Sawyer huffed. "What happens if I screw this up?"
"You'll be fine, Son. I have faith in you." Jake snapped the phone shut. Afterward, he stared at the device and wondered if he'd made the correct decision.
Time would tell.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Phoenix, Arizona
Three a.m. The devil's hour: a fitting time for Loki's return to Phoenix.
A burnt umber veil cloaked the gibbous moon. As a concession to the darkness, he drifted as an owl over the Phoenix suburb, flying so low his talons came within millimeters of brushing the terra cotta tiles of the Mission Revival-style homes. He found it hilarious that the King of the Aesir owned a cookie cutter house on a corner lot. Oh, the irony. The most singular entity Loki had ever known—content to hide in an unremarkable dwelling in an ordinary middle-class neighborhood.
But, Loki conceded, alighted upon the cinderblock wall that surrounded Jake Barrett's backyard, the swimming pool was damned nice. Perfect for children. He bet Michael loved the diving board, though the lack of a safety barrier concerned him. Hopping from the fence top, he assumed the identity of eight-year-old Benjamin on his way down. He skipped across the dark yard, deftly evading the motion-detectors that controlled the floodlights.
Nearing the darkened window of Michael's bedroom, the Trickster stooped like a bandit so his head remained hidden from sight. No sound came from within the room but he sensed three entities just inside—two living and one... not.
The dís.
Jake was there too, but farther away, more difficult to perceive. His magical wards protected him against scrying and second sight, but he was still mortal with all the vulgar trappings his condition entailed. The slow rate of his heartbeat and his deep, shallow respiration suggested the Hunter King was sound asleep.
Just as well. It made Loki's task easier. Of course, he could have explained his scheme to Jake. The hunter might even have agreed, but it struck the Trickster as unlikely. No, far easier to act and apologize later than to ask and get shot down.
In the plaster beside the window pane, Loki located a crack too thin to accommodate even a tape worm. Getting into inaccessible places, especially where he wasn't welcome, had always been one of talents. He changed his shape again, creating a living creature unknown to modern science, one long and thin enough to fit through the fissure. He sieved his essence into the child's room.
Loki became Benjamin again but with the eyes of a cat. Michael slept in his bed; his massive mutt stretched out across the foot. Determined not to disturb the pair before he was ready, the Trickster hunkered beside a battered oak trunk that served as a toy box. Through the cracked door, a narrow beam of light penetrated the darkness. However, the brightness caused every other part of the bedroom to seem shadier in comparison.
A spider fell on Loki's arm—eight writhing legs tickling his bare skin. Irritated, he brushed it off and tilted his head to survey the room. The walls and ceiling were alive—not his imagination. A living carpet of spiders covered every square inch of plaster. Scuttling legs. Clicking mandibles. Disgusting even by his humble standards.
Loki's manifestation sent the swarm scurrying for cover. Spiders rained from the ceiling. Some supported themselves on thin silken threads. Others just fell, dropping onto the bed and the floor. Those on the walls rushed toward the baseboard in a wave, layers of arachnids traveling atop each other, growing ever thicker as their numbers converged. Their mass was a foot high when it reached the bottom of the bed. Within seconds, the entire group had withdrawn.
Easing away from the trunk, Loki cast a furtive glance through the cracked door. His vantage allowed him to peer into the hallway where Jake slept upright in a chair, his chin resting upon his chest, arms crossed, cradling a rifle.
To the Trickster's critical appraisal, the boy's guardian appeared exhausted. Hardly surprising, considering Loki had deprived Jake of sleep the night before. Then, he'd derived amusement from inflicting misery on his old nemesis. Now, he regretted his pettiness and he wouldn't indulge it again. The thing that served as his vestigial conscience twinged but his real compunction sprang from practicality. Michael needed a vigilant guardian.
On a child's stealthy feet, Loki crept toward the bed. His approach confused the dog who lifted his head and snarled. Loki stopped in his tracks. His brow pinched in thought. Damn it, what was the blasted beast's name? Muttley? Or was it Spot?
"Rascal? What's wrong boy?" Michael's young voice was sleepy. Beneath the covers, he stirred and reached, seeking the dog in the darkness.
Shit. Loki tensed. He'd wanted to rouse the child gently. If the pair made much more noise, Jake would awaken and charge in looking for blood. Per recent experience, the hunter woke up as grumpy as a hellhound with mange. The Trickster still suffered from the injuries he'd sustained earlier that day at the playground. He was weak. He might not survive another attack; he didn't want to find out.
This avatar—his last. If he sacrificed himself for a mortal child, he lost his foothold on Midgard but also the part of himself that kept him sane. Eternal, maddening suffering awaited him once he reunited with his greater form.
And he fumed over having lost complete control over the situation. He never worked like this—on the fly and without a detailed plan. Oh, he could scam anyone out of anything; it was his gift. But more than anything else, he regarded himself as a master of the long con; his most ingenious schemes required centuries of meticulous planning and implementation.
Loki pitched his call to a whisper, "Michael, it's me—Ben."
"Ben?" Michael twisted on the bed, turning toward the sound of Loki's voice. The boy sounded unafraid but unfortunately, the damn dog kept growling.
"Yeah, it's me. Shh, keep your voice down." Loki climbed onto the edge of the bed, extending his arm toward Rascal. He wove a hasty charm, casting friendship into the dog's mind.
Rascal whined in welcome and shoved his muzzle into Loki's open hand. The dog's great tongue bathed his fingers, leaving them slurpy with saliva. Yuck. With a grimace, Loki shook off dog drool.
"What're you doing here? How'd you get in?" Michael asked, unfortunately loud.
"I'm magic. Remember?"
"Oh yeah."
A solid thunk and a man's deep, disturbed snort came from the hallway, signaling Jake's inelegant awakening. His boots thundered on the tile when he stood.
"Damn it. Don't tell your dad that I'm here."
Loki ducked behind the bed and crouched on all fours. By happenstance, he found himself staring into the space beneath the bed. It stared back with thousands of tiny, sinister eyes. They were just two monsters glaring at each other in the dark. From her demeanor, the dís was wary. She wouldn't reveal herself with Jake lurking nearby. Getting the undead bitch to show herself at all was going to require guile and trickery...and probably some plain old dumb luck.
"Michael? Are you all right?" Jake asked with a burr of concern.
"Yeah, I'm fine, Dad. But I think Rascal needs to go out."
"Damn dogs shouldn't be inside at night." Jake grumbled and then snapped a command to the dog. "All right, c'mon. I'll let you out."
The Rottweiler bounded from the bed.
Yes! A grin split Loki's mouth; he aborted a fist pump. He hadn't expected Michael to prove such a deft liar—there may be hope for the kid yet. Bidding his time, the Trickster stayed hidden. When Rascal left the room, the dog's nails hit the tile, crisp clicks in contrast to the man's heavier footfalls. The sound of their movement receded.
Aware he didn't have long, Loki popped up. He bounded onto the mattress and crawled to the top. His child form wasn't much bigger than Michael, so they both fit fine on the double bed.
"What's up?" Excitement elevated Michael's naturally high voice even though he tried to whisper.
"Still wanna be a super hero?" Loki reached for the magic pocket where he'd stashed his newly stolen prize. From thin air, he pulled the mystical dagger, Vanadium. The dagger shimmered and danced like the
Aurora Borealis.
"Whoaaaa." Michael's mouth dropped open.
"Shhh." Loki hissed. He tapped the boy's hanging jaw shut and hastily hid the weapon beneath the covers. The monster under the bed must have noticed the light show but she wouldn't necessarily understand the cause. Hell, the Trickster's entire plan banked on catching her unaware.
"Uh, what're we gonna do?" Michael fidgeted.
"We're gonna slay the monster hiding under the bed..." Loki delivered the declaration loud and clear, empowering his voice with magic. Sneering. Mocking. This was also one of his talents—the gift of provocation.
The mattress jolted, as though punched dead center, struck from beneath. Angered, the dead thing had finally decided to make her presence known.
"I want to call my dad." Michael waved his hands in rising panic.
"No. This has to be you. Remember what I taught you. There's a place in your mind that's devoid of fear. Go there. Just like I taught you." Loki caught Michael's wrist, slapped the dagger into his hand, and pressed his fingers closed about the hilt.
Michael gasped. "What is it?"
"Her name is Vanadium. Keep her hidden until it's time to strike."
"No fear. No fear." Michael recited the litany, growing steadier with each repetition, as though the words were his charm. By the third time through, he was as cool as could be. Loki shrugged—whatever worked. Magic, once found, served each individual in a different fashion.
Loki placed himself before Michael, keeping the boy against the headboard. The Trickster altered his appearance so he looked like Michael's identical twin, right down to the PJs the boy wore. Figuring he had one good shot at this, he grabbed a gob of magic and wove it into his taunt, crafting an infuriating heckle designed to provoke.
"Inga, you coward," Loki sang out, using Michael's lilting voice. "You've sunk low—hiding beneath children's beds. Show yourself."
The bed rattled; the beast rumbled. As though caught in the grip of a terrible earthquake, the wooden posts lifted and dropped to the floor. Loki shifted his balance, riding out the tremor but he was aware of Michael's distress. The boy clung to the headboard. Pronounced cracks accompanied the splitting of boards.
Cold sweat broke out across Loki's body. Twisting his head, he scanned all sides of the bed, watching for any sign of the dís. The bitch could come at him from any angle—he had to be ready.
From the back of the house, Jake shouted and the dog barked furiously.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Time's up. On the verge of panic, Loki summoned reckless energy, tapping dangerous sorcery. "Do you hear—Odin's coming. Your unwiped ass is fucked."
The heaving bed smashed to the ground. The footboard shattered and collapsed into pieces, leaving it at a dangerous slope.
Loki leaned back, making sure Michael remained behind him. Barring his teeth, he threw down a gauntlet. "Inga, your ilk was birthed from my puke!"
"Loki!" A raspy female voice snarled his name—rising with recognition and rage. Dísir despised him. Maybe it was the card he should've played first.
Time to deliver the coup de grâce. "That's right—Loki. You imbecilic canker-blossom. It's past time you acknowledged me as the true master of your destiny."
Dead silence—except for the pounding of Jake's boots coming on fast.
Two arachnid legs hooked the edge of the mattress. They were covered in thick, bristling brown hairs. The top of a huge square head appeared—four black eyes, round and shiny, all in a row—over a bottlebrush mustache that concealed her fangs.
"Ben..." Michael's voice shook.
"I see it." He spread his arms behind him, framing the boy, and shifted Michael to the side. Always behind him. He rotated and braced, preparing for an onslaught.
The spider's head rose higher and higher... revealing the thick thorax that sported six more hirsute limbs. Her legs were several times longer than her body, spanning the entire breath of the room from one side to the other. Her bloated abdomen dragged behind her, scraping the ground. She wasn't the svelte spring spider Loki remembered.
"Damn, Inga, you've gotten fat."
The dís hissed. Her black eyes glittered. Bright venom dripped from her fangs and all eight limbs shifted continuously.
Loki sucked a sharp breath. Okay, yeah, he was scared of her—scary spider bitch—way worse than Jake. Time dilated—Loki fretted. Dreaded. Had Michael lost his grip on Vanadium? If he had—they were both so very screwed.
"I've got it," the boy said, leaving Loki wondering if he'd spoken aloud. "No fear."
"Try not to stab me!" Loki shouted.
The spider sprang at him, running on her six hind legs—the front pair positioned to attack. Barbed mandibles—blood red chitin tipped in ebony points.
He braced and held his ground until she was right on top of him. At the last possible second, he shifted shapes to a giant scorpion and reared to meet her. His claws caught her front legs and their second set of limbs met and locked. He halted her advance but their combined force rocked the already precarious mattress.
Miscalculation: proportions to positions. One of his scorpion legs collided with Michael, knocking the boy aside. The child shouted and tumbled off the bed. Loki winced inwardly—oops. But he didn't dwell; couldn't afford to.
The dís had preponderance on him, enough to crush him. She pressed, shoving him. He slid, scrambled, dug in with his clawed walking legs but he only succeeded in ripping deep gouges in the mattress. He slowed her but she continued to overwhelm him, forcing him over backward. Seeking an opportunity, he lifted his tail but couldn't achieve sufficient traction. Accurate striking required his upper body to be positioned low, tail high—the opposite of his current stance.
"Michael!" Jake appeared in the entry, brandishing the molten blade of his dagger. It emanated a wave of heat—burning cinders and thick smoke that clogged the air.
"Dad!" Michael called outside of Loki's view.
Brief relief brushed Loki because he hadn't hurt the kid. It didn't last long. The entwined scorpion and spider blocked the Hunter King's path to his son. Not where Loki wanted to be, but he couldn't flee without releasing the dís. If she escaped, they'd never get another shot at her.
The spider's mandibles flexed, straining for him. Doom loomed in his vision. Within her mouth, poison sacks bulged with venom; droplets shimmering on the tips of wicked fangs. Those curved tusks, tipped in death, menaced him. He snapped his own jaws together, a reminder. Bite—get bit.
Weapon positioned, a reaper at his task, Jake descended on the entwined arachnids. His blade descended and struck the spider's second and third walking legs where they joined her thorax. The blow severed the limbs but also took off one of the scorpion's clawed feet.
She screeched and tipped, her balance upset.
Fearsome pain stabbed through Loki's leg. He roared and channeled his rage into an attack. His tail shot up and then struck—the stinger embedded in the back of the spider's head and delivered paralytic poison. Not as deadly as hers but it should slow her.
The second the scorpion's stinger pierced her flesh, the spider discharged a deadly spray from her fangs into his face. It hit Loki square in the eyes. Burning. Blinding. Impossible agony. He howled and thrashed.
The tangled arachnids toppled and rolled. Inga struggled to escape but Loki hung on with every ounce of petty, vindictive determination in his soul. Taking. The. Bitch. With. Him. Last thing he ever did.
A crunch and a splat.
Agony consumed Loki. Pain became his only sensory perception for perpetuity. Unending and infinite. He hung on a thread of lucidity but had no idea how long his rational mind could endure beneath the weight of the torment. Awful certainty overwhelmed him. The spider had killed him, destroying his avatar.
Damn it. Damn it all to hell and back. He was screwed. For centuries, he'd hidden his mind in that incarnation. His last life and final foothold in the mortal world. The one thing that had kept him sane all this time. Its destruction was Game Over. His cognizanc
e had returned to his greater form, which was imprisoned in the underworld—sentenced to endure the eternal torture of having a sleeping dragon's venom drip onto his face, corroding flesh and bone. Oh irony, from spider to serpent...
From far, far away, Loki heard Jake saying, "Now, come over here..."
"Is he going to be okay?" Michael asked, his voice full of childish anxiety.
"Yeah, he'll be fine. It takes more than that to kill a cockroach."
"But he's a scorpion."
"Same basic principle. Now, son, hold the dagger like this..."
"Like this?" Michael asked.
"Yes, over its heart. You want to cut—" A roar like a wave blurred their voices out.
Loki faded into blackness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Phoenix, Arizona
Loki woke up on his back, still a scorpion with his five remaining legs twitching above him, and was surprised he woke up at all. One of his front claws and two walking legs were among the missing limbs. He groaned but a clatter emerged from his rigid mandibles. His entire body throbbed, pulsating anguish.
Without premeditation, Loki rolled over into the shape of Benjamin. Altering his form required an actual, concentrated effort; a difficulty he was unaccustomed to. He, who changed shape as naturally as he breathed, struggled through the process of shrinking from a scorpion to a boy. He lacked the guile for artistry so he settled for baggy sweats as gray as he was glum.
Afterward, he rested on his side, panting, and tried to focus his vision. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see. He grabbed for his face—scared beyond reason it was gone. He touched something soft and gauzy. Tore at it, ripping away bandages, and exposed his raw and swollen eye sockets.
Blinding sunshine hit what remained of his damaged eyes. Nausea slammed him. He convulsed and puked up his guts. Whimpering, he used his arms to shield his face and curled into a fetal position. Abject misery. He'd lived but the way he felt—maybe he'd be better off dead.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 29