Ragnarok: I Bring the Fire Part VI (Loki Vowed Asgard Would Burn)

by C. Gockel

  “Let’s take it over here, Dear,” Beatrice says, gesturing to the rock where Harding had first sliced the liver. “We’ll take the fur off first.”

  Branches like snakes whip in the space where Claire passes. The men jump back and whistle. Steve can only stand and watch, the scene replaying in his mind, leaving him off balance. Sigyn’s voice rises at his side. “See? She is very strong. She’s attracting the trees.”

  Steve shakes his head. “That’s not my daughter.” That wasn’t the little girl who ran around the house dressed up like a ballerina, who didn’t just want a bicycle, but wanted a lavender princess bicycle. His chest constricts. He knows that combat stress can affect children more profoundly than adults, their neural wiring is more malleable … was the chaos thrust upon her turning her into something unrecognizable?

  He rubs his jaw, and his eyes scan the camp out of habit. A spark of alarm goes off in his mind. He can’t see the incarnation of Chaos anywhere.

  x x x x

  As Beatrice and Claire walk past Amy with the lion’s head, she sees Bohdi slipping into the tent, and then she sees the glow of a light within its walls. On impulse she follows him.

  Stepping between the tent flaps, she finds him sitting on his heels rifling through his pack.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Looking for my last smoke,” he snaps, without looking at her.

  Amy huffs. “You’re still mad at me?”

  He doesn’t answer, just opens another compartment and starts pulling stuff out.

  Shaking her head, Amy walks over and sits down beside him. He still doesn’t look at her, and it’s disorientating. She’d hoped maybe for a hug, a thank you, some contact, some reassurance of … something. Despite putting on her game face, she was absolutely terrified when she’d turned and seen the lion charging. She’d heard Bohdi scream, and she was sure something had happened and that Beatrice would miss. She’s still a little strung out and lightheaded from the experience. But it worked, and he could acknowledge it. She pokes him lightly in the side. “Admit it,” she says, “It was a good idea.”

  Finding his pack of cigarettes, Bohdi stands up without answering. Hopping up behind, him she pokes him again. “Admit it.” She knows she’s being childish, but she’s still knotted up, on an adrenaline high, and he’s wrong. She pokes him another time. “Admit it.”

  He stops in his tracks. “Stop it,” he says.

  So she pokes him once more. “Admit it!” Her finger is up, prepared for a final poke, when Bohdi spins around fast and catches her by the wrist. Holding it up between them he hisses, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

  Amy’s eyes drop to her wrist. His grip isn’t hard, but it’s firm, and he doesn’t let go—not that she’s struggling. Her lips part and she meets his gaze. His lips are pressed in a thin line and his jaw is hard, and he oozes rage. But she’s not afraid. All the pieces are snapping together in her mind, or maybe her heart. He is angry because he was afraid for her, because he cares. She’s not sure what it means in the grand scheme of things, but in this moment it means everything. The chill she’s felt descend on her since she’s come to Jotunheim—physical, mental, and emotional—is gone, and she is warm in every way, and it’s such a relief. She leans into him, and Bohdi drops her wrist. She wants to protest, she wants that contact, but before she can say anything, his hands are flowing up the sides of her arms, over her shoulders and he’s cradling her head in his hands.

  “I thought I lost you,” he whispers, leaning down so their lips are inches apart. Her gaze falls to them. They’re wide and full, not like she’s used to. And then she meets his eyes. The dim light turns his skin an unnatural blue gray, and makes his normally orange eyes appear just black. It gives her a bit of déjà vu, but she reaches up and puts her hands on top of his—it’s the only exposed skin she can touch. He feels impossibly warm. “I’m not dead, I’m alive.”

  “I am still angry at you,” he grinds out, and she can see how tight the muscles are in his jaw.

  She nods. “I know.” She also knows he is about to kiss her. She thinks it’s possible, when he does, that she might self-combust.

  She hears a sound far away, like the rush of the wind, and then Bohdi snaps up straight, turns his head and growls. Before Amy knows what’s happening, he’s spinning around. “Did you just jab me with your umbrella?”

  Still holding one of his hands, Amy peeks over his shoulder to see Beatrice, umbrella raised and pointed at him. “Stop it right there, Mr. Patel. You won’t talk to me in that tone—”

  Bohdi grabs the umbrella, whips it from Beatrice’s hands and sends it soaring through the air. It hits the side of the tent with a loud thump. Beatrice’s jaw drops. “You can’t do that!”

  The tent flap opens behind her. Gerðr and Tucker are standing there.

  Bohdi pulls his hand away from Amy’s and runs it through his now non-existent bangs. He glances at Amy, and then at Beatrice. She sees his Adam’s apple bob. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, bracing his hand against his back and stumbling sideways to the tent flap.

  “Wait!” Amy says, starting to follow him.

  But Tucker puts a hand on her arm. “Let him cool down.”

  Recovering her umbrella, Beatrice tsks. “That boy has anger management issues. He needs to learn some self-control!”

  “Bohdi has control of self,” says Gerðr softly in English. Staring at Beatrice’s umbrella, she tilts her head. “He threw across room when you asked to stop?” She sounds startled for some reason.

  Amy rounds on her grandmother. “Did you jab him in the back with your umbrella?”

  Beatrice meets Amy’s eyes. She puts a hand on her chest. “I’m sure it was an accident.” The side of her lip curls slightly.

  Amy’s not at all sure it was an accident. She turns to the door again. Tucker’s hand is still on her arm. “Listen to your grandmother. He’s unstable, and possibly a psychopath. You heard him—he was ready to shoot the Einherjar in the back.”

  “But I shot them,” says Gerðr.

  “Bohdi’s not a psychopath,” Amy hisses.

  The tent flaps explode inward, and suddenly there is Berry, Harding, Rush, and Park, with Nari and Valli peeking over their shoulders.

  “What’s going on here?” says Berry, his ruddy complexion redder than ever.

  As Beatrice starts to explain, Amy slips out of the tent … and promptly bumps into Sigyn.

  “I’m sorry,” says Amy. Scanning the camp, she says, “Did you see where Bohdi went?”

  “Larson just put him on guard duty,” Sigyn says.

  “I need to talk to him,” says Amy, standing on her tip toes, trying to catch sight of him. Behind her the conversation in the tent is a low roar.

  Sigyn puts a hand on Amy’s arm. “It would be best if you don’t distract him.” She looks over Amy’s shoulder. “ ... It sounds like there has been enough drama for tonight.”

  Rush’s laugh rises from the tent. “So what, Beatrice caught her grandbaby and Patel making out?”

  Amy’s skin goes hot. “We weren’t …”

  Sigyn sighs and spins her around. “But if you go after him, you will, and neither of you will be prepared if a lion attacks.”

  Amy’s about to argue when someone in the tent says, “Where is Lewis?” Rush whistles suggestively, and Amy’s cheeks go from hot to scalding. She heads back into the tent.

  “You’ll be able to talk to him in the morning,” Sigyn whispers. Amy stares at her sleeping bag. It’s rolled out next to Beatrice’s. There’s a three-foot gap between it and Bohdi’s sleeping bag. Fenrir will sleep between them. She doubts very much she’ll get to talk to him in the morning.

  Not looking at Beatrice, and pretending not to look at the leering Rush, she gets ready for bed. But when the lights go out, she can’t sleep. She waits for Bohdi to come in, even though it’s stupid—what are they going to do? What can they do? She’s being a stupid girl, thinking about romance … or
whatever … and it’s utterly useless when their lives are still in danger.

  “Amy,” whispers Beatrice.

  “Leave me alone,” she says.

  She hears Beatrice sigh. “I would rather you hate me than see you suffer.”

  Amy doesn’t answer, and after a while she hears Beatrice’s breathing deepen as she goes to sleep. Amy curls up in a ball and closes her eyes. She almost growls in frustration—at her inappropriate thoughts and at the cold. She can feel the chill settling in again. Not enough to be dangerous, just enough to be noticeable. It’s inescapable and she hates it.

  Unable to sleep, she listens to other people’s dreams. Beatrice is speaking in Ukrainian, or maybe Russian; and Park is talking in Korean. She hears Rush cry out, “Mamma, don’t,” so piteously she feels sorry for him … until she remembers what a jerk he is.

  At last, unable to take the lack of sleep or the cold anymore, she opens her eyes and finds it’s early morning. There is just the tiniest hint of daylight seeping through the tent walls. She rubs her eyes. She must have gone to sleep without knowing it, but she doesn’t feel refreshed at all. She just feels cold. Dropping her hand, she blinks. Fenrir’s not lying beside her. Instead, there is Bohdi. He’s laying on his side a few feet away, scowling at her.

  She feels her heart rate quicken. “Hi,” she blurts out.

  His eyes narrow. “I’m still mad at you,” he whispers.

  She feels her lips split into a wide grin. He still cares. She slips her hand out of her bag, into the frozen space between them. He lets out a huff of air that rises in a cloud and then disappears. She can see his jaw working as he grinds his teeth, but without a sound he slips his hand out of his bag and takes hers. His fingers are impossibly warm, and he squeezes maybe more than he needs to … but it works, the chill melts away and it’s perfect, their fingers sliding together. Amy’s grin melts with the chill. As perfect as it is, she wants more, to be warmer. Is this why people do crazy things when they’re close to death, to chase away the chill?

  Her eyes drop to their entwined fingers. “Amy …” Bohdi whispers.

  She meets his gaze and sees his lips parted as though he’s about to say something.

  Outside the tent, Fenrir growls. The noise is soft, as though the dog is far away. Amy and Bohdi release hands, and everyone is suddenly awake. Amy gulps. Their autonomic nervous systems have been fine tuned to wake at the slightest sound of danger. Usually, when Reveille plays on Berry’s phone, everyone groans and moans—but they’re all alert and nearly silent now. Thomas’s gravelly voice sounds outside the tent, low and quiet. “We have company.”

  She hears Steve whisper, “Who?” She turns to see him pressing his headpiece more firmly against his ear.

  “I don’t know,” says Thomas.

  Before Amy can blink, everyone is suited up, ready to go. Fenrir’s growl rises.

  “Lewis, watch Claire, stay down,” Steve says. Amy nods, but Steve has already gone outside, Bohdi with him. Slipping on her boots, Amy gestures for Claire to stay near, but the little girl is already hopping out of the tent behind Beatrice.

  Chapter 10

  Steve steps out of the tent into early dawn. It’s warmer than yesterday, and a light mist hangs over the snow. Bohdi is at his right. Lieutenant Larson and Berry are at his left. Gerðr is standing in front of the remains of the fire they’d used to roast the lion the night before. Aside from his own team Steve hears no sound, and all he sees is trees; but Fenrir is pacing, growling and looking off into the trees, obviously agitated.

  “Down,” Steve says, falling to one knee, lifting his rifle and peering through the sights. Everyone else does likewise.

  “Got nothing,” whispers Berry, flat on his stomach.

  Steve’s headpiece crackles. “Nothing behind the tent.” Everyone else reports the same.

  Gerðr turns to them. “Look away. I use magic.”

  “Drop your eyes, boys,” Steve says, dropping his own gaze to the ground. “Ladies, stay alert.”

  He hears a few grumbles. And then one of the guys, Cruz, says, “I don’t get it, is looking at Gerðr really that bad?”

  “Are you gay?” whispers Rush.

  Steve glares at the SEAL—wrong question, wrong time. He hears Larson huff.

  And then Cruz says, “Well, yeah.”

  Valli sucks in a long breath and mutters something.

  Gerðr says, “Helmet back on. You can look. I see nothing … trees eating my projection. Maybe another cat, Fenrir smells?”

  Berry drops his rifle. “I think we have a false alarm.” No one stands, but Steve lowers his rifle and looks to Bohdi. Meeting his eyes, Bohdi shrugs, and they both look at Cruz.

  Cruz puts down his rifle and lifts his chin. “If I am immune to her voodoo, it seems relevant to the mission.”

  “Could be useful,” Bohdi says, “if we need anyone to run a magical reconnaissance mission with Gerðr.” He smirks and narrows his eyes, and the expression, if not his face, is so like Loki it’s disconcerting. But … Steve tilts his head. “I concur.”

  “Oh, I’m gay!” says Redman. “I’ll go on a mission with Gerðr.”

  “Me too!” says Rush.

  “Me three!” says Thomas, gravelly voice crackling over the radio.

  Tucker drops his head, but Steve can see the straight-laced Kansas boy is grinning.

  Berry snorts. Steve glances down at the stoic warrant officer. Berry rolls his eyes and grins. “Me four?”

  “No,” says Larson, voice curt, eyes on the forest.

  Gerðr looks back at them and blinks, helmet and bracelets safely on. “I not understand? I no know voodoo?”

  “What is wrong with you people?” says Valli, sounding disgusted.

  “You joke about this?” says Nari, sounding completely scandalized.

  Sigyn sighs. “You’ve been to Alfheim. You know that mores vary.”

  Fenrir drops to her belly. Her ears go back, and she growls into the forest, nose pointed between a gap in the nearest trees. The levity in the group evaporates. Steve’s rifle is up without thinking, as are everyone else’s.

  In Jotunn, Gerðr says, “I don’t think it is Einherjar. If it were, they would have attacked. It could be another cat, but I don’t think so. It may be a hunting party. Perhaps if I address them they will reveal themselves?”

  Larson looks at Steve. “Captain, worth a shot?”

  Steve’s jaw twitches. Larson isn’t very good at Jotunn, but he understood Gerðr perfectly. Filing that piece of information away, Steve says, “Do it.”

  Gerðr steps over to Fenrir’s side and shouts, “I am Gerðr Gymirsdottir of Jotunheim. Who goes there?”

  Steve releases a breath. The forest is completely silent, and he sees nothing.

  And then a man’s voice, speaking Jotunn, rises in the forest. “Gerðr Gymirsdottir of Jotunheim, vassal of King Utgard, what are you doing in the Iron Wood, and who are your strange companions?”

  Raising her voice, Gerðr says in her own language, “I come here not as Utgard’s vassal, but as a traveler with my companions, the warriors of Midgard’s United Realms of the middle of the Northern West Continent!”

  “Midgardians?” A low chuckle echoes from the trees. All around the camp comes the sound of crackling twigs, hoots, bird whistles, and laughter. Steve swings his rifle around to use the sights, but he can’t see any movement. His teeth grind—they don’t want to be seen. He’s dealing with a tribal people who have probably been haunting this forest since they could walk. Tribal people … like in Afghanistan.

  The voice rises again. “You were worried, Heiðr Gullveigsdottier, about the mourning songs of the Yeti and the slaughter of whales. But it is only Midgardians.” Steve’s eyes narrow at the mention of Heiðr’s name. She is the daughter of Gullveig and chieftess of the Iron Wood.

  Close to them, Sigyn says, “Heiðr ... she is an ally, if we can speak to her …”

  Before she can finish, another man says in Jotunn, “Midgardia
ns! Maybe they’ll gum us to death with their toothless mouths!” More laughters and hoots rise in the forest.

  Gerðr takes a step forward; her mittens are off, and Steve can see her hands fisting at her sides. “Yes, Midgardians! Lake Balstead is red with the blood of the whales they slayed, and they are the cause of the Yeti’s suffering. They brought a mountain down on Odin’s armies and picked vile Harpies from the air with shaftless arrows of fire!”

  “Ummm … Gerðr?” Larson whispers.

  “Gerðr, ease up,” says Steve.

  Gerðr rounds on him. “But they’re wrong!” she snarls.

  A woman’s voice rises from the trees. “Well, this is incredibly awkward.”

  Nari stands up. “Cousin Heiðr …”

  Another man’s voice rumbles through the trees. In English he says, “Announce yourselves, Midgardians!”

  Straight ahead, a shadow emerges from the trees, broad-shouldered and familiar.

  Steve swears.

  “Daddy?” says Claire, her voice too close. Steve doesn’t turn to look. His grip tightens on his rifle.

  “Uh-oh,” says Lewis.

  “What’s going on?” says Berry.

  Bohdi gulps. “Thor.”

  x x x x

  Amy’s heart stops. A bolt of lightning whips from Thor’s hammer toward the team. Before anyone can move, the lightning twists from its course and snakes up into the trees around it. Instead of falling, the trees struck by the lightning appear to throb. Amy swears she hears them hum. Twisting vine-like branches drop from above and dart toward the hammer and coil around the handle, as though ready to rip it from Thor’s hands.

  Fenrir gives a whine and slinks around behind the SEAL team. In Amy’s pocket, Mr. Squeakers gives a friendly cheep to his canine friend, but Fenrir only cries.

  Thor grumbles and tugs his hammer away from the vine. The vine-branches slowly retreat, and then she hears a groan, a crack, and the Earth shakes.

  “Are the trees growing?” whispers Berry.

  “I think so,” says Sigyn, sounding awed and maybe even a little frightened.

  Amy’s jaw drops. The trees struck by lightning are growing. It’s terrifying and reassuring. A part of her was worried that the trees wouldn’t protect them from an opening World Gate, since they didn’t hinder minor magic. But they do hinder strong magic … maybe it just takes a lot of magic, like from Thor’s hammer, to be worth their while?