by C. L. Roman
Jotun shook his head. "Or very foolish. I have a companion, but he is on a side journey. We will meet up again soon."
"Was that the original plan?"
"Plans do not always go as we expect. This was a new development, but I am adapting."
"Expect the best and prepare for the worst, my husband always says. He's in a position to know." She measured him with her eyes. "All right then. David, go wash up for lunch. Joe, would you like to join us?"
Jotun hesitated, returning her appraisal. Finally he nodded. "That would be welcome, thank you."
"Wait here then. It’s such a nice day, though a little crisp. It'll be nice to eat outside."
David ran inside and Jotun settled back in the rocker. A few minutes later, the woman was back with a platter of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. "My name is Caroline, by the way." She set the platter on a nearby table and held out her hand.
He shook it. "Joe Tun," he said.
David grabbed up a sandwich and brought it to his mouth, only to be halted by a stern look from his mother. "Sorry Mama," he said, lowering his hands.
"Joe, we generally say grace before we eat."
He waited politely while the woman and the boy bowed their heads and thanked God for their meal. Something prickled along the back of his neck as he watched them.
David took his sandwich and sat on the steps. "Where is your next stop Joe?"
For an instant he didn't know what to say, but then a series of images and words flashed through his mind. "Well, I'm supposed to meet my friend in Roanoke, but I thought I might stop in Manassas first."
Caroline whistled. "That is a long way to go with no pack or supplies."
"Oh, I — was robbed yesterday. No injuries and they didn't get my wallet, but I'll have to buy a new pack in the next town." He popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and it settled into his belly like a rock.
Might as well get this done.
He touched her hand and altered his mental focus to see the tiny, sharp peaks and dips of her beta wave activity. "Caroline." She looked at him, startled and suddenly concerned, but it was too late. Under the pressure of his will, her brain waves elongated, slowed. Their eyes caught and hers closed as she relaxed into sleep.
David jumped up. "Mama?" he said, and ran to her. Jotun caught him in his arms and laid gentle fingers on his eyes.
"Sleep child, no harm will come to you," he said, and the boy went limp. He placed him next to his mother and went into the house.
Inside he noted the hardwood floors and sweeping staircase. Bypassing the kitchen on his left he noticed, but ignored, the living room to his right. The Admiral would not keep itineraries or other important papers there, where any visitor might happen across them.
The pattern of delta waves he had imposed on the woman and her boy would only hold for a short time, so it was best to keep this quick and quiet.
At the back of the house he found a small room with a hardwood desk and book shelves. A quick search revealed a locked drawer, which he used a paper clip to open. The files were neatly labeled and he flipped through them until he found one marked, "Summit". Inside were the details of an unknown intruder's visit to the Voyager Hotel, and the subsequent change in location due to fears of terrorist interference. They had moved it from Philadelphia to New York, he noted, three weeks into the future. Set to coincide with something called "Fashion Week," with a notation that the heightened activity would serve as a cover for the more serious meeting.
Jotun smiled. Noisy, indeed.
Flipping through the rest of the information, he memorized the details before putting the file back in its slot. He closed the door and was back in his seat just as Caroline woke.
"What happened?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing. I was just getting ready to go."
Her eyes narrowed and she looked down at David, sitting next to her, rubbing his eyes. "All right then. Wait a moment though." She took the boy with her into the house and came back carrying a battered backpack instead. "Its old, but still sturdy. I've packed it with food and water as well as a bed-roll, just in case. Is there anything else I can get you?"
The heavy feeling in his chest intensified and he felt his cheeks heat. "No Missus, this is more than generous and certainly more than I deserve."
She gave him a confused look. "We all need a little kindness now and again Joe. It has nothing to do with deserving it."
He nodded and slipped the straps of the backpack over his shoulders. "Good-bye then. And thank you for your hospitality." He waited until he was several miles down the road and well out of sight before slipping it off. He stared at the pack. It didn't seem right to just abandon it.
He clenched his fist around the handle and took to the air. It took three circles of the closest town before he found what he was looking for; an empty city park with an old man sleeping on a bench. The transient sat up in his nest of newspapers and squinted at Jotun.
"You look like you need this more than I do, Sir." Jotun said. The vagabond gave him a doubtful look, but accepted the pack readily enough. Jotun walked away through a stand of trees. A single glance back told him the old man's head was down, busy hunting through the pack.
Back to Philadelphia then.
Relief prickled up the back of his neck as he made his decision. Rolling his shoulders, he felt the wind ruffle against his feathers with relief. Radar be damned, he wasn't going through the Shift again.
After a loud argument with the photographer, Rory Griffin, over his access to the dressing area, Gwyneth's first photo shoot finally got underway. Within forty minutes she was bored and a little irritated.
Well, perhaps more than a little.
"Turn a little more left, yes, that's it, chin up darling, this isn't shadow puppets. Sonja! Fix her bra line, almost had a nip-slip there, can't have Miss Squeaky being risqué. Very good. Now, over the shoulder, give us that angry giantess. No, no, not smiling, for pity's sake. Smoldering hot; languid, but with more punch, and suck your stomach in won't you, that's — Oh, that's it, very nice, like you want to hit someone. Excellent!"
Fifteen minutes later the photographer called a halt for a wardrobe change and Gwyneth stumbled over to Cole on her four inch heels. "This is not good, Cole."
"What? Is there something wrong with the gown? The shoes? I thought they were a little high, but Rory said..."
"No, no. The clothes are fine. It is Rory who is the problem. He tugged on my dress, on the..." she faltered, and ended by waving her hands around her breasts. "On this part. He tried to pull it down further."
"Oh." Cole stared at the neckline. It was a very shallow scoop. It didn't even reveal her cleavage.
"Cole!" Gwyneth said. "My face is a bit higher on my body."
Flushing, Cole looked up. "I'm looking at the bodice, Gwyneth, I..."
"You said I would wear modest clothes and you have kept your word. But you must tell the Rory person he cannot put his hands on me. If he wants the clothing adjusted, he can tell me and I will fix."
Rory, having walked up behind Gwyneth, looked outraged. "I have not, 'put my hands on you,' Miss Squeaky," he said around a wad of the cinnamon gum he habitually chewed. "I attempted to adjust the bodice because the buttons were askew and they were tossing prisms around the room like fairy dust. So sorry to have offended." The straw-thin photographer had a tenor voice and avaricious eyes.
You try to pretend, Gwyneth thought, but you are not like Xavier.
"Rory, you need something adjusted, you tell Gwyn and she'll do it."
"No, she won't, because she will have to be told time and time again. It wastes time. I promise not to rumple her delicates, but I have to be able to adjust the clothing to get the best look. I am the artist, Cole. She is just a clothes rack." He slid Gwyneth a sidelong leer. "Even if she is the tallest rack in the showroom."
Cole's voice took on an edge. "I'll tell you what, Rory. You will keep your lecherous little fingers to yourself, and I won't break them. Janine ca
n make the adjustments. She's put up with you for fifteen years and has just as good an eye for the light as you do. She can handle it."
Rory blew his breath out in a hard, cloying puff of cinnamon. "Fine. But don't blame me if we run over time or the shots aren't right. I do not know how I can be expected to produce my best work in this kind of obstructionist environment." He walked away, waving his hands in the air and being pandered to by an anxious Janine, who nevertheless shot a grateful look at Cole behind the photographer's back.
Gwyneth watched him walk away, a tiny smile playing about her lips. "Thank you Cole. I appreciate your defense." She frowned lightly. "Cole? What is 'squeaky'?" Cole's sharp look made her laugh, and she continued. "I do not make high-pitched noise when I move, but Rory calls me, 'Miss Squeaky'."
Flushing, Cole said, "Oh, that's — Uh, it refers to a person who is very, very clean."
"So clean they squeak, like Faiza's tuppermaids?"
"Urrum, yes."
"But the 'Miss'? It means unmarried, no?"
"Yes it does."
"Oh," she said and gave a sigh of relief. "That explains his behavior a little, maybe. He does not know I am married. I will tell him." She turned and would have followed the photographer then, but Cole's voice stopped her.
"Gwyn. It wouldn't matter. He treats all women like that. It probably comes from working in such proximity all the time. And then too, not everyone has your...umm, attitude."
"You mean they do not mind if he touches them?"
Cole shrugged. "Some do, maybe. But they're used to it. They put up with it as part of the world they work in."
She frowned. "Cole this is not right. No one has the right to put hands on another person."
"It's really not that big a deal. It's part of how the business is done."
"And do all the models agree with this "business" being done to them?"
"Most of them are fine with it. They aren't prudes or ashamed of their bodies."
Her brows rose. "And you think I am?"
"Well," he said, taking a sudden and intense interest in the papers he was carrying. "You are uh, more, uh..."
"I am not prude. My body is beautiful, as Ahba made it. I have no shame in it. But it is my body, to give for touching, or not, as I choose. My choice is to not allow men other than my husband to touch. This is how I honor my love. And I will not let you, or the Rory person, or any other shame me for it."
Cole looked up from his cuffs and was silent for several moments. Finally, he said, "It was not my intention to make you feel ashamed. I hope you will forgive me."
She gave him a long, cool stare. "Sooner, maybe, than I will forgive the Rory person," she said, and walked toward the dressing rooms.
Loki adjusted the diamond link on his left cuff with an air of nervous irritation. "I told you, I am working on it. She will be at the gala tonight as part of some publicity stunt for her little designer human." Annoyance palpated from the cell phone lying on the dresser. He had it on speaker so he could continue dressing.
"It doesn't matter where she is now. What matters is that you bring her to the Master. And soon. He is running out of patience." The whine in Oris' voice was high pitched enough to cut tile.
Loki rolled his eyes. "As I have pointed out before, he can have her fast, or he can have her willing. We cannot do both." He began the laborious process of tying his bow tie.
"All right," Oris said, and Loki winced. "But you can't say I didn't warn you. If you fail to come through after all these delays, I can't answer for your continued safety."
Loki's hands stilled against the black silk of his tie. He stared into the mirror. After a moment, his hands began to move again. "I understand."
Forty five minutes later, he was presenting his invitation to the greeter at the door of the National Ballroom.
"Yes Sir," the man said. "You are at table sixteen, second row just left of the podium. Cocktails are being served at the moment, with dancing to follow dessert."
The words buzzed in Loki's ears as he passed into the ballroom while the man was still speaking. He scanned the crowd.
No telling what she'll be wearing, but recognizing her shouldn't be a problem...Ah, there she is.
Across the room speaking to three gentlemen, one of whom he recognized as a senator, was Gwyneth. Resplendent in a lavender sheath of watered silk, she towered over every other occupant of the room, and yet appeared completely at ease.
Loki scooped a glass of champagne from a passing tray and sauntered to the edge of the crowd around her.
"Sir, I do not say that the traffic is dangerous here, only that one must have wings to travel with any efficientness," Gwyneth said. The crowd chuckled and she laughed with them. "You laugh because it is so very true." She looked startled, then smiled and opened her purse. "I am sorry my friends, I have the call I must pick up. You will excuse me please?" She was already moving away from the group toward a side door. Loki took a sip of his champagne and followed.
"This is not something new you are telling me." Gwyneth's tone was sharp and there was a hint of tears in her voice.
Loki followed her through the double doors into a sparsely populated hallway and took up a post in the shadow of one of the giant potted ferns spaced along the corridor.
"I see," Gwyneth continued. "I know, you are trying your best, but it has been weeks with no news. I am thinking I should find another detective." A buzz of response came from the phone, but Loki couldn't make out the words. "Very well, I will give you one more week, but if nothing comes into view I am finding new helpers." She leaned against the wall, brushing tears from her cheeks.
"Trouble, my dear?"
Gwyneth levered herself upright. "Go away, Loki. I do not wish to speak with you."
"Your English has improved. But then, I realized immediately that you were smart." He fell into step with her as she paced away down the hall.
"I am not interested in your compliments. Leave me alone."
"Now that hurts. And here I've come to help you." He put his hand on her arm and she whirled, throwing him off with a cry of outrage. Several heads turned and Loki snarled. "I am here to help you. If you'll just come with me I can —"
"Red Sonja! I thought I recognized you...Hey Roy, look! Iss Red Sonja, right outa the comic book." The drunk stumbled up the hall toward her as his friend grinned and trundled along behind him. The two men were astonishingly large for humans and incredibly, ludicrously drunk. Gwyneth wrinkled her nose and took a step back.
"I am not this Red Sonja. You have made a wrongness," she said.
The first drunk stumbled up and grabbed her arm. "Hey, I wanna picture with ya. Roy, take a picture." Roy obligingly fumbled in his pocket while Gwyneth twisted her arm free. The man looked at his hand with slack-jawed surprise.
"Come on now," he said. "You should be nice to ol' Mickey. I just wanna lil picture." He leered at her. "And maybe a kiss. I alus wanted to kiss Red Sonja." He grabbed her arm again, and Gwyneth shoved at his hand, reduced to prying his fingers from her arm one by one. She threw Loki a grim look and he held up his hands in mock surrender.
"You said you didn't want my help. I am nothing if not compliant," he said, and leaned a shoulder against the wall to watch.
"Come on lil lady, oops, big lady. Jus' a lil kiss. Jus' one." Mickey jerked on her arm.
Gwyneth gave an involuntary cry of equal parts rage and pain and shoved him to the ground. "No. I say no." She said, and turned to walk away.
"Hey!" Mickey roared and Roy lurched into action, grabbing both Gwyneth's arms from behind and spinning her around. Her dress tangled around her legs and she stumbled to her knees. Mickey laughed. "That makes you just the right size," he said, and seized a fistful of her hair.
Viewing the mayhem, Loki felt a chill of grim satisfaction.
Let her see that she isn't as self-sufficient as she thought. She'll be more receptive next time.
He pushed open a side door and stepped through, into the Shift, leavin
g nothing behind but a smudge of gray smoke.
Gwyneth brought one foot up and pushed to her feet. Doubling up her fist, she punched Roy hard in the face and was rewarded with a spray of blood.
"Whadya do that for?" Mickey yelled. He latched onto her arm and twisted, grabbing at her skirts while trying to push Gwyneth against the wall. The corridor flooded with light as the door behind them opened and Cole appeared.
"What the hell is happening here?" Without waiting for an answer, he launched himself at Mickey.
Roy lurched to his feet. "Leave my buddy alone," he shouted. "He just wants a little kiss."
Xavier, coming right behind Cole, grabbed Roy's arm and neck, spinning him twice 'round before slamming him into the wall.
Security rounded the end of the hall at a run and the fight was over in less time than it had taken to start.
Gwyneth stared at the pile up on the floor. Fists and feet shot out at odd angles for a few moments until the security team had everyone sorted out. They were just about to slip zip-ties around Cole's wrists when she stepped forward. "Sir, Cole came to my defense." She flicked her fingers and Roy and Mickey. "These persons attacked me."
Blood trickled in a thin line from Cole's nose, but he stood quietly. The security officer looked from her to him and back again. "If you say so. What about this guy?" he asked, jerking his chin at Xavier where he stood smoothing down the rumpled front of his gold lame pant suit. "He says he's this one's brother."
"Yes, he also came to my defense. Thank you, officers, for arriving so quickly."
"Not a problem Ma'am. You know, you shouldn't wander off on your own. Even in a place as nice as this, it's just asking for trouble."
Gwyneth's tight lips and narrowed eyes were all the warning Cole needed.
He took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Yes Sir, we understand. Thank you again."
Security frog marched Roy and Mickey away down the hall and Gwyneth spent several moments straightening her skirt. Finally, Cole touched her shoulder.
"Gwyn? Are you all right?"
She looked up at him and he fell back a step. "I shouldn't 'wander off' is it? I should be careful? So it is my fault two drunken idiots attack me? What a..." she lapsed into Semitic at that point, and Cole's eyes widened.