“Loki!” Odin called as he strode into the trickster’s hall. “What have you done?” he thundered. Mim’s warnings still echoed through Odin’s head. Fates had been changed. And lives, too. Now the frost giants were taking to the battlefield, one of the sure signs of the end of days.
What was Loki planning?
Loki’s hall was laid out similarly to Odin’s, long and narrow with a fire in the center and wide columns running down either side, but with subtle differences. Carved wolves, not snakes, encircled the wide columns, endlessly chasing the sun, the moon, and each other; the banners hanging from the tall rafters showed scenes of glorious battle, but also intimate bedroom scenes that were graphic enough to make even a god blush; and the front dais held a couch, not a chair.
“What do you mean?” Loki said, coming out from behind a pillar at the front of the hall. “I’ve just been trying to give you a good battle, Val-Father, as was part of our bet. Hasn’t Frigg been more attentive?” He still wore long robes in black and red, and a fine silver circlet on his long blond locks. His eye patch was made from finely tooled leather, with a decorative pattern of grapes embossed in silver on it.
Odin refused to be sidetracked. “I talked to Mim’s head. She told me of fates exchanged.”
At least Loki looked slightly worried at that news. But he smoothed the expression away quickly. “Have you discovered the new end of days? You survive, now, past the final battle. It seems that you are neither dead nor alive in the belly of the wolf. So you will walk the shores of the new ocean with Baldur and Holdur.”
The words pounded into Odin’s chest like the strongest war hammer.
Everything Loki said was true.
How could that be? How did Odin survive the twilight? How could he live when the other gods died? How had Loki done such a thing?
“I didn’t know such a thing was possible,” Odin admitted, marveling. He could survive.
Then he stalked over to Loki and picked him up by the throat, carrying him up off the floor. Loki was tall and strong, but no match for Odin in a rage.
“Why?” Odin demanded, shaking Loki like a rag doll. He tightened his grasp around Loki’s neck, his fingers digging into the cool flesh. “Why would you do this?”
Loki gasped and struggled like a fish on a hook, trying to get away. “For you!” he managed to rasp out. “I did it for you!”
Disgusted, Odin tossed Loki to the floor.
Loki coughed and scooted back, away from Odin.
It gave Odin some satisfaction that the trickster was still afraid of him. Good. He would be more afraid still, if he didn’t confess.
“I did it for you,” Loki said again, still massaging his throat.
“I don’t believe you,” Odin said. “You’ve never thought of anyone other than yourself. Ever. Why would you try to save me?”
“If you survive, we survive,” Loki said. He at least sounded sincere. “You’ll be acknowledged as the greatest storyteller in the world after the final battle. You’ll wander the earth and tell everyone tales of the gods, both before and after the twilight. Through you, we’ll all survive.”
Odin heaved a great sigh. It was something he’d heard before: that even in this modern day, when they had no worshipers or sacrifices, the reason the gods survived was because of the stories still told about them.
They lived on while men still remembered them.
“But Baldur and Holdur—” Odin started to say.
“Not the same. And you know it. Even Thor’s sons, who may or may not also survive, won’t tell the tales like you will,” Loki said emphatically. He hesitated, drawing his legs in.
With a sigh, Odin stretched out his hand and helped Loki to his feet. “So you found a spell to change our fate,” Odin said. “And you sacrificed an eye to do it.”
Loki shrugged. “It seemed only fair. You sacrificed your own trying to avoid our original fate.”
Odin looked at Loki thoughtfully. “Why did you choose for me to survive? And not yourself?”
Loki made a face at that. “Some things really are fated,” he said sourly. “I couldn’t change my own fate. Or that of Baldur,” he added. “No matter how I searched. There was no world in which he survived. Or I.”
Odin knew that Loki told the truth. Yet, there was something else. He was sure of it.
“Then why are you bringing this final battle?” Odin asked. “Why force the twilight to come?” That was the other part he just didn’t understand. Living on in stories was surely not going to be enough for the trickster.
“How better to test the fate?” Loki asked. “And it isn’t only me who’s bringing the twilight closer. It’s predicted that you’ll talk with Mim’s head just before the end.”
Odin stiffened in shock. Damn that trickster. Even Odin had fallen into his trap, drawing the end days closer.
“I don’t trust you,” Odin said plainly. “I don’t believe you, either. There’s another game you’re playing. I’m watching you.”
“Don’t you need both eyes to do that?” Loki asked, smirking.
He still stepped back out of the way when Odin feinted in his direction.
“I will find out what you’re up to,” Odin warned. “And I will stop you.” With that, Odin turned and strode out of Loki’s hall.
Only the greatest of discipline enabled him to not turn back and beat the trickster into the dirt when Loki said softly, “Good luck with that, old man.”
***
Loki took another long draught, the healing mead soothing his sore throat. He had fled his hall and headed for his private chambers, lying back on the thick furs in front of the warm hearth. The fire painted light and shadow on the tall, peaked ceiling, but didn’t brighten the corners, which were as dark as Loki’s thoughts.
Bastard.
And the gods wondered why Loki turned against them. They were always bullying Loki. Always getting him to fix their problems. Always saving their asses.
This time, Loki was only concerned about one ass. His own. And making sure it got saved.
Odin would never know what hit him when Loki did the transfer spell. All he had to do was to make sure the challenge worked right, just at the end, before Odin was swallowed by the wolf.
Because the new fate was set.
Or was it?
Loki tugged at the ends of the prophecy. It seemed weaker this morning than it had the night before. It wasn’t transparent, but it wasn’t as solid, either.
The old fate was trying to bleed through the new, replace it.
At least Loki knew what he could do to prevent that. He would have to go back to earth, find another storyteller, one who saw the fates of the other worlds.
There weren’t many humans with this special ability. Less than half a dozen.
Loki could get to them, though. Encourage them to sing their special song. Find the right fate for the gods and the end of the world.
Kill the storyteller as he finished, and use blood and semen to make the fate “stick.”
***
Sam watched Cassie march off, down the dark street, away from her.
How could she believe so strongly in what she saw? It wasn’t real. Sam knew it wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be. If it was, that meant Tim, her younger brother, had been right all along. That he was sane.
Maybe knowing that would have saved him, though he’d always been fragile.
Sam shivered in her mink. The coat was warm, heavy, and a reminder why she didn’t want to follow Cassie: her life was too good as it was. She didn’t need the complications of a woman who was just one step out of the gutter.
Even if Cassie was cute and solid and charming and smart and tenacious and all those things Sam admired.
Sam brushed past the happy-go-lucky pedestrians getting ready for their holiday. She already had all her gifts purchased and wrapped. More than a month ago. Though she didn’t have anything for Cassie.
Sam shook her head. She didn’t do casual. Just like she didn’t do spontaneous.
Most of the post-cogs she knew were like that. There was enough chaos with unplanned visions. Plus, working with the police meant she had to be on call more hours than she’d like. So keeping the rest of her life planned out and drama-free just worked out better.
As Sam made her way back to the underground garage where her BMW was parked, she went through the list of teachers she’d had over the years, the extra trainers that her parents had paid for, trying to find one that would be a good fit for Cassie.
Who could train her beyond the insanity of seeing more than one past.
Finally, Sam hit on the right person: Ron Sumner, a professor at the University.
Before Sam pulled out of the parking garage, she’d already called Ron and arranged to see him that evening.
Sam told herself, as she eased into the completely stopped downtown street traffic, that she was doing this for the community, that they couldn’t afford to lose someone as strong as Cassie.
Even the radio couldn’t drown out the little voice at the back of her head that called her a liar.
***
Ron lived in a gorgeous brownstone near the University Club in St. Paul, near Grand Hill, overlooking the Mississippi. The sidewalk up the steep hill had been meticulously swept clean of any snow. A red carpet covered the walkway leading to the door, and the lamps were all yellow glass, giving the front of the building a warm, honeyed glow.
“Come in, come in,” Ron told Sam, taking her coat and ushering her into a festively decorated living room. A discreet Christmas tree blinked in the corner, next to the wide glass window that looked directly onto the river. A brown leather couch, very masculine, divided the room, facing the window. It was a lovely place to sit with morning coffee.
“Can I get you a glass of wine?” Ron offered. “Or even some eggnog?” He wore a typical bachelor-professor outfit—a small-print plaid shirt under a brown wool vest, with jeans.
“If you have some red open,” Sam said, hesitantly. She shouldn’t be drinking, not tonight, but a nice glass would chase away the cold of the night.
“Don’t I always?” Ron asked.
Sam seated herself on the leather couch, looking out over the river. The sky was clear but there were too many lights to see the stars. Dark swaths of trees stood between the building and the river. She couldn’t see the water from here, just the cliffs. It was enough.
“Thank you,” Sam said, taking the glass from Ron and sipping it. He always served the finest reds, and this one was no exception, with hints of peppercorn and cherry. It soothed and warmed her immediately.
“So what’s this about?” Ron asked after a comfortable silence had passed between them.
“I’ve met someone,” Sam said, hesitatingly.
“Really?” Ron asked, very pleased. “How exciting!”
“Not like that,” Sam said wryly.
“Uh huh,” Ron said, nodding, obviously not believing her. “Do go on.”
Sam rolled her eyes at him. “Okay, so it isn’t like that yet. Maybe not ever.” She sighed and looked at the glass of wine cradled in her hand. “She’s a post-cog. Just came into her powers.”
“Bit late,” Ron said, suddenly serious. “Unless you’re going for jailbait now?”
Sam glared at him. “The problem is, she’s seeing things.” Sam took a large gulp of wine. “Things that aren’t there. That can’t possibly be there.”
“Like what?” Ron asked gently.
“The first time I met her was at a crime scene,” Sam said.
“Of course,” Ron said.
What did he mean by that? Sam didn’t ask, but made herself continue. “When she got her powers, I walked her through the scene. Going back to that time. She said she saw it, but it was a different past. An alternate past.”
“What had changed?” Ron asked, curious.
“Instead of Ferguson, one of the male cops I’ve been working with, it was a female cop,” Sam explained. “But that couldn’t be, right? It isn’t possible to see other pasts.”
“Could she be making it up?” Ron asked.
Sam hadn’t thought of that. “No,” she said after a moment. “I don’t believe Cassie would do something like that.” Cassie was too straightforward, too honest. Sure, she’d lie to the cops. But not to Sam. Not like that.
Not even to get in Sam’s panties.
Ron shrugged. “So, if she isn’t making it up, that means she’s actually seeing what she’s seeing.”
“Which means she’s insane,” Sam said bitterly.
“No, not necessarily,” Ron said.
“What?” Sam said. “Are you serious?”
Ron shrugged. “There’s been a lot of study about what is seen, and not seen, in recent years. There’s a possibility she’s actually seeing real alternate histories.”
“But that’s not possible!” Sam exclaimed, even as her heart leapt.
Maybe Cassie didn’t need saving.
“It is, actually.” Ron stopped and sighed, taking a drink from his own glass before he continued. “Now, Timothy, he was a different case. The alternates he was seeing couldn’t possibly be true. Where demons and were-creatures lived.”
“Cassie’s also seeing alternates that can’t be true,” Sam said. “She saw war chariots. Men marching off to battle. And what she calls non-men—beings that look like ghosts.”
“That’s troublesome,” Ron admitted. “Still. She also might also be seeing real alternate pasts.”
Sam leaned back into the couch and took another warming sip. Cassie was telling the truth, at least as Cassie saw it.
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” Ron said after another moment.
“You may be right,” Sam said eventually.
She had to go back and find Cassie. See if maybe they could come to some middle ground, between the absolutes that Sam saw and the alternates that Cassie did.
Maybe they could make this work.