The smell of rain, alcohol, wet hair and clothing permeates the nearly empty bar. It’s past closing time, on a cold and wet Monday night. Usually the bar is bathed in a soft yellow glow, but they’ve turned up the lights to remind the few patrons left it’s time to leave. Loki is sitting at the bar proper, a plate of nearly decimated french fries and a burger in front of him. A very attractive, very interesting brunette that is just his type is sauntering across the room in his direction.
Giving her a calculated smile, Loki holds up his empty beer mug in the barkeep’s direction. “May I have another?” Loki is distressingly close to sober and beginning to feel the chill of his wet clothing.
Raising an eyebrow as he dries a glass, the bartender says, “Last call was 10 minutes ago.”
The lights flicker. Loki restrains a shiver and an urge to set something on fire. He can’t help but think of Amy’s warm bed—he’d still be there if Brett and Bryant hadn’t interrupted his doze. The brothers’ honorable intentions aside, Bryant deserved the broken arm he got in the resulting altercation. To think that Loki would have to stoop to taking advantage of a woman while she is unconscious. It’s insulting!
As if to make the point, the brunette slides up beside him. She smiles and leans onto the counter, angling her body just so. Loki can see down the V neckline of her burgundy dress. She has astounding gravity-defying décolletage. His eyebrows lift and a warmth much more pleasant than anger washes over him. At the same time he feels something like guilt or regret twist in his gut. He thinks of the time he spent with Amy and her friends earlier in the evening—it had been just the perfect mix of interesting conversation and alcohol, he’d felt comfortable, like he belonged, and if Amy hadn’t passed out … well. He remembers her head on his lap in the cab a few hours ago.
His jaw tenses in annoyance at his own reminiscing. He gives the woman beside him a smile that verges on a leer.
“Are you alone?” she asks. Her words make his skin prickle. She knows the answer, Loki feels it. But maybe she couldn’t think of a better opening, and just isn’t much of a conversationalist? His eyes sweep her body again. She doesn’t need to be.
Dipping a bit of fried potato into ketchup, Loki looks down at his plate and raises an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“I hope not anymore,” she says, and Loki doesn’t roll his eyes at the cliché. Instead he turns to her and smiles with all his teeth, knowing that it makes him appear slightly sinister. She doesn’t bat an eyelash.
“What’s your name?” he asks, angling his body a little closer.
“Maria,” she says. His skin prickles at the lie, and he raises an eyebrow.
Smiling, she leans a little closer and shows a little more cleavage. “And you are … ”
“Loki!” he says brightly.
She blinks, looking a little surprised. Recovering, she says, “Like the Norse god?”
“No,” he almost snorts. “I’m a Frost Giant—we’re not actually blue like your movies.” Frost Giants aren’t blue—just Loki occasionally, and his daughter Helen. He gives her a brittle smile and knows he is utterly failing to hide his bitterness.
Her eyes widen, and she looks confused, so Loki laughs as though he’s joking. She smiles a little, and her body relaxes.
Picking up another french fry, Loki says, “Maria, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” As she begins to talk, Loki lets his consciousness drift over her. He doesn’t sense any electronic surveillance devices. Just her cell phone. She’s hiding something, but maybe she’s just married or otherwise unavailable and out for a little fun? His eyes drift over her curvaceous figure. He could have fun with her.
And then she starts talking about her university training as a CPA. It’s not philosophy or quantum physics or even witty. It’s all true, and Loki wishes she’d lie, because frankly, she’s putting him to sleep.
“I’m boring you, aren’t I?” she says, sounding sincere and concerned.
“Oh, no, go on,” says Loki, eyes dipping to her décolletage again.
Leaning closer to him, Maria says, “Accounting isn’t very exciting, but it is secure. My parents were so relieved when I chose it as my major. I was such a rebel when I was younger.”
She looks down and sighs. “But sometimes … ”
His nose itches a little. Something just isn’t quite right. He looks at her wide, full lips. He could have fun trying to find out what’s wrong. “Miss the excitement of your rebellious youth?” he asks, taking a sip of water and wishing it was something harder.
She smiles. “Sometimes.”
Leaning closer, he lets his hand barely skim the soft delicious curve of her side. “I might be able to provide some excitement,” he whispers.
Biting her lip, she says, “We can’t go back to my place … ”
Loki’s mouth opens, he’s about to suggest a hotel when she says, “Maybe we can go back to yours?”
She smiles, and there is something so sweetly predatory about it—something that promises sex without commitment or emotional entanglement. Something that seems just the thing to take the illusion of belonging off of his mind. How can he not indulge ‘Maria’?
Loki pretends to look contemplative, and then he whispers, “My place it is then.”
The predatory smile stretches wider.
Loki smiles right back. Oh, this will be fun.
x x x x
Agent Steve Rogers, Acting Assistant Director the FBI’s Department of Anomalous Devices of Unknown Origins Midwest Division, is standing behind his desk, hands on his hips. Across from Steve, flanked by his own operatives up from DC, Stuart Jameson, Executive Director of ADUO for the entire U.S., tilts his head. “I’ve just caught Loki—and I’m going to keep him. And get some real answers.”
“What?!” Steve snaps. His voice is too sharp and too loud.
Jameson has that annoying look of someone who is trying not to smile. “In the past few months you haven’t made any progress in locating Loki’s residence or bringing him in. I’ve managed to do it in under two weeks. We’ve been having a very talented agent, one with unique assets, case him at the bar near Lewis’ house. Loki’s invited her home. Soon we’ll not only know where he lives, we’ll have him in custody.”
Tensing, Steve says, “I heard the words Guantanamo being hefted around a few minutes ago.”
“That’s where we’re sending him,” Jameson replies, a smug smile sneaking across his lips.
Steve wipes his jaw, eyes trained on the director. When Jameson had come up from DC with his men, he said he wanted to bring Loki in for questioning. Steve never thought he’d succeed—but if Steve had known the stakes were so high … Steve’s fists ball at his side—he would have found some way to discreetly warn Loki.
“With all due respect, Sir, we still need his cooperation” Steve brings his hand down a little too heavily on his desk. “Sending him to Gitmo isn’t the way to get that.”
“We have Gerðr’s cooperation. That is more than enough,” says Jameson, referring to the Frost Giant sorceress in ADUO’s custody. “Loki is too unpredictable.”
“Gerðr can’t leave the magically-sealed cell she’s in without losing her mind!” Steve says, his voice rising.
Jameson gives him a hard stare.
Steve drags his tongue across his teeth. Of course. Jameson likes her that way. ADUO doesn’t control Loki, and Jameson hates that. Jameson knows Loki wants something ADUO ‘has.’ Loki wants Cera, the ‘World Seed,’ the pulsating ball of magical power underneath the Chicago Board of Trade building. According to Gerðr, Cera is a sort of limitless magical battery, and it would be very bad if Loki got her.
Steve’s not so sure. Cera may be trapped in a sphere of magical-dampening Promethean mesh, but ADUO has less control over Cera than they do over even Loki. Cera is somehow opening world gates, and letting all sorts of nasties through. What’s more, the Promethean mesh around Cera is growing and anything and anyone that touches it gets sucked into something Loki calls the In-Between. Steve has no idea what the In-Between is, but nothing, and no one, comes back. When the mesh reaches the floor of the Board of Trade, will Cera consume the whole building or just destabilize the foundation? Either way, they’re going to have to evacuate the building within days—and then who knows, the rest of the financial district?
Loki wants Cera in order to destroy Asgard. On bad days, Steve just wishes Loki would steal Cera, take Cera to Asgard, and have at it. Let Odin deal with Cera and Loki both.
Steve straightens. That isn’t what Jameson needs to hear. He needs to believe Loki is on their side. Steve takes a breath. Actually …
“What about Prometheus?” Steve asks, using the codename for the source of the magical mesh that can seal in, or seal out, magic. Prometheus also gave humans a type of Cyanobacteria that eats magic and produces light as a by-product. The FBI’s tech guys use the bacteria in their magic sensing devices.
Stepping around his desk, Steve says, “The reports say Prometheus said Loki was, and I quote, ‘The Good Guy.’”
It’s second-hand intel—Steve’s never spoken to Prometheus himself, and Prometheus definitely has a flexible definition of “good.” Just in the last 24 hours Loki has broken one of Steve’s agent’s arms, stolen a very nice car from a man with connections to the mob, and wrecked same car causing a four-car pile up during rush hour while Miss Lewis was in the passenger seat. Loki and Lewis escaped the scene … where they went afterwards Steve has no idea. Miss Lewis is still passed out in her home and unavailable for debriefing.
Mischief aside, Loki has been helpful. Besides rather gallantly escorting Miss Lewis home this evening, Loki has helped save the city from wyrms and trolls, and through Lewis, been a resource when trying to understand just what is going on now that magic seems to be back on Earth to stay. He also saved Steve’s life. And unlike Gerðr, who never misses a chance to insult humans for their ‘magical retardation,’ Loki seems to genuinely like humans. Steve doesn’t trust Loki, but without him, the city would fare worse. Which is why Steve always insisted that he not be arrested.
Jameson stands stock still for a moment, his jaw going hard. And then he says, “We haven’t heard anything from Prometheus in several months. For all we know he could be Loki.”
Steve blinks at that. “But that doesn’t make sense … ” If Loki was Prometheus wouldn’t he be insisting more that he was the Good Guy, instead of disappearing? “When was the last contact?” Steve asks.
“You don’t need to know,” says Jameson.
Steve opens his mouth, about to snap back, when one of the agents who’d followed Jameson up from DC steps into the room. “Director, Agent Hill’s in a cab with him. She’s got her phone on her. We’re tracking them by satellite.”
Jameson turns to Steve. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” With that the director turns on his heels and marches out of the room.
Sinking into his chair, Steve spins towards his computer, trying to hold in his frustration. He barely sees the report on the screen of the freak storm coming to Chicago. He shouldn’t, but he feels personally let down by Loki. Loki never made it this easy for Steve to trace him—Steve never wanted to apprehend Loki, but he did want him watched. Still, whenever Loki went anywhere with Lewis, he’d always managed to lose her phone so she couldn’t be traced. Is the man … Frost Giant … whatever, losing his touch?
x x x x
Loki and Maria step out of the bar into the chill Chicago night. It’s still drizzling, and almost cold enough to snow. The streets shine with reflected lights from the few cars on the road. Loki hails a cab and one pulls over faster than Loki would have expected on a Monday night. They slip in, and Loki idly notes there is only one other car moving on the road behind them.
The cab pulls from the curb, and Loki gives directions. The driver makes a sharp right up Ashland, and Maria falls against Loki’s shoulder. Their faces are just a finger width apart. Her breath smells faintly of bourbon, and he catches just the barest whiff of perfume. His eyes linger on her full lips.
He turns towards her, his body warm, his mouth watering. She leans in. It should be a delicious moment, but something rock hard presses against his chest and upper arm. Momentarily confused, Loki draws back. He looks down; her coat has fallen open. It was her breasts that rubbed so hard. Suddenly her pert, expansive, gravity-defying décolletage makes sense.
There is one other thing on the human internets that Loki has availed himself of as much as on quantum mechanics and derivatives trading. Porn. He’d seen the arguments for and against breast ‘enhancement’ but hadn’t really paid much attention; it seemed too barbaric to contemplate—anesthesia, knives, blood, artificial substances inserted under the skin. On Asgard if a woman wanted a different silhouette, she’d consult a healer and grow into a magically enhanced figure over a few weeks or months.
But now what has only been theory is quite literally in the flesh in front of him … and the flesh is disconcertingly hard and unyielding. He imagines scar tissue and scabs hiding beneath her bra, and his body goes cold. He leans back and headlights behind them catch his eye. It’s the same car he’d seen earlier.
Maria gives him a pout. Taking her hand, and casually entwining their fingers, Loki says, “So you’re an accountant?”
“Oh, I hold people accountable,” says Maria with a smile.
Loki’s lips quirk at the evasion. “Oh, I’m sure you do.” She trained as an accountant, but moved onto something more interesting, he’s certain. Closing his eyes, he lets an apparition flit invisibly into the car behind them. The driver and passenger are dressed in plain clothes, but the magic detectors they hold give them away as ADUO.
Opening his eyes, he tries to smile innocently at Maria. Inside he is fuming. Not so much at the attempted entrapment, that’s all part of the game he’s been playing with ADUO since the beginning. But they didn’t think he warranted an agent with real breasts?
Maria leans in again. Lifting an eyebrow, Loki puts a finger to her lips.
Giving him a hurt look, she straightens and tilts her head, eyes wide. “What?”
“Just admiring the view,” he lies.
She twists her body alluringly and he forces a smile. He’d suddenly rather be tucked behind Miss Lewis, his hand on her hip, warm and soft and real. Maria would hardly be the most unsavory creature he’s bedded in a thousand years, but suddenly he’d rather not. Still … if it’s a game ADUO wants, it’s a game they’ll get. Eyes on hers, he brings her hand to his lips, as though he might kiss it … but does not.
He’s been in Maria’s position before, he’s seduced on Odin’s behalf. He knows that however trained she may be, no matter how she may even find him somewhat attractive, she still burns a bit at the lack of control. At some level she hates Loki for being the source of her weakness. At some level she wants to control him and to make him hurt.
Loki licks his lips and does his best to look contrite. “I’m afraid, Maria, I don’t deserve your affection.”
Her face goes hard and cold. Her eyebrows rise.
Loki sighs dramatically. “I’ve been a very, very, bad boy, Maria. I think I can only kiss you if you make me earn it.” He swallows for effect and fixes his eyes on hers. “Can you do that for me, Maria? Can you make me earn it?”
Her lips part, and her pupils blow wide. “Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I can.”
Loki almost feels pity for her.
x x x x
The upscale condo building Loki takes her to just West of Greektown is a beautiful piece of modern architecture, but it doesn’t have a doorman. It’s not Loki’s building, of course—he isn’t that drunk.
For a moment at the door he looks at the idling cab, and the headlights of ADUO’s tail a half block away. That’s all they think they need to catch him? He almost sighs in disappointment. He could make himself invisible right now and walk away, but it would be too easy.
Creating an illusion of a key fob in his hand, Loki uses magic to open the lock to the front door. He holds the door open for her and she walks through like a queen. “Good boy,” she says.
He smiles and walks quickly to lead her to the elevators. There was a man who asked him for investment tips recently at a bar, a man who casually mentioned he’d be out of town … Loki scans the man’s penthouse apartment on the 11th floor. It is empty as expected, and well appointed.
They ride to the 11th floor in silence. Maria is fighting a smile. Loki is concentrating, sending an invisible projection of himself to the lobby. He sees half a dozen cars pull up to the curb, ADUO agents spill out and mill just outside the door of the building. He tilts his head. He hadn’t expected quite so many; his heart beats a little faster.
He doesn’t think that their satellite link to her phone can detect with accuracy what floor Maria is on, and that they will need her to send them the exact unit number so they can have a warrant issued. He’s betting extreme inconvenience on it.
Exiting the lift, Maria turns, crooks a finger at him, and beckons him to follow. Obliging, he lets her lead—even as agents pour into the building and fan out to the two emergency stairwells and vehicle exits. Stepping in front of her when they reach the door for unit 1101, Loki creates another illusion of a key and lets her in—covering up the personal photographs that line the foyer with illusions just in time.
Eleven stories below his projection watches as more agents arrive. They pace in the lobby, stairwell and garages, hands on headsets, eyes on magic detectors, awaiting instructions. He has to keep his projections moving and inconsistent to avoid detection. His heartbeat quickens again. He is cutting it close, but nothing ventured … no fun had.
Maria stops in the foyer. He notices her slip her phone from her purse and put it between her breasts. She does it with great skill. If he hadn’t had an invisible projection in front of her, Loki would have missed it.
She holds out her arms. Taking the silent order, Loki slips off her coat and hangs it quickly in the closet by the door. She doesn’t say thank you, she just smiles. She scans the ‘photos’ Loki has illusioned—closeups of Helen, Sigyn, Valli, Nari, Hoenir, Fenrir—the real one, not Amy’s little beast—and one of Anganboða, sadly as fuzzy as Loki’s memory of her. There is even a picture of Thor. Under his breath Loki curses; he should have thought of photos that were more original. Maria tilts her head at the picture of Helen, perhaps thrown by his daughter’s half-blue half-pale skin.
“Halloween costume,” he says quickly, using the same excuse for his blue skin that Amy gave the cab driver earlier that evening.
Thankfully, Maria doesn’t ask anymore questions, just turns and walks into the main room. Turning, she points to the couch and says, “Sit. Put your hands on your knees.”
When Loki does as he’s told, Maria tsks. “Sit up straight.” Loki adjusts his back so he’s sitting primly.
Coming over, bending low to give him what should be an absolutely delicious view, she drags a finger down his forehead, over his nose, across his lips to his chin in a slow, languid motion that Loki imagines is almost regretful. “I’m going to slip into something a little more comfortable,” she whispers, her jaw tight and eyes alight. “Don’t. Move.”
Loki swallows obligingly, biting back his smirk.
Turning her back to him, she walks towards the back of the condo, her high heels clicking on polished wood floors. Belatedly, Loki remembers the man whose home he’s borrowing is expecting his first child. He sends an invisible projection ahead of Maria—there is a nursery; if she goes there she’ll know this is a ruse.
Thankfully, Maria makes a beeline for the powder room and Loki releases a breath. As she closes the door, Loki stands up, magically muffling the sound and leaving an illusion of himself behind. He sends an invisible projection into the bathroom with Maria. As he expected, she is texting ADUO with the unit number. Eleven stories below another invisible projection watches as agents begin moving up the stairwells. On the 11th floor Loki exits the condo and sprints for the elevator bank. He hits the call button and the doors open immediately.
Like most buildings, the elevator doors in the lobby have lights with numbers above showing where the elevators are. Loki makes sure the number for his elevator is 3 floors below its actual position, and then scowls when one of the ADUO agents in the lobby pulls out a beeping magic detector. “I’m getting another reading down here!” the agent shouts. Another agent pulls out her own detector. “Triangulate!” she says. An instant later she says, “It’s the numbers above the elevator!”
Loki bites the inside of his cheek and hits the 8th floor button as the two agents in the lobby instruct the agents in the stairwells to sweep every floor. Exiting the elevator, Loki hits the third floor button so the elevator will continue without him and sends projections through all the units on the 8th floor. They are all occupied, so he breaks into the nearest one, muffling the sound of the lock and his footfalls. He closes the door as gently as he can behind him. An instant later he hears the heavy fire doors from the stairwell slam. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and lets all of his projections dissipate. Heavy footfalls sound outside in the hall. He hears the beep of a magic detector and his eyes open in shock.
Down the hall he hears an agent say, “I’ve got something. It’s kind of faint but … ”
“Yeah, I’ve got the same reading,” says a second agent.
“This way!” shouts the first voice. Over the sound of his own rapid breathing, Loki hears the sound of fast footfalls coming in his direction.
x x x x
ADUO’s offices are a flurry of activity. The heaters are clicking and the offices smell like wet hair and wool. The rain outside the window is mixed with snow. The Chicago weather forecast on Steve’s computer has been adjusted for thunder flurries. Odd weather for late October, even in Chicago.
“We’ve got the warrant from the judge for South Sangamon Street unit 1101!” someone shouts. “Agents have all the exits blocked and they’re fanning out throughout the building.”
Sitting at his desk, Steve’s gripping a file folder so hard his knuckles are a shade lighter and his fingers ache. He’s furious … at Loki … at Jameson … at himself for being made to look like an incompetent fool by an incompetent fool.
“Get me a car!” shouts Jameson, striding through the office towards the front door. He doesn’t ask Steve to follow.
Steve taps a finger on his chair arm as the office slowly empties of everyone but Brett and Bryant. The two agents are looking at him through his open door. There is pity in their eyes. He looks away.
Something is nagging at him. There’s something about that address. It is a rental unit. While researching the address for the warrant, the guys pulled a listing from Craig’s List for it from a few weeks back. They haven’t been in touch with the owner yet; they don’t want to lose the element of surprise.
South Sangamon … South Sangamon … Unit 1101 …
Spinning to his Rolodex, Steve starts rifling through the business cards, skimming the ones that look well worn. Twenty minutes later he’s going back through the deck again, swearing that he’s going to have Lewis load all his contacts onto the computer. And then he finds it. Ronald Kalt. Steve met him at a function he’d gone to a week or so ago for the mayor. Ron’s a real estate agent, young, rich, renting a place while his row house is gutted; he and his pretty wife are expecting their first kid. Ron works out of his home and he’d just had the cards made up when Steve met him. Nice enough guy, though truth be told, Steve wouldn’t have paid as much attention to him if he wasn’t the mayor’s nephew.
Staring at the card, Steve pulls out his phone … and stares at the card some more, a wicked smile forming on his lip. He bites it back and swallows a laugh. Jameson is going to crash and burn.
Standing from his desk, Steve grabs his coat and heads for the front door. Somewhat reluctantly he hits speed dial on his phone to alert Jameson. He’s transferred to voicemail of course. Steve bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as he walks by Brett and Bryant.
Loki didn’t let Steve down after all.
x x x x
In the darkness of the condo unit, back pressed to the front door, Loki forces himself to relax, forces his mind to empty—
He hears the footsteps getting closer outside the door. He can teleport if he has to, but he really doesn’t want to. Not only is it draining, but ADUO has watched Cera transport people and things into the In-Between. If Loki steps through now, the readings might be similar. ADUO might discover his ability.
He takes a deep breath. He hears a beep from outside the door, and then an agent says, “Huh, it’s gone.”
“Sometimes these things pick up ambient magic,” says the other agent. The two pace outside in the hall, and then one says, “We should cover the stairwell doors.”
“Yeah, right.” The two pairs of footsteps split up and Loki hears the creak of fire doors opening.
Loki slumps down and catches his breath, hands on his knees.
It is then that he notices his skin is blue. He almost gives a maniacal laugh but manages to stifle it. Being blue is the least of his problems. He needs to stay focused, he needs to wait.
He listens to the sounds in the condo: the whoosh of the heater, the tick-tock of a clock somewhere. He catches a brief feminine sigh, and the sound of a small child’s cough, but otherwise everything is still.
He just needs to wait. Loki stares at his blue hands. But waiting has never been his strong suit. And waiting like a frightened rabbit in the dark is humiliating. And boring.
The obvious thing to do is to set the building on fire and slip out during the mayhem. Sitting up he smiles at the plan, but just then the child in the bedroom begins to cough again. A light switches on around the corner from where Loki sits, and he hears a man say, “Is his fever up again?”
“I don’t know,” says a frantic sounding woman. There are scampers of two pairs of feet and a pitiful toddler wail.
Loki slouches in his hiding spot. Well, damn. He’s suddenly not as keen on setting the building on fire. His gut clenches. Odin would laugh at him.
Listening to the parents soothe their child, he taps his blue fingers on his knees.
His brow furrows. The magic detectors are sensitive, but how accurate can they be if they receive inputs from multiple sources? He tilts his head, one side of his mouth quirking. An experiment could be more fun than setting a fire!
Closing his eyes, Loki creates multiple illusions of himself in the shadows of Ron Kalt’s condo … making sure none of them are on the couch where Maria left him.
Maria is standing in the living room, wearing a strappy contraption with high heels that Loki doubts is comfortable but is extremely pleasing to the eye. Behind her back she holds a gun, her phone is tucked in a garter, its face lit up.
“Loki,” she says with admirable calm, “I told you not to move.”
Loki lets one of his illusions step from the shadows behind her. “And I told you,” his illusion self says, “I’m a very, very, bad boy.”
Spinning and lifting her gun, Maria says, “You’re under arrest.”
Loki lets his eyes rove over her body. “You look delectable. I wish I could have more than one of you.” Raising his chin he grins at the agent. “Oh, wait, I can.”
All the illusions of himself in the shadows step forward, shimmer and become replicas of Maria.
She spins around, gun upraised. “Illusions,” she mutters to herself.
Heavy footfalls sound down the hall.
“Hmmm … yes,” Loki lets one of his illusions say, as he hears pounding at Ron Kalt’s door. “Immaterial … but I think I can fix that.” He lets one illusion slip forward and around Maria. The agent looks down at her hands. He’s made her look just like him. She curses loudly, and the voice that comes from her mouth is his.
On the 8th floor, Loki hears the sound of the agents’ voices echoing down the hall. “My sensor is going crazy. Maria’s got him on the 11th floor and Jameson is in with them!” Loki bites his lip to keep from laughing. Maria continues to curse as Ron Kalt’s door crashes open, and Loki lets his illusions of Maria fade temporarily.
As agents fan into Ron’s apartment Jameson steps forward. His phone buzzes in his pocket but he ignores it. “Loki, you are under arrest,” Jameson says to Maria who now looks like Loki.
Holding her hands above her head, Maria protests. “I’m Agent Hill.”
Loki lets all of his illusions of Maria reappear. “No, I’m Agent Hill,” the lingerie-wearing illusions say in unison.
Jameson gestures at Maria, her Loki illusion still in place. One of the agents in black runs forward, grabs her wrists. Cuffing her wrists behind what he thinks is Loki’s back, the unnamed agent says, “He’s solid! We’ve got him!”
“Of course I’m solid, I’m Agent Hill, he’s disguised me!” Maria shouts in Loki’s voice.
“Over here, over here!” shout all of the Maria illusions.
Jameson smiles smugly. “Nice try, Loki.”
On the 8th floor, just barely containing his laughter, Loki lets all the illusions of false Marias fade, but keeps his appearance and voice on the agent herself. Or magic keeps the illusion in place for him; at this point it requires little physical effort.
Smiling, he casts his mind through the building. It’s getting close to dawn. Agents are still milling in the lobby, in the stairwells, and by the emergency exits. Loki frowns and taps his knee. He may have to wait quite a long time. He lets his consciousness flit to the garage. There are agents there, too. Most are standing at attention, magic detectors at ready. But two are arguing. Loki recognizes one as Agent Hernandez, one of Steve’s men. Hernandez is locked in verbal conflict with another agent Loki’s never seen before, one of Jameson’s from DC, most likely.
Pointing at the ceiling above him, Hernandez snaps. “And I’m telling you, Director Rogers—”
“Acting Assistant Director Rogers,” the DC agent corrects in a bland voice.
“—says this is a mistake!” Hernandez finishes, pointing at his cell phone.
“He’s been saying that since the beginning,” says the other agent.
In the condo Loki blinks, uncertain of the agent’s meaning. In the garage Hernandez’s voice breaks into a shout. “He says this unit is a mistake!”
Loki smirks. Steve’s discovered Loki’s deception just a little too late. Serves the bastard right for his part in this farce.
At just that moment the garage door opens and a dark blue SUV begins to pull in. All of the agents spring into action.
Loki’s brow jump as he recognizes the driver. It’s Ron Kalt. Putting his hands over his mouth he stifles a snicker. This is getting better and better.
x x x x
Steve is heading west down Van Buren street. The sky is filled with the reflection of artificial light on snowflakes and is an eerie orangeish pink. The wipers on the FBI’s black sedan swish across the windshield, sweeping away thick wet flakes of snow. The ground isn’t cold enough for it to stick, but it makes visibility piss poor. On the plus side, the raven spies Huginn and Muninn that Odin usually has trailing Steve and terrifying Claire, Steve’s daughter, are nowhere to be seen.
Steve’s a block away from Sangamon when there is a distant flash of lightning in the sky, mute and high above the horizon. Up ahead a blue SUV that definitely doesn’t belong to the FBI turns into the alley behind Ron’s building.
Steve is past the alley, looking up Sangamon Street at the line of Bureau vehicles there when the thunder finally comes. Something in his stomach constricts with foreboding. Checking the street behind him, Steve hits reverse until he’s in line with the alley. There’s a line of row houses. Beyond that is the condo building, and beyond that and to the east are ancient midrise office buildings. He can just barely see a blue SUV bumper peeking out of the condo’s garage. The garage will definitely be filled with FBI agents.
Cursing, Steve turns into the alleyway and hits the gas. The garage door is still open, the blue SUV’s bumper just barely in the electronic sites of the door.
Turning off his engine, Steve hits his emergency lights and jumps from his car. He hears Ron say, “Here’s my identification, what’s going on?”
“He’s in unit 1101!” someone shouts.
“Sir, put your hands up!” an agent shouts at Ron, as Steve runs under the door.
“What?” says Ron, his back to Steve, confusion and anger in his voice.
“He’s not with them,” Steve says, but the garage has erupted into a cacophony of voices.
“Agent Rogers—” another agent begins to say as still another agent holds up a gun and aims it at the passenger side of the door. “Get out of the car, now, madam.”
“Don’t point that gun at her!” shouts Ron looking like he’s about to lunge across the hood of the SUV.
“Sir, if you resist arrest,” says one of Jameson’s guys.
“I tried to warn them—” Steve hears Hernandez say from somewhere.
The agent by the passenger side of the car lifts his gun. “Get out of the car!”
Steve’s eyes widen and he dashes around the back of the SUV. Mustering his most official, most USMC drill instructor voice he shouts. “Agents, stand down!” His voice thunders through the garage. He does his best not to look surprised when everyone, even Jameson’s agents, who are technically not under him, stop everything and look at him.
Putting his hands on his hips, Steve puts himself in front of the passenger door. Summoning his inner drill instructor again, Steve lets his voice boom. “I know this man. Do you really think that he and his pregnant wife are accomplices of the target?”
“Steve!” shouts Ron. Steve holds up a hand in Ron’s direction and thankfully he falls silent. One of Jameson’s guys step forward. “They could be accomplices, Agent Rogers.”
“Accomplices of who?” shouts Ron, his voice hot and belligerent.
There is a sound of an engine behind him, and the scamper of footsteps. From further in the garage come shouts, and then agents are spilling out of a door that must lead into the building, Jameson at their lead.
Keeping his gaze fixed on the agents around him, Steve says,“You’ve got the wrong unit! The target has played you, gentlemen.”
Two agents sweep past Steve. “We’ve got the cuffs! They just finished forging them minutes ago.”
Cuffs. What cuffs? Steve blinks and looks at Jameson. He’s smiling smugly. “We got the target, Agent Rogers.” He steps aside, and Steve sees Loki, hands cuffed behind his back. Loki’s head is bent and he’s cursing. For a minute, just a minute, Steve falters. The two agents who just ran past are holding up a strange pair of cuffs that look like they are made of golden netting—it’s Promethean wire, but Steve’s never seen it molded into something so small.
The agents shove Loki forward, as they affix the cuffs behind Loki’s back.
“Those will keep you from performing any tricks,” Jameson says, turning back to Loki.
“I’m not Loki!” says Loki.
Jameson snorts.
Behind Loki one of the agents says, “Um, Director, Sir. Something is wrong. His wrists don’t look right. They’re thin and … ”
“Because they are my wrists,” Loki hisses.
Everyone’s attention is riveted on Loki, but Steve sees Ron put a hand to the bluetooth connection in his ear and whisper, “I’m in my garage, Uncle Ronnie. I’m being accused as an accomplice in some sort of raid. They held a gun to Sally. To Sally, so help me God if … ”
Steve meets Ron’s eyes. They are wide with fear. Steve gives him a tight nod and then walks across the garage to Loki, Jameson and the agents standing around him.
“What?” asks one. Jameson’s brow is knit in concern. As Steve rounds behind Loki he sees why. Loki is wearing a blue peacoat, but at his wrists, where the Promethean cuffs are placed, the peacoat fades away. There are delicate feminine wrists, the beginning of tapered fingers—that fade into oddly masculine hands.
The feeling of schadenfreude is rich. Steve has to fight to keep from smirking. “Did anyone frisk her?”
“Her?” says someone.
Loki’s face goes red, and his—or more likely her—lips curl. “Yes!”
An agent steps forward, face red. “I did, it felt strange … but I thought … I thought … it was magic.”
Loki—or more likely Agent Hill—gives a snort.
In the background, Steve hears Ron give an incredulous laugh, and beyond that there’s the wail of police sirens.
“Just get this illusion off of me!” Loki hisses, shaking his—her wrists, behind her back.
“I, um … we can put you in one of the Promethean sealed rooms … ” Jameson stammers.
The police sirens and screeching tires sound just outside the garage, and then there is the slam of car doors and shouts.
Jameson looks up.
Steve doesn’t smirk. But it’s hard. “That will be Chicago’s finest. Your boys just tried to arrest Mayor Ronnie’s favorite nephew. You’ve been played.”
Footsteps sound behind them. A voice heavy and distinctly Chicagoan says, “What’s goin’ on ‘ere?”
At that moment the illusion of Loki fades, and Agent Hill is suddenly standing in the garage wearing a black garter belt, bra, thong and high heels with her arms behind her back. As she gives an exasperated sigh, Steve does his best to keep his gaze professional. Unique assets indeed.
Shaking his head, he turns to see CPD Sergeant George Carey, a burly man he recognizes from his days as the FBI’s Chicago branch of the Department of Public Liaisons. Five of Chicago’s finest, hands on their hips, stand around George.
“Steve?” says George. “You’re not in charge of this fiasco, are you?”
Before Steve can reply, Ron points a finger at Jameson and shouts. “No, he is!”
Jameson holds up his badge. “FBI, I’m within my—”
“Save it. Mayor Ronnie wants to speak to you,” says George, pushing his coat back so his hands are on his hips, right next to his piece.
Steve’s never been so glad to be in the middle of a jurisdictional turf war in all his life. Putting a hand over his mouth he coughs to hide his laughter.
x x x x
The cops are gone and the FBI have cleared out of the condo building’s garage. Ron has his SUV turned around facing the garage door, and Steve’s standing by the driver’s side. Ron’s leaning out the window. Eyes wide, he says apologetically, “I’m sorry, I just felt like I had to call my uncle.”
Meeting Ron’s gaze, Steve nods. “I understand. You did what you had to. I would have done the same.” Turning his attention to the passenger seat, Steve says to Ron’s wife, Sally, “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”
Sitting with her arms wrapped around her full midrift, Sally’s pretty face is pinched and she looks tired. But she nods at Steve and says, “Yes, thank you.”
Steve gives her a small smile.
“I’ll never forget what you tried to do here,” Ron says. “How you stood up for us.”
“How you were the only person talking rationally,” says Sally.
Ron holds out his hand and Steve gives it a firm shake, and then takes a step away from the SUV. Ron turns on the engine and the garage door opens. Snow is falling heavier than before and has begun to stick; there is about an inch on the alley pavement. There is a flash of lightning as Ron pulls out and an almost immediate roll of thunder.
Steve follows the SUV out of the garage on foot, watching its lights disappear in the curtain of snow. They’re going to a relative’s house. Ron and Sally had wanted to return to their condo, but the Chicago Police Department and the FBI both want to go over it with a fine tooth comb.
Steve looks up at the sky and blinks at the thick wet flakes landing on his nose. The world is hushed by the snowfall, the noise of morning commuters muffled. It’s nearly 6 a.m., but the thunderstorm is almost directly overhead now and the sky still has the eerie orange glow of streetlights on snowflakes. Steve’s raven minders are still out of sight.
Shrugging his shoulders against the cold wet flakes on his neck, Steve walks down the alley to the side of the building. There is a fire exit for the condos on the side abutting the row homes. It’s wide enough for a car and paved over. Hernandez moved Steve’s car there so that the police, FBI, and commuters could get out.
Steve’s exhausted and looking forward to a snooze on the couch in his office, but he can’t help but smile. He didn’t really think that Jameson would succeed, but he hadn’t counted on how spectacularly Jameson would fail. It could only have gone better if Sally had gone into labor. Unlocking the car door he shakes his head and mentally admonishes himself for even thinking that. His grin widens anyways.
Steve’s just put his hand on the door handle when he hears a slam behind him. Turning, Steve's hand goes automatically to the Glock at his hip. Loki is standing by the condo building’s side door, but not like Steve has ever seen him before. His skin is a bright cerulean blue and his ginger hair is black, as are his eyes. Lewis has described Loki’s blue look as magical—like he’s lit from the inside. Brett and Bryant described it as weird.
Now as Steve stares at Loki, framed by a thunderstorm, he can only think of wide open skies. Where Loki’s skin is visible, it does seem to glow a little, as though he’s a break in the clouds to the blue beyond.
There is a flash of lightning, a boom of thunder, and then Loki’s voice cuts through through the cold air like a knife. “That was pathetic, Steven.”
Steve stares at him for a moment, exhaustion making his brain move slowly. Dropping his hand from his hip, Steve tilts back his head and laughs so hard tears come to his eyes. When he recovers himself, Loki’s head is cocked to the side, his eyes narrowed, but the look is more curious than hostile.
Wiping his eyes, Steve says, “Yes, yes, it was.”
Loki walks over and idly wipes some snow from the car hood. “You’re not going to try and arrest me?” He raises an eyebrow. “Now’s your chance.”
Steve smiles. “I’m sure you’re just an apparition,” he says, although he’s sure he’s not. “Real Frost Giants aren’t blue, after all.”
Loki looks down at his blue hand and scowls, and Steve remembers that Lewis says Loki doesn’t like turning blue.
To keep the mood from going sour Steve says quickly, “But why would I want to arrest you? You’re the Good Guy, right?”
Loki snorts.
“Come on,” Steve says. “You’ve helped keep the good citizens of this city from becoming wyrm and troll food.” His jaw tightens. “And you don’t send ravens to crap on my car and terrorize my little girl.”
Scowling, Loki looks to the sky. “Ah … your feathered friends. The weather seems to be keeping them away.” There is a moment when the only sound is the faint fall of snowflakes, and then Loki says, “They used to terrorize Helen, too.”
There are few things that Loki could have said that would have shocked Steve more. ADUO doesn’t know much about Loki’s daughter, Helen, other than she is deceased, and somehow she became associated with Hel, the Norse land of the dead—though Loki insists such a land does not exist. Amy Lewis has theorized that she may have been handicapped.
The surrealism of the moment suddenly hits Steve. He is standing in a thunder snow storm, talking to a blue man about daughters. Recovering as quickly as he can, Steve snorts and says, “Winged rats.”
Loki huffs a low laugh. “I tried to kill the things so many times, but it was Nari and Valli who managed it. Nari distracted them with chatter, and Valli put an arrow through Huginn.” He shakes his head. “Odin just reanimated her.” His expression turns bitter. “A trick I’ve never been able to manage.”
Steve is used to knowing what to say in any situation, but talking about Loki’s three deceased children, he is at a loss. The thought of losing Claire … Steve’s little girl had spent the first eighteen months of her life in hospitals. It was worse than all the time he spent in Afghanistan. Chest tightening, Steve says, “I’m sorry.” It tumbles out of his mouth before he’s thought about it and sounds hollow even to himself.
Loki lifts his eyes to Steve’s and his brow furrows, but he says nothing.
Steve’s hands and are cold and wet, and he shoves them in his pockets and is silent.
Turning his head away, Loki straightens, and looks like he is about to leave.
“We need you here,” Steve says quickly. “You know there is nothing you’ve done now that is so bad I can’t make it go away … with a little time.”
Loki turns his head to Steve, his expression flat and unreadable.
Steve shrugs. To make sure Loki understands the value of what he is about to offer, Steve says, “In the past twenty-four hours you’ve managed to get on the bad sides of the mob, certain segments of the FBI, the Chicago Police Department, and undoubtedly the mayor’s office as well.”
Loki’s face brightens, and he puts his hand to his mouth in a very good impression of a giddy school girl. “I believe that might be a record, even for me!”
That wasn’t the reaction Steve was expecting or hoping for, but he keeps going. “I can make it all go away. You could be legit here, I know it, if you can help us with Cera … ”
“I’d rather help myself to Cera,” Loki says with a smile.
“And if you could, I wouldn’t stand in your way,” says Steve.
Loki’s face hardens.
“But we both know that isn’t going to happen,” Steve says.
Snow accumulates on their shoulders as they stand for a few moments in silence. And then Loki says, “You have a lovely world, Steven. It is tempting.”
They’re in a rather ugly alleyway, and Steve can’t help but raise his eyebrows.
Loki smirks. “Truly.” His expression hardens again. “But I have business with Odin, Cera or no.”
Loki blames Odin for the death of his children. Steve’s dealt with tribal people before, and from what he’s gleaned that’s pretty much what the Aesir are. “Honor is a hard thing to set aside,” Steve says. “But—”
“Oh, Steve, haven’t you realized that I am a man without honor?” Loki’s lips form a hard line.
Steve tilts his head. “I know you are a man that keeps your oaths.”
Breath hanging in the air, Loki takes a step closer to Steve. His lips curl in a sneer. “I cannot rest until Asgard burns, but it has nothing to do with honor.” For the first time Steve is aware of just how black the other man’s eyes are—they’re like pits into nothing.
“It is about making Odin hurt!” Loki snarls.
Steve blinks, and Loki draws back. Lightning flashes above and thunder rumbles.
Loki looks up at the sky. He smiles. “I’d best be on my way. We’re both going to have a busy day.” He shimmers and is suddenly ginger haired, pale skinned and gray eyed again. From Steve’s pocket comes the faint beep of a magic detector. Turning his back to Steve, Loki walks away, his feet leaving footprints in the snow.
x x x x
“Plague in Asgard … They’re banishing the afflicted to Niflheim … They’ve taken our little girl. It was Baldur.” Sigyn’s words swim through Loki’s head as he pushes Sleipnir to a gallop along Vanaheim’s main road to the World Gate. It is no small mercy that Odin lent Sleipnir to Sigyn. The eight legged horse is the fastest steed in the Nine Realms. But it has nothing to do with his extra legs.
Dusty wind is whipping against Loki’s face and hands, and the world is already a blur; but Loki gives one more kick to the steed’s sides. Sleipnir goes from a gallop to a canter and then a trot, but the blur around them increases as his gait slows. Sleipnir is slipping through time—a magical ability inherited from the mare that died giving birth to him. The wind on Loki lessens. Because gravity is a function of velocity, and velocity is a function of time, Loki feels his body become lighter. Sound is strange and muffled. Light is diffuse and hazy. Loki knows that he could not go any faster by any means, but the strangeness of it, the odd gentleness, makes him feel as though he is in a dream, running in place, trapped with his thoughts.
He cannot save Helen. Healing is a magical ability he only possesses for himself. His only hope is to beg that she be allowed to remain in Asgard, and that he be allowed to take her to Hoenir’s hut. Hoenir created a gateway to Vanheim literally from the back door of his hut to just a day’s ride from the mages’ gathering he is attending. If Thor can get to the gathering in time, and take Hoenir to the back door that opens into Asgard, Hoenir may meet up with Loki and Helen in as little as a day. There is no ailment that Hoenir cannot cure.
Beneath him Sleipnir shudders, the blur around them takes shape, gravity increases, and the sound of hooves ring in Loki’s ears as Sleipnir emerges in real-time. Travelers jump out of the way in surprise. For a moment they are going too fast, and Sleipnir’s legs stretch out into a gallop as he tries to regain control of his momentum.
Sleipnir already bore Sigyn and Loki’s sons to Vanaheim before this mad dash; although not in a lather, the steed is tired, its magical energy nearly spent. Fortunately, they are very close to their destination. Loki weaves the steed between the other travelers until the World Gate comes into view.
The World Gate between Vanaheim and Asgard is one of the most ancient in all the realms. The area where the World Tree’s branch intersects with this planet is marked by an area of circular stones, nearly the length of forty men in diameter. It has been used in the past to ferry armies—and to banish the Vanir from Asgard after the last great war. Although not used for warfare in millennia, it is heavily guarded. There is a metal fence, two times the height of a man around it, and the entrance is blocked by armed men, toll takers, and custom agents. There is a small town just off to the side, and the road is crowded with local peddlers and visitors from other realms—Black Dwarves, Red Dwarves, Light Elves, and even a few Frost Giants and Fire Giants are shoulder to shoulder with the dark-skinned, dark-eyed, black-haired Vanir. Although this gate goes to Asgard, the quickest, most efficient way from one realm to another is through Asgard first.
Loki kicks his heels into Sleipnir’s sides and gallops forward. Travelers and the guards start to shout. Veering from the busy road, Loki steers Sleipnir towards the impossibly high fence. On instinct Sleipnir slips through time and bounds easily over the barrier in the decreased gravity. Landing lightly within the gate, the tired horse immediately crashes into real time and struggles to find his feet as he plunges across the circle’s flat stones. They are nearly at the far fence before Loki turns him around.
To open the gate requires magical knowledge and energy. On all sides they are surrounded by gatekeepers bearing magical staves that concentrate magic and help them do the job. One of them dressed in opulent red robes steps forward. “Halt! We will not open the gate for you!” the guard says as more guards pour in.
Loki grits his teeth. Sleipnir has one more magical ability he inherited from his dame. Pulling back on the reins, Loki drives his heels into the horse’s ribs. Sleipnir rears and light spills around them in rainbow colors. The light subsides, and they are on the World Gate to Vanaheim in Asgard. Would-be travelers to Vanaheim retreat from them in shock. Sleipnir, like trolls and a handful of other magical animals, has the ability to walk the branches of the World Tree without aid.
Loki looks around. Asgard is unique in all the realms. It has eight wide world gates on a single open plane. At the center is a raised dais that is entrance to the void, where used magical items are sent—and once long ago where the Vanir, when they ruled Asgard, would send prisoners to die. Baldur has suggested ‘in jest’ that the tradition of execution in the void be rekindled for Loki.
The dais is also where Heimdall, the all-seeing gatekeeper, stands. Loki urges Sleipnir towards him, barely aware of the milling crowds. The horse whinnies, gait unsteady.
“Heimdall,” Loki shouts. “Where is my daughter?”
The gatekeeper’s face is expressionless. “She has gone to Niflheim, Loki.” His voice is calm and even. There is the rawk rawk of ravens.
Loki’s chest tightens. “Let me through the gate to Niflheim!” His shout is so loud, so anguished it shocks even Loki himself. There is absolute silence on the plain. Travelers still, and turn to stare.
Stepping off the dais, Heimdal says, “Loki, if you go to Niflheim you will be among the afflicted. You will die.”
“Send me through the gate!” Loki screams. Without waiting for a reply he grits his teeth and turns Sleipnir towards the Niflheim branch. The steed goes a few paces and then falls to its knees. Cursing, Loki dismounts. From behind him Heimdall says, “Loki, be reasonable.”
Spinning, Loki says, “Send me through!” Flames flare at his fingertips.
Heimdall stares at him for a moment. “Very well.”
Unlike the gate to Vanaheim, the gate to Niflheim has no travelers. As Loki steps upon the stones he has a moment of apprehension. Then he thinks of Helen, one of the few things he’s ever created that is right, dying in Niflheim, the land of cold and mists—and he is a leaf caught up in a tide of a flood. He can’t turn back. Clenching his hands, he turns to face Heimdall and the group of mages behind him.
Loki nods. Heimdall nods once, and then says, “Send him!”
The mages lower their staves. Once more Loki is bathed in rainbow light, and then the light subsides and he is surrounded by mist in a barren field of brown, knee-high grasses. He hears moans and cries off to his left. Swallowing, he heads in that direction.
He reaches the camp just a few minutes later. Helen isn’t the only one afflicted by the plague. There are at least a dozen ancient shaggy ponies attached to wagons filled with the dead and dying. Loki briefly catches sight of skin with great black pustules. The stench is terrible.
“Helen!” he shouts. There is no answer. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, he forces himself to walk through the wagons. And then he sees Ganglati and Ganglöt, two lame sisters, the only servants Sigyn could entreat to work in their household. They are utterly devoted to Helen, and the only people Sigyn or Loki would ever trust with their daughter’s care. Now they lie in the grass unmoving by the wheels of one of the wagons. Where their skin is unmarred by the black pustules, it is gray and ashen.
Loki stares in shock. He is used to death by war, but he has never actually seen anyone dead by disease. His jaw sags and all thoughts flee him. And then he hears a low moan from the wagon. Swallowing, Loki climbs into the back. Helen lies amid a pile of carefully arranged pillows, a blanket lovingly tucked under her chin, water and food laid out beside her—Ganglati and Ganglöt’s last act of love. The side of his daughter that is flesh colored is marked by the dark peeling pustules, but the side of her that is blue is unmarred. Loki is terrified, but feels pulled forward as though by an invisible string.
When Helen sees him, her lips part slightly and her gaze meets his under half-lidded eyes. She doesn’t make a sound. But when Loki sits down beside her she reaches to him with a tiny blue hand. Pulling Helen into his arms, Loki begins to rock and chant, trying to focus all of his magical energy on making her well, or just keeping her alive. Her little hand tightens in his.
He doesn’t have any plans anymore; he only hopes that Hoenir will come. The gray light of Niflheim’s day turns to the darker gray of night, and Loki continues to rock. There comes a moment when Helen’s blue magic flares so brightly that Loki’s own skin turns blue. Loki’s desperation rises; he squeezes her tighter and begins to rock more frantically.
Beside them the air begins to flicker. Loki looks up to see a semi-transparent Odin before them in the blue light.
“Save her!” Loki screams. Even Odin’s abilities for healing are stronger than his own.
The apparition flickers. “Not much time … Loki, Baldur did this … ”
Loki’s mouth twists and Helen moans.
Stepping closer, Odin’s ghostly form says, “He must be stopped … his vanity … he will destroy Asgard.”
“Why don’t you stop him! Why don’t you do anything!” Loki says, his voice coming out half-scream, half-choked sobs.
The apparition closes its eyes for a moment and seems to sigh. “Because like everyone else, I am enchanted.”
Helen’s blue glow flares more brightly. Her hand tightens around Loki’s and she tucks her head towards his chest.
“Only you can stop him now,” Odin says. “It is in your nature.”
Helen’s grip relaxes and her head falls back.
Loki is only vaguely aware of Odin disappearing. Dropping his head to Helen’s body, he murmurs, “No, no, no, no!”
And then her blue light winks away, only a faint blue sheen remains on Loki’s hands. Baldur’s voice rings in his mind, “You destroy everything beautiful.”
Loki continues to rock and chant until his mouth is dry and his voice is hoarse. By the time Hoenir and Mimir find him—a day later—Loki is silent. But he hasn’t moved Helen’s body from his lap.