Loki's Gambit, page 22
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
Loki raises an eyebrow at the word. Cera means power.
“And I can be your Cera,” the red mist says. It is so dense around Loki that he has to blink his eyes to see. His whole body hums and his skin starts to turn blue. Scowling, he fights back the illusion concocted by his obviously slipping sanity and grief.
He blinks again. The thing, Cera, is right. Loki’s pulse starts to race. He’s been delving into mortal magics these past few weeks looking for some way to exact revenge. Humans are so close to being able to give him what he needs — yet still decades, maybe centuries away. But Cera...if whatever Cera is, is as powerful as Loki thinks, vengeance may be very close.
“What do you want?” Loki whispers.
“Be my Josef!” Cera wails. “Save me from the God people!”
Loki throws his legs over the edge of the couch. “Where are you?”
He feels an anxiety in the pit of his stomach and knows it isn’t his own. The thing is projecting emotions now. He scowls.
“I don’t know where I am,” Cera wails. “But I know where I’ve been...”
It is way too early in the morning after Loki and Amy’s Apple TV discussion, but Amy is dashing down the stairs. The vet clinic called. They are short handed for the day; they asked her if she can be there in half an hour for a ten hour shift. She tears into the kitchen in her scrubs and finds Loki staring out the window, a frown on his face. She runs to retrieve her change apron from the next room. When she gets back in the kitchen, apron in hand, she says, “What’s wrong?” She doesn’t really have time for the answer, but she remembers him murmuring in his sleep the night before, his fingers twitching, and it makes her physically ache for him.
“I need money,” he says, shooting her a look like a challenge. “And I am forbidden to steal while I am under your roof, so — ”
“You could ask to borrow some,” says Amy.
Loki’s frown vanishes. “Ask?”
“Of course,” says Amy. She heaves a breath. “Look, you lost your family, your friends...your world. Of course you’ll need some help getting back on your feet.” She takes two tens out of the change apron, slips them in the pocket of her scrubs and drops the apron on the table. The change rattles in the pockets. Loki follows it with his eyes.
“Take as much as you need; everything if you need it,” Amy says.
“I don’t think I could....” says Loki. His eyes have gone wide, and he has the expression of a surprised puppy on his face.
His earnestness surprises Amy, and makes warmth bubble in her stomach. “Look, you know where it all is. Take it. Everything. It’s okay. Really.”
Loki comes forward and drops to one knee in front of her. “Amy Lewis, I am in your debt. You have my oath that I will pay you back with interest.”
“Ummm...” she says. “Well, if you think that is necessary,” she says, looking at her change purse. What is it, forty six bucks and some change maybe?
Kissing her hand, he says, “I do think it is necessary.”
Amy swallows as warmth rushes through her limbs at his touch. “Okay...” Loki looks up at her, his face shining with something close to happiness. “I wondered why I heard you in the forest, I wondered how your voice came to be in my head, and how you intersected with my higher purpose. Now I know. My gratitude is eternal, and you have my oath, I will pay it back with interest!”
He kisses her hand again, and Amy’s mouth drops open. “Ummmm....” is all that comes out. She feels her face go red, and then Loki looks up at her like he might actually kiss her — really kiss her. That is appealing and scary. “I have to go,” she squeaks and runs out the kitchen door.
She nearly crashes into Beatrice on the back walk. Clutching a watering can to her chest, Beatrice says, “Did you talk to Loki this morning?”
Amy blinks. “Yes.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrow. “I heard him talking in Russian.” Beatrice learned Russian as a child in the Ukraine — under less than ideal circumstances.
Amy’s bites her lip. She has to run, but she doesn’t like to rush away from her grandmother. Not when she’s talking about her life before.
Shaking her head, Beatrice says, “Something about Cera and Tunguska.”
“What?” says Amy.
“Cera is power, dear,” says Beatrice. She purses her lips. “I think Tunguska is a place.” And then Beatrice starts walking towards the front yard. “Well, I better go. My impatiens are thirsty.”
Amy watches her go, her stomach tying in a knot. But then she shakes her head and makes a beeline for the bus stop, waving to the little Mexican man on a bicycle ice cream cart that always seems to be around their house as she goes.
Later that evening when she comes home, her change apron is lying on the table. She peeks in. Loki has left her with $20. A note is on top, written in an oddly near perfect hand.
Miss Lewis,
I must leave for a while and do not know when I shall return; but rest assured, I never forget my oaths. We never discussed terms of my loan, I hope 33% per annum will be sufficient.
Again my gratitude is eternal,
Loki
Amy’s heart falls at the “leave for a while” bit. She rubs her hand over the note and sighs.
After a few minutes she picks up the change apron and shakes her head. All that gratitude for what could have only been about $26 bucks?
About a week and a half later, Amy is walking up the sidewalk to her grandmother's house. It's dusk, and the windows are all dark. The day was hot and muggy, and the evening isn't much better, but she sees Beatrice out watering her flowers in the relatively cool air. Her grandmother nods without smiling, and goes around the back of the house, watering can in hand. Her grandmother's expression, the darkness of the house, she doesn't have to ask; Loki is still gone. She bites her lip, and the magic is gone with him. Bowing her head, she trudges up the steps.
Going in the door, she picks up the mail that's been thrust through the mail slot. She rifles through the envelopes, purposefully not looking at the couch where Loki slept.
Her eyebrows rise. There is a letter from her school. Opening it, she finds that the check she sent in to pay for her miscellaneous school fees has bounced. Shaking her head, she goes to her laptop to check her bank account. She's never bounced a check in her life; there must be a mistake.
A few minutes later, Amy's sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the computer screen, face in her hands. There is only $1 left in her checking. She feels cold, even though the room is warm. Realization hits hard and fast. Loki stole from her, after giving her his precious oath. And he hasn't come back, and she won't be able to go back to school.
She swallows and scoots back from the table feeling sick.
How will she get the money? Should she borrow it from Beatrice? Is it too late to apply for financial aid?
She looks up and her gaze goes to the kitchen window. She's vaguely aware of Beatrice standing up and lowering the the watering can in her hands. Amy closes her eyes, remembering Loki's words, “I will pay you back with interest.” Maybe it's all been a mistake? He'll come back, it will all be okay... But it won't be, because she needs the money now.
Outside, Beatrice must see Amy, and her face must look stricken, because Beatrice comes running. And then Beatrice just sort of isn’t there.
Amy bolts from her seat, the sickening feeling in her stomach instantly getting worse. She runs through the door and finds Beatrice on the ground at the bottom of the stoop, her leg at an odd angle. Her head is tilted back and her eyes are closed. Blood is on the sidewalk.
“Grandma!” Amy screams. Sinking to her knees, she pulls out her phone, and dials 911. As the phone rings, she takes her grandmothers hand in her own. She looks down at the delicate veins visible through her grandmother's aged skin. Beatrice does not stir. Amy swallows, her eyes hot. Now everything is gone.
A few hours later she is at the hospital, sitting in the waiting room in a daze. On the periphery of her vision she sees several men approaching.
“Miss Lewis?” Amy turns her head, and her brow furrows. There is the older man with the too-square jaw in the too conservative gray suit who she saw in her neighborhood eating ice cream. He’s still in a gray suit. Next to him are two other men. The first looks Mexican, and vaguely familiar. She blinks. It’s the ice cream vendor, but now he’s in a suit, too.
The last man is young. He’s wearing a suit too, but he looks a little more rumpled. Looking down at a little device of some kind, he says, “She’s clean.”
Holding up a badge, the older guy says, “Miss Lewis, I’m agent Merryl and these are agents Hernandez and Ericson. We’re from the FBI. We need to bring you in for questioning.”
“Am I in trouble?” Amy stammers.
The old guy just tilts his head.
~FIN~
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MONSTERS
I Bring the Part II
After being attacked by a serial killer, saved by Loki — so-called God of Mischief, Lies and Chaos — dragged to Alfheim, losing every cent in her bank account, and caring for her grandmother, Amy Lewis has lost her scholarship to veterinary school. But it’s alright. She has a plan. If she manages to keep her day job as a receptionist, and her night job as a vet tech, she may be able to get her scholarship reinstated and save enough money for the dreaded ‘miscellaneous fees.’
Too bad her day boss is unbearable...
Agent Steve Rogers has political aspirations, but when a suitcase nuke turns out to be something much worse and so-called Norse gods start showing up in his life, he has a priority shift.
Meanwhile, Loki’s priorities and plans haven’t changed at all. He wants Asgard to burn. Of course, earthly pleasures can be so distracting.
These three disparate characters have little in common, but they’ll have to join forces to save earth from trolls, wyrms, frost giant invasions, and an old evil growing beneath Chicago’s streets.
In this second volume of “I Bring the Fire,” chaos comes to our world and decides to stay. The nine realms will never be the same.
Chapter One
Steve Rogers sits at his desk in the FBI’s new office for the Chicago Department of Public Liaisons. The small office is on LaSalle Street in Chicago’s downtown, the infamous Loop. It’s just a few blocks south of city hall, and a little up the street from the Chicago Board of Trade building. Outside, the downtown traffic is a cacophony of engine rumbles, honks, and screeching tires. It’s September, but Chicago is experiencing a sweltering Indian summer. The air conditioning in the ancient building hums away, and it’s still too hot in the room.
With one hand Steve holds a phone to his ear. In the other, he holds a photo of a little girl. She’s wearing a neat navy blue school uniform, her large brown eyes are bright, her hair is pulled back in neat black cornrows, and she’s smiling at the camera.
Steve’s own skin is very dark. The little girl’s skin is cafe au lait like her mother’s. Her name is Claire, she’s Steve’s daughter, and she’s 8 years old today.
The phone rings once, twice, and three times. Steve closes his eyes, is about to hang up, but then it’s answered.
“You missed her. She just stepped out with her grandmother. They’re going to go pick up some balloons.” The woman’s voice on the other line sounds tired and irritated—as usual. She says it’s all the anger and irritation she stored up during the eight years of their marriage.
“Awwww...Dana,” Steve says to his ex-wife. “Can you go get them? I just want to wish her a happy birthday.”
“They’re gone, Steve,” Dana says. “Why don’t you call after the party, before we go out to dinner with my folks, around three?”
Turning to his computer, Steve pulls up his calendar, “I have a meeting at three today —”
“Busy saving the world,” says Dana in a bored voice.
“It’s with the mayor,” Steve says. Old habits kick in and he goes on the defensive. “I’m actually meeting with the heads of the agencies the city set up after 9/11 to deal with terrorism. I think we’ll finally start coordinating.”
The FBI’s main Chicago office is out west a few miles. The whole reason they opened this satellite branch was so that the Bureau could start leveraging local assets, and to do that they needed agents greasing city hall’s wheels. Steve’s only been here a few months, but he’s managed to charm the mayor and is on a first name basis with most of the aldermen.
Pride creeps into his voice.
He should know better.
“Glad the marriage to your job is still going well. Three o’clock and that’s it,” says Dana. “Look, I have to go, there’s a delivery.”
The line goes dead.
Setting the photo down, Steve leans back in his chair and puts a hand through his short cropped hair. He looks at his computer. It’s ten o’clock. He swivels in his chair...maybe he should get a coffee?
An enormous shadow alights in Steve’s window and he jumps up, hand going to the pistol at his hip. “What the...”
Steve swallows. The biggest raven he’s ever seen is on the window ledge. Oblivious to Steve, the raven looks down. With a loud “Rawk, rawk,” it plunges.
Steve blinks. He served in Kandahar during his stint in Afghanistan as a United States Marine, but something about that big black bird still makes his heart race. He definitely needs a coffee.
Getting up from his desk, he swings on his suit coat to hide his piece. On the way out of his office he nods at the receptionist and at the other agent in the office, Tonya Fitzpatrick.
Older than Steve’s 38 by about fifteen years, Tonya is half Irish and half Italian, and that goes a long way in this town. She isn’t a natural actor like Steve, though, and that doesn’t go over quite as well. When you’re dealing with politicians you have to have a high tolerance for bullshit. Steve can tolerate and smile.
Right now Tonya’s got her phone pressed to her shoulder and she’s scowling, a long lock of curly gray hair falling over her face. Catching his gaze, she rolls her eyes toward the phone and then holds up a hand for Steve to wait a minute.
As Steve watches, she manages to get off the phone with whomever she’s talking to and jogs over to him. “Talk to your little girl?” she says.
Steve’s stomach sinks and he frowns. When it comes to his divorce and Claire, his acting abilities disappear.
Raising an eyebrow, Tonya says, “Let’s get some coffee.” She opens her mouth, probably to say something encouraging, but Steve doesn’t want to think about his phone call. To change the subject he smiles and says, “You know, you really shouldn’t scowl when you talk on the phone. People can hear it in your voice.”
Tonya narrows her eyes up at him—she’s only 5’ 4” or so and Steve towers over her at nearly 6’ 5”. She maintains her glare and her silence until they reach the ornate but slightly decrepit lobby they share with a bank, a photo shop, and a clothing store. Steve maintains his smile and laughs when her lips quirk up.
They actually get along pretty well together. Steve plays good cop, she plays bad cop. It disorients people when the large black man is seemingly less formidable than the small Irish-Italian mom-grandmother type.
Together they step out of the building. They take their first breaths of the Chicago heat. Tonya scowls. Steve does, too. Steve spent his early childhood in rural Alabama. Chicago heat is worse than Alabama heat. It’s just as humid, maybe more, the sound of traffic is grating, and Steve’s sure he can taste the pollution on his tongue. They’re just about to cross over Jackson to the wide open plaza in front of the Chicago Board of Trade when a loud “Rawk! Rawk!” sounds above the din of traffic.
Next to him Tonya says, “Those are the two biggest crows I’ve ever seen.”
Steve scowls at the sky. Ravens aren’t city birds...and these two are enormous, their feathers so black, they’re nearly blue. “Those aren’t crows, they’re ravens,” he says.
“How do you know?” Tonya asks.
Before he can answer, both of their phones go off. Meeting each other’s gaze, they pick up. “Agent Rogers,” he says, as Tonya says her name nearly in unison.
The voice on the other end is eerily calm. “We have a stray kitten reported in the tunnels beneath the Chicago Board of Trade. Containment teams are on their way. Civilian personnel laying fiber optic lines in the LaSalle tunnel just north of Jackson need to be evacuated. All available agents are requested to assist.”
“Stray kitten” is code for suitcase nuke, and it is currently right under the building just a few yards in front of Steve and Tonya.
Their eyes meet, and Steve doesn’t have to ask if she received the same call.
“Better to take the entrance to the tunnels in the basement of our building,” says Tonya, and Steve can hear her forcing herself to stay calm.
Turning back the way they came, Steve nods. “Do you think that the local law enforcement has caught wind of this?”
From a few blocks up LaSalle Street comes the screech of police sirens. “I think so,” says Tonya.
“I’ll go talk to the fellas repairing the fiber optic line,” says Steve. He smiles broadly. Anyone passing by will think they’re having a normal conversation. Tilting his head toward the cop cars ensnared a few blocks up in the Chicago traffic, he says, “You handle them.”
Tonya nods and Steve darts back into their building. He’s at the far end of the lobby when he hears a woman scream behind him and a loud, “Rawk, rawk!” Turning, he sees the ravens swoop past a cowering woman at the door and then rise to circle the lobby.
Steve’s mouth falls open, but he doesn’t have time to deal with it; he heads to the staircase that will lead him to the tunnels. Entering the stairway, he takes the steps down, two at a time. When he reaches the basement level there are two doors. One goes to the basement proper and another leads even further below, to Chicago’s underground tunnel system. The tunnel system is behind several security doors, but Steve has keys and authorization for emergencies just like this. He’s putting his key into the lock of the first door when he hears a door open and shut above. He freezes. “Tonya?” he calls.
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