Lying back on Loki’s bed, Amy stares at the ceiling. It’s still illuminated by the soft yellow reading light on the nightstand.
Her body is humming and she feels like an idiot. Not for sleeping with Loki, but for the two miserable pathetic relationships she’d endured—one for a whole year—exchanging a tedious activity for companionship and affection. She’d thought they were nice guys, but it’s occurring to her now that they were just selfish pricks with … with … selfish pricks!
Beside her Loki lies on his side, eyes closed, a smug smile on his face. One very warm, very naked leg goes over her stomach, an arm goes over her chest. Both limbs are too heavy, and both are very welcome.
It nearly undoes her. She licks her lips. “You don’t seem like the snuggling type,” she says. Bad boys are not supposed to snuggle.
“Mmmmmm … it’s just foreplay,” he says, a smile audible in his voice.
That makes her body go warm again. There will be more? She blinks up at the ceiling, afraid to look at him.
It worked. Sex never works for her. Up until today she thought she was broken.
The hand across her chest moves to rub her shoulder. Leaning in, Loki whispers in her ear. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
Amy’s eyes go wide and she squeezes the thigh that is across her stomach with both hands. Turning to him she says, “I thought you knew I did?”
Gray eyes gleaming, he gives her a trademark smirk. And then his face softens. Still smiling, but not as sharply he shrugs. “It’s always nice to hear.”
Unable to help herself, she kisses him. His response is soft—and sleepy. When he pulls away his eyes are already closed. Apparently, magic doesn’t extend to god-like stamina, or maybe he’s just used too much magic of late.
Loki gives her shoulder a final squeeze, and then she watches the familiar pattern of his muscles trembling and relaxing as he falls back to sleep. She fights the urge to run her hands through his hair. Instead she traces the line of his nose and the crease of his slightly too thin lips with her eyes.
She remembers how happy she’d felt at the pub with her friends from college. How he just seemed to fit. Right now, his face smoothed by sleep, a ghost of a smile still on his lips, he doesn’t look like a magical being who’s lost wives and children and is bent on destroying another world. He looks like a guy just a little older than she is. She watches him for a long time. She’s so thirsty it’s uncomfortable and preventing sleep, but she just doesn’t want to move.
At last she gives in, struggles out from under his limbs, and goes to the washroom. When she comes back she finds Loki has stolen her pillow and has it wrapped in the death grip he had on her. She snorts. Thief.
Lying back down on the bed again, she pulls the white fluffy duvet up to her chin and stares at him some more, unwilling to turn off the light. His thick ginger hair is in need of a trim, and with a messy mop on his head he looks so normal, so human, and just as vulnerable as anyone else when he’s sleeping.
Amy closes her eyes for just a moment, feeling warm and content. And then a woman’s voice crackles in the room around her. “Odin, so help me! By the Norns, if that’s you in my bed I will cut off your cock—again!”
Amy’s eyes fly open. The white duvet under her fingers is now a heavy gold brocade coverlet. She sits up with a start. She’s on a bed in an opulent room with furniture that looks vaguely Asian. Everywhere are fabrics of deep reds, blues and golds. The bed beside her is empty, but standing in front of her is a tall woman with gray eyes, red hair and a whip-like figure. She’s wearing a tight, blue, short sleeve top that stretches down to a full orange skirt. In one hand she holds a wickedly-curved knife.
Her eyes narrow when she sees Amy. “Who are you … and why are you in my bed?”
Amy yanks the coverlet a little closer. The woman isn’t speaking English or Jotunn, but Amy understands. “Amy Lewis … I ummm … think I may have come here by accident … I’m really sorry,” she answers automatically in the woman’s own language.
“Lewis...Never heard of you,” says the woman. Eyes narrowing, she gives Amy a leer, and then bending down takes the bottom of the duvet in her hands and gives it a wicked yank. The fabric leaves Amy’s fingers so quickly she swears she’s still holding it. She opens her fingers in surprise.
The woman looks at her naked body and licks her lips. Waggling her eyebrows she says, “Nice tits.”
Amy swallows. Sleeping with Loki is not a good way to pursue ‘normal.’
x x x x
The sound of an incoming text wakes Steve up. He opens his eyes to the glow of streetlights, unfamiliar shadows, musty air, and the whoosh of a heater. He is on a too-small couch, and the pain in his neck as much as his phone is telling him to get up.
The phone buzzes again. Fumbling with it he sees his ex-wife Dana’s name in the caller ID. He lets out a breath of air. Dana is with Claire up in Lake Forest—far enough away to be safe. He looks at the time on the phone. It’s just past 6 a.m., too early to call unless … Claire has run away to the train station and tried to come down to see him on her own before. Feeling a dread more potent than he felt in Afghanistan or battling trolls, he sits up quickly and reads:
Daddy
He shakes his head. Claire has ‘borrowed’ her mother’s phone again. Steve types quickly. Yes, Honey. Where are you?
Home mom’s sleeping pops on the screen and Steve’s body sags with relief. And then on the screen he reads, Where are you? Steve lifts his head in the almost darkness and looks around the shadowy room. ADUO’s building is no longer safe and they had to move their offices. They’ve taken over some floors in the Illinois Continental Bank Building. They’re right across the street from CBOE now, and by the sounds of things outside the office door, they’re still moving in.
In my office, he types back.
Safe? Claire types.
Steve looks at a shadow hanging on the back of the door. It’s the combat gear he wore yesterday, helpfully supplied by the National Guard. It’s only stained with a little troll blood. But the boots—he stares at where they sit beneath the uniform. They are caked with mud and blood and substances he’d rather not identify.
Yep. Steve types.
Claire’s response is instantly on the screen. I saw fighting and monsters on tv
Time to change the tone. I’m stuck doing paperwork. But I did get hurt. Steve types.
What happnd? Isit bad?
Papercut. Steve responds.
Dad! Steve can see her scrunching up her nose and making a disapproving face at him.
Another text pops on the screen. See you this weekend?
Steve stares at the words, and then looks to the dirty boots. Sure will, he types, without any idea if it’s true.
Mom up. Gotta go.
Steve stares at the screen a moment more, and then lifts his head. He’s relieved that Claire is safe and that the conversation is over, and bereft at the same time.
Rubbing his eyes he takes a deep breath and inhales the smell of antiseptic soap from the gym a few doors down. Standing up he goes to the combat gear. He has a feeling he’ll need it.
A few minutes later, he opens the office door and his senses are assailed by lights and activity. Steve’s temporary office is at the edge of a large room. In the middle of the room there is a central stairwell where Steve sees men and women carrying hospital equipment to the floor above. This floor has been turned into HQ. FBI and National Guard troops are moving furniture, manning phones, and are stationed around laptops.
Stepping out of his office, Steve heads towards a short, older man of Filipino descent at the center of most of the motion in the room. It’s General Bautista of the Illinois National Guard. General Bautista is just about the only thing that has gone right in the last 24 hours. Pragmatic, experienced, and competent, he’s taken the whole “yes, magic is real and your government has been hiding its existence from you” in stride. He may be pissed—Steve would be—but instead of fighting with Steve’s people, he’s ordered his men to help get civilians out of the Loop and has been receptive to ADUO’s insights into how to most effectively combat trolls.
“Mayor Ronnie is asking for a meeting,” someone says to Bautista.
Steve runs his tongue over his teeth to keep from saying something he’ll regret. The move by the governor to send in the guard is turning into an ill-timed tug-of-war between the mayor and governor.
“Tell him I’m busy,” says Bautista. He pauses to nod at Steve and then bends over a map of the city. All around, members of the guard and FBI mill on the floor together. Thor is sitting on a desk, arms crossed. Jameson is nowhere to be seen. By Bautista’s side, Stodgill says, “The Mayor is requesting that the police and fire department be given control of containment and the Guard be withdrawn.”
That doesn’t bode well.
Bautista grunts. “When the Governor calls us back, we’ll leave.”
“Another troll spotted in the parking lot across from the Holy Name Cathedral!” one of Steve’s guys says, ear to a phone.
“That’s farther north than anything so far … ” someone says.
For a moment all eyes in the room flit between the General and Steve.
“And the fifth in 24 hours,” Steve says.
“No, Sir, the sixth. One appeared while you were asleep,” says the agent with the phone.
Steve sucks in a breath.
“My men handled it,” says Bautista.
“Mind handling this one, too?” says Steve. What he needs to do can’t wait any longer.
“My pleasure,” says Bautista.
As the Guard moves into action, Steve takes a digital tablet from the agent. He checks his email. Brett traced the IP address of the computer Amy used to a proxy server in the Czech Republic. Brett also hacked into her account. Besides sending a note to the office, she sent one to a neighbor asking her to watch after her dog Fenrir and her ‘unusual’ pet mouse Mr. Squeakers who’d gotten loose the night before. Steve tilts his head at memory of Fenrir, the ugliest dog he’d ever seen—and remembers her rescue of a pigeon his first day on the job as Acting Director of the Chicago Branch of ADUO. Her taste in pets is as unfortunate as her taste in friends.
Shaking his head, Steve hits a few buttons and navigates to several secure files. Some interrogations have already begun on the few elves they captured. At what Steve reads his eyebrows go up. The elves are very helpful … but there is one question that causes them to shut down. He blinks. Two have even died—not violently, or by tearing out their eyes. Quietly, with no trace of magic, or known poison, and after apologizing profusely for ‘the pain we’ve caused your people.’ It’s eerie, and makes Steve’s blood go a little cold.
Scowling, Steve looks down a long hallway towards an elf no one has interrogated yet. Steve starts to leave the room, tablet in hand. And then thinking better of it, he says, “Thor, come with me.”
Together they walk towards the office’s copy room. Lifting an eyebrow at the big man, Steve says, “We’re going to talk to the prisoner. Don’t ask him who he works for. Apparently they die when asked that. Any idea why?”
Thor’s eyebrows rise. “I will not ask it of him.”
It’s not an answer, but they’re already at the copy room door. Two FBI men are guarding the entrance. Steve nods at one and he opens the door. Together Thor and Steve enter the cramped room. One small light is on above a utility sink. The elf that Steve apprehended earlier is sprawled out on his side on the floor, apparently asleep, hands handcuffed behind his back. Steve turns on the overhead lights and the elf scrambles up against the wall.
“Time for our talk,” says Steve. He’d wanted to do this earlier, but after the fire, an attempted theft of Cera, elves, and the trolls, he’d needed a bit of a nap. Steve could have left the interrogation to someone else, but there was no way Steve was missing this.
The elf stares at Thor in a look of pure terror and swallows. Good. Not only will Thor be able to tell Steve if the elf is outright bull-shitting, but the warrior will also make a damn good bad cop.
“Come on,” Steve says, going behind the elf and pushing him by his bound hands. “We’re doing this right.”
Steve steers the elf, who is shaking like a leaf, down the hall to a makeshift interrogation room. There is no one-way mirror, but speakers and cameras are in every corner of the small white room. The only furniture is a table with two chairs on either side. Nodding at one side of the table, Steve says, “Sit.”
The elf hastens to obey.
Steve doesn’t bother to sit down on the chair on the other side. Leaning on the table he smiles. “Mind telling us your name?”
Swallowing, the elf says, “It’s Liddell.”
Steve straightens and tilts his head. It’s the truth, he knows it from Lewis’s account of Alfheim. Liddell had been heading to the dark lands with his wife to escape the child price. Apparently, in the land of the “light” elves, as Thor calls them, the queen is very particular about who can reproduce. Before any family can have a new child, someone else in the family has to agree to die. A logical precaution in a race that is immortal by default—but still harsh. Offspring who enter the world otherwise are confiscated, the parents punished.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Liddell says, voice shaking. “We were going to wait for the week’s end when there would be less people. We … I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Liar!” says Thor from behind Steve’s shoulder. “You want to acquire Cera so you can confront your queen and plunder the land of the Light Elves! How is that not hurting anyone?”
Sucking in a deep breath, Liddell snaps. “No! We want Cera so that we can create a void like Asgard has! So we can dispose of the queen’s dark spells before they poison our lands.”
Steve blinks. He remembers the mention in Lewis’s report of how the Light Elves dumped spent magic into the river that ran towards the “Dark Lands.”
Thor takes a step forward. Liddell kicks backwards so that his chair slides across the floor.
Straightening, Thor says, “You cannot believe this man, Agent Rogers. He is a traitor to his queen.”
“I speak the truth!” Liddel says, half standing. “All family but my wife and our son live in the queen’s lands! That is true for all the Dark Elves! How could we wish to see them plundered?”
“You are a traitor to your queen!” Thor roars.
“I don’t believe in queens or kings anymore!” Liddell shouts. “Or in being a slave!”
And that hits a bit close to home. Steve feels his jaw tighten.
“Know your place!” shouts Thor.
“Both of you be quiet,” Steve says, lowering his voice to a whisper.
Thor looks at him angrily. Liddell’s eyes flit to Steve, and then go back to Thor. His frame slumps a bit.
Steve lets the silence continue for a bit longer than is comfortable even to him.
Crossing his arms, Thor makes a rumbling noise. Liddell starts to shuffle his feet.
Sitting down at the chair across the table from Liddell, Steve says. “When did elves first start coming to Chicago?”
Liddell meets his eyes. “I have only been visiting since the arrival of Cera.”
Steve tilts his head.
Looking down, Liddell says, “The first new gates between our realms opened approximately four years or so ago. We have come on exploratory missions since that time.”
Steve leans forward. “Four years? But Lo—” Steve pauses for a breath. “But we had it on good authority that the gates were being opened by Cera, and she’s only been here a few months.”
Liddell swallows. “That is what I know … ” Looking away he says, “More gates are opening now with greater frequency.”
“Because of your sorcery!” says Thor.
Liddell twists his head to sneer at Thor. “If only! We wouldn’t need Cera if we were strong enough to make our own gates!”
“Stop it!” Steve shouts. Turning to Liddell he says, “We’ve had visits from six trolls in the past 24 hours. Do you know what is going on?”
“Cera is getting stronger,” says Liddell, his brow furrowing. “The containment fields can’t restrain all of her … her power is infinite.”
Steve rolls his eyes and snaps. “How can infinite power become more infinite! All our readings suggest that the containment field isn’t breaking down, so what’s going on!”
Liddell’s mouth drops. He appears genuinely stumped. Eyes wide, he stammers. “I’m much better at the practical application of magic than theory.”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Steve stands from his chair. Turning his back on Liddell, he walks across the room. If Liddell is lying, he’s a very good liar. He has all the signs of truthfulness: he isn’t leading with qualifying statements like, “in all honesty.” His eye contact is inconsistent—liars tend to overdo eye contact. He’s anxious to be helpful. He’s furious when accused by Thor of wrongdoing. And usually liars smile at the success of their deceit.
“Don’t leave me with the Asgardian!” the elf cries.
It’s only then that Steve realizes he’s walking towards the door, though he had no intention of walking out. Turning, he tilts his head. Moving quietly to the table he sits down. “There is someone else I’m guessing could tell me more. Someone you know, Liddell.”
Liddell’s eyes widen a fraction, and his throat bobs as he swallows. So yes. And probably the same person the elves are dying to protect.
Leaning on his elbows, Steve speaks slowly and carefully. “If I asked you directly, is there some sort of magic that makes you commit suicide?”
Liddell huffs a laugh. “No, but if you tried to force me to say, I would stop my own heart rather than divulge.”
“Magically?” Steve asks.
Liddell huffs again and looks down. “I’m over 1,000 years old. In that amount of time even a human would be able to learn to stop their heart at will.”
“Why can’t you tell us who you work for?” Steve asks.
Liddell blinks at him, for a moment looking like he doesn’t understand the question. And then his eyes go to Thor. “Isn’t it obvious?”
It’s Steve’s turn to be in the dark. “Thor?”
Liddell’s eyes narrow. “Of course you wouldn’t understand.” He takes a breath. “Odin will not attack any who defy him on Earth. The elves don’t know why. We think that some sort of deal was made. With whom, and for what, we don’t know. But Odin doesn’t attack the people on your world who help supply us with your weapons. On our side we have to hide from Heimdall’s gaze.” Bending his head he says. “It is magically … expensive … and something I don’t have the knowledge to do.”
Steve tilts his head. “But he hasn’t attacked the dark lands yet?”
Liddell shakes his head. “If Odin launched a full-scale attack on the Dark Realms, as you call them, the warring factions would unite.” Glancing at Thor, he meets Steve’s gaze. “We might not win but we would make the Asgardians pay dearly.”
Steve looks at Thor. The large man is looking at the elf, face hard. Catching Steve’s glance, Thor says, “He speaks truly.”
“But if Odin knew exactly who his foe in our realm was … ” Liddell's voice trails off.
Steve sits back in his chair. “He’d send in a strike team.”
Liddell nods. Thor shifts in his seat. The elf’s eyes slide to Thor. “Agent Rogers, why don’t you ask the mighty Thor what the strike team would do to the elves they captured?”
“Shut up, elf!” Thor says.
Liddell begins to laugh. “Why, Thor? Are you ashamed?” Turning to Steve, the elf snarls. “Those who were not killed would be violated. The men and boys castrated, and all sold into slavery. You can see why I’d rather die.”
Steve looks at Thor. Jaw tight, Thor won’t meet his gaze. Nor does he dispute Liddell’s words. Steve sighs. He’s not really surprised. Still, he’s disgusted. Goddamn space Vikings.
Everyone in the room is silent for a moment. And then Thor says, “Loki would know why the fabric of space-time is being torn with more frequency.”
Narrowing his eyes, Liddell says, “You can’t trust Loki.”
Thor looks about to say something, but Steve cuts him off. “Yes, well, right now Loki is the only hope for your friend Amy Lewis.”
Liddell swallows.
Steve’s phone beeps. It’s a text from Bryant. Steve clicks to it and reads: Two spikes in unusually high magic readings detected in the building during attack. About time Lewis disappeared. Too much interference from fires to triangulate.
Liddell shuffles his feet and looks down. “Loki is the Destroyer, she is in grave danger,” he says softly.
Bringing a fist down so hard the table cracks, Thor shouts, “You fool! Loki fixes everything!”
x x x x
The woman in front of Amy smiles. Raising her hand, she brings down the knife hard, imbedding it in the baseboard where it reverberates with a twang.
Amy’s eyes go wide and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding … only to suck the breath in fast when the woman falls onto the bed on all fours and starts crawling up towards her.
“You’re pretty, human,” she says with a smirk. “How come I haven’t seen you before?”
Heedless of modesty, Amy scampers off the bed. “To answer that question, I need to know where I am.”
The woman’s brow constricts and she raises herself to her knees. “How curious. You’re not even lying.”
“Umm … Nope,” says Amy, looking frantically around the room. There is a divan, a bed, and a nightstand with a small white book upon it. The ceiling has intricate scalloped moulding. There is a round door set into a deep pocket in the wall, with ornately carved edges. There are bay windows, all covered with gauze curtains. She can’t see outside, but she gets the impression of sunlight. Where is Loki?
“Asgard,” says the woman. “You may not recognize the style of decoration. It’s New Vanir, in honor of our guests, the beautiful Freyja and her oh-so-noble brother Frey.” The last words come out a hiss.
Amy’s breath starts coming fast. Swallowing her fear, she turns to the woman and tries to assess the situation. The woman’s clothes are elaborately embroidered with gold. The room doesn’t look like any sort of prison.
“You’re cute when you’re frightened, Amy,” says the woman, slinking off the bed. “But you don’t have to be. I’m very nice.”
Making a dive for the bed, Amy grabs the heavy golden coverlet and wraps it around herself. The woman snickers. “There’s no need for modesty now.”
Amy turns to the woman, now just a foot away, and swallows. “I’m flattered really … I didn’t catch your name?”
“Lopt,” she says with a toothy smile.
Alarm bells start going off in Amy’s mind. Backing towards one of the windows, Amy says, “ … but I’m sort of in a relationship … ”
Still smiling, the woman shrugs. “So am I!” But Amy can’t help but notice the shadow that crosses the woman’s features.
Lopt’s smile tightens. “Or I was … or am … but Odin sent him to Vanaheim … with that buggerer Mimir.” Lips curling, Lopt twists her body and reaches out. The knife embedded in the baseboard flies through the air into her hand. With a huff, she starts cleaning her nails with the tip. “If Mimir hurts him … I’ll do worse than I did to Odin.” A crease forms between her brows. “And Mimir can’t reattach his bits.”
“Hoenir!” Amy says. “Your lover is Hoenir! The Vanir-Aesir war ended with a prisoner exchange—Hoenir and Mimir for Freyja and Frey! Mimir does all the talking for Hoenir and the Vanir get so pissed they chop off Mimir’s head, but then Odin reanimates it!”
Lopt’s eyes go to hers. “Oh, I can only hope.” Her eyes narrow. “Well, for the first part.”
Amy’s mouth gapes. “That was at the beginning of Asgard.” Has she gone back in time?
Amy runs to the window and makes to pull back the gauzy curtain, but it dissolves at her touch. For a moment she’s staring at nothing but gray swirling fog. But then Lopt approaches and a scene forms in the gray. Lopt’s room overlooks a city. In the distance Amy can see an enormous wall under construction. There are men atop, and below are horses with carts, busily pulling stones. None of the carts have drivers. One horse is going among the others nipping at their flanks.
“The stallion leading the animals is Svaðilfari. The damned beast is going to see that the wall is completed too soon,” says Lopt.
Amy turns to her, but Lopt is looking away, distracted by the sound of footsteps. There is a bang at the door, and another woman’s voice, “Lopt, let me in!”
Lopt walks away from Amy. As she does, Amy glances out the window briefly—the fog has returned.
“I’m coming, Freyja,” Lopt says in a bored voice. Amy turns to see Lopt not going to the door at all, but frantically looking under the bed and behind furniture. “Norns,” she mumbles. “I gave Frigga my cloak as a peace offering. As though I invited her husband to try and rape me.”
At that moment the door bursts open. A woman with long, straight pink hair, blue eyes, and peaches and cream skin stands in the entryway. The woman’s face is so beautiful, it is almost painful to look at. She wears copper armor from head to toe. If its proportions are to be believed, she is built like an Olympic volleyball player, but with more bust. In one hand she is holding a sword.
“Ah, Freyja!” says Lopt, straightening and casting a winning smile. “How nice to see you.”
“It’s too late, Lopt! You treacherous snake!” Freyja says, stepping into the room.
Amy blinks and remembers where she’s heard the name Lopt—it’s another name for Loki.
“We need the wall; the Jotunn are amassing troops!” Lopt cries, running behind Amy. “No one else had any better ideas!”
Raising her sword, Freyja says, “You wagered my body to a common builder! A Frost Giant!”
Lopt shouts over Amy’s shoulder. “He wasn’t supposed to win the wager!”
Amy looks sideways at the woman using her as a human shield. Lopt’s face is panicked, her red hair askew. In the myths it was Loki who made the wager between the Aesir and the builder for Freyja’s hand. In the end he wound up turning himself into a mare, luring the stallion away, and presenting Odin with the magical, eight-legged steed Sleipnir ten months later. Of course, Loki is incapable of shape-changing, so that story is just a tale, a myth.
Stepping forward, quickly, Freya raises the sword until it’s just a few finger widths from Amy’s neck.
“Ummm … ” says Amy. “Maybe we can talk about this?”
Freyja doesn’t seem to see or hear her. “You’ll pay for this,” says Freyja.
“I gave you my oath I would take care of it,” Lopt says. “You know I always keep my oaths.”
“I know you’re a liar!” says Freyja.
There is a crackle around the room, like thousands of twigs breaking, and Amy looks down to see flames rise around her body. She gasps and then realizes they’re passing through her, without burning … but Freyja screams as the flames catch her hair. Instead of stopping to put it out, Freyja charges forward, her body passing through Amy harmlessly, but contacting with Lopt’s with a loud thud. Turning, Amy sees Freyja’s sword is through Lopt’s abdomen, pinning her to the wall like a butterfly.
Running forward, Amy tries to pull Freyja away but her hands pass through the Amazonian woman as though Amy is a ghost.
The flames leap in Freyja’s hair, and with a curse she pulls her sword from Lopt and storms from the room.
Lopt’s body sags to the floor. Her eyes are open, staring at Amy.
“Why are you here?” Lopt whispers.
Shaking her head, Amy pulls off the duvet. Maybe she can use it to stop the bleeding? But as she tries to put it on Lopt, it passes through the woman. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Amy says.
Lopt closes her eyes. “It’s nice not to be alone … ” her brow constricts, her eyes close. When she opens them they’re completely black, as is her hair. Her skin is rapidly turning blue. Smirking at Amy, she looks down at her stomach. “Wyrm balls,” she mutters.
Standing, heavy gold brocade in hand, Amy looks around. The flames are rapidly approaching, though she feels no heat. The world is shrinking and going black. Her gaze falls on the nightstand and the little white book there. And then all is darkness …
Amy blinks her eyes and finds herself standing in Loki’s spartan bedroom again. The gold brocade coverlet is gone, and in her hands is Loki’s heavy white duvet. Her eyes are on the nightstand and the little white book sitting there. Loki is on the bed, his skin blue, hair black, and black eyes wide open, limbs still in a death grip on the pillow.
Amy walks forward. “Loki, are you all right?” she asks.
He turns his head to her, brow furrowed. Shaking his head, he says, “I just had the strangest dream.”
Amy swallows. “About Lopt and Freyja?”
Meeting her eyes, he says, “I … I … don’t remember.”
Sitting up, he looks her up and down. “Why do you have the duvet wrapped around you?” He snickers. “There’s no need for modesty now.”
Amy’s lips tighten in consternation. At her unamused expression, Loki lifts an eyebrow, and then his gaze falls to his blue hands. Holding them before his eyes, his lips curl slightly, but he’s silent.
Going to sit on the bed beside him, Amy says, “So, do you project your dreams often?”
He meets her gaze, his face so composed, his features so flat he looks almost angry; and she knows he remembers his dream, and knows that she knows it.
Running a hand nervously through his black hair, he looks away. “If I did, it would be a first.”
He’s so lost. Leaning forward, Amy wraps an arm around him and drops her head to his shoulder. There is a long moment when he does nothing, but then she feels his arm wrapping around her back. She feels like they’re having a real moment, that even if he’s magical, and older than dirt, that maybe she can be something important to him.
Loki kisses the top of her head, and her heart almost melts. And then he sneaks a hand around and tweaks a nipple. Voice half between a laugh and a challenge he says, “Let’s have kinky blue sex!”