Loki's Gambit, page 26
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
In the doorway is Odin’s wife, Frigga. Next to her is Hoenir, Mimir mounted on a staff at his side.
Loki was raised by nurses and maids, but when he was a very small child Frigga used to come to him sometimes. She would play with him and read him stories, not so much a mother figure as a beloved aunt. She was very powerful in magic, and cunning, too. She was one of the few who would occasionally outwit Odin—and one of the few whom Odin would permit to do so. The humans called her the goddess of marriage and said Frigga spun the clouds and could see the future. Once when he was nine years old or so, Loki had asked her about this. Smiling, she had said, “Clouds are formed by water vapor. I do spin threads like the Norns though, on occasion.”
Loki remembered his heart beating at the mention of the women who supposedly spun fates. “You do see the future!” he had said.
Tilting her head, Frigga had smiled softly. “There is no future, Loki. Only possibilities that become probabilities and probabilities that become realities. The threads help me see the many possibilities. As realities take shape, I trim the threads to see how the probabilities have changed in this reality.”
“There is more than one reality?” Loki said.
Frigga laughed “No one knows. Perhaps there are just missed possibilities.” She’d rubbed his head affectionately and smiled at him.
It was a very happy memory. Her words had filled Loki with wonder and made his mind pleasantly dizzy with the implications of many realities, and many Lokis.
Now he blinks. When had those pleasant moments with the Queen come to an end? When she was pregnant with Baldur? Certainly by the time her little prince was born.
Even now she is not looking at him. She is scowling at her husband. “Hoenir and Mimir have told me of Loki’s affections for the young woman. Do not order them apart.” Her voice shakes. “In fact, tell Baldur to stay away from her.”
Loki’s jaw drops. He cannot see Odin’s face, but the older man straightens and murmurs something to Frigga.
Frigga snaps. “The trollop is beneath our son! You are his father and king. Order him to stay away from her.”
Odin turns. “You are free to do as you please, Loki.”
Loki bows to Odin. As he takes his leave, he bows even lower to Frigga. “Your Highness, I...”
Frigga’s voice is a low hiss. “Stay away from my son, Loki.”
Loki lifts his gaze, shocked. Frigga doesn’t meet his eyes, only walks toward Odin. Loki looks to Hoenir instead and mouths the words, “Thank you.” Looking sad, Hoenir pats him on the shoulder and turns away.
At the time Loki believed that Frigga’s interference in Baldur’s “courtship” of Aggie was due to her respect for the institution of marriage. Now he wonders if it was more to buy Baldur time.
“Loki?”
He turns to find Amy wiping her hands on her hips, the bird, Fred, in the cage. She’s lost weight since she moved out of her grandmother’s house.
“Hi,” the girl says. Brow furrowed, she whispers. “I think you should probably know that the house is under surveillance.”
Loki blinks and raises an eyebrow. “And I think you’re not supposed to tell me that.” Nonetheless, he is touched.
She looks away. “No....but...” She shrugs. And then her phone rings. Pulling it out of her pocket, she says, “That’s Steve. I can try to cover for you...”
“Don’t,” says Loki. “You’re a terrible liar.”
She visibly relaxes. “Okay. I’m going to answer this then.” She puts the phone to her ear. “Hi, Steve.”
Fenrir on his arm, Loki walks over behind her and with a smirk says, “Hi, Steve.”
“Um, he’s here,” says Amy. “No, I’m fine. I don’t know...” She looks over at Loki. “Why are you here?”
Loki smiles, feeling the weight of his oath almost lifted. “To repay you, of course!”
Amy scowls, just a little bit. Loki hears Steve’s voice but can’t distinguish the words.
Nodding, Amy says, “Okay, I will. No, I think I will be fine.” She hangs up the phone and says, “I’m supposed to ask you how you know the Promethean Sphere is Vanir.”
Loki tilts his head, a little surprised that they aren’t talking about her payment. “The design,” he says. “But it looks...malformed...”
Amy leans in and whispers. “I think that was an accident.”
Loki is very curious as to what she knows. And fairly certain she shouldn’t be talking about it.
Shaking his head, he puts a finger to her lips. She doesn’t withdraw. The trips through Afghanistan and Pakistan’s tribal regions were not uneventful. It has been, he suddenly realizes, a rather long while since he has touched anyone in anyway that was not calculated to bring pain or death. The moment feels heavy, her lips extremely soft. He lifts his gaze to her eyes; they’ve followed the motion of his finger and are now very crossed.
Seductress she is not. He almost snorts. The headache he’d felt earlier begins to rise behind his eyes—when had it gone away?
He takes a breath and then wrinkles his nose. “Is something burning?”
Steve climbs out of his car on the quiet street Amy Lewis lives on. He immediately looks up into the trees. Sure enough the ravens are there. He grits his teeth. This is the third time this week they’ve shown up.
Bobbing up and down, one of the ravens says, “Think you can escape our sight by driving?”
Hopping on a branch, the other says, “Not in Chicago’s traffic, Roger’s son!”
Steve wants very, very, very badly to whip out his piece and shoot them, but he doesn’t. Instead, he locks his door and walks down the block to another familiar car.
As he does, one of the ravens swoops over his head and says something to the other in a strange Slavic-sounding tongue. Steve is sure he hears the word Loki. Both rise up into the air and disappear. He glares at the retreating shadows. After some debate it’s been decided that ravens don’t benefit from the Bill of Rights, even if they do talk. They’ve tried to bring them down with tranqs, but somehow Steve’s feathery shades always escape. He shakes his head and grits his teeth.
A few minutes later he approaches the car Agent Bryant McDowell sits in across the street from Amy’s apartment. McDowell and his brother, Brett, were primarily ADUO’s tech guys until recently. This is one of Bryant’s first field assignments. McDowell is of medium height and build. His hair is a nondescript brown. He isn’t ugly or particularly handsome either. You wouldn’t look twice at him, which makes him, by appearances at least, the perfect spy.
Bryant is also a comic book aficionado. The first time he met Steve he said, “Captain Steve Rogers, just like in the comic books!”
Steve Rogers was the given name of a popular comic hero. Steve had sighed. He’d heard it before. “Yes, that’s right, Agent. If that Captain was a large black man and a Marine, not a soldier, I would be him.”
As usual, it had earned Steve a laugh, and as expected gotten him in ADUO’s tech department’s good graces.
Slipping into the seat next to Bryant, Steve asks, “How’s she doing?”
Nodding at the radio, Bryant speaks with his slight West Virginia twang. “Listen for yourself, Sir.”
Amy’s voice fills the car. “Like you can cook better?”
Raising an eyebrow, McDowell looks at Steve. “She burnt the bulgar and tofu.”
Steve grimaces.
Loki’s voice comes over the speaker. “You know I could if you had anything in your house that wasn’t rabbit food!” There is a sound like a refrigerator closing.
“It’s only a little burned,” says Amy.
There is a snort. “I’m starving and you couldn’t get me to eat that. We should cook Fred. Here birdie, birdie!”
There is a whack and Loki yells. “Ow!” But there is a very audible smirk in his voice. “You’re right, he’s too small. Fenrir, come here. Ow! Ow! Ow! Stop hitting me!”
“This guy is dangerous?” says McDowell. Steve just shakes his head. This is why the guy is dangerous—pretending to be harmless is just a game to him. He can set things on fire or kill a man with a stick, and then dance with your granny, and make jokes in your kitchen.
There is a feminine huff. “Did you come here just to insult my cooking?”
“I came to repay you.”
Amy huffs again. “You do realize that anything you give me ADUO will probably confiscate?”
Steve blinks. That’s true. A lot of people want to know where Loki is from, where he’s living, how he’s living. Anything Loki gives Amy will be taken as evidence. The only reason there isn’t a warrant for Loki’s arrest is the word from Prometheus, and quite frankly because if there was a warrant no one’s really sure how they’d catch him. Prometheus’ word or no, ADUO’s Director Stuart Jameson would like to get Loki behind bars. But Steve’s convinced him that trying to arrest Loki will only piss him off. For now, they think their best option is to study him, try to figure out the extent of what he can do, and how much he knows about the thing under Chicago’s streets—the thing that is still growing.
“Someone’s not happy,” says McDowell. Steve looks at the speaker. The silence at the other end is ominous.
Loki’s voice crackles. “And I suppose you’d be hopeless at lying to them.”
There is a moment of silence and then Loki says, “Get dressed, we’re going out to eat.”
“Where?”
There are some rummaging sounds and then Loki’s voice again. “Somewhere you can wear this.”
“I’m not wearing the heels.”
Steve blinks, looks at the speaker and has a small epiphany. You can hear a man roll his eyes.
“Very well,” says Loki.
A few minutes later Amy says, “What about your guitar?”
“Leave it.”
Then there is silence.
Pulling a pair of binoculars from his eyes, McDowell scowls at the small garden apartment. “They disappeared—literally. Should we go in?”
Steve nods.
McDowell has a key to Amy’s place, and the door opens easily. But the dog thing Fenrir is barking loud enough to wake the dead. As soon as they enter, the dog lunges for Steve’s ankles. His natural instinct is to kick it, but McDowell scoops it up, catches it in a practiced hold, and throws it in the bathroom. The damn thing does not let up. Steve can hear it throwing itself at the door.
Upstairs the neighbors shuffle. “We better make this fast,” says Steve slipping his phone from his pocket. He dials Amy’s number and curses when he hears her phone ring on the kitchen counter.
“Uh, Agent Rogers...” says McDowell. Steve looks over. McDowell has on plastic gloves; the guitar case is opened in front of him. It’s filled with neatly stacked 1, 10, 20, 50 and 100 dollar bills.
Steve looks at the top of the case and sees traces of white powder. He has a bad feeling about this.
“I think we should bring this in.” says McDowell.
Rubbing his temple, Steve sighs. “Yeah.”
They’re in the car, heading back to headquarters with the guitar case in tow a few minutes later when Steve’s phone begins to vibrate with a text. The number isn’t familiar, but he picks up anyway.
Hey, it’s Amy. Forgot my cell. Am ok. In a cab.
Steve answers as fast as his large fingers can on the tiny keys. Where?
He stares at the three little dots on his screen telling him Amy’s texting back. Instead of an answer he gets. Hi Steve! It’s Loki. I am not telling. I am throwing this phone out the window now. Bye ;-)
Steve scowls. The so-called-God-of-Mischief uses emoticons. It disturbs him almost as much as the white powder in the guitar case.
“Wow, this is a really nice restaurant,” says Amy.
Loki looks around. “According to Google,” he says. The main dining room is in subdued blues and grays. The ceiling is as high as the prison cell in the tower. Servers in black suits move around them with the precision of dancers. It’s been a long time since he’s had a really good meal. Cera is bouncing around the room grumbling about ostentatiousness and petty bourgeois, but Loki craves calories that actually taste good. He’s so hungry lately—and eating is becoming such a chore.
“Can you pay for this?” Amy whispers as the maitre de leads them to their table.
Scowling at her, Loki whispers back. “Of course.”
Amy’s eyes narrow. “And you promise the money is real and not stolen?”
Loki smiles. During his journey he dug up some gold he had buried by a wall in Moscow for emergencies just like this one. He has some more in various capitals around the world—but may not need to touch them.
Since he’s been back in the states he’s discovered derivative trading. He does it just to soothe his mind when he isn’t sending out astral projections to spy on ADUO, or trying his hand at hacking.
He will not, however, be using any legitimate funds for this meal. ADUO would trace it. He will be paying with the cash he stole from the same source as Amy’s repayment in the guitar case.
Biting back a gleeful smile, he adopts an air of seriousness. “You have my oath that I now have a source of revenue that is completely legal.” All true! Just a slight bit of misdirection.
...That Amy immediately falls for. Eyes widening, Amy says, “You have a job?”
Loki scowls at her again. “Don’t insult me. I won’t be a wage slave like you.”
“Down with the proletariat!” Cera screeches, her magical voice unheard to everyone else in the room. Loki shoots the mist a warning glance as they sit down. His head throbs suddenly and he can barely pay attention to the waiter. “We’ll take three of the nine course prixe fixe and two wine pairings,” he says—he had read the menu on Google.
The waiter shifts on his feet. “Are you expecting a third person?”
“No,” says Loki massaging his temple. “I’ll eat two.”
“Sir,” says the waiter. “I don’t think that is wise.”
Loki is about to snap, but Amy pipes up. “He can manage. Trust me.”
Loki relaxes infinitesimally, but still isn’t fit to really listen as Amy says something more about eating fish but nothing with hooves or feathers.
“This is a waste of time,” says Cera. “She’s not going to just tell you.”
“I need to eat,” Loki mumbles in Russian.
“So steal a few pounds of butter,” Cera says.
Loki’s stomach drops; he’s had to resort to that of late. Feeling a bead of sweat on his brow, he tries to smile as benevolently as he can. Leaning toward Amy, he whispers conspiratorially. “So you think it was an accident that the Promethean Sphere grew?”
Amy leans forward. “Yes. From what I read in Steve’s file...I think ADUO is actually really afraid...It wasn’t supposed to grow.”
“Oh,” Cera whispers. “She is going to tell you.”
Loki’s headache melts away.
He does not roll his eyes at the red mist in the air. Instead, he leans closer to Amy. The new position gives him a glorious view of her breasts. He does his best to keep his eyes on her face.
By the third course he’s drawn out everything she knows about Steve and Cera’s run in with Odin. He doesn’t even have to work hard at it—which, actually, is a little disappointing.
Loki knew most of the story from Cera. As soon as Odin had touched the World Seed, Cera had read the All Father’s mind, realized he was the Tsar of Asgard, and panicked. Cera tried to suck Odin into the In-Between—the emptiness beyond the World Tree. Odin was strong enough to resist, unlike the religious fanatics who dumped Cera beneath the Board of Trade building, and ADUO’s little robot.
“...and then Steve spit on the raven,” Amy says.
Loki almost chokes on the caviar he is putting in his mouth. Cera hadn’t told him that.
He snorts happily. “You mortals are just getting so impudent!” And hadn’t she called Thor the God of Blunder? He sighs happily. “I like you more and more.”
Amy’s cheeks turn red. She thinks he means her and not humankind in general. Ah, well, let her think he’s enamored. He smiles. “How did you get Steve’s file?”
Amy’s blush spreads to her neck. She looks to the side. “I wasn’t really supposed to see it; it is classified...”
“You stole it!” he says, feeling a sudden wave of admiration.
Her eyes shoot back to him. “No!”
Loki blinks.
“I found it...” she says slowly.
Chuckling, Loki raises an eyebrow. “And then you read the entire thing?”
“He gave me a really boring filing job to do!” Studying a spot on the tablecloth, she says, “His file was more interesting.”
Loki swirls the wine in his glass. Loki’s not particularly good at following rules, but he respects them in principle. He’d been a retainer of Odin for a very, very, long time. Looking over his glass, he says, “Naughty, Amy, very naughty....” And then telling him about it, too.
As if reading that thought, she says, “They shouldn’t be keeping this information from you. They should be working with you. There is something that may be very dangerous to everyone and you might be the only person who can help.”
Putting his glass down, Loki puts his elbows on the table and leans toward her. “Has it occurred to you I may be the bad guy?”
He’s not sure why he says it; he shouldn’t plant that idea in her head. Maybe he said it just to tease, or maybe, as Sigyn says, he just has to make things difficult. He frowns, and takes a sip of his wine. It turns bitter on his mouth, as Sigyn used to say.
“You’re not,” she says without even looking at him. “Oooh, here comes the next course...” She looks sideways at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a meal this good in my entire life.”
The little kernel of doubt he planted has been completely dismissed. Worse yet, he feels something uncoiling in his stomach, something he hasn’t felt since Cronus and the peasants, and Hothur and Nanna. It’s faith and it’s heady like a drug.
He can’t decide if he loves it or hates it.
Chapter Three
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