Amy almost falls asleep. Loki’s arm is over her, his chest pressed against her back. She’s warm and exhausted, and the bed is unbelievably comfortable. Daylight is creeping through the curtains in the hotel room, but all she really wants to do is shut her eyes—just as she’s done for the last … day? Day and a half? She’s not really sure. All she knows is that she’s in Paris and hasn’t left the hotel, has barely left the suite she’s staying in with Loki, and has hardly even turned on the television.
Her eyes open wide. But what she did see on the television was jammed airports, train stations and freeways. She swallows. Sitting up, Amy peels the blue arm off her waist. Loki raises one sleepy eyelid at her and smiles. His eyelid slides shut and his expression softens.
Amy narrows her eyes at him but smiles just the same. She runs a hand through her hair. She’s never been with someone where the experience has been so … consuming. She knows at some level this is a mistake, probably the biggest she’s ever made. She frowns. It’s not just that Loki isn’t quite a good guy—it’s that she has this awful feeling that no matter how much she braces herself for it, this is going to end and her heart is going to shatter.
They don’t talk of the future; just magic, food, embarrassingly loud Americans in the hotel restaurant, the concierge who bears a striking resemblance to a short skinny Gerard Depardieu … and they talk about sex, of course.
Sometimes they even talk of the dreams Loki projects in the room—a little. He dreams of people doing ordinary things. Other times he dreams of wolves and monsters, or of people turning into wolves and monsters—sometimes friendly monsters. There was an enormous sea serpent with an almost human-like forehead and great big eyes. Even with seaweed curling between its long sharp teeth, Amy somehow couldn’t escape the feeling that it was friendly. Sometimes Amy opens her eyes and feels the bed below her but looks down at landscapes as though she’s flying. And one dream was just an eerily silent explosion of stars.
Taking a deep breath, Amy rubs her eyes. She looks through the door of the suite’s bedroom. In the other room are bags of clothing Loki asked the concierge to procure for them. Loki concocted a story about them turning around at the airplane gate just before their return to Chicago. The lie has generated a lot of sympathy for them—and free food. Very good, Michelin-star-quality free food.
Amy swallows as she looks around the suite. The hotel is a five-star affair located by the Arc de Triomphe—not that she’s seen it. She bites her lip. She left her office mates in the middle of a state of emergency, and not that she should go in—the email expressly ordered her not to, but she should at least check in … in case anyone cares.
She blinks at the unopened bags of clothes. This is a five-star hotel. They do anything for you here. Making an executive decision, she hops out of bed and walks to the bags.
She’s just finished putting on a pair of shoes, almost giggling because they’re ballet slippers, not heels, and Loki will be so disappointed, when his dream begins.
By this point she’s not even fazed. She will just patiently wait through it and then head down to the lobby. The room around her goes hazy and she’s standing in a stable—more precisely, in a the stall of a mare and a foal that can’t be more than a day old. Thankfully, neither the mare nor the foal sees her … or she’d probably wind up taking a hoof to the gut. She shakes her head and smiles to herself. Of course the hoof would pass through her.
Tilting her head, she turns her attention to the foal. It’s hard not to. Even if it is an insubstantial illusion, it is incredibly cute. The mare is a chestnut brown, but the foal is gray with just a hint of black in its mane and fluffy tail. Beyond that it’s got the usual great big eyes, and long ungainly limbs that make foals so charming. Amy ducks her head … and it’s a boy.
She hears the scamper of feet and a bang at the stable door. Before she’s even raised her head a scratchy, immature voice says, “Those are strange clothes to be wearing in a horse’s stall.”
Amy looks up to see the face of a child peeking over the stable door. A pair of blue-gray eyes set into too pale cheeks are peeking out at her from underneath a mop of almost-blonde ginger hair. The eyes sweep down her body, and back up again, but they don’t quite reach her face. Instead they stare openly at her chest.
She blinks. That kind of gaze is disturbing coming from a little boy. She tilts her head. It’s also kind of familiar. Rolling her eyes, she says, “Loki?”
The child blinks up at her. “Not that they aren’t nice clothes.” His eyes drift downward again. “They are … they are … ”
“Form fitting?” Amy supplies. They are very nice clothes. A creamy dun cashmere sweater that hugs her curves, belted at the waist. Brown slacks that fit her just perfectly. She raises an eyebrow. Even the bra fits her well; it’s a bit lacey but surprisingly comfortable. She wonders when Loki got a chance to get her measurements. The bra she’d worn in the fire is sitting at the bottom of his washing machine in Chicago.
“Yes … form fitting,” he says. He tilts his head. “How did you know my name?”
Amy shrugs. “Lucky guess.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”
Amy sighs. “Yes, I’m sorry. But it’s difficult to explain—”
“Loki? Loki? Ah, there you are!” A man’s voice says. A moment later, not one man’s face but two come into view. The first man appears to be well into middle age. He has long hair around a balding pate. His face is a bit chubby and the lower half is completely obscured by a beard. His eyes are large and green. He looks a bit befuddled and very, very kind.
Amy’s eyes widen. The other face appears to be younger. It has a full head of hair, and a beard, but it appears to be only a head—mounted to the top of a staff.
“Mimir!” Amy whispers.
The boy turns to Amy. “Of course it’s Mimir. He comes everywhere with Hoenir.”
Amy looks sharply at the chubby older man. This is Loki’s best friend?
The head on the staff blinks. “Who are you talking to, Loki?”
Pointing in Amy’s direction, the little-boy version of Loki says, “The girl in the stall.”
The head and the man exchange looks. Clearing his throat—and how that is possible, Amy’s not sure—Mimir says, “Ah. Yes. What do you think of Sleipnir’s great grandson, Loki?”
Loki turns his face to Amy, his brow furrowed. Shrugging, she says, “Only you can see and hear me. It’s probably better just to play along.”
Loki’s face pinches at that, but he turns to Mimir and says, “He only has four legs. I promised Sigyn he would have more legs and that I’d show her, and now he doesn’t and she won’t want to see him.” The last words are followed by a harumph.
Hoenir blinks at Loki, concern writ large upon his brow. Mimir’s lips purse. “Ah,” he says.
Amy looks at Mimir, at Hoenir, and then at child Loki. “You know,” she says, “I think Sigyn will still like to see the little guy.”
Loki turns his head sharply towards her. “You do?”
“Sure,” says Amy. “He is really … ” She stops, suddenly aware that she hasn’t been speaking English—and that the language she’s been speaking doesn’t have a word that quite translates to ‘cute.’ Tapping her chin, she says, “He has really big eyes and soft fur. She’ll like him.”
“I guess being a girl, you’d know,” says little Loki. “Wait here, and I’ll go get her!” His face disappears from the stable door and he takes off down the corridor of the stable at breakneck speed. Hoenir, Mimir and Amy watch him go. “He definitely prefers girls this time,” says Mimir, sounding almost sad. “I suppose it’s for the best.”
Amy turns to look at the head, but he’s already fading away, along with Hoenir and the stable. A moment later she’s standing in the hotel room again. Loki has entered the second stage of sleep. Nodding to herself, she heads to the door.
Ten minutes later Amy sits in a plush chair in the lobby, a laptop she borrowed from the concierge on her knees and a smile on her lips. She never wants to Motel 8 it again—this place has everything and they’ll bend over backwards for you! Fumbling a little with the French keyboard, she makes her way to her email login page. She’s just about to enter her username and password when the elevator door dings and a woman comes into the lobby screaming.
Everyone in the lobby turns to look at her.
“This hotel is haunted!” she says very loudly in English with an American accent. Amy winces.
“Madam?” says Pascal, the nice concierge who loaned Amy the laptop.
“Do you understand me?” the woman says, volume escalating. Amy winces again. In the little time she’s been here, she’s noticed an annoying American habit of talking louder instead of slower when they think they aren’t understood.
“I speak English, yes—” says the man.
Cutting him off, the woman yells, “There are ghosts in this building—”
“There are no such thing as ghosts, Madame,” the concierge says stiffly.
“Well, I saw two on the fourth floor! They passed right through a wall!” the woman shouts.
“Fourth floor?” says Amy, standing up quickly and snapping the laptop shut. That’s where she and Loki have their rooms. A very horrible idea begins to form in her mind.
“You’ve seen them, too?” the woman says.
“Nope,” says Amy, handing the laptop hastily back to Pascal. “Gotta go!” She looks at the elevator, thinks better of it and runs for the stairs. When she gets to the hallway it is thankfully empty. With a sigh of relief she opens the door to the suite … and finds a spidermouse dangling from the ceiling right in front of her nose. “Mr. Squeakers?” says Amy. She reaches out to touch the creature, but her fingers pass right through. She stares at her empty hand. Loki is dreaming again.
Lifting her eyes, she sees the grand suite transform into a very rustic kitchen. There is a rough hewn table, on top of which is an egg the size of a football but oblong like a pill. Next to the egg is a baby hadrosaur, the size of a rottweiler, munching on a head of lettuce. An enormous stove sits beyond it, and something that looks like a sink the size of a bathtub mounted on very high, metal legs with bird feet at the bottom. Over the sink is a window that looks out onto mist. From beyond the kitchen she hears masculine whispers, one voice lower and more urgent, the other slightly light and laughing.
Amy sighs and leans against the door. She’ll just wait it out. Behind her comes a knock. Amy winces.
“Madame? Are you alright, Madame?” Pascal’s voice comes through the door. The hadrosaur on the table chooses that moment to drop the head of lettuce and let out a huge, “Ronnnnnkkkkkk!”
“Madame?” says Pascal.
“I’m fine,” says Amy.
“Madame,” Pascal says, slightly hesitantly. “We have a strict no-pet policy.”
“Ronnnnnkkkkkkkkk!” screeches the hadrosaur, hopping from the table and waddling towards what looks like a wastebasket on the floor.
“Madame, I must insist … ”
Turning around quickly, Amy opens the door just a few centimeters so Pascal can’t get a clear view. “We’re watching Jurassic Park,” she says through the crack. Behind her she hears footsteps and bites her lip.
“Ahhh … ” says Pascal. He looks over her head, his eyes go wide, and he flushes. Returning his eyes to her, he says, “Of course, I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says, and turns quickly away.
Shutting the door, Amy closes her eyes and quickly wills it not to be a unicorn, pink-haired goddess, friendly sea serpent, or dinosaur that made him back off so quickly.
Turning around she finds none of those.
Instead she sees two men, neither of whom she recognizes, both without shirts. They have their arms around each other in a gesture that is obviously intimate. One has skin so dark it is nearly black, with hair and a beard so blonde they are startling. His body, even from Amy’s incomplete view, is all hard angles, muscle, sinew and bone. He’s wearing loose trousers, a corner of white peeking from the front pocket. Amy blinks. The book?
“Odin will know, Laugaz, this is dangerous,” says the other man softly. Amy’s eyes go to him. He is softer. He has a farmer’s tan—he’s not overweight, but he isn’t as defined. His hair is dark brown. He turns his head in Amy’s direction but it’s obvious he doesn’t see her.
Amy gasps. It’s Hoenir. But younger. He doesn’t have a beard, and she can see that besides large green eyes framed with dark lashes, he has a small delicate nose and generous lips. His face is still wide, innocent, and honest.
“Ronnkk, ronnnk, ronnkkkkk … ” says the hadrosaur softly. The spidermouse squeaks from the ceiling.
Laugaz, the blonde man, puts his hand on Hoenir’s chin and turns his face to his. His eyes are orange and literally glowing. “If he does, Hoenir, I will kill him.”
Hoenir looks down. “You’re still too young.”
“Shhhhhhh … ” says Laugaz, putting his lips against Hoenir’s. Hoenir is startled only for a moment and then melts against him. Amy stands speechless for a moment, and then Laugaz starts backing Hoenir in her direction.
Amy blinks … presumably they’ll pass through her and through the door and possibly terrify the guests. “Ummmm … I don’t suppose either of you can see me?” she says. Laugaz stops and lifts his head. “What was that?”
“You heard something?” says Hoenir, his voice panicked.
Over Hoenir’s shoulder Laugaz’s eyes meet hers and narrow dangerously. Amy draws back against the door instinctively.
From beyond Laugaz and Hoenir comes Loki’s voice. “No!”
And suddenly the projection is gone. Amy’s standing alone in the entryway to the suite.
From the bedroom she hears a soft thud. Biting her lip, she makes her way in that direction. Loki is full blue again. He’s rubbing his face with both hands, his breathing uneven.
“Hi,” says Amy. “Another dream?”
Loki pulls his hands from his face and stares at the ceiling. “A nightmare.”
Amy’s brow furrows as she tries to process that. “Personally, I think watching Lopt get murdered was more disturbing,” she says. Is it nightmarish because this dream featured two men? That doesn’t feel right. Whatever the rules of Asgard, Loki seems pretty blasé about the whole man-on-man thing—at least from the one conversation they’d had about it a few weeks back when Loki wore his pink-rainbow-triangle ‘Bifrost shirt’ to a greasy spoon. In Loki’s words the Aesir acknowledged two types of people. “Those who fuck, and those who are fucked.” Men who ‘fucked’ women or other men were manly. Those who ‘were fucked’ were unmanly, or argr. Being argr was Asgard’s highest insult.
Slouching in his seat at the diner during that enlightening conversation Loki had said, “The Aesir are a bunch of hypocrites. Some of the mightiest warriors enjoy being buggered. And the Valkyries are fiercer than most men.” Snorting, he’d licked some ketchup off his fingers and added. “Personally, I prefer women, but I was always called argr for practicing magic.”
When Amy’s eyes had widened he’d laughed some more. “It was very convenient. It made it easier to go behind men’s backs and have sex with their wives.” And then turning from her he’d looked at some men giving him dirty looks across the diner and blown a kiss. Turning back to her he snickered. “I think I’ll keep this shirt. It upsets people.”
Besides being the god of mischief, lies and chaos, in human myth Loki is also the god of unrestrained intellect. Amy’s pretty sure that means he can’t keep his mouth shut—but she also thinks it means he can think outside the box of social taboos.
She looks at him now. Besides sleeping with him, she’s been on his computer and seen his porn, and yes, he definitely prefers women, but that doesn’t make two men kissing nightmarish. Still, he’s staring at her like he just watched a puppy get kicked. Maybe he’s not so open minded after all?
Swallowing, Loki says. “Amy, I don’t ever want to see Hoenir have sex.” She blinks and he adds, “Even with Lopt.”
Oh. Well. She sits down on the bed. “Yeah. I can see where that might be like seeing your mother—” Before she finishes, Loki closes his eyes and shudders so forcefully the bed shakes.
Amy tilts her head and snickers.
“It’s not funny,” Loki says petulantly.
Amy raises an eyebrow and turns the subject to something she’s been meaning to ask. “Loki, how much of these dreams are real?”
Opening his eyes, he runs a hand through his hair. For a long moment he says nothing, and she thinks he won’t answer. But then in a soft voice, he says, “I’m not sure. Laugaz and Lopt lived and died in Asgard before I was born.” He stares at the ceiling. “Laugaz, the ‘blazing one,’ was the last Fire Giant to be allowed to live in the realm eternal.” He shakes his head. “How he died I’m not sure … ”
“But is it possible?” Amy asks, reclining against his duvet-covered hip.
For another long moment he stares up at the ceiling, his blue body a break in the white clouds of linen. And then he says softly, “Magic has a peculiar relation to time. For the most part, our physical forms exist in time linearly, but magic, and the magic matter within us, is different.”
“So yes?” says Amy.
Loki’s face contorts. “Hoenir doesn’t look like he did in that dream! Hoenir is chubby, plump, old and bald. His tummy jiggles like a bowl full of pudding! And he can’t talk—Mimir does all the talking.”
Amy’s brow furrows. “I thought people in Asgard never got old?”
Loki looks up at the ceiling. “Unless they chose to. Odin chooses to appear older because he believes it gives him an air of authority. But Hoenir has never cared for power … He is one of the most powerful magic wielders in all the Nine Realms, but I think most everyone thinks he’s Asgard’s gardener.” His fingers twist in the duvet. “Which I guess he also is.”
And then his jaw clenches. “Was,” he says, eyes falling down to stare intently at a spot on the duvet.
Amy takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. Loki doesn’t pull away but says nothing. After a few moments of foreboding silence, Amy says, “How come Laugaz, Lopt and little you can see me in your dreams but no one else can?”
For a moment Loki only stares at her, and then he bats his eyelashes and grins. “Little me?”
“Yes, I saw you in a stable with a foal—you were upset because it didn’t have eight legs and you were trying to impress Sigyn,” Amy says.
Loki smiles. His hand tightens on hers. “Ah, yes. That was the day of my first kiss. I still remember it … ”
“You’re dodging the question,” Amy says, squeezing his hand in turn.
Loki gives her a twisted half smile. “Who knows? Dreams seldom make sense.”
He’s still evading, but Amy doesn’t push.
Letting out a long breath, Loki gives her a sunny smile and looks her up and down. “Those clothes fit you very well. Why don’t I take a shower, and then we’ll go get something to eat?”
Straightening, Amy smiles. “That sounds good. Maybe someplace not the hotel?”
Sitting up, one hand still in hers, Loki smirks. Kissing her cheek and running his fingers down a lock of hair he says, “If you insist.”
“I do,” she says as he maneuvers around her and out of bed. He towers over her a moment, a lean blue shadow looking down at her with black eyes.
Amy will check her email while he’s showering. She just has to let go of his hand.
She doesn’t let go.
Raising an eyebrow, Loki pulls her up and towards the bathroom with him. Heat rising in her belly, Amy says, “What are you doing?” But she already knows, the world around her seems to go foggy, and it has nothing to do with magic.
She’ll check her email. Just not right now.