Liesmith

by Alis Franklin

  “Thank you,” he told it. “I’ll, uh. I owe you a detailing. Or…whatever it is that cars like.”

  The engine rumbled.

  When Sigmund let go and turned back to the elevator, he saw his dad was smiling.

  “What?”

  “I was just remembering,” Dad said, “how much you used to love Herbie as a kid.”

  Sigmund thought of the old white Love Bug and thought of Lain’s predatory black monster, and thought they were about as different as two cars could possibly be. “Pretty sure Lain’s car would eat Herbie for breakfast,” Sigmund said, feeling oddly proud about the statement.

  Behind him, he heard an engine roar.

  —

  The elevators worked, which was a relief; LEDs ticking off the floors as they ascended. Somewhere around the thirtieth, Dad said, “You know, I’ve never been up this high before.”

  “It’s a nice view,” Sigmund said. Then, at his dad’s raised eyebrows, “Um. Lain, is…uh. Lain is Travis Hale.”

  Dad’s eyebrows didn’t lower, though he seemed to turn this over in his mind. Finally, he said, “My son is dating the CEO?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The third richest man in the world?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s also…” Dad waved his hand. Sigmund got the gist.

  “Yeah.”

  Dad was silent for a moment, then an expression that Sigmund could only think of as a sly grin crept across his face. “That’s my boy,” he said.

  Sigmund smiled, looked at his shoes, and tried not to blush.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  —

  The doors opened in the penthouse. And onto the scowling shape of Nicole Arin.

  “Ms. Arin!” Dad’s voice, pitched an octave higher than a squeak. Sigmund tried not to wince. “It’s an honor. Um. We, uh—”

  “Where’s Hale?” Arin ignored Dad, looking straight at Sigmund instead.

  Sigmund stepped out of the elevator, which wasn’t easy with Arin crowding him down. She was kinda creepy. Really…intense. Like Em, except minus twenty kilos and plus two decades and two significant figures (at least) on her paycheck. Still. Sigmund could deal with Em. He could deal with Arin, too. He hoped.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We got separated at my place. But he told us we should head here.”

  Arin’s lips thinned, but she seemed to accept the explanation, turning to stalk deeper into the penthouse.

  “That’s the VP of the company!” Dad’s hand was wrapped around Sigmund’s arm, his voice no louder than a whisper.

  “I know,” Sigmund said. He tried not to take the exposition personally, mostly on account of his bad track record recognizing the top of the org chart. “It’s okay.” He extracted himself from Dad’s grip, following Arin into the living room. After a moment, he heard Dad do the same.

  “This mess is Hale’s,” Arin was saying. “He’s dug up old grudges. Now we all share the cost.” Her back was ramrod stiff, hands clasped behind, eyes gazing out over the city. “Negative postings for citizens of the city have risen five hundred eighty-three percent, across all major social media platforms, in the last six hours alone. Sixteen people have been hospitalized for attempted suicide; three have succeeded. There have been two murders. A dozen assaults. This is a black day for our city, Mr. Sussman. For our company.”

  Sigmund felt something cold and hard ball in the pit of his stomach. “Don’t blame Lai— Travis for this,” he said. “He’s not the one who made the Wound.”

  Arin half turned. “No,” she said. “But he knew he had enemies, knew he was hunted. He’s spent so many years being so careful. Not raising the suspicions of his former masters. And yet, do you know what alerted them?”

  Sigmund took a half step back. Got a bad feeling he knew where this was heading.

  “You, Mr. Sussman.” So. Bad feeling confirmed. “You are a relic of his past. A thing he should have done without. Yet here you are. And you bring misery in your wake.”

  “Now hold on just one minute.” Sigmund blinked, turning to where his dad was stepping forward. “Don’t you blame my son for this. He’s young, and he’s in love. He didn’t want any of this to happen. Ghosts and monsters and…and gods. He was dragged into this mess, we both were. And now we both just want it over.” Covered in mud and ash, and Sigmund had never seen his father so ferocious.

  Arin inclined her head, something mechanical in the movement. “As do I,” she said. She turned away, seemed to think for a moment, before adding, “You should be safe in this place. For now. But, perhaps, were I you, I would be praying for—” She stopped midsentence. Gaze lifting and not focused on anything Sigmund could see. Something flickered across her eyes. A moving light, not corresponding to anything in the room. When she blinked, it was gone. “Others are here,” she said to Sigmund. “Two women, Wyrdtouched, as yourself. They carry an artifact of great power. One works for this company. A Ms. Ivanovich. I believe you know her.”

  Sigmund felt his breath catch. “Em and Wayne!” It had to be. Valkyries, Lain had said. “Open the doors and send the elevator,” Sigmund said. “You can, can’t you? Please.”

  Arin’s lips thinned. “They may be hostile.”

  “Please, they’re my friends.” Sigmund bit his lip. Gods, he hoped they were all right. This whole thing was such a mess.

  “They call for you,” Arin said. Sigmund didn’t ask how she knew. Was, in fact, starting to get the distinct impression that the creature known as Nicole Arin wasn’t as human as initially advertised. “They say Lain has sent them.”

  (Lain…)

  “See?” Sigmund said, trying to ignore the roaring of his heart. “They’re here to help. Please, let them up.”

  Arin held out a moment longer, but only a moment. “Very well.”

  “Thank you,” Sigmund said, and meant it. “Thank you so much.” Em and Wayne. They were here, and they were safe. So was Dad. Now all they had to do was wait for Lain. Who hopefully had some kind of plan. Some way to fix this whole terrible mess.

  Sigmund waited by the elevators, hopping from foot to foot as he watched the numbers on the display drop, then slowly rise. Behind him, he heard Dad trying to make awkward small talk with Arin.

  (never change, Dad)

  Then the doors opened.

  “Sigmund!”

  The doors opened, and suddenly Sigmund’s world was black and pink and full of hugs and laughter.

  “Em! Wayne!”

  “You’re okay. Oh, thank gods.”

  Em snorted. “Gods nothing,” she said. “Your boyfriend is an ass.”

  Sigmund’s heart was thunder and his gut squirmed. “You saw Lain? Is he okay? Where is he?”

  “He’s a fucking Norse fucking god!” Em punched Sigmund in the arm. “What the fuck, man!”

  Sigmund laughed. There was a tinge of hysteria around the edge, and his arm hurt from Em’s fist, but he figured both things were okay. Better than okay. Because his friends were here. And they’d seen Lain. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  “He has horns! And a fucking tail!”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Bloody hell…” Em was shaking her head, muttering under her breath. Sigmund couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling in his throat.

  “Sig?” Black-nailed fingers on his arm, and Sigmund turned to look into Wayne’s eyes. Missing the contacts, for once, which was weird. Sort of…raw. “Your boy told us to give you this.” She was holding something. An enormous spear. Or…a giant tooth on a stick. Whatever.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Gungnir,” Em said. “Odin’s spear.”

  Wayne was offering, so Sigmund took it. The weapon felt weird in his hand. Heavy and awkward. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Wayne said. “I think…just hold on to it, maybe? Loki said he’d be back for it when he could. I think he’s planning on killing someone.”

  “Bald
r,” Em supplied.

  Sigmund nodded, looking down at the spear. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. And La— Loki?” Jesus, they needed to sort out all these names. How many names did one guy need, anyway? (how many names does he own?)

  “We left him fighting a…a thing,” Em said. “On Golgotha Hill, under the Yggdrasill. He told us to take the spear, and run.”

  “You didn’t…” Sigmund started, then stopped himself. Because no, that wasn’t fair.

  His friends heard it anyway. “Sig,” Wayne said. “I’m sorry, man. But…he told us to run.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Em said, and Sigmund felt the lie creeping in around the edge. “He seems pretty, y’know. Durable. Wayne ran him over with her car and mostly the only thing that broke was the windscreen.”

  “Em! You dobber!”

  “Wayne!”

  “I’m sorry, man. But he looked…y’know.” Wayne did look sorry, and guilty. Still. Running over Sigmund’s boyfriend was totally not okay.

  “I told you he had horns.”

  “I told her running people over wasn’t cool.”

  Which, fine. So maybe Sigmund had also run someone over a little bit today. But that had been more the car’s fault, and besides, it was Baldr. He totally didn’t count on account of being the Bad Guy, right?

  Right.

  (he said he loved me once…)

  Sigmund looked at Em and he looked at Wayne. His friends, his best friends. Both were a little banged up, a little scuffed and a little wild eyed. But they were safe, and they were here and, despite everything they’d done and seen, they were still Em and Wayne. Sigmund wanted to hug them again. Hug them, and never let go. He didn’t. Instead he said, “I’m so glad you guys are here.”

  He got a smile from Wayne and another punch in the arm from Em. “Us too, dooder,” said the former.

  “With you to the end, man,” said the latter.

  Sigmund tried not to take it literally.

  —

  Sigmund’s old clothes were still in the penthouse. Tattered and full of holes, but someone had cleaned them and folded them neatly on the bed. They were better than sopping wet jeans and an ash-streaked shirt, and so Sigmund vanished into the bathroom to get changed. It was still the same as he remembered, back when he’d spent the night there, what felt like an eternity ago.

  LB seemed immune to the Bleed, so Sigmund jumped in and out of the shower just long enough to scrub away the greasy film coating his skin. His shoes and socks were gross, so when he emerged—dressed again in his clean-but-ruined clothes—it was without either.

  “Shower’s free,” he said, just in case.

  He’d left Gungnir leaning against the couch. Em and Wayne were raiding the kitchen, Dad busy discussing business with Arin. All Sigmund could think about was Lain, and why he wasn’t with them.

  (what did Baldr mean about Loki?)

  He was about to suggest they start searching, when Wayne looked up from examining the fridge and said, “What’s that noise?”

  “What noi—”

  Rat-ta-tap-tap.

  Oh. That noise: sharp and purposeful, coming from the direction of the balcony doors. Over, and over, and over.

  “Probably just nothing,” Sigmund suggested. But he was already halfway across the room.

  Behind him, he heard Em mutter, “Dude. It is never just nothing.”

  She was right: It was a bird. A huge raven, in fact, pecking at the glass with its beak. Sigmund wasn’t a big bird expert or anything, but he was pretty sure he recognized it.

  It was standing on top of something. A piece of leather, about four centimeters wide, two silver snap fastners on the ends.

  Lain’s wrist cuff.

  “Where is he you squawking piece of shit I swear if you’ve hurt him I’m going to pull out your feathers one by one!” Because, suddenly, Sigmund had thrown the door open. Was out on the balcony, lunging for the fucking bird, rage a cold ball of ice sitting in his stomach.

  The raven cawed, hopping backward out of Sigmund’s reach with ease.

  “Hey, steady on there, kid. I’m just the messenger. Bringing a message.”

  The bird wasn’t talking. When it cawed, Sigmund could see its beak move, see the feathers on its throat ruffle in time to the sound. But when it spoke, its voice was just…there.

  He hadn’t heard it, before. In the parking garage. There’d been something, but it’d been like a whisper from another room, no words he could make out. There were words now. Sigmund would ponder the significance later.

  “Where’s Lain?” he said, making another lunge. The bird hopped back again, cawing something that might have been a laugh.

  “Downstairs,” it said, “in the foyer. With the— With Baldr. That’s the message. The Bright One wants to do a deal. Seems he might have something you want.”

  (shit. shit shit shit)

  Sigmund’s hands clenched and unclenched by his side. Behind him, he heard the others crowd around the balcony door.

  “And in return?”

  The raven clicked its beak. “The spear,” it said. “Bring it down, maybe he lets your fuckup boyfriend live.”

  Sigmund scowled, ice melting to unease within his stomach. The bird wasn’t lying, exactly, but there was still something behind the words. Some untruth that itched. “I thought he wanted Lain dead,” Sigmund said. “For the Ragnarok.” He wasn’t as good with the umlauts as Lain was. He figured the raven got the message.

  “Yeah, well,” it said. “Priorities change. The spear? Now that’s a pretty fucking big priority. Bring it down. Just you, rest of the goon squad stays up here. Anything else, Baldr starts chopping bits off your boy. Finger by finger.”

  “And they call Loki the monster.” The name still felt strange on Sigmund’s tongue. Too sharp, somehow. Too final. Like a scratching in his throat.

  (cuckolding skin thief)

  It was hard to read the bird’s expression, what with it being a bird and all, but Sigmund thought it almost looked unsettled at the comment. “Like I said, priorities change. I’ll tell the boss you’ll be down in ten.” It opened its wings.

  “Fifteen,” Sigmund said. Then, “It’s a long way down.” The lie itched. He bit his tongue, focusing on that pain instead.

  “Fine,” said the bird. Then it was gone.

  When Sigmund turned, four pairs of worried eyes stared back at him. Even Arin’s, which wasn’t instilling Sigmund with any confidence.

  “Dooder. You can’t,” Wayne said. “You know it’s a trap.”

  “I know,” Sigmund said, because he did. “So this is what we’re going to do.”

  —

  Ten minutes later, they were down in the office, standing in front of the elevators. Sigmund’s dad had been put in charge of the time.

  “Five to go.”

  Sigmund nodded, reminding himself to breathe. He was pretty sure he was leaving sweaty handprints all over Gungnir.

  The plan, he had to admit, wasn’t much of a plan. More of a proto plan, but, to his credit, it wasn’t as if he’d had a lot of time to come up with a full-tilt caper film. Just a distraction, really. Just enough to get downstairs, get the spear to Lain, and hopefully survive the encounter.

  He didn’t know what else he could do. He wasn’t a god, not anymore. He didn’t know how to fight, wasn’t immortal, couldn’t shrug off broken bones like they were nothing. This was all he had. It had to be enough.

  He looked to Arin. “Start sending them down.”

  Eight elevators in the Lokabrenna offices, but only two that came all the way up here. Sigmund was hoping Baldr didn’t know that.

  They’d taken the stairs down from the penthouse, just in case.

  “Here. I couldn’t find a backpack, but I got this.” Wayne, jogging up, carrying a too-hip laptop bag. It bulged in the way laptops didn’t, and when she helped Sigmund put it on, the thing weighed a ton.

  “It’ll do,” Sigmund said. “Em?”

  “Right,” Em sai
d. “So tell me, Mr. Sussman. What are your thoughts on the Star Wars prequel trilogy?”

  Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Gods were psychic. Sort of. According to Arin, it was more like a limited narrative prescience. Like being able to read the whole script, not just their own lines. And Lain was better at it than most, what with the whole being-blind thing. He relied on it a hell of a lot more than, say, Baldr would. Hopefully. Because Sigmund’s plan needed surprise, and that meant no cheating god hacks.

  And that meant thinking about something that wasn’t the Plan.

  “—no narrative structure. Like, the originals were so great because they were so simple, y’know? Just your standard Hero’s Journey stuff. Farm boy discovers he’s special, blah blah blah. But the prequels, like. I dunno. They kinda tried to keep that with the whole junkyard-slave thing, except—”

  And that, Sigmund knew, meant harnessing the most deadly power on the whole Internet: Nerd Rage.

  “—don’t even get me started on the use of gross racist stereotypes that—”

  Dad put a phone in Sigmund’s hand; Em was already holding hers. Arin was making them work, some godly power thing. Sigmund had expected her to disapprove of this part. For whatever reason, she’d been all for it.

  He stepped into the elevator.

  Over the phone, he heard Em’s voice say, “But don’t you think the attempt to broaden the scope of the narrative into the more political aspects of interplanetary relationships served to enrich the overall story line?”

  “If they hadn’t cocked it up, maybe. The books managed it. Like, if you read the ones by—”

  All the way down in the elevator.

  The idea was, all the doors would open on the ground floor at different times. If Baldr didn’t know exactly which one Sigmund would be in, hopefully they could avoid any messy ambushed-through-the-choke-point nonsense.

  Sigmund had no delusions he could take on Baldr in any kind of one-on-one fight, even with Gungnir on his side. But he did have to get close enough to take the bastard out. Just for a little while. Just long enough to get the spear to Lain. Who would hopefully be in a position to do something with it.