by C. Gockel
A few minutes later, the umbrella has a piece of Gungnir’s staff in its shaft. It also has a thin new wrist strap attached, a tiny bead of shiny glass threaded in it. The strap isn’t special, but the bead is something Hoenir has designed to counteract human magic detectors. Clutching the umbrella, Hoenir goes to another door at the back of his workshop. Before opening it, he leans his forehead against the rough wood and murmurs some words just to focus his mind. Behind the door a brand new branch of the World Tree sprouts. Creating new pathways between the realms is a gift Hoenir has, something Loki will never be able to do, and Odin can only do piddling well.
Turning the handle of the door, Hoenir steps through and is immediately assaulted by the smell of antiseptic. His eyes blink under the glare of fluorescent lights. Upon a bed, under a thin blanket, lies an elderly woman he’s seen only from afar. Her eyes are open and she stares at the ceiling. Hoenir walks over to her, but she does not acknowledge his presence. Laying his hand upon her forehead, he closes his eyes and concentrates, a familiar prickle sparking through his fingers. When he opens his eyes, the woman is staring up at him, her gaze sharp and bright.
“Hello, Beatrice,” he says. “I’m Hoenir. Friend of Loki. Your granddaughter is going to need your help.”
Beatrice’s eyes widen. Sitting up quickly, thin legs and bare feet peeking out of a worn lavender nightgown, she says, “What are we waiting here for?”
Hoenir smiles. He knew this part would be easy. Handing her the umbrella, he says, “You’ll need this.”
x x x x
Steve stumbles north along LaSalle Street between the rubble of ruined buildings. It’s been nearly an hour since Loki disappeared. So far there are no reports of him rematerializing anywhere.
Thor says that he can feel that the threat of Cera is gone from this world. The powers that be on Earth are taking that under advisement. In Chicago, right now, all anyone can do is try to clean up the mess. The word is that the Red Cross is mobilizing rescue teams from around the world, and the Wisconsin National Guard is moving in to cover the refugee camps at the airports. Soon there will be sniffer dogs and field hospitals, and the Guard to help with any marauding trolls. For now there are just FBI agents, police, firemen, and civilians wandering up and down the street looking for survivors to send to hospitals and ADUO’s very overtaxed trauma center.
Pausing by an overturned cab, Steve scans the sky for a moment. There is no sign of his feathered friends; he’s not sure if that makes him relieved or worried. Dropping down to a squat he looks in the cab’s window. Inside there is a pile of dust lying on the ceiling that’s now the floor. It takes a moment for Steve to realize the pile is human shaped.
“I think I found someone!” Steve calls.
He hears feet running towards him. Standing, he tries to open the door. It’s locked. Picking up a brick, he bashes in the window, scrapes away the glass, and thrusts his hands into the blanket of dirt covering the driver. Steve’s breath catches as his hands come into contact with warm skin.
“He’s alive,” Steve calls, pulling him out. Other people—none he recognizes—have their hands on either side of the driver, helping Steve.
“I don’t feel a pulse,” someone says.
“Call for an ambulance, they’ll have an AED,” a woman says. A man responds, “I think they’re all busy.”
“CPR,” says Steve.
“Pound the dust out of his lungs first,” says one of his companions.
They roll the guy they’ve pulled out over on his side and pound on his back. A little bit of dirt comes out of his mouth in a cloud.
“Mouth to mouth.” Someone says.
Rolling the guy back onto his back, Steve finds himself kneeling in the dirt across from a woman he doesn’t know in a fireman uniform, taking turns performing mouth to mouth and pumping the chest of another stranger in the middle of a wide open plain of rubble that was LaSalle Street.
He doesn’t know how long they stay there.
Someone kneeling beside them clutches the guy’s wrist and says, “He’s gone.”
“No,” says Steve, bending to push the contents of his lungs into the body below him.
He hears the exhale of air as the woman pumps the guy’s chest. “Just give us a few more minutes!” she says.
Steve sits up, inhales deeply, puts his hands on the guy’s chest, and the woman bends down.
The person kneeling beside them says. “You’ve done all you can.”
A firm hand falls on Steve’s shoulders. “You’ve got to let him go. There are others out there.”
Turning his head up, Steve sees Thor, his face haloed by the sun. They should be in the shadow of LaSalle’s buildings right now, but those buildings are all gone.
Steve falls backwards, his legs curling up until he is sitting Indian style in the middle of the street. He wipes his face and finds it wet. The firewoman is a shadow on the periphery of his vision, standing and leaving, one of her comrades dropping an arm around her.
Steve’s about to stand up. Thor’s right, they need to keep going, when he looks down at the face of the guy he’s been trying to rescue and recognizes him. It’s the kid, Patel, the one who lied about owning a cab. The one Steve should have told to evacuate—just like he should have put Lewis on the Witness Protection program. He huffs a breath, his ex-wife’s words ringing in his mind. You’d sell out your own mother for the ‘greater good.’ Suddenly feeling very heavy, Steve says, “Just give me a minute.”
Thor probably nods, Steve’s not really looking. He bows his head and sucks in a deep breath. As Thor’s feet retreat, Steve sees a flash of light, hears a squeak, and then a thin reedy little voice says, “Hey, Hommie!”
Coughing some dust from his lungs, Steve turns his head. Two rats are staring at him from a sewer grate set between the side of the street and the sidewalk.
“Yeah, Bro! I’m talking to you!” one of them says.
Steve blinks. And then his eyes narrow. He is so not in the mood for any more magical shit.
The rats scamper out of the grate, and Steve realizes one is actually a squirrel with tufted ears and a fluffy tail. The squirrel turns to the rat and says, “Thanks for the directions, Sweetheart. Catch you later!” The rat turns around and vanishes down the sewer grate.
Turning to Steve, the squirrel says, “Most squirrels don’t like rats. But I never saw anything wrong with a little naked tail.” He winks at Steve. All Steve can do is stare at it.
The squirrel blinks. “Oh, come on Bro! Cheer up! Could have been worse.”
Steve is sitting in a plain of rubble and dying people. Next to him is a corpse of a dead kid who would be alive if it weren’t for Steve. He doesn’t reach out and strangle the squirrel, but it’s a near thing. “Who are you and what do you want?” he grinds out.
“Chill, Bro!” says the squirrel, holding up a paw. “Name’s Ratatoskr and—”
And Steve has had enough. The squirrel squeaks as Steve’s hand whips around its torso. “I’m not your ‘bro,’ Rat!” Steve snarls. “Unless you want to wind up doing laps on a hamster wheel and picking wood chips out of your pelt in my daughter’s guinea pig pen, you’ll tell me what you want!”
“I just wanted you to like me,” it squeaks. The squirrel's ears go back, and his eyes widen. It’s the sort of big-eyed, scaredy look Steve expects from a dog asking for table scraps—and damned if it doesn’t work. Steve’s grip relaxes a fraction.
The squirrel sniffs. “Steve Rogers, the man Odin heard! Want to say I met you personally—before you achieve great things, or wind up on the gallows.” He shows Steve all his teeth with an expression that isn’t quite a smile. “Or both.”
Narrowing his eyes, Steve squeezes. “You’ve seen me, now what?”
Squeaking, the squirrel twitches his nose. “I promised Lewis I’d let you know she and her grandmother are alive and well and hangin’ at Loki’s place...you know, since cell reception and internet are down. I took a shortcut through Nornheim and
then—”
Steve’s brow furrows. “Loki’s place? Beatrice?”
The squirrel bobs his head. “Yeah, I know, something is off.” He looks down at his torso. “I had some fractured ribs, too, but they’re better.” Glaring at Steve, he chitters. “Were better.”
“What happened?” says Steve.
The squirrel perks. “Well, Loki snatched me, from...errr...nevermind. I wound up at his place, watching with Lewis, when Loki tricked Cera into a one-way trip to the In-Between, blew up Cera in a big bang and saved us all.”
Saved them? Steve’s eyes slide to the destruction around him.
Seemingly oblivious, Ratatouille, or whatever, keeps squeaking. “The next moment we’re back in Loki’s place, but with Beatrice and we’re all better...It was seriously some messed up—” he lets loose a stream of squirrel chatter.
Steve looks back at the little animal in his hands. “Where is Loki now?”
The squirrel blinks at Steve like he’s stupid. “Mammalian anatomy is really not suited to surviving a big bang, Steven.”
“Loki’s dead,” says Steve, slowly, filtering through Rat’s chatter trying to latch on to the part that’s the most important.
The squirrel bobs his head. Letting loose a stringer of tsks and squeaks he says, “You can bet Odin is shitting toadstools and on the hunt for Loki and Hoenir right now.”
Steve blinks and says slowly, “But Loki is dead...”
The squirrel shrugs—which is a thing Steve hadn’t really thought squirrels could do until that moment. “You can’t kill Chaos or Creation!”
“But...”
“Granted, Loki’ll have a new form, probably a frost giant or fire ettin, they’ve got a lot of natural magic, but you never can tell with Chaos,” says the squirrel.
“Odin wants to punish him...?” says Steve, his mind racing.
“Nah,” says the squirrel, waving a paw. He narrows his eyes, and for a moment Steves sees something dangerous and calculating there. “But the team with Loki always wins.”
“What....”
The squirrel leans forward and bites Steve. Steve’s been shot before, but this is worse. Pain shoots through Steve’s hand and up his arm. He releases automatically and sees blood running down a tiny glowing cut on the side of his hand. Ratatoskr drops and takes off to the gutter laughing maniacally. There is a flash of light at the opening of the grate, the squirrel disappears, and the light flashes out.
Steve sits there for a moment, and then the light flashes again, and the squirrel’s face peeks out as though through a curtain. “Yo! Hommie!” Ratatoskr says. “If I were you, I’d keep my eye on Loki’s chick, Lewis. Something’s up with her. I just can’t get my whiskers in it.”
Whiskers in it?
Steve lunges toward the light. “Wait...”
But Ratatoskr is already gone.
Steve sighs and then coughs on the dust in the air. Wincing, he pulls himself up on his knees and rubs his eyes. How the hell do you inform your superiors about a run in with a talking squirrel without coming off as crazy? He looks around at the remains of some of Chicago’s most historic buildings. And how did you tell them Loki might have been responsible for saving the world?
Somewhere a cell phone starts to buzz with a text. It takes a moment for Steve to realize it’s coming from his pocket. He pulls out the cell and does a double take at the caller ID. It says the text is from Prometheus.
Tapping quickly to accept, Steve reads, Odin will be watching your world. You need more Promethean Wire. I have left some for you at the Garibaldi Playlot.
Steve types quickly, Can we meet?
But his phone’s screen goes blank. Steve lifts his head. Prometheus is back?
From behind Steve comes the sound of a faint cough, and then another. Steve turns, unsure of where the noise came from. And then the body of the kid, the one everyone said was dead, convulses, dust spilling out of his mouth in a torrent.
Steve’s by him a moment later, lifting him up and helping him cough it out. “It’s okay,” Steve murmurs over and over, a smile is pulling at his lips. Maybe he shouldn’t feel absolved, but he does.
The kid finally stops hacking. Grinning ear to ear, Steve says, “Welcome back to the world, Bohdi.”
The kid blinks, his eyelashes flecked with dirt, his face pale with dust. “Bohdi?” he says, eyes wide.
Steve’s smile shrinks. “That’s you?”
The kid stares at him a moment. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 14
From the window in Steve’s office, Amy can see the remains of LaSalle Street buried beneath four inches of snow. It might look like a park if it weren’t for breaks in the powder that reveal sharp cliff edges where floors of buildings are stacked like so many cards. She can even see the place where she last saw Loki.
She turns her gaze away. It’s only been two weeks. She puts a hand to her stomach; there is no pain. All her scars are on the inside. She doesn’t have any physical scars from her time with Loki; they vanished with an hour of her life after Loki saved the world—not that he’s getting credit for that.
Leaning forward in his chair, Steve says, “You don’t even remember what happened to you after Loki vanished.” He’s not even sitting across the desk from her. He’s rolled his chair around, as though they’re equals, or he’s trying to be non-intimidating, or fatherly, or something.
Amy sits up straighter. The missing hour. Her heart rate quickens; she feels dampness on her palms. She has vague feelings about that time: awe, wonder, warmth, and love. She tries to hold onto those feelings and follow them back to the physical memories—what happened, how she healed, who healed her, how Beatrice arrived there. But her stomach seizes with foreboding, the thread of emotion slips from her fingers and the feelings float away, like snowflakes drifting over ice. “It doesn’t...” Bother me. She can’t quite finish the sentence. But some things are better not to know. She lifts her head. “It will be alright,” she says. Whoever was responsible—something good happened to her, or at least something she wanted...she knows that, somehow.
Shaking his head, Steve raises his voice slightly, snapping Amy from her almost memories. “Nonetheless, after a trauma like the one you’ve suffered, it’s best to wait a year before you make any life altering decisions. I say this as a friend, Miss Lewis.”
Amy’s eyes narrow. Since when have they been friends? “My scholarship was reinstated. This isn’t a new plan, this was the plan, until—” she waves a hand in the air unable to say the rest. She turns her gaze back to her soon-to-be former boss.
Sitting back and steepling his fingers, Steve says, “You know, they’re creating a new veterinary program at the University of Chicago to study the creatures coming through the gates.”
Amy raises an eyebrow, it sounds like—
Looking away, Steve says, “It’s still in the planning stages but...”
—it sounds like a trap. She rolls her eyes. “I’m going back to Oklahoma, Steve.” She thinks of horses, sunshine and wide open plains, and not having to worry about the occasional troll or tripping over memories of Loki at every street corner. “And I’m not coming back.”
Steve sits back in his chair and stares at her. His eyes flick to the window, and at last he says, “You gotta do what you gotta do...”
His phone rings and Steve turns to pick it up.
Without bothering to be excused, Amy stands. She hears him say, “Mary Bartelme Park? Yeah, yeah...will do.”
Amy’s almost at his door when Steve says, “Amy, there’s a troll in the Blue Line tunnel. Why don’t I give you a ride home? Claire’s with me. We’re going your way to pick up my folks and then head out to see Princesses on Ice.” He smiles, but there is an edge to it.
Strange as the offer is, a detour on a bus to avoid a troll on the Blue Line is the last thing Amy wants to deal with. “Um, sure...But Beatrice’s with me?” Beatrice has been afraid to let Amy out of sight since the “lost hour” when Beatrice emerge
d in Loki’s apartment healthier and sharper than ever.
“Fine, fine, fine...” says Steve, grabbing his coat, suddenly rushed.
She regrets accepting Steve’s offer as soon as she, Beatrice, and Claire are in the car.
Standing by the open driver’s side, Steve frowns. “Bohdi said he’d be here. I’ll be right back.” He closes the door and starts walking through the underground garage.
Sinking into her seat, Amy belatedly remembers Bohdi, the cab-driver guy is staying with Steve’s parents. He still has amnesia, but the doctors don’t know why. The leading theory is that it is from errant magic on Loki’s part. ADUO doesn’t know where he’s from, but they do know he’s here illegally. Steve’s trying to get him refugee status.
In the front seat, Beatrice turns back to Claire. “So you’re going to go see Princesses on Ice!”
Amy closes her eyes and leans her head back. She feels guilty by association around Bohdi. Everyone in the office knows about her ‘association’ with Loki, and Loki wrecked the guy’s brain. It makes her feel sick to think ADUO might deport him back to India without even a memory to his name.
Beside Amy, Claire says, “Yes, but I wish Dad wouldn’t invent his own endings to the stories.” Amy turns to the girl. Claire looks so much like Steve—a daintier, feminine, and pretty Steve. She definitely got Steve’s height. Thin as a whip, at eight years old, she’s as tall as a ten year old.
“Oh?” says Beatrice.
Claire sighs. “You know Disney’s Frog Prince?” Beatrice nods, though Amy’s not sure if she’s familiar with Disney’s African-American rendition of the fairy tale.
Claire huffs. “My dad says that a short stint as a frog wasn’t enough to make the prince hardworking, he started getting lazy and making Princess Tiana do all the work at their restaurant, so she divorced him and married the head of a shrimp fishing fleet, and they leveraged their shrimp monopoly to open more restaurants and her new husband managed them while she became mayor of New Orleans.”