I Bring the Fire Part I : Wolves (A Loki Series)

  Chapter 7

  A few minutes later they are standing in the garage in front of the Subaru. Fenrir is dancing happily next to them. It is not a great city car, but Amy’s grandfather liked fishing and escaping the city on weekends. Thor-Loki-Whoever-It-Is is carrying a cooler. He is back in a tee shirt and jeans, a black messenger bag over one shoulder. He is looking at the late afternoon sky. “We’ll have a few hours of daylight left.”

  Amy rolls her eyes. “This is crazy,” she mumbles, hitting the unlock button on the Subaru’s remote.

  The SUV beeps, and Whoever-It-Is jumps. “Will it accept me since I am with you?”

  Amy looks at Beatrice. Beatrice looks at Amy. Fenrir cocks her head at the man who may or may not be Thor.

  “Yes,” says Amy. “It was just saying hello.”

  “Hello, Car,” says Thor, leaning tentatively forward.

  Amy’s eyes go wide, but she says nothing as she slips into the driver’s seat and hits the back door release. Thor puts the cooler and Beatrice’s bag in the rear, closes the back door, and helps Beatrice into the back seat. All very chivalrous. He also closes the garage door after Amy pulls forward. For a moment Amy considers hitting the accelerator and leaving him there in the alley, but she doesn’t. She’ll just play along, this will come to nothing, and maybe on the way home she can drop Thor off at a hospital where he can get professional help.

  As Thor slips into the front seat, her foot goes to the non-existent clutch and her hand goes to the non-existent stick, but of course it’s an automatic. For a moment they go nowhere.

  Thor shakes his head. “This new advanced transmission system seems more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Amy decides to say nothing. She just puts her foot on the gas and heads to the gas station to fill up the tank — because Thor insists the journey is about 200 miles. And then she heads towards Peoria and Randolf streets, just a mile and a half away. It’s an area known for overpriced restaurants, not elves.

  The building Thor directs her to is not a restaurant. It’s one of the ancient warehouse buildings just south of Restaurant Row. There is an old iron gate that is thrown open, and a dark dirty alley leading to a neglected looking courtyard.

  “Go in here,” says Thor, pointing to the alley.

  “Are we allowed to do this?” says Amy. It doesn’t look like a regular alley. There is an archway above the entrance. “I don’t think we should go in there. It looks like private property.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, you can say you’re just turning around,” says Beatrice.

  “Grandma?” says Amy.

  “Go,” says Beatrice.

  Amy pulls into the alley, just up to the iron gate, and Thor says. “Stop here!”

  Opening the door, he turns to them. “In a moment, I’m going to get back in the car. As soon as I do, pull forward. It’s very difficult to keep the gate open.”

  Thor gets out and goes a few feet more into the alley. For a moment he bows his head and stands motionless. Then he flings out his hands as though pulling back a curtain. He moves quickly to either side, raising his hand, as though pulling the imaginary curtain back a little further.

  Behind her, Beatrice is leaning forward. “Maybe this is crazy, Amy, but it can’t hurt to indulge him, can it?”

  Amy sighs and rubs her eyes. For the first time since this episode began, she feels genuinely sad for him. He did save her life. He’s obviously mentally ill, probably schizophrenic, and he can’t help that.

  She takes a breath. She needs to get him to a doctor. They have treatments for schizophrenia now that are much better than in the past. He saved her life and she does owe him.

  She blinks. She saw his armor, and the wolf, and the fire...maybe she needs drugs, too?

  Ahead of her, Thor turns around quickly and runs back to the car. Opening the door he jumps into his seat. “Go now!” he shouts, shutting the door.

  Amy sighs. “Here goes nothing,” she says pulling forward. She hits the gas gently and drives forward...and the front of the car disappears.

  “What!” screams Amy, putting her foot on the brake. “Oh!” says Beatrice.

  “Just go!” yells Thor.

  And Amy isn’t sure why, but she hits the accelerator. Maybe it is her disbelief that propels her, because she certainly wouldn’t have driven forward if she actually believed her car had dematerialized in front of her.

  As the car goes forward, the dashboard, and then the steering wheel, disappear under her hands, and Amy is alone, surrounded by all the colors of the rainbow for the briefest of moments, her foot on the pedal of what would be the gas pedal if...

  ...and then her foot is on the gas pedal, behind her Beatrice is screaming, and next to her the man who still might be crazy is bracing his hands on the dash. “Stop!” he shouts.

  Amy hits the brake.

  Thor-Loki-Whoever, Beatrice, and Amy all take a deep breath. Fenrir whimpers.

  “Have you recovered from your shock?” says Whoever-It-Is.

  She had let the wheel go a little bit, and they might have run off the road. Amy turns her head to him. He’s wearing armor again.

  Her hands are shaking. “No,” Amy says. “I really don’t think so.” Her eyes go to the window. Outside is a road, only a little wider than the alley — definitely not made for two way traffic. For some reason she isn’t surprised it is yellow brick. On either side of the road is a dense forest. But...she peers either way. On one side it is dense and foreboding. On the other side it is open and light, and she has the urge to crack open the cooler and declare it time for a picnic right away.

  He takes a long breath and rubs his face. “How can I help you recover?”

  Amy looks around. “Can I get out?”

  Thor-Loki-Whoever looks at the sun. “I would say yes, but it would be best if we reach our destination before sunset.”

  Amy looks towards the dark wood and then looks back to her grandmother. She is looking in the same direction.

  “That side doesn’t look friendly, Loki,” says Beatrice.

  “Exactly,” says Thor-Loki-Whoever-It-Is, his voice grim.

  Amy puts her foot gently on the gas. “Loki,” she says. He really might be Loki.

  “Exactly,” says the man sitting next to her, and this time she can hear the smirk in his voice.

  Amy wills herself to breathe and keep her eyes on the road. Which is hard. She wants to stop and look. The trunks of the trees look lavender on the light side, the leaves almost blue. On the dark side, the tree trunks look so purple they are nearly black.

  “There was color when we...crossed,” says Beatrice. “Like a rainbow — ”

  “Yes,” says the man who actually might be Loki. “Time acts like a prism at the edge of the World Gates.”

  “The rainbow bridge,” says Beatrice quietly.

  Loki tilts his head. “I believe that humans did call it that once.”

  “The light,” says Amy. “The light here is different.” Everything seems a little bit blue.

  “The star that is this planet’s sun is much older. I believe you would call it a white dwarf,” says Loki.

  “Oh,” says Amy. She blinks. “We’re on another planet.”

  “Yes. In a whole other solar system,” says Loki.

  “My, my,” says Beatrice. Amy looks in the rear-view mirror and sees her patting Fenrir on her lap. “My, my.”

  For a few minutes, Amy drives in silence, too overwhelmed to speak. Beatrice must feel the same because she says nothing. After a while, Amy hazards a glance over at...Loki. His mouth is set in a firm line, his eyes focused far ahead. He looks handsome, noble even.

  “Can you drive faster?” he says. The question sounds genuine, not like he’s second guessing her driving skill.

  Amy looks down at the speedometer. She’s going all of 20 miles per hour. “Can I expect any oncoming traffic?” The road is narrow and straight, and there are a few rolling hills that could be dangerous.

  He clo
ses his eyes. “There is none for at least 30 miles.”

  Amy glances sideways at him. “How do you know?”

  He tilts his head and then blinks. When he speaks he sounds slightly awed. “Astral projection. The concept has entered your vocabulary in the last sixty years. Even though you’re incapable of it.”

  She’s on another planet, on a yellow brick road; astral projection doesn’t seem like that much of a stretch of the imagination. “Good enough,” she says and hits the accelerator.

  For a few minutes, no one says anything. She glances and sees Loki’s eyes focused on the road, his mouth a thin line. She focuses directly ahead, her brain churning.

  “Why so solemn?” says Loki suddenly with joviality that sounds a little forced. “From you, Amy, I would expect it, but from you, Beatrice — ”

  He turns towards the back seat and then says softly. “She appears to be asleep.”

  Amy peeks in rear view mirror. Beatrice is slumped slightly to the side, her head bent, her eyes closed. Amy looks at the clock in the car. “Yes,” she says. “She normally takes a nap this time of evening.”

  “This isn’t exciting to her?” says Loki.

  Amy tilts her head. “It is exciting, maybe so exciting she needs a mental break...and...” Amy bites her lip. “People tend to nap a little bit more as they get older, and then not sleep so well at night. That doesn’t happen to...your people?”

  “We don’t get old,” says Loki.

  “Oh,” says Amy. She tilts her head. “Lucky.” She goes back to focusing on the road. Another planet...and Loki said something about time bending at the edges of the World Gate so —

  Loki sighs loudly. “Come now, there will be plenty of time for silence when you’re dead, and I’m...” He waves a hand dramatically, “Gagged with wire or stuck in a cave. Surely you have questions for me?”

  Amy’s eyes widen. “Sorry, I’m just over here quietly revising everything I thought I knew about the universe.”

  He chuckles. “What a novel way of expressing it.”

  And then Amy has a thought. “Astral projection isn’t one of your powers in the myths, but it is in the movies and comic books.”

  “I’m not sure I’m clear on how comic books and movies differ from myths,” says Loki. “Except in the medium.”

  “Well, myths exist for the purpose of explaining the universe and imparting moral values,” says Amy.

  “Don’t leave out entertainment,” says Loki.

  “Okay, and entertainment,” says Amy. “And comic books and movies, well, the type of movie and comic book we’re discussing, are for entertainment.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she can see Loki turning towards her, puzzlement on his face. “They don’t impart moral values or attempt to explain the universe?”

  Amy is about to say no, but then she blinks. “Actually...I guess they do. But in a more round-a-bout way.”

  “Myths aren’t exactly straightforward,” says Loki.

  “Touché,” says Amy, scowling at the road in front of her.

  “...or completely accurate,” he mutters.

  Amy smiles. “Yeah...no shape shifting. Right. Are you Thor’s brother? In the comic books you are.”

  There is a snort. “No.”

  Amy grips the steering wheel and narrows her eyes. “What about Sif’s hair.” It’s probably the most famous Loki myth. Sif was Thor’s wife. Loki cut off her hair as a prank and paid dearly for it, if she remembers right.

  She can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “Snip! Snip!”

  “Really?” Amy says, twisting her hands on the steering wheel. “Why?” It sounds positively childish.

  “To prove that she was a lying, cheating whore.”

  “How does cutting someone’s hair prove they’re a whore?” says Amy, gripping the wheel more tightly.

  “It is the traditional punishment for female adulterers.”

  Remembering the story as her grandfather used to read it to her, Amy scowls. “So you sneak up on her in a glade and cut off her hair and that is supposed to prove she is a ho?”

  There is a moment where the only sound is the hum of the engine. And then Loki erupts into what can only be described as cackles. “I didn’t sneak up to her in a glade. I facked her!”

  Amy’s eyes go wide. “Facked?”

  “Am I getting the verb right? Fac, from the Latin, ‘to do’. Oh, wait, no that isn’t right. I fuck — ”

  “I understood!” says Amy. She glances at him, her mouth agape.

  He is blinking at her, smiling, looking very pleased. “It was really very selfless of me. No one really appreciates that. Everyone knew she was a whore, but no one else was brave enough to bring it to Thor’s attention. Well, except Odin, but he went about it in this convoluted way where he disguised himself as an old man...” There is a snort. “...like that was difficult. And told Thor to his face, but as a stranger. I delivered proof.”

  She thought he was handsome? She thought he looked noble? Amy’s lips curl up in disgust. “Wasn’t Thor, like, your best friend?”

  There is silence again. Amy glances over and immediately looks back at the road. She swears his eyes are glowing. “No,” says Loki, and the air seems to ripple with his voice. “No, not then. Not at all.”

  x   x   x   x

  Loki is close to 50 earth years old. He and Thor, not much younger, are waving goodbye to a group of happy human peasants who are jumping up and down and waving at them. The humans haven’t changed since Loki’s first visit here. They are small, dirty, smelly, and lacking many teeth. But their love is still palpable — which keeps Loki from sneering at them, or picking disdainfully at the troll guts sticking to his armor.

  Said troll lies dead behind Thor and Loki. It was a particularly large creature, nearly as big as an Earth Asian elephant — they had a few in the gardens of Asgard when Indian clothing and architecture were in vogue.

  “Heimdall! Bring us home!” Thor shouts to the sky.

  There is a flash of light, a blur of color, and then Loki and Thor are facing Heimdall in the great circle of Midgard’s World Gate on Asgard.

  “Four times!” roars Thor with a smile on his face. “Four times I’ve been to Midgard troll hunting and not once did I find a troll. The one time I bring Loki, this beast — ” he gestures with his hand towards the felled troll. “— this beast sets upon us immediately.”

  “It is a fine trophy, my Lord,” says Heimdall, and his voice holds only reverence. Since Thor’s return to court, Odin’s bastard son has done nothing but make friends. Mostly because Baldur the beautiful, crown prince, son of Odin and Frigga, has taken a shine to his “big brother” and declared Thor “fitting to be in a court among Gods.” Baldur possesses a type of magical glamour that not only makes him beautiful, but allows none to gainsay anything he says. Even Frigga has decided she likes Thor now.

  Before Loki knows what is happening, Thor swats Loki’s back with his hand. Stumbling forward, Loki barely manages to keep his feet. “From now on you come with me on every troll hunting expedition, Loki!”

  “Lovely,” says Loki, scowling down at the troll innards on his armor. Not that he doubted it would be otherwise. Just before this trip Odin informed Loki that his job as retainer now was to accompany Thor on all his quests.

  “We should tell Baldur!” Thor declares, pulling Loki by the arm away from the World Gate. “We’ll invite him to come with us on our next adventure.”

  Loki’s stomach twists and he scowls. He detests Baldur. He detests that everyone thinks Baldur is beautiful, brave and wise. He detests that they think Baldur is good. And he detests that Mimir has suggested that the reason for this seething dislike is jealousy...and that there may be some truth to that.

  Loki would never be accused of being ugly, but his ‘fair countenance’ is almost an insult in itself. He doesn’t look as roughly hewn or as square in the jaw as a typical Aesir, or even Jotunn. He’s only of average height, and he’s too th
in, despite the fact that only Thor’s appetite is a match for his.

  And Loki’s not considered brave. He’s simply not much good at feigning battle lust or interest in killing trolls. If he wasn’t ordered by Odin to watch after Thor, he would have spent the last few days in the library — he’d really like to master astral projection.

  Finally, absolutely no one would consider Loki wise. He has too much fun with his magic. Loki knows he shouldn’t take such delight in making himself appear like a Valkyrie upon occasion, or pulling the occasional flower from Odin’s nose, but he just can’t help himself.

  Looking for any way to avoid a run in with Baldur, Loki says, “Shouldn’t you go home to see your wife Sif first?”

  “No, no, no,” says Thor, walking briskly towards the palace, now under the illusion of Roman Golden Age architecture. “She’ll understand. She is a fine wife, Loki, and doesn’t begrudge me a bit my adventures and traveling — this is just a bit more of the journey.”

  Loki raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t begrudge it probably because it leaves more time for her whoring. Sif is so easy with her affections, even Loki is uninterested in her.

  Thor smiles and looks sideways at Loki. “But perhaps you’d just like to see your Lady Sigyn?”

  “She is not my lady,” says Loki , feeling heat rise to his face. Are his affections so obvious? Sigyn left the court for a few decades to live in the realm of Alfheim — the stay has given her an interesting perspective on a foreign culture and on Asgard’s own. She is a rather fascinating companion for conversation. And she still seems to fancy Loki, maybe because Loki occasionally protected her with his magic when they were children, or maybe because she hasn’t been steeped in court gossip — Loki does have a bit of a reputation. It is pathetic, but her genuine warmth towards him makes Loki go absolutely soft inside. And although he protests her decline of his physical advances he actually rather respects her for it. How many times after a physical conquest has he decided the prize was too dull to be worth keeping? Even Freyja for all her beauty and charm was rather a bore after a while.

  Loki blinks. Perhaps Sigyn does know his reputation.

  “She hasn’t hooked you yet then!” yells Thor, slapping Loki’s back again jovially. Loki tries not to wince; it takes effort. “But she will!”

  Loki keeps his eyes forward. The idea of being hooked by Sigyn is strangely not as unsettling as it should be.

  They veer away from the palace proper to Briedablick, Baldur’s hall. As Briedablick comes into view, Loki scowls again. He’s heard the place is quite beautiful to others' eyes; everyone tells Loki it glows. All Loki can see is the dark swirl of Baldur’s magic around the massive gray stone structure as they approach. As usual, when he is around Baldur, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  A few minutes later they are ushered into the foyer by a servant who bows and says, “I will go inform my master you are here, Thor.” Tipping his head first to Thor and then Loki, he leaves.

  From down the hall in the opposite direction of the servant’s departure comes a feminine squeak and a rough male gasp.

  Thor’s eyes go wide. “The servant went the wrong way!” he says delightedly.

  Rolling his eyes at Thor’s childishness, Loki says, “So it would seem.” Tipping his head in the direction of the exit, he says, “We should go.”

  Another male grunt echoes in the foyer.

  Snickering like a little boy, Thor doesn’t move. “Who do you think is sampling Baldur’s beauty right now?”

  Loki’s jaw tenses and he stares at the large man before him. Despite the fact that Baldur likes Thor, Loki doesn’t hate him. Thor is loud, gregarious, and far too trusting. But he actually complimented Loki on an illusion he cast to confuse the troll they killed — it is nice to have his abilities are appreciated for once.

  And Thor isn’t stupid, no matter how he tries to hide his brain on occasion. They had a decent conversation about Troll nesting habits as they started out on their quest. Loki thinks he could actually like Thor, if he were to let himself. Even Mimir has said that Thor has the potential to be Loki’s ally and true friend...and Loki can see that happening, if he just plays along and is nice.

  But he can’t quite do it. Smirking, Loki says, “Well, I think we can safely assume it isn’t his mother.”

  Thor tilts his head, his childish grin fading.

  Lifting an eyebrow, Loki crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. “But other than that...really it could be anyone.”

  “I think you insult Baldur and a great many virtuous women,” says Thor, a furrow settling in his brow.

  Loki should stop, should apologize. Instead, he lets the truth slip from his lips. “Oh, I suppose the old men are probably safe, and probably the livestock, too.” His lips quirk. “Maybe.”

  Thor steps forward, his face going a little red. “End this jest now, Trickster.”

  And Loki should, because Thor, like everyone but Loki, is blind to Baldur’s shortcomings. Thor doesn’t see how Baldur’s charms, illusory though they are, are irresistible to all of Asgard. Thor doesn’t see how Baldur abuses them.

  Loki shouldn’t test Thor this way, shouldn’t set himself up to lose a potential comrade. There is a loud grunt from down the hall. Thor turns his head, momentarily distracted.

  Loki should apologize. But he can’t.

  There is the sound of a door creaking. And then there is the sound of soft feminine footfalls. Thor, looking in the direction of the footsteps, smiles. It isn’t a friendly smile.

  Curious despite himself, Loki lets his gaze go down the hall...and sees a rumpled Sigyn emerging.

  Loki’s mouth drops. He feels like he may throw up.

  Thor pulls away from Loki to let Sigyn pass. Her eyes go up to Thor’s and her face reddens. And then her eyes meet Loki’s.

  Her face crumples into a look of confusion and sadness. “Loki... I...”

  Loki’s mouth goes to a hard line, and he looks away from her.

  From the corner of his eye, he sees her bow her head. Turning, she runs out the door.

  Thor laughs lowly. “You should see your face.”

  Loki hears a grinding noise...it’s his own teeth. He is suddenly angrier at Thor than he is angry at Sigyn or even Baldur. Sigyn was obviously charmed by Baldur’s glamour, like everyone else. Baldur was just an ass, like always, and Loki expected no better from him — nor can Loki retaliate against the crown prince.

  But Thor...Loki had hoped better of Thor. He had hoped for the bastard’s friendship — some loyalty, some understanding. Loki uncrosses his arms and steps away from the wall towards the larger man. The air between them seems to shimmer. Thor narrows his eyes and his hands ball into fists.

  At that moment Baldur comes down the hall. “Oh, brother! Loki!” Baldur says, and both Thor and Loki turn. Baldur is adjusting his shirt. Loki has seen paintings of Baldur, he knows what other people see, a crown of golden curls, tanned golden skin, blue eyes on a face chiseled like a roman sculpture, broad shoulders and height nearly as tall as Thor’s. Loki sees a tangle of light brown hair, a slightly pudgy face with narrow hazel eyes and a soft body only as tall as his own.

  “Loki,” says Baldur, smirking slightly, though Loki has no doubt he appears to be smiling benevolently to Thor. “I think you know Lady Sigyn?”

  “No,” says Loki. “Not well.”

  He shoots a sidelong gaze toward Thor, daring him to contradict him.

  Thor says nothing. But he smiles, a knowing, cruel smile.

  That smile changes everything.

  Later that night at the banquet, Loki stands behind Odin at the table, behaving like a truly proper retainer — albeit a slightly drunk one. Thor is boasting of his exploits to a crowd of happy admirers. In a far corner, Sif has her own admirers. Sigyn is nowhere to be seen.

  Odin, deep into his cups, slams his goblet down on the table. The clang is drowned out by the sound of Thor’s laughter further down the table. Gla
ring in the direction of Sif, Odin snarls. “I have warned him about her. He is becoming a laughingstock!”

  Pushing back from the table, Odin growls and stands from his chair. “I can’t watch this.”

  Pursing his lips, Loki says, “If you permit me, sire, I’ll take care of it.”

  Snorting, Odin says, “Good luck.” And then the giant man turns and storms from the hall.

  As soon as Odin has left, Loki walks over to Sif.

  “Here to grace me with your silver tongue, Trickster?” the lady asks.

  A reputation can be a helpful thing. Loki smiles. Very shortly afterwards he is in Sif’s bedchamber.

  After the “lady” falls asleep, Loki trims her golden locks. Gathering them in his hands, he ties them in one of her own ribbons. When Thor returns home Loki is waiting for him at the front door.

  As he throws the shorn locks, the traditional symbol of an unfaithful wife, at Thor’s feet, Loki smiles as sweetly as he can. “You should see your face,” he says.

  He completely expects the beating that comes next.

  What he doesn’t expect is for Hoenir and Mimir to be so unsympathetic when he comes crawling to the hut for help.

  “You did what!” Mimir screeches. Loki winces from where he lays atop Hoenir’s workbench, the self-satisfied smile slipping from his lips.

  Hoenir slaps a hand down hard on a rib he is repairing. Loki’s eyes go wide. Hoenir is actually scowling at him. Hoenir never scowls at him.

  “I gave Thor proof of his wife’s infidelity,” says Loki, and Hoenir’s hand comes down hard on another rib.

  “You’re supposed to be helping me fix that,” says Loki lifting his head.

  Hoenir just raises an eyebrow.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” says Mimir. “Do you know what you would do if someone slept with your wife?”

  Raising an eyebrow, Loki drops his head on the bench. “As I don’t have a wife and am unlikely to acquire one — ”

  “I’ll tell you what you’d do!” Mimir says, voice trembling. “You’d cut him up into little pieces, that’s what you’d do.”

  Loki blinks...there is something in that, something he can’t quite place. He raises his head.

  Mimir’s face is livid. “And then you’d take all those pieces and flush them all down the — ”

  “Mimir!” Odin’s voice rings through the hut.

  Loki’s blood goes cold.

  “Don’t talk about that, Mimir,” and Loki blinks because he almost thinks he hears worry in Odin’s voice. But a few moments more and Odin is leaning over him. He doesn’t look worried. Oddly, he doesn’t look as angry as he did after Baldur’s birth. He looks more...disgusted.

  “You told me he was turning into a laughingstock,” Loki says. “I told you I’d take care of it, and I have. I delivered proof that — ”

  “Sif has told everyone you used your magic to sneak in on her while she slept,” says Odin.

  “And people believe that?” says Mimir. “From that trollop?”

  Odin’s eyes don’t leave Loki’s. “What matters is what Thor thinks. He believes his wife. Which is lucky — otherwise you could be tried for treason.”

  Loki swallows, his brow furrowing. He was only obeying orders. The fickleness and duplicity of royalty.

  “— but he is only requesting your banishment,” says Odin, his eyes narrowing.

  The breath catches in Loki’s throat. Odin doesn’t mean banishment to Alfheim, Jotunheim, Vaneheim or any of the other civilized worlds. He can only mean Midgard. There is a very small part of him that wants to accept that fate, sees it almost as an open door from a cage, but his rational mind tells him what he would be accepting is a short, painful life, and death by plague — or in his case, more likely hunger.

  Odin’s lip curls up. “Fix this, Loki.” He stares down at Loki for a few moments more, and Loki feels himself shrinking. And then Odin turns and strides from the room.

  Loki looks at Hoenir. He doesn’t meet his eyes. He looks to Mimir, and the head winces. “You owe Sif, Thor and Odin a very big apology.”

  x  x  x  x

  Staring at Amy, Loki feels the heat of Thor’s first betrayal, that first cruel laugh, itching beneath his skin. How could he have trusted Thor after that?

  Beatrice’s voice startles Loki out of his dark reverie. “So did you get Thor his hammer, Sif the golden wig, Odin Daupnir and Gungnir — and the boat for Frey?”

  “Daupnir, Gungnir, boat?” says Amy.

  Loki smiles a brittle smile. “Daupnir is a lovely little ring. The boat is called Skidbladnir. It has a clever way of folding into time so that all of it that remains in real-time can fit in the palm of your hand.”

  Amy’s face lights up, “It sounds kind of like the TARDIS!”

  “Tardis?” says Loki, somewhat amazed that she seems to have grasped the concept at all. Humans usually didn’t.

  “It’s a phone booth,” says Beatrice.

  “Bigger on the inside than outside,” says Amy. “And it can travel through space and time too. Can Skidbladnir do that?”

  Loki blinks. “Humans have such a vessel?”

  “No, no, no,” says Amy. “It’s just a story.” She frowns a little. “Just the way you described Skidbladnir, I thought it could be true.”

  Slightly disappointed, Loki says, “Other than its compactibility, Skidbladnir is just a boat. We used it for camping trips. Until Odin gave it to Frey, chief of the Vanir.”

  “What about Gungnir, the spear that can hit any mark?” says Beatrice.

  Tapping his chin, Loki says, “I did give that to Odin, but that was a different...adventure.” Another one of his under-appreciated acts of self-sacrifice. Really, Odin should have appreciated what Loki did for Thor. It’s not like sleeping with Sif was any great prize.

  “Did the dwarf sew up your lips?” says Beatrice.

  “Grandma!” says Amy, sounding absolutely scandalized. The gifts to Odin, Thor and Sif were made by two rival clans of dwarfs in a contest. The prize was Loki’s head. At the last minute Loki convinced the winner that since only his head had been promised, it couldn’t be detached at the neck. Said dwarf chose to sew up Loki’s mouth in lieu of decapitation.

  He’s not sure exactly why Amy sounds so disapproving, but he senses an opportunity for comedy, or at least shock value.

  With just the barest bit of concentration, he creates an illusion of wire stitches over his lips. Turning to Amy, and Beatrice he says, “Mmmphhhff!”

  Beatrice sits back in her seat, hand over her mouth.

  Amy gasps. “How can you even joke about that?!”

  Loki tilts his head. The serious answer, the truthful answer, is how can he not? Joking about pain is the only weapon he has. It is the way he thumbs his nose up at the universe. The way he proves he is unbroken, and if not the god of mischief, then at least mischief’s master.

  But that isn’t the funny answer.

  He creates an illusion of himself in the backseat next to Beatrice and lets that projection say, “Don’t worry, m’lady. I am not offended by my joke.”

  “Ahh!” says Beatrice looking frantically back and forth between the illusion of Loki and Loki’s real self.

  The car almost swerves off the road. “Don’t do that without warning me!” says Amy.

  “Mmmphhhff,” says Loki’s real self, still feigning the stitches.

  “Don’t you people believe in proportional punishment?” Amy shoots him a glance that looks angry, hurt and scandalized all at once.

  Loki tilts his head. In the scheme of things, that physical agony was small. He had done a wrong. He paid a price. It was logical. There were other pains, other slights that were random and unjust. They hurt more. But he cannot think of them, much less speak of them. Instead, he lets his astrally-projected self lean forward and whisper near her ear. “But if I hadn’t had my lips sewn shut I wouldn’t have learned the art of astral projection — out of sheer desperation to wag my tongue.”
br />   Beatrice snorts.

  Loki lets the illusion of himself and the stitches fade. “And if Thor hadn’t had the opportunity to hold me down while the stitches were put in, he might not have felt that he’d recovered his honor and we might never have become friends.”

  Amy shoots him a look that communicates both revulsion and disbelief.

  But Thor and Loki had been friends, hadn’t they? They’d both risked their lives for one another. And for a long time Thor’s friendship had surely helped ease Valli and Nari’s dealings with other Asgardians. They had been known more for Thor’s patronage, and less as Loki’s sons.

  In the end what good had it done them, though? Even, brave, noble, supposedly honest, Thor had caved to Odin.

  Loki clenches his fists. He cannot believe that Valli and Nari have met their ends. They are somewhere, alive, if not well, and wherever they are he will find them. Loki is very good at finding lost things, and the more impossible the task, the more likely it is he will succeed. Even Odin gives him that.

  “So...” says Amy, eyes focused on the road ahead. “Can you tell us what we’re going to do when we find gala drill?”

  “Gala drill?” says Loki. A party and a drill? He scratches his ear... Did he hear right, or lose the thread of magic? Something tickles in the back of his mind

  “You know, elf queen, in the books?” says Amy.

  “And movies!” Beatrice pipes in.

  “Ahhh...a name from a new myth,” says Loki, the tickle becoming an itch. There is something about the name that feels almost, but not quite right.

  Amy blinks. “I guess, maybe.”

  Shaking his head, Loki says, “No king or queen of the elves would reveal their true name. It would mean sacrificing too much of their power.” Lifting his eyebrows, he tilts his head. “And believe me, power isn’t something elven monarchs are keen on relinquishing.”

  Amy leans forward in her seat. She isn’t wearing the figure-flattering shirt she wore the other day. What she is wearing now is baggy, and goes too far up her chest. Loki has no idea why someone with such astonishing breasts would want to hide them.

  “Uh....is she going to be unhappy to see us here?” Amy says, looking nervously out the window.

  “You and Beatrice? Oh, no, you are fine. The elves resented Odin’s orders to withdraw from your realm. They saw it their duty to play an active role in shaping human culture. They’ll be delighted to see you. Me, on the other hand...” He puts a hand to his chin, and taps contemplatively. “I will need a disguise.”

  “The elf queen can’t read hearts?” whispers Amy quietly.

  Startled by the question, Loki turns to her. “Actually, the elf queen can read hearts, or minds rather. I’m sure that she’ll see through the disguise, but it will confuse her court, and give her plausible deniability should Odin pay her a visit.”

  “You’re on the outs with Odin already?” says Beatrice.

  Choosing to ignore that question, Loki says, “As for what I want with the elf queen...I want a simple exchange of information.”

  He sees Amy’s eyes lift to the rear view mirror and realizes she and Beatrice are exchanging a glance.

  Let them wonder. He has been more than accommodating.

  Amy squeezes Car’s steering wheel. “What sort of disguise?”

  Loki tilts his head. “The best disguise is like the best lie. As close to the truth as possible.” He concentrates. His armor with its magical camouflage is too fine to belong to just any ordinary soldier. He dulls it to steel, painted dark gray. His hair he changes to brown, his chin and nose he broadens, and he increases his height and the width of his shoulders.

  “Whoa,” says Amy, “you were big enough already.”

  Unable to resist a chance to jest, Loki smirks. “Yes, yes, I was,” he says in a deep, husky voice.

  Amy tilts her head. “What does that mean?”

  Before Loki even has a chance to purse his lips at her disappointing inability to grasp that little bit of sly innuendo, Beatrice hits him on the back of the head.

  That’s more like it!

  “Argh!” Loki screams, feigning pain. He turns and smiles at Beatrice. She scowls at him.

  “Oh, my God,” says Amy.

  Loki smirks at her. “I’m not really a god, but I’ll pretend to be one for you.”

  Beatrice hits him again. “Argh!” Loki cries, but he is unable to suppress a wide grin. There’s nothing like a bit of comedy to take one’s mind off a daunting quest.

  “Was that an allusion to penis size?” Amy says, hands tightening on the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turn white.

  Loki’s smile drops. Cringing in genuine distaste he says, “Must you be so anatomical?”

  Amy is silent for a moment. Dipping her chin and scowling, she begins to chant. “Penis, penis, penis.”

  Beatrice whacks him over the head again.

  “...penis, penis, penis...”

  “Hit her, not me!” Loki cries.

  “...penis, penis, penis,” says Amy, looking angrier and angrier.

  “You started it,” the old woman replies.

  Huffing, Loki says, “To return to the previous topic — ”

  Amy stops her chant.

  “Thank you,” says Beatrice.

  “I will not try to disguise my Frost Giant nature, but I will go by the name of Fjölnir Thorsbruter. It’s a common name among Frost Giants in Thor’s legion, and won’t raise suspicion.”

  “You look like a Frost Giant now?” says Amy, looking him up and down.

  “Of course,” says Loki, slightly vexed.

  “You’re not blue. In the movies Frost Giants are blue.”

  Loki stares at her, completely at a loss for what she could be talking about.

  From the backseat comes Beatrice’s voice. “Oh, my, how lovely.”

  Amy’s eyes go back to the road. They have just come over a gentle rise, and now in the distance beyond cultivated fields, orchards, pasture lands, and a wide river, Alfheim’s only city in the domain of the light elves is on full display.

  “It’s beautiful,” Amy says.

  Loki gazes at the city in the distance. Set into the side of a mountain, it sits beside the border road. The city’s architecture is reminiscent of human European architecture from the 12th century. The entire city is made from white stone. Thick walls and ramparts with small slitted windows encircle more buildings with the same small slitted windows. There are peaked tile roofs, all in green. At the center of the city, rising up above the other buildings, is the castle proper. Dark green ivy climbs along walls; trees with lavender leaves lift their crowns alongside the buildings.

  Loki hasn’t been here in over a hundred years. Squinting, he looks hard for any changes in the scenery, but even the ivy and trees within the city gates remain exactly as he remembers them. Absolutely nothing has changed.

  “I suppose it’s quaint,” he says. He’s not sure how the humans can be impressed. Chicago, with its riot of styles from only the last century or so, displays more variety of architecture in a single block than the whole city of Alfheim. And Alfheim’s city is so small. It is only a few miles wide and the tallest tower can’t be over ten stories.

  “Like a fairy castle,” says Beatrice, her voice awed.

  Loki snorts. “Well, technically — ”

  “Are those dinosaurs?” Amy says, looking out at the fields.

  Loki follows her gaze. A few hadrosaurs dot the pastures, and two are being ridden in neat formation along the city’s main wall. From afar they look a lot like the velociraptors Loki hatched so long ago. They have powerful hind legs and smaller forelimbs. They do not walk on their hind limbs exclusively though, and their mouths are beak-like. They also get much larger than velociraptors — up to the size of a bus.

  “Yes,” says Loki.

  He blinks. He’s a bit surprised English has a word for dinosaur. Loki doesn’t know English particularly well. He uses magic to translate languages. On Asgard
they call it “The Gift of Tongues.” Humans might call it a “spell,” but it’s more a state of mind. Loki doesn’t fight the magic that flows through Amy and Beatrice that wants to interact with the appropriate neurons in his brain’s speech centers.

  The trick has its limitations: if there is no corresponding word between languages, translations become difficult. But now there is a common English word for dinosaurs! Fascinating. Staring at the creatures, he realizes there is even an English word for specific dinosaur species. “Specifically, hadrosaurs, harmless herbivores,” he adds. Harmless unless they step on you, of course.

  Tensing at the wheel, Amy looks nervously to the dark forest still on their left. “I don’t have to worry about T-rexes or velociraptors, do I?”

  Loki’s mouth drops open. “You know what a velociraptor is?”

  “I’ve seen Jurassic Park,” says Amy. Voice rising tremulously she says, “Are there velociraptors here?”

  “No,” says Loki. “No....nasty creatures though, I’ll give you that.”

  Amy turns her face quickly to him. She doesn’t look relieved for some reason.

  Puzzling over that, Loki looks out at the road and his eyes go wide. “Look out for the hadrosaur dung!”

  Amy hits the brakes and they screech to a halt just in time.

  “It’s the size of a dog!” says Beatrice.

  “It looks like bird poop,” says Amy. “White...but really lumpy. I wonder if I could get a sample and take it back to school? We have a thermos, don’t we? I have a friend from undergrad in the micro lab at UIC. We could compare the genome of the hadrosaur dung bacteria to the bacteria in bird guano. If elves were on Earth at one time, there is a possibility that the bacteria might share a common ancestor!”

  Loki blinks.

  “We probably don’t have time for that, Dear. Right Loki?” says Beatrice.

  Loki stifles a laugh at Beatrice’s conspiratorial prompting, but he’s more impressed than repulsed. It’s something Hoenir would do — at this point Loki is quite inured to dung collection. Pursing his lips he says, “Maybe later. For now, perhaps you should drive more slowly? We are close enough to the castle for it to be safe after dark.”

  “Right,” says Amy, steering the vehicle so it straddles the dung.

  Loki hopes none gets on the axles; it is quite foul smelling. He sighs. Elves. No appreciation for any type of evolution.