I Bring the Fire Part IV: Fates: The Hunt for Loki Is On

by C. Gockel

  “Cory Booker!” Richard says. “Mayor of Newark!”

  Two-for shakes his head. “Never married. Not divorced. And everyone thinks he’s gay.” He turns to Steve. “Are you gay? Because we could work with that. If you’re gay, that makes the divorce more excusable. You were finding yourself, your divorce is amicable…”

  Steve narrows his eyes. “No.”

  Richard perks up. Face becoming animated, hands leaving his keyboard, he says excitedly, “No…you’re not gay? Or you don’t like that plan? Because, dude, being gay would go a long way to easing the younger generation’s anxiety about your membership in the Republican Party when you were in college.”

  “Might also help with the allegations of sexual harassment of that Frost Giantess,” says Two-for.

  “Those allegations are baseless and I will be found innocent,” Steve snaps. Two-for and Richard draw back.

  “Steve’s not gay,” says Fats.

  The two younger men turn to Fats, shoulders slumping slightly.

  Steve leans back in his seat. “And it wouldn’t play with the older generation in this town.”

  Turning to Steve, Fats says, “But the divorce is an issue. If there was—”

  With a brusque wave of his hand, Steve cuts him off. “There are no sordid stories of clandestine affairs, Fats.”

  Fats leans closer to Steve. “You’ve given full access to surveillance of the giantess in your custody. Transparency is going to solve your sexual harassment issue… If you gave that same transparency to your divorce, opened up your divorce papers for the press…”

  Lowering and shaking his head, Steve says, “No. It would hurt my daughter. And…no. Not happening.”

  Fats sighs. “Steve…isn’t your daughter in the Ukraine now?”

  Steve lifts his eyes, his insides turning to lead. Claire is in the Ukraine. This very day going to the Kiev Ballet for a tour, and then to the president’s residence for a reception. What had Claire said? Her dress was like a real princess’s?

  “Think about it, Steve,” says Fats. Looking at his empty plate, he says, “Where did our waitress go?”

  Steve looks at his own empty coffee cup. He suddenly needs more. And he wants to step away from the table. Scanning the room, he sees the coffee maker at the bar underneath the television. Grabbing his cup, he says, “Anyone else want more?”

  The three political gurus shake their heads, and Steve steps away. The only person at the bar is a woman in a neat pantsuit, a tablet in front of her. She looks up at Steve and his breath catches. Her features are very African. She has a wide mouth with full lips, and a flat nose. Her skin looks like it’s been cut with cream, though. She is a light tan, her hair slightly darker. But her eyes are stunning, wide and nearly black. Her lips stretch into an easy smile. “Hello.”

  Steve’s brain blinks off for a second. As he gathers himself, his first thought is that this is why marriage is preferred in politicians. If you don’t have someone, you’re always looking.

  His eyes take in the hard hat on the counter beside her. The architectural designs laid out on the tablet, and the black portfolio leaning against the bar between their feet. Someone on the Board of Trade rehab team, maybe?

  Almost against his volition his own lips turn into a smile. “Hi,” he says, feeling himself lean imperceptibly closer.

  From behind the bar, a man’s voice says, “Oh my God. Is that real?”

  Steve and the woman both turn. Steve’s eyes lift to the screen. At first, he thinks he’s looking at a trailer for a movie. A winged woman in armor is on the screen, a spear upraised in front of her, a silent scream on her lips. The end of the spear is glowing red. A heartbeat later, a drop of what looks like lava congeals on the tip and blasts toward the camera. The screen goes black. All voices in the room go silent.

  The frame switches to a building too engulfed in flame be recognized…but the fire is wrong. Too red, and too bright. Magic.

  Steve steps closer to the bar. The bartender turns on the sound and an announcer’s voice fills the room. “This is a shot of the Kremlin… We’ve also got reports coming in that the residence of the president of Belarus is targeted…and wait, wait…” The screen flashes to another building bathed in the same too-red fire. The announcer says, “And this is a shot of the residence of the president of the Ukraine.”

  Steve’s jaw drops. Someone says, “Are you all right?”

  “The parties responsible have not been identified. Some are wondering if it is the work of the elves. However, some reports on the ground are that the attackers look more human than—”

  Steve pulls out his phone and frantically goes to check the time in the Ukraine.

  Someone is patting his shoulder. It’s Fats. He’s saying something.

  Hands shaking on the phone, Steve can’t hear him. His fingers are searching for the time in the Ukraine. His body goes cold.

  “She’s there,” Steve shouts. “She’s there for the reception…”

  “Who?” says Fats.

  “Claire…Claire…” says Steve, now almost a whisper. “And Dana…”

  He puts the phone in his pocket. He feels like he’s being crushed by an invisible hand. Like the air pressure has suddenly increased. An emergency exit in the corner catches his eye.

  “I have to leave,” he says, already walking to the door. The office. Someone will know more. And he can’t talk here.

  “Steve, wait,” says Fats.

  But Steve is already out the door. Without conscious thought, he breaks into a run and bolts across the street, dodging cars, not caring about the car horns that blare at him, or the cabbies’ swears. Once inside ADUO, he passes quickly through security and dashes to the elevator banks. He jams his fingers on the call button. Time seems to stand still. He hasn’t run far enough to be winded, but he is panting. Spinning to the stairs, he slams through the fire doors and then takes the steps two at a time.

  He’s on the third landing when his phone starts to buzz and the tinny sound of Green River starts to play. Steve takes a few more steps and then stops, suddenly realizing who it is. Pulling his phone out, he hits accept and says, “What do you know, Dale?”

  “Steve, buddy, I want you to sit down…”

  “Dale, don’t fuck with me!” Steve shouts.

  “Sit down. Sit down and get out of traffic right now if you’re in your car,” says Dale.

  Breathing shakily, Steve falls onto the stairs.

  “Are you sitting down?” says Dale.

  Wiping his head, Steve grinds out. “Yeah, I…”

  “I have her,” says Dale. “She’s here with me.”

  “What?” says Steve, voice going soft.

  “Claire. There was a mistake in the invitations to the dinner, and Claire wasn’t invited so we stayed at the ballet school. She’s here, Steve, she’s okay, but Dana… I’m sorry.”

  It takes a moment for Dale’s words to sink in. And Steve is glad he’s sitting down, because as it is, his elbows are on his knees, he thinks he might hyperventilate, and he thinks if he wasn’t sitting he might have fallen over. Still, he can’t believe it…

  And then he hears Claire’s voice in the background. “Daddy!”

  “Want me to put her on?” says Dale, his voice almost a whisper.

  “Yeah,” says Steve, biting back a sob of relief more powerful than any grief or terror he’s ever felt. “No, wait…give me a minute.” He takes a few deep breaths and squeezes his eyes shut to hold back the tears. He can’t let Claire hear him like this. She’s already hurting. He has to be strong.

  “You ready, buddy?” says Dale.

  “Yeah,” says Steve, wiping his face with the back of his hand. But it’s only a half-truth. Something gnaws at him. His daughter has been spared, but this still feels like the end.

  Chapter 23

  “Get up.”

  Bohdi blinks awake, leaving cluttered, uncertain dreams. He’s lying on the couch in Asgard. The wan light coming through the window mak
es him think it must be early morning. Gabbar, the once-Indian Einherjar looms above him.

  Starting slightly, Bohdi scowls.

  Gabbar’s eyes narrow in a way that clearly says, I am judging you.

  Jaw tight, the warrior says, “The captain of the guard requests your presence.” His voice is firm but not loud. Bohdi looks to the bed. Amy is still asleep.

  Gabbar follows Bohdi’s gaze. He looks at Amy’s sleeping form, and then his attention snaps back to Bohdi. His expression is unclear, and he says nothing.

  Bohdi’s sure he is going to be dragged away. His hands tighten on the blanket, and his muscles tense. But Gabbar doesn’t move.

  It occurs to Bohdi this might be a request. “What does the captain want?” Bodhi says.

  Gabbar lifts his chin. “We have encountered human weapons we are unfamiliar with.” He sounds almost ashamed.

  Bohdi barely keeps his jaw from dropping. Amy and Bohdi discussed the potential for escape last night. Amy suggested they stick around until Thor comes back. She says she has a backup plan if Thor flakes out, but it’s risky, and they might be able to gather intel while they’re here. Bohdi suspects that she’s really just waiting for Loki, but can’t bring himself to disabuse her of that notion. Because he’s not Loki…and somehow saying he is would feel like he is lying to her, and he can’t do it, at least not about that.

  And anyway, gathering intel while being a virtual prisoner would be wickedly satisfying. Somehow though, he thought it would be difficult, but right now, intel is about to fall into his lap. However…

  Inclining his head to the bed, he says, “Amy comes with me.”

  Gabbar glares at him. “My orders were to collect only you.”

  Bohdi smiles at him. “Were your orders not to bring Amy with me?” He says it loud, hoping Amy will wake up.

  Gabbar’s hand twitches on the pommel of his sword. On the bed Amy stirs.

  Bohdi meets the Einherjar’s eyes. “I won’t leave her alone.” Especially now that he knows how easy it would be for someone to enter through the tunnels.

  Something in the set of Gabbar’s shoulders softens.

  “Bohdi?” says Amy, sitting up in her bed and clutching the covers to her chin. Her eyes are sleepy, her hair is mussed, and she’s the worst kind of beautiful…Cute in the morning.

  Gabbar glances at her and looks quickly back to Bohdi, as though he’s done something wrong. With a short bow, Gabbar says, “I will give you both a few minutes to get ready. And have a maid bring you some tea and breakfast.”

  Breakfast and tea? Bohdi’s too shocked by the civility to ask for coffee. With one more curt almost-bow, Gabbar stiffly leaves the room.

  As soon the door shuts behind Gabbar, Amy says, “He doesn’t seem judgmental. He seems nice.”

  Bohdi sits up, eyes on the door. Gabbar is judgmental. Last night, when Bohdi asked the guards not to allow any maids in because he and Amy would be “asleep,” Gabbar had the nerve to snort at him.

  Remembering Gabbar’s softening shoulders, he swallows. For once, Bohdi feels like he’s been judged and not been found wanting. It’s kind of frightening.

  “Bohdi?”

  He turns to look at Amy; she’s still sitting on the bed, covers high. “I’m not great at military-strategy type stuff.” A tiny line forms between her brows. “But I thought even allies didn’t want their allies to know what they know about each other’s weaponry.”

  Bohdi feels himself go cold.

  Amy looks away. Voice flat, she says, “They don’t expect either of us to leave.”

  x x x x

  Bohdi glances around the room he and Amy have been brought to. It’s almost as utilitarian as the tunnels they were in last night. The walls are gray block. The floor looks like it might be poured concrete. It’s brightly lit by morning light streaming through four large, arched windows. Outside, Bohdi can see men and women marching in formation. Orders are being shouted in their harsh language. In the room, at least half a dozen armed men are cleaning weapons and talking, their eyes occasionally flitting up to Bohdi and Amy. They shoot sharp smiles when they look at Bohdi and whisper quietly when they look at Amy.

  Ignoring the stares, Bohdi tries to commit the room to memory. Against a far wall lean the same wicked spears that Gabbar and Pascal carry. There are also swords, shields, crossbows, and arrows. And a few pieces of armor hang against another wall.

  Amy whispers, “Some of the spears shoot a kind of magically generated plasma fire stuff—very hot. Not hot enough to melt steel, but hot enough to melt the tissue behind the armor and immobilize the wearer.”

  Bohdi winces at the gruesome image that conjures.

  Amy continues. “The armor is magically shielded—but typically, the armor of the common soldier isn’t as well protected.” She shakes her head. “Magical shielding can’t be mass-produced.”

  Pascal, who along with Gabbar stands just beside them, turns quickly in Amy’s direction.

  Doing a decent job of appearing innocent, Amy says, “Loki told me.”

  Bohdi sniffs and rubs his nose. And then he blinks. If Loki didn’t tell her, how does she know?

  He shakes his head. Plasma weapons… He wonders how they would stand up to Kevlar. Kevlar doesn’t conduct heat, and it is mass-produced.

  Gabbar and Pascal direct them to a table at the center of the room. Bohdi is trying to figure out just how hot the plasma fire gets, but his thoughts are interrupted when a large man barks an order. Through an enormous door come several Einherjar holding various small arms.

  As they lay the weapons on the table, Bohdi picks up an AK-47 that’s seen better days. He’s fired one before in a Marine Corps course he took on foreign weapons—this one seems much heavier than he remembers. It’s loaded and he taps the magazine with his thumb. The magazine is metal, not plastic; it’s ancient, heavy and unreliable. Why does that ring a bell?

  “Definitely Soviet,” Bohdi mumbles.

  “Russia!” says the large man. “Sworn enemy of America! Stalin bad!”

  Amy and Bohdi both raise their heads.

  Pascal directs a hand toward the man. “This is our captain, Farrouk.”

  “Soviet Union not friend of America,” says Farrouk, with a nod. “Help us beat your enemies.”

  Bohdi’s eyebrows hike. Granted, the relations between the former Soviet Union and the US are complicated…but apparently, he and Amy aren’t the only ones who need intel.

  “Why it fire through armor?” Farrouk says. Is he using magic to translate? Or does he just speak very bad English. Is he even human? He looks vaguely Middle Eastern.

  Bohdi blinks back down at the weapon in his hands. “Bullets can cut through steel.”

  Farrouk’s chin rises. “Not our steel.” The arrogance in his tone could be read in any language.

  Bohdi’s hand tightens on the gun.

  Eyes on the captain, Amy whispers, “It’s easier to create magical shielding for one type of force—momentum, for instance. It’s harder to create shielding for a variety of forces, like heat and momentum—like their plasma blasts.”

  The captain’s eyes narrow at her.

  “Or so Loki told me,” says Amy.

  Bohdi manages not to sniff at the lie. To Farrouk, he says, “I don’t know.” Disengaging the magazine, he pops a round out of the chamber. Holding it up to the light, he scowls. The bullet’s shape is right, but there is strange scarring on the surface, and it feels slightly rough under his fingers. He peers closer. He thinks he sees a tiny raised hexagonal pattern on the surface.

  He almost smiles. It’s Promethean wire. He briefly imagines snapping the magazine back in, pointing it at Farrouk and…

  …and thirty bullets later someone would kill him.

  Shaking his head, Bohdi says, “I don’t know.”

  Murmurs go up around the room. Bohdi’s conscious of Amy’s tensing beside him.

  Tipping his head toward the gun, Farrouk says, “Tell me more.”

  Bohdi gives
a tight smile. He scans the table, trying to commit everything he sees to memory, and then starts to tell them everything only an idiot couldn’t figure out on his own. “So this gun…it’s not particularly accurate, but the bullets break apart, which makes them damn deadly and…”

  Shouts rise from outside. Farrouk holds up a hand. Bohdi stops. Someone screams and every hair on the back of Bohdi’s neck stands on end. There are shouts and then more screams.

  Beside him, Amy wraps her arms around herself.

  Farrouk barks something at Pascal and Gabbar.

  Bohdi swears he sees Pascal swallow.

  “Come,” says Gabbar.

  With a reluctant sigh, Bohdi puts the AK-47 down.

  “Hurry,” says Pascal.

  A few minutes later, they’re walking down a long corridor when, from behind them, comes the sound of a door banging open and more shouts.

  Amy and Bohdi both stop and turn.

  “Don’t…” says Pascal.

  But it’s too late. Between two Einherjar warriors is a man. His bowed head is covered with shockingly blond hair. His skin is startlingly dark, but a pattern of glowing red highlights track what might be veins beneath his skin.

  “A Fire Giant,” Amy gasps.

  Bohdi swallows. The man doesn’t look like a giant. He looks barely taller than Bohdi. A metal collar is fixed to his neck. From it droops a chain that falls to his wrists, cuffed together at his waist. His chest is bare. He wears a pair of trousers that are barely hanging on. They’re stained reddish brown at the groin…and the stain is still spreading.

  Amy chokes. Bohdi suddenly remembers something Steve told him about Asgardian “rites” of war.

  A hand lands roughly on his shoulder. Pushing him away from the prisoner, Gabbar whispers, “The Fire Giants do the same to their enemies.”

  “So?” snaps Bohdi.

  Beside him, Amy struggles and shouts at Gabbar, “You’re human! Don’t you remember the Geneva Convention?”

  Bohdi remembers the dates of Geneva from Marine Corps classes. Pascal and Gabbar are from the WWI era, a few decades too early. They stare blankly at Amy.