them leave. And then she picks up Steve’s hand. The contrast between their skin tones is shocking … and abstract and strange. Steve can see his fingers in hers but he can’t feel anything. It’s like looking at a ghost of himself.
He looks up to her eyes. She’s crying. Steve’s seen her cry before all of once, when she discovered that a World Gate on Des Plaines Avenue would take her to her home world—but it led to the impassable Southern Wastes, and she couldn’t use it to go home.
She cradles his hand to her cheek, and he sees the tears collect on his fingers.
He seriously considers calling Dale.
He sees her swallow. “Of everyone who has ever …” She takes a deep breath. “I … safer, protected here better than anywhere.”
Steve’s jaw falls. Mostly, Gerðr seems to make it a practice to be as mean, nasty, and unapproachable as possible. He takes a breath. He doesn’t know what to say. Gerðr’s marriage was non-consensual, and as far as he’s been able to gather from intel from Lewis, most of her later liaisons have been. And she’d spent time at Guantanamo …
“I do not know what I do … without you at Bureau,” she says. The tears fall from her eyes, and this time land on Steve’s cheek.
As touching as this is, he would rather have this conversation after he’s better.
“Gerðr,” he says. “You’ll help me?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she nods. More tears fall, heavier and faster. “I would … anything. No matter cost.”
“Then do it,” Steve says.
Gerðr’s eyes open. She looks oddly hurt. Swallowing, she whispers. “Yes … for you … anything.”
She puts his hand down and lays it on his chest. Reaching over him, she takes his other hand and lays it on top of the first.
She can’t do any magic in this room … and Steve wonders what this is about, but he’s too tired to ask. Even these brief interactions wear him out.
Straightening beside him, she wipes her eyes. “For you … ”
Turning, she leaves his line of vision. And then she’s back, with an extra pillow. She clutches it in her arms.
“Now …” she whispers, pulling it from her chest.
Steve just has time to scream Dale’s name before the pillow covers his face.
Bohdi wakes up on Beatrice’s couch to the sound of scratching. He lifts his head. Morning light is pouring in from the door to the kitchen. The scratching is coming from that direction, too. He looks over to the easy boy chair beside the couch. Amy is passed out under a knitted throw blanket.
The scratching ceases.
He blinks and rubs his eyes. Maybe there is a raccoon outside or something?
The last thing he remembers is Amy staying up to watch Fenrir. She’d given the little dog a shot of the canine variety of HIV the night before. Fenrir had taken it with barely a whimper. Or no, she had been whimpering, but she didn’t whimper more when she got the shot. Even though only her hindquarters were paralyzed, she hadn’t raised her head, or even perked her ears. He looks to the spot on the floor where the dog bed is.
And blinks again. It’s empty.
“Amy!” he shouts, throwing off the knitted throw. From the kitchen comes a yip.
“Fenrir!” he cries, running to the kitchen, his relief making his body feel impossibly light. His eyes fall on Fenrir. The little dog is sitting by the door, panting, ears perked. For a moment the day seems dazzling and bright and he feels like he’ll burst. But then he notices her hind legs are splayed backwards behind her.
With another yip she pulls herself in Bohdi’s direction, dragging her useless back legs behind her.
Bohdi feels a lump forming in his throat.
Behind him he hears Amy say, “What is it?”
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