by Dima Zales
Letting the flames dissipate, Loki consults Lothur’s journal. His jaw goes tight and his brow furrows. It’s colder here than in Chicago, but he feels himself getting hotter beneath his armor. He should be so close … but the entrance point is wrong.
Narrowing his eyes, he lets his consciousness fly to the air. He sees what he is looking for, the palace of the queen of the Light Elves about 100 miles down the road. Once this World Gate would have dropped him right outside her door, but the branches of the World Tree grow, and as they grow, they shift.
It is said the elf queen, like Odin, Heimdall, and possibly Hoenir, can see all that happens in the Nine Realms if she wishes. She may be able to tell him where his sons were deposited. Since Heimdall and Odin aren’t likely to be helpful at the moment, and Hoenir will be difficult to reach, the elf queen seems like Loki’s best option.
Most of the way the road abuts the dark forest. The Dark Elves won’t harass travelers on the road by day; but by night it will be another matter.
There are other ways to get to the elf queen’s palace besides the road. If he takes those ways, when he emerges on the other end, he won’t be helpless, but he will be much weaker, very tired, and ravenous. Not a way to make a good impression, and definitely not good if his reception is less than welcome.
He lets his consciousness sink back into his body. There is a part of him that wants to instantly go forward. The information he needs is so close … and he is strong again. Yesterday it was easy to be patient, he was too weak to be otherwise. But now, it is a struggle not to be impetuous.
He takes a sharp, frustrated breath and considers his situation. If only he had a carpet or …
Sheathing his sword, he turns and steps back to where the World Gate has shut. Closing his eyes he begins to tug at the gate again until it is open as wide as it will go. Furrowing his brow and concentrating to keep it open, he quickly measures the width by pacing the length. It is just wide enough.
Nodding to himself, he is just about to leave Alfheim, when a flash of something white on the light side of the road catches his attention. Turning towards it he scowls.
Sure enough …
Unsheathing his sword, Loki stands before the semi-open World Gate and glares at the unicorn emerging from the wood. What it wants in Midgard Loki can’t imagine, but it’s not coming through Loki’s gate. Hoenir would never hear the end of it if he let such a vicious temperamental creature loose in a major Midgardian metropolis. Lifting his sword high like a spear, Loki says, “Don’t you think about it either.”
The beast lowers its head and snorts. The air between it and Loki shimmers with heat. With a curse, Loki forces the excited molecules to quiet. Lowering the sword, he pulls a knife from his belt and hurls it in the beast’s direction, but the monster vanishes and the knife explodes harmlessly against a tree.
Narrowing his eyes, Loki shouts, “You’d taste good on an open spit!”
There is no sound. Loki doesn’t turn his eyes from the forest. Rather than risk being gored in the back, he makes himself invisible, carefully backs up through the World Gate … and promptly collides with the iron gate on the other side. He feels like Thor has just heaved him against a wall — in anger, or worse, enthusiasm. Loki doesn’t curse, but it’s a near call.
He lets the World Gate dissipate, turns around and surveys the situation. There is a plate on the gate that looks like it may have had a locking mechanism at one point, but now it’s partially rusted through. Instead, the gate is held by a simple padlock on a rusty chain. It takes hardly a thought to make the padlock spring open. He pushes at the gate gently, but it’s hanging so low on its hinges that it scrapes the ground. A tiny push isn’t going to do it. Loki grasps the metal plate and lifts. Pain shoots up his hand and he lets go. There is a loud clang as the last bit of the ancient plate falls to the ground. He does curse.
Someone shouts something from an open window.
Scowling, Loki lifts the gate again — this time using one of the great rusting vertical iron bars. It opens easily enough and he slips out of the alley and onto the street.
He walks down the block until he finds a vehicle that he thinks will suit his purposes. A Mercedes-Benz emblem is on the hood; he recognizes it from his journeys through Nazi Germany. What’s more important is that, as odd as the shape is, sleek and low to the ground, it has a visible stick shift. Most of the cars don’t. Loki’s last attempt at navigating a human vehicle didn’t end well, and he’s afraid of trying to master a new and more difficult technology on short notice. He puts a hand towards the lock, reaches out …
The car begins honking. Loudly.
From down the street he hears a man’s voice. “That’s my car!”
The car is calling to its master! Humans have crossed the divide between makers of machines to makers of living things!
A window opens. “Shut it up!”
Loki is invisible. He does not need to run. But he does anyway.
When Amy turns up Beatrice’s front walk it is still light out and the Mexican ice cream bicycle cart is still wheeling up and down her block, its bell ringing cheerfully.
She really should have stopped by the vet clinic and the restaurant where she normally hostesses over breaks. She doesn’t want to risk coming home after dark though. Not yet.
She feels like she is covered with a second skin of pollution, dried sweat, and grime. Chicago in summer. She sighs.
As soon as she is inside, she heads to the shower. When she is clean and feeling human again, she curls up with her iPhone on a big chair in the living room. She frowns at her phone. There are several missed calls. One from Chris, a guy she briefly dated. Chris is very nice, on a track to success, and a good, solid person. Someone Beatrice would like and Amy should like, but couldn’t. She thinks of their awkward fumblings in bed that never quite worked for her and blushes. Chris said she’d get it with time … she swallows. In the end she’d just made herself unavailable. He deserves someone better.
She scrolls down and sees her vet-wannabe friend Andrea called. Andrea will be sympathetic and probably make her laugh. Andrea will probably press her to see a shrink … but after she’s done with that they can talk about their Equine Theriogenology course and everything will be good. Suddenly possessed not just with the desire, but the need to call Andrea, Amy puts the phone to her ear. That’s when Beatrice walks in.
“It’s been awfully quiet today,” says Beatrice, sitting down on the sofa.
Putting down her phone, Amy looks up at her grandmother.
Reading the unformed question on her lips, Beatrice says, “I guess I just expected that the police would call. Or maybe the press … ”
Amy blinks. “Please don’t call the press, Grandma.” The last thing Amy wants right now is flash bulbs and interviews.
Beatrice snorts, and Amy smiles. Good, strong, private, Ukrainian Beatrice wouldn’t want that.
“I don’t think I’d worry,” Amy says. “The police have my contact info. And they kept Thor and me for a really long time. They let us both go — the evidence was pretty … ” Amy trails off.
“Oh, my!” says Beatrice. “I forgot. I have to go buy a new ham for my church group. Do you think you’ll be okay if I go out?”
“Sure, Grandma,” says Amy. She’s actually looking forward to calling her friend Andrea. She might tell her some of the details she didn’t tell Beatrice.
Beatrice gets up a little stiffly and heads towards the front door. A few minutes later, Amy hears the door slam and picks up her phone. She’s just about to dial the number when there is a knock at the back kitchen door. Fenrir dashes towards it, and Amy scowls but gets up and follows.
Thor is standing right outside on the stoop.
Amy remembers her conversation with Beatrice earlier when she questioned Thor’s trustworthiness. For a moment she hesitates, but then Fenrir does her happy dance, wagging her whole body and hopping on her feet. Fenrir doesn’t like anyone, except maybe Beatrice and Amy. The w
hole reason Fenrir’s name is Fenrir is because man-hating-bitch-from-Hell is too much of a mouthful, and you can’t say it in polite company.
Amy tilts her head and looks at her ecstatic little dog. Pursing her lips, she opens the door.
“Amy,” Thor says as Fenrir twines around his feet. He’s wearing clothing that looks more decade appropriate, and she wonders how he got it. “I need your help.”
Amy’s brow furrows, waiting for him to explain. He lifts his hand to push back his hair, and she notices his hand is bleeding.
“Oh, wow! Your hand,” she says. “Come in. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He looks down at his hand as though puzzled but doesn’t protest, just steps into the kitchen.
“Better wash it out in the sink,” she says going to the cabinet for the first aid kit. “How did you do that?”
“Rusty gate,” he responds.
Looking over her shoulder as she pulls down the kit she says, “I hope you have a tetanus shot.”
He blinks as he puts his hand under the sink. “Tetanus?”
Raising an eyebrow, she says, “Tetanus, it’s a disease caused by bacteria; it’s also called lockjaw. A very bad way to die.”
“Oh, a bacteria … I am safe from that.” He lifts his hand up and stares at it. There is a huge gash running down the middle of his palm. “It’s really not as bad as it looks,” he says.
Shaking her head, Amy takes his hand. He doesn’t resist.
“It’s not going to heal very well. Every time you bend your hand it’s going to open again,” she says, staring down at the cut. “I have some Nu-Skin; it’s a liquid adhesive bandage. It’s probably your best bet.”
“It’s not necessary,” he says.
“It is necessary … ” Amy stops. The cut is melding itself back together before her eyes.
She gasps. “How?”
“Just a little concentration,” he says. “I can heal myself quite well. Unfortunately, I can’t do it for others.”
Amy is suddenly aware that they are standing very close, and that she barely knows him. She should back away, but instead she pulls the hand closer to her, fascinated. The skin on his hand is fresh, new, and unmarred. She lifts her eyes to his face.
He smirks. When he speaks his voice oozes bitterness. “There’s something in my nature, maybe it’s a manifestation of my selfishness, my self-centeredness … but I can’t heal anyone else, no matter how I might wish to. Even Thor, though he detests magic, has exceedingly good healing skills.”
“What are you talking about?” Amy says quietly.
“Come on, Miss Lewis,” he says. He’s so close she can feel his breath against her hair when he speaks. “You already have discovered who I really am. And I’ve given you ample proof.”
“You’re crazy,” she says, finally dropping his hand and backing up. “Or I’m crazy.”
He takes a step forward. “No, you’re not crazy. The wolf, the armor … ” he smirks again. “The lovely lady you found yourself talking to last night. All real … or perfectly serviceable illusions.”
Amy feels her back hit the wall. “No.”
He grimaces. “And the picture folio catching fire and the candles last night were probably me, too — but I didn’t mean for those to happen.”
“Stop it,” Amy says, moving sideways to the kitchen door. “Just stop it.”
“No,” he says, moving forward and catching her wrist. The clothing he is wearing seems to shimmer, like heat waves above a road on a hot day, and there he is in his armor again. “I need your help,” he says, his face very close to hers, and Amy can see his blue eyes are so pale they’re almost white. “And you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything! Let me go!” Amy says, trying to twist her hand from his grasp. When that doesn’t work she tries stomping on his feet … but he’s not there.
From behind her his voice comes again. “Your life is worth more than a bed, some ham, and stuffed cabbages, Girl. You do owe me, and you will pay up.”
Amy spins around. He’s blocking the door from the kitchen to the living room.
She spins around again to run out the back door but he’s already standing there, his head canted forward, a scowl between his brow. “I really do not want to hurt you. I need your cooperation, my sons’ lives — ”
“I won’t!” Closing her eyes, she shouts, “Fenrir!”
From the floor comes a happy yip. She scowls down at the dog. When did her brave mutt become so unreliable?
“Just hear me out,” he says through gritted teeth.
“No!” Amy says. “You. Are. Crazy.”
“What do you want … Loki?”
Amy turns her head. Beatrice is standing in the doorway, purse in her hands; she is trembling slightly.
“Grandma?” says Amy. “I thought you were going to get a ham … ”
Not taking her eyes off Thor … or Loki, or whoever it is, Beatrice says. “I forgot my wallet. What do you want, Loki?”
Straightening, mystery weird guy says, “A car ride.”
Beatrice swallows but then juts out her chin like she does when she’s about to complain to a store clerk. “You could have just asked.”
“To Alfheim,” he says.
“Oh … ” says Beatrice. “Land of the Elves. Oh, my.”
Amy runs to her grandmother and grabs her shoulders. “Come on, Grandma, let’s go.”
“No,” says Beatrice, her eyes still on whoever it is. “You are worth more than a few cabbage rolls, Dear.”
“Grandma,” says Amy. “This is crazy, he isn’t … ”
“Amy,” Beatrice says, meeting Amy’s eyes. “He just changed his clothing into armor, and I saw him shape shift last night. We don’t want to be in his debt.”
“Good point, Beatrice.”
Amy turns her head. Loki, Thor, or crazy fundamentalist home schooling escapee is walking towards them.
Shrugging, he says, “I’m sorry to be so insistent. Really, I’ve had a lovely time with the two of you. But I’ve recovered, and I can’t dally anymore.”
“Will you bring me back?” says Beatrice.
“Grandma!” shouts Amy, shaking her head. Beatrice brings one hand up to her shoulder and squeezes Amy’s hand.
Bowing, he says, “Of course.”
Beatrice narrows her eyes. “Do I have your oath?”
Whoever it is stops. He stands up straight. For a moment he says nothing. And then, tilting his head he says, “That is too broad a promise. You have my oath that I will do everything in my power to bring you back safely. More than that — ” He lifts his hands and lowers his head, eyes locked on Beatrice.
“Grandma, you don’t drive!” says Amy. The only reason Beatrice has a car is because the ten-year old Subaru in the garage belongs to Amy’s grandfather and Beatrice doesn’t have the heart to part with it.
“But I can,” says Beatrice. Turning, she nods at the crazy man. “I will do it, Loki.”
Crazy man beams. “It actually might be good fun for you. The Light Elves have nothing against humans.”
Shivering a little, Beatrice smiles. “Might be worth it to see Alfheim, before I die.”
“There’s no such thing as elves!” Amy says.
“On Earth,” says Crazy Guy. Bowing in her grandmother’s direction, he says, “Beatrice, you are a true lady. If you were a few hundred years older — ”
Beatrice’s smile drops. “Stow it, Silvertongue. How long will this take?”
“This is crazy, Grandma!” says Amy, dropping her hands. Her grandmother doesn’t even meet her eyes.
“About a day,” he says, face going serious.
“Take what you think we’ll need from the refrigerator. I’m going to get ready,” says Beatrice. She turns around and starts walking towards the stairs.
Amy glares at Crazy Guy. “I’m not letting her go alone anywhere with you!”
“You’re more than welcome to join us,” he says, going to the fridge.
“You fucking jerk!” Amy hisses. “Taking advantage of an old woman like that!”
Loki-Thor-Crazy Person scowls over his shoulder at her. A rag on the counter bursts into flames. Amy’s eyes widen. She looks at Crazy Guy. He is staring at the fire with eyes wide as hers. Turning to her quickly, he says nervously, “I didn’t do that!”
Frantically pushing the burning rag into the sink with a stray fork, Amy douses it with the faucet. “Of course you didn’t. That would be impossible,” she whispers.
She’s got to convince Beatrice not to go with this guy. As soon as the flames are out, she runs up the stairs and finds Beatrice packing a small overnight bag in her bedroom.
… and she gets nowhere with her cajoling, arguments or pleas.
“I said I will drive him and I am going to drive him,” her grandmother says.
“But it’s crazy! You can’t drive to Alfheim! Alfheim doesn’t exist!”
“Then maybe we’ll drive a bit and come home,” says Beatrice.
“He’s a lunatic!”
Putting a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in an overnight bag, Beatrice smiles. “A charming lunatic.”
“So was Ted Bundy!”
Zipping up her bag, Beatrice blinks at Amy. “Who was he?”
“A serial killer!”
Beatrice’s eyes go hard. “Do you really think Loki is a serial killer? Really?”
Amy remembers the picture in the van going up in flames, and Thor … Loki … nearly stammering, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …
Shaking her head, Amy closes her eyes. “No, but that is not the point.”
Putting her bag on the floor and wheeling it out into the hallway, Beatrice says, “Well, then what is your point?”
“This is madness.”
“I said I would drive him,” says Beatrice, beginning her agonizingly slow descent of the stairs.
Strong, independent, stubborn, Ukrainian. She hasn’t driven in years — Beatrice behind the wheel is probably more dangerous than Thor-Loki-whoever.
Swallowing, Amy shouts, “I’m driving!”
7