by C. L. Roman
She excused herself, allowing the men to go to the table without her so that she could make a stop in the powder room. Crystal and mirrored glass reflected her image from one side of the room to the other. Long, white upholstered benches stood out in stark relief against the black tile floor. A black door at the far end of the room led into the bathroom proper. She seated herself on the plush bench in front of the mirrors and added a touch of lip gloss.
“You are far more athletic than I thought a model would be.”
Gwyneth looked up and met the eyes of the only other occupant of the room. A petite woman with dark hair and a kind smile looked back at her.
“Caroline Conroy,” the woman said, holding out a white gloved hand.
“Gwyneth Nephel,” she replied. “Very nice to meet you.”
“I realize you don’t know me, and I’m probably being very rude, but, well, I saw your leap the other day and then watched it again on the news. It was — impressive.”
Gwyneth fumbled her lip gloss back into her purse. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Then they did that little side story and I found you on Instagram. I have to say, I’d have jumped too.”
Gwyneth started. “What ‘side-story’?” she asked.
“Oh, the one on your husband and how he’s been so ill. I am so sorry to hear that. I hope you find him very soon. PTSD is a very difficult thing to deal with.”
“PTSD?”
“Oh, is that not what it is?” Caroline looked distressed. “I’m sorry. I just — well, my husband is in the military and when I saw your husband — he has that soldier look about him. When they said he was ill, I just assumed that it was PTSD.”
“You saw Jotun?”
Caroline’s smile faded. “I did. He sat right next to me at the show. Then you came down that runway and when you turned around, he left, but apparently he didn’t go far, because...well, you remember.”
Gwyneth gripped Caroline’s arms. “Did he say anything? How did he sound? Did he seem ill to you?”
Cupping Gwyneth’s forearms, Caroline said, “Again, I’m sorry. He didn’t say anything. Just sat down next to me and then moved.”
Noticing Caroline’s pained expression, Gwyneth looked down at her hands and saw the indentations her fingers were making in the woman’s arms. She released her abruptly, and pressed her hands together. “My apologies. I am a bit upset.”
Patting her hand, Caroline said, “I can understand that. I’d be a wreck if anything ever happened to Michael.” At Gwyneth’s inquiring look, she explained, “My husband.”
“The military man.”
“Yes. We’re here for Fashion Week. And my birthday.”
Gwyneth turned back to the mirror and lifted a trembling hand to touch her hair. Caroline stood, ready to exit. She paused behind the younger woman and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You will find him, Gwyneth, and it will be all right.”
Gwyneth’s eyes flew wide at the sudden ring of authority in the other woman’s voice and their eyes met in the mirror. “How do you know this?” she whispered.
Caroline shrugged. “I just know.”
In the restaurant, a Hispanic waiter with brilliant blue eyes watched the Conroy table, waiting for Mrs. Conroy to return so that he could take the couple's order. He looked up as two women walked through the restaurant, talking.
Caroline and...Freya.
Jotun held on to his disguise with difficulty as he watched Caroline introduce her to Conroy. The trio chatted for a moment, but when Conroy gestured, clearly inviting her to join them, Freya declined, pointing to the banquet room beyond the double doors at the back of the main dining area.
What is she doing here, talking to my target?
The murmur of quiet conversation, the soft clink of crystal glasses and silver cutlery on porcelain receded from his hearing as he focused on the table of three to the exclusion of all else. His mind raced through a dozen possible scenarios and found only one that fit.
She knows. She's trying to get them away from me. I have to stop her.
The Conroys were listening to her, nodding their heads. Jotun watched in horrified dismay as they rose from the table and followed Freya into the banquet hall. Without conscious volition, he followed them, weaving through patrons and tables until he arrived at the double doors. Caught off guard, the maître d' lurched from behind his podium to block the entrance.
"What are you doing?" he asked, eyeing Jotun's uniform and empty hands. "This entrance is for guests only." Eyebrows raised to his hairline, the man waited in silence for an explanation.
"The chef asked me to check on the buffet," Jotun muttered.
"Tell the chef the buffet is fine," the maître d' responded frostily. "Then return to the dining room proper or you will be leaving our employ."
"Of course, Sir." Jotun reversed course and moved through the main dining room into the kitchens. Servers were replenishing buffet dishes, preparing to replace those depleted by diners. Laying a fresh towel over his arm he stepped in front of a waiting server and hoisted a tray of lasagna. Ignoring the server's startled glance, he followed three other young men into the banquet hall.
Tramping along in unison with the others, he found the buffet table easily enough. The hall was at least one hundred yards long and another fifty wide. There were no windows, but the walls were pillared every ten or twelve feet, each pillar flanked by greenery.
Buffets inhabited all four corners of the room, each set of tables forming an L, with an ice sculpture at its axis. In one corner, a winged lion stalked prey, in another a Pegasus reared, wings flaring, while a griffin graced the third corner with sphinxlike implacability. Looking at the sculpture anchoring his own set of tables, Jotun was transfixed. An angel, wings fully spread, reached out pleading hands to the diners. Her hair was plaited diagonally across the back of her head with a long tail trailing over her left breast. The face was hauntingly familiar. He blinked, and the statue regained its true form, glistening in the softened light, hair flowing in icy freedom over her shoulders.
Breathing deep against the low throb in his head, Jotun looked out over the room. Wait-staff circulated, wine bottles and water pitchers in hand. Prodded from behind, he bit back a snarl and followed the other servers into the kitchens. In an instant he was out on the floor, water pitcher in hand, circling and searching. It took three heartbeats to find them. Freya leaned in toward Caroline, her scarlet braid falling over her shoulder into her lap, eyes sparkling, hands gesturing as she spoke. He circled around the table, refilling water glasses, listening.
"And so, his picture is now on every social media platform Faiza can think of."
"What a great idea, Gwyneth! A friend of mine's Great Dane went missing and she put his picture on Facebook?" Caroline paused, one eyebrow arched. Freya nodded her understanding and the other woman continued. "They found that dog in less than four hours. The picture spread really fast. Turns out he'd wandered to a truck stop about a mile away and a trucker picked him up. Had to bring him back from Albuquerque or someplace."
Michael Conroy chuckled into his napkin. "You can't be comparing Gwyneth's husband to a dog, Caroline."
His wife gave him a playful smack on the arm. "Well you have to admit, there are similarities. I've always thought of you as more the German Shepherd type though."
He pulled a mock insulted face. "Furry and flea bitten?"
She shook her head, laughing. "Honest, loyal and intelligent, not to mention strong."
His face softened and he patted her hand. "Well since you put it that way, I'll take it."
Freya smiled at them, her eyes suddenly bright. "You two remind me of my parents. They would tease each other so, just as you do."
"Well, we are an old married couple. What does your father do?" Michael glanced at his cell phone and Caroline laid a reproving hand on his arm. He gave her an apologetic look and laid it on the table.
"He was the, oh how do you say it...the mayor, I suppose you w
ould call it, of our village," Freya said.
"Oh really? And where do they live?" Caroline asked.
Freya lowered her head a moment. "They died," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Caroline made a little gasp of distress, but Jotun barely restrained a surprised laugh.
Freya's parents? What parents?
A frown creased his forehead as bits of contradictory thought clashed inside his mind.
Njord and...Nerthus? No, she has only one parent. Sabaoth created her, as he did all of us.
Something rang false in both convictions and Jotun winced as images flashed past his inner sight. A man, taller than the average human, with dark hair and eyes, put his arms around a human woman. Freya, bending over a long table with the same woman, watching her roll out some kind of dough.
Jotun blinked and the memories fled, leaving behind a crushing pain in his skull. He lurched away from the table, drawing troubled glances from the diners.
The maître d' hurried over. In a hiss just one octave above that of snakes, he said, "What are you doing in here?" and gripped the angel's arm. Jotun's head came up and his eyes blazed with cold fire. The man snatched his hand away and stepped back, only to square his shoulders, a look of outrage contorting his features. "You are fired," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Leave at once."
Jotun growled, his fist clenched at his sides and he faked a lunge at the man. The maître d' stumbled backward into Conroy's chair, knocking it over and spilling the Admiral onto the floor. Face flushed with rage and embarrassment, the maître d’ scrambled to his feet, hastily apologizing, pulling on Conroy's arm despite Michael's insistence that he was "fine, no harm done."
Jotun stepped close to the table and bent down, setting the chair on its legs. "He is right, Sir, my most sincere apologies. There is no excuse. I will go immediately."
Without waiting for a reply, he walked from the room, leaving the water pitcher sweating on the table. In seconds he was in an empty store room near the kitchens, facing an enraged Surt.
"It has to be you. I told you, my injuries make transformations very painful. The last one exhausted me." Surt glared at him. "Why do you think I stay indoors in the day and travel through the Shift? For fun?"
With a single motion Jotun whipped the apron from around his waist and tossed it on the floor. "I don't care why you do things. Freya is out there. She didn't recognize me this time, but we cannot count on that if I go back."
"You idiot. She is enamored of the humans. She won't even notice you." Ignoring Jotun's glower, he opened the door a crack and peered out for a moment, then closed it. "Now is the perfect time, and it may be our last chance. The meetings went well today. In another day, they may reach an accord and the summit will be over. Do not let your cowardice cost us this opportunity."
"I am no coward," Jotun said. "And I grow weary of your accusations." He passed a hand over his face and the slim, spare features of the Latino waiter morphed into that of the older, white haired gentleman. Pressing his hand flat against the waiter's uniform, he concentrated and the material darkened, softened into a tuxedo, complete with a black tie and satin vest. He gave Surt a blue-eyed stare. "Satisfied?"
Surt smiled. "I apologize, brother. I should not have doubted you."
Jotun brushed him aside and walked into the hall without a word. Gaining the hotel's main dining room, he made his way purposefully to the host's station outside the ballroom door. As Jotun approached he saw the maître d', now with a light flush on his cheeks, resume his station. The man raised a discreet hand and a smile.
"Pardon me Sir; may I see your invitation?
"So sorry, old man, but I've left it on the table inside. Already been seated once, don't you know?"
The host raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
"Well, the thing is," Jotun leaned in conspiratorially, "I thought I saw a young lady I knew and I didn't want the wife to...that is, I was anxious that there be no... unpleasantness, if you take my meaning."
The man's eyes widened. "Of course. I don't believe I recall seating you earlier?"
"No, it was a young lady. Blonde with brown eyes and..." he sketched a set of curves and rolled his eyes appreciatively. The maître d's lips twitched and he nodded.
"I know just who you mean. Katrina is a lovely girl. May I escort you to your table?"
"Oh, no need. It was right next to the angel sculpture."
"Very well Sir. Enjoy your evening."
"I shall," Jotun said, moving through the doorway. "I shall." He passed through the doors and cut right, weaving between the tables toward Conroy's seat. As he walked he pulled out his phone, tapping it to open and activate the app. To anyone watching, it looked as if he were sending a text message.
Five steps from the Admiral's table, the app picked up signals from every phone within a twenty foot radius. Jotun stifled a curse. There had to be a hundred phones within range. Glancing around he spotted an open seat and sat down, ignoring the curious stares of those already at the table. Seconds later he had located Conroy's phone from the list. He selected it and tapped the 'pair' command.
"Excuse me, Sir? I think you are in my seat."
A tall, well-built man with black hair and intense blue eyes stared down at him.
Jotun inhaled sharply, the subtly charred scent of a member of the Fallen assaulting his nostrils. "Who are you?" he asked.
Surprise widened the man's eyes. "A man at a banquet waiting for a stranger to get out of my seat. I'm a guest here, as I assume you are."
"A guest you may be. But you are not a man."
The man scowled and leaned closer, nostrils flaring. "What are you..." he straightened, a bemused grin lighting his features. "My, my. What is one of the Host doing at a Fashion Week banquet?" He glanced over his shoulder to where Gwyneth was laughing at something Conroy had just said. "I'll bet it will only take me one guess."
"I asked you a question."
"Oh, of course. Forgive me. My surprise at finding you here has quite robbed me of my manners." He sketched an abbreviated bow and extended his hand. "I am Loki, only the humans call me Lokstrum."
Ignoring Loki's outstretched hand, Jotun stood. Glancing down at his phone, he clicked two buttons and the screen went dark. "I had thought you were still in your cave, Loki. How did you escape?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Loki! What are you doing here?" Freya stood beside them, her eyes snapping with outraged fury.
Jotun had to admit, the demon was hard to shake. Ignoring her anger, Loki smiled at her. "Gwyneth, how lovely to see you. One of my clients had tickets and invited me. Her wife is a great admirer of your Delaney."
"A pretty tale, I'm sure." She cast a measured glance at Jotun before returning her focus to Loki.
"Tell me," Loki cut a sly glance under his lashes at Jotun. "How is your search for your husband going? Any response to the social media campaign?"
The anger drained from her expression like water through a sieve. "Nothing useful yet. If he is out there, he hasn't shown himself." Sorrow tugged at her lips and something twisted in Jotun's belly. She sucked in a calming breath and turned a steely glance on Loki. "But that doesn't explain you. You should leave, Loki."
"But why? I'm looking forward to a little — entertainment." Again he shot a glance at Jotun and Gwyneth followed his gaze to Jotun. Lines creased her forehead and she tilted her head to the side. Jotun tensed.
"Do I know you?" She asked.
"Your friends are waiting for you Gwyneth," Loki interrupted. "And as I said, my friend and I are just here to enjoy the evening."
"I don't know what he has told you Sir," Gwyneth said to Jotun. "But you would do well to be more careful in your choice of companions. This one is not as innocent as he seems." She nodded good evening and went back to her table.
Jotun watched her answer the concerned questions of her friends and then gesture at the food with a comment that caused light laughter. He turned back to Loki.
"It seems that you are getting along with her as well as you ever did, which is to say not at all," Jotun said in Old Norse.
Loki's eyebrows rose and he glanced around the room, but everyone was involved in their own conversations. "I am notoriously hard to surprise and you've managed to do it twice in one night," he replied in the same language. "Can I buy you an ale? I have a feeling that you and I have a lot to talk about."
"I doubt it. You are free of your chains. Your interest in my mission is bound to be unfavorable since it will no longer benefit you. I think it best that we part ways." Jotun turned on his heel and stalked away, weaving through crowd. He passed through the main doors and into the lobby before he realized that Loki had followed him. "Go away little godling. We have nothing to say to each other."
"Oh, I think we do."
Jotun came to an abrupt stop and turned to face him. "Actually, there is one thing you can tell me. Why do you call her 'Gwyneth' when she is so obviously Freya? Are you ill, that you do not know her, or are you working with her, hiding her identity from the humans?"
"Hiding her...What are you talking about? That is Gwyneth Nephel, an up and coming fashion model with whom I have a slight acquaintance."
A snort of derision escaped Jotun's lips before he could control it. He shook his head. "Ever the trickster, eh Loki? It seems your time in chains was too short as it taught you nothing."
"I haven't worn chains in several hundred years. But no, I don't recall it as a learning experience." He tilted his head to one side, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "Forgive me. Our introductions were cut short and I did not get your name." He held out his hand again as his eyes lightened several shades.