by C. Gockel
The Frost Giant woman hesitates, and Beatrice says, “We can take something else instead.”
“All we have are tubers,” says the woman, gesturing to some sacks on the ground among heaps of nets. Amy thinks they were probably nets that belonged to fishermen. “... and dried fish.”
“Tubers are great!” says Amy. No one on the team likes them, but they’ll eat anything that isn’t moving. All of the human magic users—especially Claire—are hungry all the time. She’s not sure if it’s the magic practice in the cave, the cold, or Larson and Steve making everyone exercise every day.
As the woman retrieves the tubers, an old man Amy presumes is the grandfather puts his hands on the knee of the little boy she was just attending to. Holding his weathered hands over the boy’s leg, the old man starts to hum. A tree branch snakes through a gap in the tent, other branches pound on the tent sides, and tiny roots shoot out of the ground and twist around his wrists.
The little boy cries, and the old man curses and pulls the slender roots and branches away. Amy’s eyes widen. “You are a powerful enchanter.” The old man ducks his head, and his wife says, “Shhhh … don’t let the neighbors know.”
The little boy, laying on the bed of old furs, sniffles. “But they already know! Grandfather is the one who found the new World Gate in the sea arch—his boat slipped right into Niflheim.”
Amy’s eyes meet Beatrice’s. They’d known about the World Gate in the sea arch—but not that it went to Niflheim. They both turn to the old man.
“It was an accident,” the tiny Frost Giantess says, going and standing beside him, as his shrunken shoulders shrink some more. “He didn’t do anything wrong … he wasn’t buggering anyone.”
Amy blinks. Buggering? She sorts through her Frost Giant vocabulary … the woman means the worst definition of the word. But why would she think that Amy would think he was doing something like …
She squeezes her eyes shut, and she is Loki, in Asgard, hiding behind the throne listening as Odin raged at Mimir’s severed head. “The schools of magic in Jotunheim will reform, or be shut down, Mimir. What the headmasters do to the apprentices is at best superstitious nonsense, and at worst sexual slavery!”
Shaking, Amy opens her eyes. She remembers reading a little bit about that when she was researching paganism—some of the rites of the ancient mages involved young boys being “ritualistically” raped. She takes a deep breath and puts a hand to her eyes. Odin had shut the schools down and invited initiates to Asgard instead. It was self-serving. Odin effectively drained Jotunheim of its intellectuals. She swallows, remembering Odin’s rage. But it might have been a moral crusade on Odin’s part, too.
“Amy?” says Beatrice.
Amy gives Beatrice a weak smile. To the old man, she says, “I know magic doesn’t only happen when you … do bad things.”
The old man lifts his eyes. They are deep and recessed, nearly hidden behind a cloud of beard and white hair.
“Oh, he didn’t do anything bad!” says the woman. “And he had such a fright. He saw clear to Hel!”
Amy’s mouth gapes. “You saw Hel … ” Hel is the name of a region in the realm of Niflheim. Loki had sworn to her that Hel did not exist, but since she’s had his memories, she’s learned that the place where his daughter Hel died had begun to be referred to by that name. It infuriated him that such a miserable place was given his daughter’s name.
Biting her lip, she looks down at the hides on the floor and instinctively touches the tiny book in her pocket. According to Thor, Hel was the new Loki’s destination.
Outside, she hears the wail of a child and the braying of a goat. She lifts her head. Meeting her eyes, the ancient man whispers, “I know it was Hel. I was there, long, long ago, when I was but a lad. Thought I was going to meet my end. You know it’s where those who are dying go.”
Amy’s brow furrows. Can it be just a coincidence that a new World Gate to Niflheim—and Hel, specifically—opened up so close to the Iron Wood? Loki cannot create World Gates, only exploit them, but it seems so random. World Gates opened up close to Cera … or Eisa … they’d opened up at a furious pace when Amy was in the other universe, when she was pregnant with Eisa.
But if not Eisa, Odin, or Cera, then who?
Pain shoots through her skull. A scream comes out of her mouth before she knows it’s left her lips.
Amy’s blood pounds in her ears. Beatrice grabs her arm, and Amy thinks she hears her call her name. Taking deep breaths, she feels the cold hit her lungs and shivers uncontrollably.
She’s not sure how long she stands there. But at last the pain recedes, and she lifts her eyes. The elderly couple are clutching each other, standing between Amy and their grandson. Smiling weakly, Amy grabs her gear. The little jar of prismatic fungus rolls out, and she hastily puts it back in. She’d brought the fungus hoping someone could identify it, but no one has ever seen anything like it before. Another new species for her to name? She shakes her head, feeling a headache building again. Grabbing the bag of tubers, she and Beatrice leave the dwelling.
The tent is situated close to the dilapidated structure that houses the ancient elevator shaft. As she steps out into the dappled afternoon light beneath the trees, she sees black smoke rising from a newly erected chimney in the roof. The doors to the structure are wide open. Larson, Rush, Tucker, and Berry are standing outside looking grim. She hears the chink and grind of gears, and what sounds like the whistle of steam.
Amy and Beatrice look at each other with mouths agape, and then rush over to their teammates.
“You got it working?” Amy says.
Eyes down the shaft, Lieutenant Larson nods. He looks even sterner than usual.
“Well done!” says Beatrice.
Tucker turns to them. “We’re hauling up the first passengers right now.” His voice is somber, baby blue eyes downcast, like he had just said someone died. Larson answers her unspoken question. “The Asgardians are back from their hunting trip.”
Over the sound of machinery, Thor’s voice booms. “Prepare for a feast, humans! We have slain a forest mastodon! They are most delicious!” Then Thor’s beaming face rises from the shaft inches at a time. He’s in the same sort of corral lift that Loki remembered. He’s surrounded by Asgardian and Frost Giant hunters, including Magi and Modi. The Frost Giants look as happy as Thor. The Asgardians look angry and hostile. As gears grind and click, the whole party comes into view … at their feet are the snowmobiles and wings the team had left in the hollow of an iron wood tree.
Amy’s eyes fall upon them, and Thor beams even more brightly. “We even brought these! I look forward to riding one of your magical chariots. Mine doesn’t work here!”
Amy stares at him, overwhelmed by his happy exuberance. The lift grinds to a stop, and he barrels out, throwing his arms over a grinning Magi and Modi as he does. There is something about Thor’s happiness … it’s not that it feels fake … it just feels like it’s too much, too pure, or something. Even his happiness feels heroic, and she’s not sure why.
She looks away and her gaze lands on Queen Jarnsaxa. Amy’s struck by the fact that Thor’s lover doesn’t look ebullient like the Frost Giants, or angry like the Asgardians. Her hands are clasped loosely in front of her, her shoulders are slightly slumped, and her stare is distant; but then, as though feeling Amy’s gaze, she lifts her eyes. They are slightly red and puffy. The woman nods at Amy.
Amy ducks her head in reply, feeling tiny, small, and very human. “Let’s go back to the inn,” she says to Beatrice.
Larson’s icy blue glare lands on her. “Good idea, we should round up everyone there.”
Amy nods and turns on her heel, Beatrice at her side. A pow-wow with the team is a good idea, but Amy feels cold all the way to her bones, and all she really wants to do is see Bohdi and just not be cold anymore. She shivers. Something about Jarnsaxa’s sad smile, and Thor’s strange ebullience makes her feel like she’ll never be warm again.
x x x x
>
Stifling a yawn, Amy enters the front door of the inn, Beatrice just behind her. They find Bohdi sitting in a trap door that leads to Gem’s larder. He’s still dressed in all his gear except his mittens. Beside him are piles of books and scrolls.
Smiling up at Amy, he gestures to the pile. “Hey, guess what we found during magic practice in the cavern!”
Next to him, Harding’s head pops out of the larder. Vaulting out, she says, “We’ve also got the last trunk of gunpowder.” They’ve brought all the fireworks and gunpowder they’ve discovered in Gullveig’s hidden workroom up to the inn. The trunks are airtight, but Gerðr insisted that having it in the cavern could lead to “magical mischief and mishap” if someone turned out to be too proficient with fire.
Waggling his eyebrows, Bohdi rubs his hands together. “We can make some homemade grenades.”
“The Asgardians are back,” Amy says. Bohdi’s smile drops.
Cruz pokes his big blonde head out of the larder and grunts. “Someone to practice using the grenades on.”
Beatrice strides over to the trap door. “They’re bringing our snowmobiles and wings back … we’d better close up.” She gestures with her chin to the scrolls and books. “Take those upstairs; they won’t fit in Gem’s library.”
Picking up the books and scrolls with Bohdi, Amy stifles another yawn. Ushering two baby goats into the world late at night had been rewarding, but she’s exhausted. Steve comes out of the kitchen with Sigyn behind him. He’s pressing his headpiece to his ear. “I want everyone back at the inn except the two on guard duty in the cavern … Where is Claire? … with Thor? What is she doing with Thor?”
Amy follows Bohdi up the stairs, the fragile books and scrolls heavy in their arms.
They set their burdens down at the end of the hallway. Amy shivers, and Bohdi touches her cheek, his brow furrowing. “You’re cold … are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I …” another shiver ripples through her as though her body is purposefully trying to belie her words. She scrunches her eyes shut. “I’m not as physically cold as I am …” She touches her chest. “I saw Jarnsaxa and I think she was crying, and she doesn’t seem like someone who cries … and I found out the new World Gate opens right to Hel where Thor said the new Loki is, and I feel like it’s all connected, everything, somehow, and we’re sitting on a tinder box.” She lets out a long breath and drops her hand and scuffs her boot on the floor.
“Well, technically,” Bohdi says, “we are sitting on a tinderbox.”
Amy raises her eyes to his. He’s smiling a little sadly. “There’s enough gunpowder downstairs to blow up half a city block.” He drops his eyes. “But here, I have something for you that might cheer you up.” Fishing in his pocket, he pulls out a lollipop. The stick it’s on is bent, but its wrapper is intact. She’s so desperate for sweets her mouth instantly waters. Bohdi hands the candy to her. “My coat … Harrison’s coat ripped … and I found it in the lining.” He pushes the candy into her hand without meeting her gaze. “It’s not dessert at a five-star restaurant in Paris, but it’s yours.”
Amy stares at the candy in her fingers and hears what he’s really saying. He’s not Loki, he can’t take her to Paris and he can’t whisk her away with a thought. The candy wrapper crinkles. Even with magic, Bohdi isn’t as strong as Loki, but …
“This is better than dessert at a five-star restaurant,” she says, feeling her eyes get hot. Paris had been all about Loki wanting to keep her away from the people at the FBI. This little piece of artificially-flavored corn syrup is all about her.
“Are you going to eat it?” Bohdi says, sounding unusually vulnerable.
He doesn’t think she appreciates it. He couldn’t be more wrong. Her fingers slip as she tries to undo the packaging. “Yes,” she says, afraid to look at him. Is it ridiculous to fall in love with a guy over a lollipop?
Unwrapping the candy, she pops it into her mouth. And then she laughs, and pulls it out, her mouth exploding with artificial cherry flavor. It tastes fantastic after tubers, goat milk, moss bread, and meat. “It’s delicious!” she whispers, finally meeting his gaze. He smiles, orange eyes almost glowing. Licking his lips, he says, “Are you going to share?”
She holds out the pop. Instead of taking it, he takes her chin and kisses her, and Amy feels like she might melt into the floor.
Pulling back to catch her breath, she narrows her eyes, as though she’s angry, but she’s not. “That was planned …”
He shrugs, a hand that had been on her back slipping lower than would be appropriate in front of their teammates.
“Always playing games, Bohdi,” she says, purposefully drawing out his name and then shaking her head with an exasperated sigh. Over the past few weeks she’s discovered he has a tiny little kink—he likes it when she says his name when they’re fooling around.
Face getting a little darker, he dips his chin and smiles. Footsteps sound on the stairs and Amy takes a half-step back, but still stands too close. Bohdi’s right, everyone probably knows, and she doesn’t want to leave him.
Ducking her head, she blinks—a thought strikes her. “Bohdi, if Loki, the new Loki, comes through the new World Gate, I’m with you now—you know that, right?”
She immediately feels lighter for having said it. She looks up at him and his expression is flat and unreadable.
“Hey, love birds, pow-wow downstairs. Get moving.” Turning, she sees Park in the narrow hallway jerking his thumb to the stairs.
Slipping the candy into her pocket, Amy heads to the stairs, feeling unbalanced. Bohdi puts a hand on her back, and she can feel the warmth through her parka. It makes her heart speed up and makes her feel so much … but is it for the same reason the artificial cherry flavor tasted so good? Is she so used to feeling afraid and cold that any warmth feels like love? She’s not sure she can trust herself enough to know. But their time is so short—maybe it doesn’t matter.
Chapter 21
In the feast hall, Steve’s ears ring with the rowdy cries of the Frost Giant warriors and refugees, the clang of silverware on plates, and the thump of mugs on tables. With a fork, he idly taps the remains of what Lewis says is a mammoth radius bone and scowls. Thor’s and the Asgardian’s return meant a return to communal feasting.
Leaning down to his shoulder, Fenrir whines in his ear. Steve picks up the dish-sized piece of grisly meat, bone, and marrow and holds it out to the wolf-dog. She snatches it away. Steve glances backward to see the enormous animal stretching out on the floor behind the bench. Lying down, her shoulders are nearly as high as the table. He gives her a pat. He’s becoming fond of the mutt. With her right behind him, the crowd in the hall has kept their distance. Steve’s eyes scan the room. If anything, their first nights here were tame. The refugees in the room are wild, emboldened by liquor and energized by food. A plate crashes into the wall above his head and Fenrir growls. Steve’s jaw grinds. Pretty soon he’ll have to provide entertainment again. He glances down the table. Beside her equipment, Harding catches his gaze and gives a thumbs up.
Steve’s eyes slide to where Bohdi is talking to Lewis. He doesn’t want a repeat of last time—he’s not sure if their dancing caused the trees to go crazy—but he doesn’t want to risk it. A mug crashes into the wall above his head and showers him with the local brew.
“This is not the time for chaos,” he grumbles.
“It already is chaos,” says Sigyn.
“It could be worse,” says Steve. “I don’t want Bohdi to dance.”
Beside him Sigyn whispers, “He does not cause earthquakes … I danced with him many times, I should know.”
Steve meets her eyes. While telling her the tale of Lewis and Eisa, he also told her about Loki and his crazy Elvis impersonation, and why Bohdi and Lewis made him panic.
Violet eyes drifting down the table, Sigyn says, “Doctor Lewis looks tired. Perhaps instead of insisting Mr. Patel not dance, you should suggest he escort her back to the inn?”
Steve ra
ises an eyebrow. After everything, she’s solving the problem for him she doesn’t believe he has. That is loyalty; and she forgives him. He smiles as he slips out of the bench and heads down to talk to Bohdi and Lewis.
x x x x
Sometimes being Chaos is awesome. Bohdi had been wishing for an excuse for time alone with Amy, and it’s happened. He drapes his arm around her shoulders as they head back ‘home.’ It would have been fun to see just how far the Frost Giants wrestling on the table tops were going to go with it—the object seemed to remove each other’s clothes—but this is good, too. Beneath his arm Amy shivers. Snow is falling in uneven patches through the tree limbs. Occasionally it crashes in big clumps.
He needs to tell Amy about the whole incarnation of Chaos thing. It’s time. He’s got it all planned out. “So, Amy, remember in Nornheim when you asked me—”
A large clump of snow lands on the back of his neck. Yelping, Bohdi frantically tries to dislodge the snow as it slides down into his parka.
“Are you okay?” Amy says.
“I’m fine,” he hisses, jumping up and down, shaking the snow out.
“We should get inside, quickly,” she says. “The University of Illinois in Chicago used to have elevated walkways that were designed by some French guy who didn’t understand Chicago winters. Great big icicles would form and fall on people, and they’d die!”
Bohdi stares at her in horror. “Why are we standing here?”
She shrugs. Grabbing her hand, he breaks into a run and pulls her all the way back to the inn. By the time they reach the door, they’re both breathless and laughing. Cruz and Gerðr, sensibly standing beneath the inn’s eaves, raise eyebrows at them as they enter.
It’s warm and toasty inside, and all the little red bug lights are alight. Bohdi peels off his coat and follows Amy up the stairs. When they reach the top, she turns around. “I have something to tell you,” she whispers.