Loki's Gambit, page 25
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
Steve should put her in witness protection, right now. But...
There is a large pulsing thing under the streets of Chicago that sucks anything that touches its shell, the Promethean Sphere, into never-never land. In a matter of weeks the top of the thing’s shell will come into contact with the bottom of the foundation of Chicago’s Board of Trade and no one knows what will happen. In Lewis’s little interaction with Loki, Steve’s picked up something that hasn’t been mentioned by anyone when the subject of the Promethean devices has come up.
He taps his hand on the conference table. “So when he said that the technology looked Vanir...do you have any idea what that meant?”
Looking up, she purses her lips. “The Vanir are one of the races of the Nine Realms. Not much is known about them, really. They had some big war with the Aesir —”
“The Aesir?” says Steve.
“Yes. Odin’s people.”
“And Loki’s?” says Steve.
She shakes her head. “No, he’s a Frost Giant.” She holds up her hands, as though she’s afraid Steve will react in some undesirable way. “But he knows it, not like in the movies where he goes crazy when he learns that he is actually not an Aesir.”
Steve stares at her blankly. He seems to remember a movie a while back with Loki as the bad guy, some superhero flick. Steve hasn’t been interested in superhero flicks since he was a kid, though.
She swallows. “But he does turn blue...like the movies, but he says Frost Giants aren’t blue....” Brow furrowing she whispers, “And when he turns blue he gets really self-conscious about it and grumpy.”
“Uh-huh,” says Steve, wondering if this is relevant. He tilts his head. “You said higher purpose...and gods...do you think they’re gods?”
Lewis makes a face like she’s just eaten something distasteful. “No. A god wouldn’t be so interested in my boobs.”
Steve laughs, because it’s funny, but also because he’s relieved. She’s not that naive.
Bowing her head, Lewis laughs, too. After a moment, she says, “So you aren’t going to fire me?”
There is no way Steve is going to lose his connection to these...whatevers. He gives her his most calculated, charming smile. “Nope.”
She scowls a tiny bit as though she’s studying him. Her lips purse. “May I go?”
Steve looks back to the computer and all the material he has to read—he hates reading on the screen and silently curses Loki for charring his paper copies.
“You can, for now,” he says. “I’ll call you in if I have any questions.”
Amy gets up and practically scrambles to the door. But then she stops. “Also, you probably know this already … but Cera means power in Russian … according to my grandmother.”
Steve stares blankly at her for a moment. Lewis ducks her chin. “Cera is what he called the World Seed … I think.”
“I didn't know that,” Steve says. And it is giving him goosebumps for some reason. “Thank you,” he says. “You may go.”
Without even a nod she scampers out the door.
Steve turns back to the computer. He remains there long after Lewis goes home. He’s not just reading her file, but there is something in her file that keeps drawing him back.
When Loki, under the alias of Thor Odinson, was released from police custody after slaying Ed Malson, it was due to the interference of ADUO. The department had intelligence that tagged Loki as “the good guy.” More specifically, that intelligence had come in the form of a phone call to ADUO’s directors in Washington.
The phone call had come from Prometheus.
Chapter Two
Loki walks down a tree lined street in one of Chicago’s residential neighborhoods. Beyond the red mist that is Cera’s presence are brownstones he’d guess to be no more than a hundred years old. He’s wearing his armor, but to any observer it would look like he’s wearing a pair of faded black jeans that sit a little too low, a gray tee that is too loose, and a fedora. He looks like a wandering minstrel of this age, which fits with the very real guitar case he’s carrying.
He has a headache, as he has nearly constantly since he left Amy and Beatrice to track Cera down. His headache is not helped by the fact that Cera is whining again, in Russian. Cera only speaks Russian. “I’m trapped! I’m trapped! Have you forsaken me?”
Scowling, Loki clenches his teeth. Not for the first time, he wishes the Promethean Sphere was strong enough to contain all of Cera, instead of just doing a bang up job of keeping him out.
In Russian he says, “I will release you as soon as I figure out how to get through the Promethean Sphere.” As though chasing her literally across the globe only to lose her in a port in Karachi doesn’t prove his dedication.
“I don’t see how going to see the human helps,” says Cera, swirling around him in agitation.
Loki scowls. Demanding, insolent, stupid creature. She is so locked in the rules of the quantum world she can’t even grasp the concept of relative position and couldn’t, until recently, even give him her exact location..
“I am in her debt,” he mutters. “And she is my one link to the inner workings of ADUO. I need to get back in her good graces.”
Not that Loki wouldn’t pay her back anyway.
He stops in front of a slightly sunken, crumbling three story building he’s identified as Amy’s new address. Set back from the road, the building has sunk to nearly six feet below street level in Chicago’s soft soil. The ground in front of it has been dug out to form a little yard area. Steps lead down from the sidewalk to a brick walkway that crosses the yard. There is a unit at ground level with rusting bars on the windows, and a staircase, newer and better maintained, leading up to a unit above it.
Loki hops down the first steps and saunters over to the door of the lower unit. He knocks. There is no answer.
Closing his eyes, he sends an astral projection of himself into the dwelling. Amy’s new home is one small open room divided by a low bookshelf into a living area by the door and a bedroom further in. Past the bedroom is a bathroom, closet, and a kitchen with a counter against the far wall. In the kitchen is a door that leads out to another yard. It is humble by North American standards, but absolutely palatial compared to some of the dwellings he saw and frequented during his search for Cera.
He sees no sign of Fenrir. Amy is bent over something on the kitchen counter Loki can’t see. There is a pot boiling on the stove.
He knocks again.
She doesn’t even look over her shoulder.
Loki turns around and surveys the street. He sees an unmarked car with a gentleman sitting in it drinking a coffee.
“They see us. They know we’re here! Leave!” Cera cries. Loki rolls his eyes. Only since he’s known Cera has she developed the ability to ‘see.’ For a while she could merely sense magic. It took her a long time to understand that the patterns in the photons bouncing in her direction meant something. Now that she does see she thinks she understands.
Instead of following Cera’s advice, Loki raises his hand, smiles and waves at the agent. The ADUO agent puts his coffee down on his lap and picks up his phone but makes no move to leave the car.
Loki turns back to the door. Tired of waiting, he considers using one of the many lock picks he keeps in the cuff of his armor to open it—just to keep his non-magic lock-picking skills up to snuff. But thinking better of it, he takes a half step back, waggles his fingers dramatically in the air, and produces a useless flair of green light.
The lock barely even clicks as it disengages, and Amy is too caught up in whatever she is doing to notice when he enters. Schooling the scowl off his face, Loki says brightly, “Amy, so good to see you again!”
Amy jumps and turns her head, eyes wide. There is a flapping noise, and she turns back to the counter and leans over quickly. Something scoots under her arm and there is a thud. Loki blinks. There is a pigeon on the floor holding its wing at an awkward angle.
Turning around and diving for the bird, Amy says angrily, “You scared Fred!”
Loki blinks. He looks at the pot on the stove. “Are you butchering it? I can help; I love squab, and I’m famished.”
Amy’s face contorts into a look of horror. “I am not going to eat him. I was changing the dressing on his wing!”
Loki’s eyes go to the side. Belatedly he notices a large bird cage in the living room. Oops.
From the back door comes Fenrir’s yelping.
Amy closes her eyes. “Could you please distract Fenrir while I finish?”
He stares at her. How many times has he heard Mimir say something similar? Loki, would you distract the butterfly snake while Hoenir reanimates the spider mouse? He is hit by a wave of desolation that is so intense for a moment he is motionless.
And then, almost automatically he says, “Of course.” He goes to the door, but the dog cowers, whimpers, and backs away from him. It takes Loki a moment to realize that the beast is afraid of Cera. In Russian he whispers, “Back off.”
“I don’t see how this helps,” Cera says bitterly. But the red mist withdraws until only a wisp of pink is left in the air.
Fenrir wiggles over to Loki. He scoops the beast up into his arms and rubs its head absentmindedly. Distracting butterfly snakes was about the greatest boon Loki ever granted Hoenir. And yet Hoenir did so much for him.
To save Anganboða from Baldur, the first step is saving her from her brother. Even if Loki hadn’t made an oath to protect Anganboða, it’s a task he would have relished anyway. It’s a game of wits, really—of playing up to passions and prejudices, and the prize will humble the crown prince. What was not to love?
He goes to Freyja, the would-be Goddess of Love and Beauty, his sometime bedmate and leader of the Valkyries. This morning she has ebony skin and long black braids of hair, like a dark vision from an Egyptian hieroglyph. But her ears are pointed like an elf’s and her eyes are deep green. Loki wonders idly what man’s fantasy she’s enacting. Freyja’s appearance is never the same twice. She waxes and wanes between lean and voluptuous. Her skin, hair and eyes have taken on every hue—even rare colors like lavender. The only thing that remains the same is her magic. It is always pink and very feminine. The problem with Freyja’s many guises is that beneath it all she is still Freyja, primarily concerned with herself and her position among the Valkyries.
But her predictableness is helpful. He feeds Freyja a sob story of a young maiden whose family wants to sell her to a vile lord to increase their social standing. He leaves out the part about the lord in question being the crown prince and plays up Anganboða’s intellectual talents and desire to be a tutor.
After such a story, were Freyja not to aid Anganboða she would face scorn among her Valkyrie sisters. As expected, Freyja immediately suggests a position tutoring the Valkyrie Göndul’s daughters and offers to recommend Anganboða immediately. But she wouldn’t be Freyja if she didn’t see ulterior motives in Loki’s interference. Smiling slyly she says, “A little tidbit you want for yourself, Loki?”
Loki rolls his eyes and sighs. “Actually, I’m under oath to observe her honor.”
Freyja lifts an eyebrow.
Waving a hand and looking to the ceiling, Loki says, “Hoenir extracted it from me. I think he fancies her.” He’s never known Hoenir to fancy anyone—woman, man, child or beast, but Freyja would never believe Loki made such an oath willingly. He barely believes it himself.
Freyja’s smile vanishes. “The last woman Hoenir fancied was Lopt.”
Loki straightens. Sometimes he forgets that Freyja is older than he, just as Hoenir and Odin are. And they all had lives before him. “Lopt was female?”
Eyes completely cold, Freyja says, “Lopt was a bitch. She was the one who suggested wagering my hand to the beastly giant who completed Asgard’s wall.” A feral smile stretches across Freyja’s lips. “She paid dearly for it.”
Restraining a shudder, Loki turns to the window. “This lady is so uncalculating it is dangerous to her own safety.”
Freyja’s voice softens. “I will help, of course.”
By midafternoon, Anganboða is installed in the hall of the Valkyrie Göndul. Her brother dares not approach her.
Baldur is another matter.
A week after Anganboða’s escape, Loki goes to Göndul’s hall to pay a visit. It is Anganboða’s one afternoon off. Göndul turns him away saying, “She is being swept away by the charms of the crown prince, Trickster. I think he fancies her as a mistress. I shall be sad to lose her, but it is good that such a fortunate ending could come to such an unfortunate girl.”
Loki feels himself go hot. For a moment he actually believes Anganboða is being swept away by Baldur, just like everyone else. He makes his exit, but sick fascination compels him to astrally project himself through Göndul’s home. He finds Anganboða and Baldur on a bench in the garden. Anganboða sits ramrod straight, face downcast, body like stone.
She looks so miserable. Loki lets the astral projection dissipate. Picking the gate of the garden he is soon approaching the couple from behind, passing curious gardeners and servants as he does.
“I beg thee, Lady. If I have offended, forgive me,” Baldur is saying. “I was overwhelmed by my passion for you. Take this small token as a gesture of my good faith.” He pulls from his cloak an elaborate wooden box. He opens it and Loki sees an exquisite necklace of Grecian design. “From the House of Thebes, my lady,” says Baldur.
“Please keep it,” says Anganboða, back rigid. A servant gasps somewhere.
They are dangerous words to a prince. Not for the first time Loki finds himself thinking Anganboða might be slightly touched. He also finds himself smirking.
Baldur stiffens. His upper lip trembles. For a moment Loki thinks the prince might strike her.
Before such a confrontation can occur, Loki says, “Excuse me, your highness. I have a parcel for Lady Anganboða that it is most urgent for me to deliver.”
Though taken in by Odin, Loki is technically only a retainer. Baldur is the crown prince. It would be customary to be announced first, but Loki’s relationship with Baldur’s father is...special. When Baldur stands and turns to Loki, his face is furious, but he does not admonish him.
By contrast, Anganboða’s face is radiant. “Loki!”
Bowing low, Loki does his best to stifle a smile, but it is creeping around the edges of his lips when he straightens. From his cloak he presents her with the parcel he intended to give her. It is a book, ragged, worn, and smelling slightly of mildew, even in the bright sunlight.
Baldur snorts and draws back. “Ah, the Trickster is obviously bestowing a trick on you”.
Ignoring him, Loki says, “It is ‘The Book of Three,’ from Wales, m’lady. I believe you expressed an interest.”
Anganboða actually bounces on her feet in delight.
Forgetting himself, Loki smiles. He’s won this game.
But for that smile he winds up summoned before Odin in the king’s private study not one day later.
Pacing the room, Odin does not meet his eyes. “The crown is a heavy burden, Loki. Monarchs deserve some compensation.”
Loki’s stomach rumbles, and he puts a hand to it. He isn’t quite sure where this is leading, or why he was called away from his breakfast. He looks out the window and restrains a sigh.
“I would ask you to leave the woman Anganboða alone,” Odin says.
Loki straightens; his eyes focus on Odin. Odin is not “asking” anything; he is commanding.
Before he can even ask why, Odin says, “You publicly humiliated my son yesterday, Loki—over a trifling dalliance, a passing fancy.”
Loki smiles bitterly. “Are you referring to your son’s intentions toward the lady, or my own?” He bows to keep from lunging, but his eyes are glued on the other man. “Because if you think my intentions toward her are anything but honorable, you are mistaken.” Damnable oath.
Odin stops his pacing. Turning to Loki, he scowls. For a moment his eye is bright, but then he lifts his hand to his forehead and massages his temple. When his hand drops his gaze has a far off dreamy quality, as though he doesn’t quite know where he is or what he is doing. It’s a gaze Loki often sees when the subject is Baldur.
“Don’t be so selfish. It would give him comfort...” Odin says. “That he deserves...the weight of the crown...”
“He doesn’t wear the crown yet!” Loki says, his voice a low snarl.
For a moment Loki’s words seem to reach Odin. The fog leaves his eye and something calculating replaces it. Walking forward until they are just a pace apart, the older man says, “You are that interested in this woman, Loki? Do you intend to marry her? Give her children? Will you let yourself be bound so?”
Taken off guard, Loki’s mouth falls a little. And then shrugging as nonchalantly as he can, he says, “If she will have me.” It is surprising how much he means it. Whether it’s because he wants her, or because he can’t bear the thought of her with anyone else, he isn’t really sure.
“You’re right,” says Odin. “She probably is just a passing dalliance for Baldur.”
A weight drops from Loki’s shoulders, but almost instantly the fog drops in front of Odin’s eye again.
Turning from Loki, he walks toward the bookshelf. “If you still want her when Baldur is done, I will not stand in your way.”
“What!” Loki steps forward, a small throwing knife from his sleeve falling into his hand, the air between him and the All Father starting to shimmer.
Odin spins toward him, eyes alight and Loki feels himself go heavy.
“I said, let him go!”
Loki blinks. It’s Frigga’s voice, coming from behind. Odin is no longer in front of him. A beam of sunlight that wasn’t on the bookshelf before is illuminating the volumes. How did the sun move so quickly?
Loki turns slowly, feeling heavy and disoriented. Odin is standing just a pace behind him. How did he get there without Loki seeing him move?
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