by Leah Cutter
With a sigh, Odin stretched out his hand and helped Loki to his feet. “So you found a spell to change our fate,” Odin said. “And you sacrificed an eye to do it.”
Loki shrugged. “It seemed only fair. You sacrificed your own trying to avoid our original fate.”
Odin looked at Loki thoughtfully. “Why did you choose for me to survive? And not yourself?”
Loki made a face at that. “Some things really are fated,” he said sourly. “I couldn’t change my own fate. Or that of Baldur,” he added. “No matter how I searched. There was no world in which he survived. Or I.”
Odin knew that Loki told the truth. Yet, there was something else. He was sure of it.
“Then why are you bringing this final battle?” Odin asked. “Why force the twilight to come?” That was the other part he just didn’t understand. Living on in stories was surely not going to be enough for the trickster.
“How better to test the fate?” Loki asked. “And it isn’t only me who’s bringing the twilight closer. It’s predicted that you’ll talk with Mim’s head just before the end.”
Odin stiffened in shock. Damn that trickster. Even Odin had fallen into his trap, drawing the end days closer.
“I don’t trust you,” Odin said plainly. “I don’t believe you, either. There’s another game you’re playing. I’m watching you.”
“Don’t you need both eyes to do that?” Loki asked, smirking.
He still stepped back out of the way when Odin feinted in his direction.
“I will find out what you’re up to,” Odin warned. “And I will stop you.” With that, Odin turned and strode out of Loki’s hall.
Only the greatest of discipline enabled him to not turn back and beat the trickster into the dirt when Loki said softly, “Good luck with that, old man.”
***
Loki took another long draught, the healing mead soothing his sore throat. He had fled his hall and headed for his private chambers, lying back on the thick furs in front of the warm hearth. The fire painted light and shadow on the tall, peaked ceiling, but didn’t brighten the corners, which were as dark as Loki’s thoughts.
Bastard.
And the gods wondered why Loki turned against them. They were always bullying Loki. Always getting him to fix their problems. Always saving their asses.
This time, Loki was only concerned about one ass. His own. And making sure it got saved.
Odin would never know what hit him when Loki did the transfer spell. All he had to do was to make sure the challenge worked right, just at the end, before Odin was swallowed by the wolf.
Because the new fate was set.
Or was it?
Loki tugged at the ends of the prophecy. It seemed weaker this morning than it had the night before. It wasn’t transparent, but it wasn’t as solid, either.
The old fate was trying to bleed through the new, replace it.
At least Loki knew what he could do to prevent that. He would have to go back to earth, find another storyteller, one who saw the fates of the other worlds.
There weren’t many humans with this special ability. Less than half a dozen.
Loki could get to them, though. Encourage them to sing their special song. Find the right fate for the gods and the end of the world.
Kill the storyteller as he finished, and use blood and semen to make the fate “stick.”
***
Sam watched Cassie march off, down the dark street, away from her.
How could she believe so strongly in what she saw? It wasn’t real. Sam knew it wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be. If it was, that meant Tim, her younger brother, had been right all along. That he was sane.
Maybe knowing that would have saved him, though he’d always been fragile.
Sam shivered in her mink. The coat was warm, heavy, and a reminder why she didn’t want to follow Cassie: her life was too good as it was. She didn’t need the complications of a woman who was just one step out of the gutter.
Even if Cassie was cute and solid and charming and smart and tenacious and all those things Sam admired.
Sam brushed past the happy-go-lucky pedestrians getting ready for their holiday. She already had all her gifts purchased and wrapped. More than a month ago. Though she didn’t have anything for Cassie.
Sam shook her head. She didn’t do casual. Just like she didn’t do spontaneous.
Most of the post-cogs she knew were like that. There was enough chaos with unplanned visions. Plus, working with the police meant she had to be on call more hours than she’d like. So keeping the rest of her life planned out and drama-free just worked out better.
As Sam made her way back to the underground garage where her BMW was parked, she went through the list of teachers she’d had over the years, the extra trainers that her parents had paid for, trying to find one that would be a good fit for Cassie.
Who could train her beyond the insanity of seeing more than one past.
Finally, Sam hit on the right person: Ron Sumner, a professor at the University.
Before Sam pulled out of the parking garage, she’d already called Ron and arranged to see him that evening.
Sam told herself, as she eased into the completely stopped downtown street traffic, that she was doing this for the community, that they couldn’t afford to lose someone as strong as Cassie.
Even the radio couldn’t drown out the little voice at the back of her head that called her a liar.
***
Ron lived in a gorgeous brownstone near the University Club in St. Paul, near Grand Hill, overlooking the Mississippi. The sidewalk up the steep hill had been meticulously swept clean of any snow. A red carpet covered the walkway leading to the door, and the lamps were all yellow glass, giving the front of the building a warm, honeyed glow.
“Come in, come in,” Ron told Sam, taking her coat and ushering her into a festively decorated living room. A discreet Christmas tree blinked in the corner, next to the wide glass window that looked directly onto the river. A brown leather couch, very masculine, divided the room, facing the window. It was a lovely place to sit with morning coffee.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?” Ron offered. “Or even some eggnog?” He wore a typical bachelor-professor outfit—a small-print plaid shirt under a brown wool vest, with jeans.
“If you have some red open,” Sam said, hesitantly. She shouldn’t be drinking, not tonight, but a nice glass would chase away the cold of the night.
“Don’t I always?” Ron asked.
Sam seated herself on the leather couch, looking out over the river. The sky was clear but there were too many lights to see the stars. Dark swaths of trees stood between the building and the river. She couldn’t see the water from here, just the cliffs. It was enough.
“Thank you,” Sam said, taking the glass from Ron and sipping it. He always served the finest reds, and this one was no exception, with hints of peppercorn and cherry. It soothed and warmed her immediately.
“So what’s this about?” Ron asked after a comfortable silence had passed between them.
“I’ve met someone,” Sam said, hesitatingly.
“Really?” Ron asked, very pleased. “How exciting!”
“Not like that,” Sam said wryly.
“Uh huh,” Ron said, nodding, obviously not believing her. “Do go on.”
Sam rolled her eyes at him. “Okay, so it isn’t like that yet. Maybe not ever.” She sighed and looked at the glass of wine cradled in her hand. “She’s a post-cog. Just came into her powers.”
“Bit late,” Ron said, suddenly serious. “Unless you’re going for jailbait now?”
Sam glared at him. “The problem is, she’s seeing things.” Sam took a large gulp of wine. “Things that aren’t there. That can’t possibly be there.”
“Like what?” Ron asked gently.
“The first time I met her was at a crime scene,” Sam said.
“Of course,” Ron said.
What did he mean by that? Sam
didn’t ask, but made herself continue. “When she got her powers, I walked her through the scene. Going back to that time. She said she saw it, but it was a different past. An alternate past.”
“What had changed?” Ron asked, curious.
“Instead of Ferguson, one of the male cops I’ve been working with, it was a female cop,” Sam explained. “But that couldn’t be, right? It isn’t possible to see other pasts.”
“Could she be making it up?” Ron asked.
Sam hadn’t thought of that. “No,” she said after a moment. “I don’t believe Cassie would do something like that.” Cassie was too straightforward, too honest. Sure, she’d lie to the cops. But not to Sam. Not like that.
Not even to get in Sam’s panties.
Ron shrugged. “So, if she isn’t making it up, that means she’s actually seeing what she’s seeing.”
“Which means she’s insane,” Sam said bitterly.
“No, not necessarily,” Ron said.
“What?” Sam said. “Are you serious?”
Ron shrugged. “There’s been a lot of study about what is seen, and not seen, in recent years. There’s a possibility she’s actually seeing real alternate histories.”
“But that’s not possible!” Sam exclaimed, even as her heart leapt.
Maybe Cassie didn’t need saving.
“It is, actually.” Ron stopped and sighed, taking a drink from his own glass before he continued. “Now, Timothy, he was a different case. The alternates he was seeing couldn’t possibly be true. Where demons and were-creatures lived.”
“Cassie’s also seeing alternates that can’t be true,” Sam said. “She saw war chariots. Men marching off to battle. And what she calls non-men—beings that look like ghosts.”
“That’s troublesome,” Ron admitted. “Still. She also might also be seeing real alternate pasts.”
Sam leaned back into the couch and took another warming sip. Cassie was telling the truth, at least as Cassie saw it.
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” Ron said after another moment.
“You may be right,” Sam said eventually.
She had to go back and find Cassie. See if maybe they could come to some middle ground, between the absolutes that Sam saw and the alternates that Cassie did.
Maybe they could make this work.
Chapter Thirteen
I continued to follow the men going to war, ignoring the cold that seemed more intense, now that Sam thought I was crazy.
Hell, I thought I was crazy.
I also knew I was right.
Hunter saw these things. At least I wasn’t completely alone.
The traffic had reached an absolute standstill around the downtown sports arena. I wasn’t sure which corporate sponsor owned it now—the name had changed so many times.
The army didn’t care, though. They just kept marching through the parked cars. The cold must have been as intense as what we fought here: despite being warmed by their marching, they still had their furs wrapped tightly around them.
I didn’t understand the language they started singing in. It was more guttural than Swedish, but it wasn’t German, either.
I understood the sentiment, however. They were off to fight an endless war, uncertain of the outcome, sure that it was the final days.
Great. That’s just what I needed. The end of the world.
Great tides of men and women marched, on and on, into the stadium.
I couldn’t go in there myself. I figured there was a game that night, given the insanity of the traffic, the streams of fans also going into the stadium.
There wasn’t anything more I could do, here. Except tell Hunter when he came by.
Because I’d sure as shit chased away Sam for good.
***
Hunter seemed to take the news that I was a post-cog well. “It means we fit together, to see everything,” he said gravely. “You truly are my blood brother.”
I shrugged. It worked well enough as a theory. At some point I was going to have to get him to explain exactly what he meant by blood brother. We weren’t going to be tied at the hip for the rest of our lives, were we?
“So tell me what you saw, again,” Hunter insisted.
We stood out behind the shop, in the alley, leaning against the brick wall. I smoked; Hunter didn’t. The cold pressed in hard around us, and the winds kept whipping up the alley, as if they were trying to hustle us along. The sliver of sky above us was clear, dark, and empty.
“It was an army. Several, actually. All going off to a great battle, over near the sport arena.” I described how the guys looked, with their round shields, thick furs, and long helmets.
They looked like Vikings, the real ones, the ones I’d seen on the news or in ads or even in the children’s museum in St. Paul.
“And you think it’s the end of days?” Hunter asked. “The Ragnarok?”
“Dude, I have no idea,” I said. “And what about that spider thingy?”
“With the non-man?” Hunter asked.
I nodded. It still gave me the creeps.
“I saw it, too. He used it on Csaba, to take his fighting spirit from him,” Hunter said.
“Csaba’s no great warrior,” I scoffed.
Hunter shook his head. “He was organized. He operated mainly as a supplier. He had an army of other dealers dealing for him. And he kept order and discipline among his troops. He’d have made a good general.” Then Hunter paused. “If the price was right.”
I nodded, thinking. Most soldiers fought for honor, or love of country.
Csaba was a mercenary, and would only fight for cash or to save his own skin.
“Events light up the area of knowing based on the intensity of the participants,” Hunter said. “If they’re emotionally involved, committed, and there are more than one of them, the event is stronger than, say, a random mugging of between two strangers on a street.”
“Crimes that are planned show up more than crimes of passion,” I said, wanting to make sure I understood what he was saying.
“Exactly. Random acts aren’t foretold.” Hunter paced up and down the alley, head down, all serious and focused.
It made me tired just watching him.
“So part of why we’re seeing these events is because there are so many people in them, and because they’re so involved in them,” I said.
Hunter nodded, still pacing. March-one-two-three-turn. March-one-two-three-turn.
“But what are we supposed to do with this knowledge?” I asked. “It’s affecting our world, because of the deaths. But it’s mostly happening in their world.” Wherever that other world happened to be. Whenever it was.
Hunter sighed, his breath billowing from him in a white cloud. “That’s always been one of the great debates. Are we supposed to act on the knowledge we have?” He stopped and turned to me. “I think, in this case, that yes, we are supposed to act. There were more non-men in the troop you saw, yes?”
“Yeah. Great tall hulking men, who were about a story and a half high, with huge chests, carrying hammers and axes. There were also women.” I shivered, thinking about them again. “On horseback. With spears.”
While the army had been curious, the women had frightened me in a way I couldn’t describe.
Hunter started his pacing again. “The question is, what are we supposed to do?”
I shrugged. I hadn’t a clue.
“I think…the non-man who killed your friend. Who killed Csaba. We should start with him,” Hunter said after a moment.
“Okay. Cool. How?” I asked.
Hunter gave me a tight smile. “I need to go hunting. My area of knowing won’t cover the full city, not even with the strongest dose of the drug. I need a car, and someone to drive me, while I seek him.”
“I see,” I said, nodding. “And who would that be?” He wasn’t expecting me to steal another car, did he?
Hunter’s smile opened up into something lazy a
nd bright. “I think our friend Josh owes us, don’t you?”
I had to laugh. Hunter might have been crazy, but he was turning out to be my kind of crazy.
***
It didn’t take Hunter long to find Josh’s new apartment building that the company had moved him to. It was a much nicer place in Uptown, one of the older buildings that had been renovated, between Hennepin and Lake of the Isles. The neighborhood was quiet, the only life being the Christmas lights, blinking like mad, chasing each other around porches and trees. It wasn’t quite as if the zombie apocalypse had already occurred. But you could see it from here.
Fortunately, the old trick of pressing every single call button on the intercom worked and we were buzzed in quickly.
Josh, of course, didn’t want to let us in, even when we knocked politely and everything.
“I’ll just have to kick in the door, then,” Hunter told Josh, who peered at us through the chain on his door.
“I’ll call the cops,” Josh threatened.
“And then you’ll have to look over your shoulder every time you go outside,” I pointed out helpfully. “Because if you don’t talk to him now, well, you’ll never see him coming.”
“I told the company I had to leave town,” Josh muttered under his breath as he slid back the chain.
“You know, if he was really pissed off, moving to a different state wouldn’t have helped,” I told him as I walked in. “A different country, maybe.”
Josh stayed standing in front of the door. His apartment had all the charm of his office, which was none at all. No one lived there, just like no one actually worked at that desk. No pictures hung on the walls. From where I was standing, I could see empty boxes in the living room, no furniture.
“Look,” Josh said. “I did what I was paid to do. No more, no less.”
“You reported on me and my progress to your company,” Hunter snarled.
If I could have backed up further, I would have. Being with Hunter in a narrow hallway felt about as safe as being in a locked cage with a tiger. A hungry, pissed-off tiger.
“And they paid me to look after you. To make sure that you had clothes and food,” Josh said, also getting angry. “I helped you survive out there.”