2 YEARS LATER
Stepping out of the coffee shop, Amy glances down LaSalle Street. Lifting her head, she gazes up at the former Chicago Board of Trade building, still listing to one side. The windows are dark. Weathered scaffolding protects the sidewalk below from falling rubble. The building has been leaning since the largest earthquake in Chicago’s history wrecked its foundations. Coincidentally, at the exact same time, Loki had been dancing in an ADUO interrogation room.
“Such a lovely day!” says Amy’s grandmother, Beatrice, cheerfully.
Amy blinks at the sky. There is no snow, just a blanket of early morning fog. It’s warm for December, but gloomy. Turning to her grandmother, her lips quirk. “Do you mean the weather… Or are you referring to the troll this morning?”
Amy’s staying with Beatrice until she finds an apartment. This morning, a troll popped up in their neighborhood, and their commute involved an hour-long detour. Periodic trolls, wyrms, and others visiting Chicago through magical World Gates is why the city hasn’t been repaired.
“It is just so nice to have you back!” Beatrice says, sipping at her coffee. Her pink flower umbrella swings on her free arm.
Amy raises an eyebrow. “Grandma, you drove down to check on me every weekend while I was at school in Oklahoma.”
Beatrice nods and smiles happily. “And now I can check on you every day while you’re in the office, too.”
Amy stifles a sigh. Not that she doesn’t love her grandmother, but Beatrice has been a little over-protective of late. Amy only managed to keep Beatrice from moving to Oklahoma with her by finding her a job at ADUO. Beatrice is fluent in English, Ukrainian, and Russian. Just before Loki attacked Chicago, the city had been visited by Dark Elves bearing AK-47s. After the attack, Russia, the Ukraine, and Belarus had pushed for the elves to have the rights of the Geneva Convention. The US government even released the captured elves to the Russians. No one knows precisely what the elves are offering the Russians in return for weaponry, but Steve has Beatrice monitoring communications from those countries, looking for clues.
Amy appraises Beatrice. She walks with a spring in her step that belies her gray hair and wrinkles. Beatrice has the energy and sharpness of mind of a twenty-something. Before Cera and Loki destroyed Chicago, her grandmother had been in a nursing home, unable to remember her own name. And then…something happened.
Suffering from wounds inflicted by an ill-advised SWAT team raid, Amy watched the battle of LaSalle Street from Loki’s apartment. When the battle was over, Amy’s injuries were healed and Beatrice was there, her mind and body restored, the outrageous flower umbrella in her hands.
Steve and Beatrice posit that Loki healed Amy and Beatrice as a parting gift to Amy.
Amy rubs her temple. What Loki did give her as a final parting “gift” was his memories…and in all his memories, Loki was incapable of healing. Someone else had healed Beatrice and Amy, someone who was a master of biology, someone immensely powerful, and it could only be…
Pain flares behind her eyes, and she stops sharply. She winces. Sometimes this happens when she tries to think about that time…
“Are you alright, dear?” says Beatrice.
Amy drops her hand from her temple, and finds her grandmother’s eyes peering at her from beneath neat, gray bangs. Beatrice has a rather fashionable bobbed haircut. And she’s wearing a sharp white skirt beneath her fitted, black down jacket. She looks more put together than Amy does in jeans, tennis shoes, and casual ponytail; but Steve promised Amy a troll to dissect today. No way is she getting formaldehyde on good clothes.
“I’m fine, Grandma,” Amy says, trying to give a reassuring smile. Why should she care how she and Beatrice got better? The important thing is that they are better…
“Hmmm…” says Beatrice.
As they resume walking, a shiver runs down Amy’s spine. But she shakes her head, and it’s as though her apprehension is swept away by invisible hands. Her mood lifts, and she takes a sip of her coffee. It’s delicious, and she finds herself smiling.
They pass under some scaffolding. Construction has stalled, and there are no workers about. Across the street, a park appears. Off in a corner of the park, Amy notices a woman in garb that looks vaguely priestessy, talking to a group of camera-toting tourists. A bus bearing the slogan “City of Gods Tours” is idling on LaSalle a few feet away. For a minute, Amy gawks, but then she shakes her head. Scientists, the military, and tourism are the only things keeping Chicago afloat.
“This is the place I was telling you about,” says Beatrice. “Lovely spot for a coffee break.”
The park is pretty. There is a gentle bluff in a wide-open clearing. At the top are semi-circular half walls made of smooth stone sheltering a seating area. At the center is a statue commemorating the fallen firemen, police officers, and city council members who died defending the city. Following her eyes, Beatrice whispers, “Some people said it should be a statue of Steve. That man is golden in this town. If he doesn’t run for mayor…” she shakes her head.
But Amy’s eyes have alighted on the four men sitting at the bottom of the statue. There is Steve, Brett, and Bryant, but it’s the last person that makes her smile. “Look, Grandma! It’s Bohdi Patel. I thought he was in the Marines?”
Beatrice taps her chin. “Oh, he was. But he was discharged…something about a bum spleen.”
“Let’s go sit with them,” Amy says as they approach the gentle sloping walkway that leads up to the seating area. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“Hmmmm….” says Beatrice. “That boy…” she tsks.
Amy bites her lip, a little nervous as they cross toward the bottom of the stairs. To most people, Loki isn’t the person who saved the world from a mind-warping source of infinite magical power bent on world domination. Instead, he is a psychopath who took out a large portion of the city, its defenders, and thousands of civilians. Most of those who know of Amy’s “association” with Loki do not care for her. Or even feign respect. She smiles ruefully.
Bohdi has as much reason—or more than most people—to hate Amy. But when she’d woken up in an unfamiliar bed after her miscarriage, in a haze of blood loss, the first thing she’d seen was Bohdi’s eyes on her. Framed by startlingly long lashes, they were warm, wide, innocent, and earnest. “Hi,” he whispered.
And then he’d taken her hand in his. She’d followed the motion with her eyes. Leaning closer, Bohdi whispered, “I lied and told them we were married.” He licked his lips nervously. “I’m sorry, I just had to make sure…” He stammered. “I’m glad you’re okay.” And then his face had gone a little pale, and his eyes had opened wider. “I mean…you’re not okay, but…I’m sorry.”
Amy had squeezed his hand. She didn’t know Bohdi really, but she was grateful he was there. She felt lost, empty, and alone. His hand was like an anchor to humanity, and the look of concern on his face was like a balm. If he could care if she lived or died, she could care. And if he could forgive her, then she could forgive herself.
She’d dozed off a few minutes later, but she remembers waking a few more times after that, just briefly, to see him sitting there, hand still in hers, gazing at her intently, Beatrice standing just behind him.
Now, as she and Beatrice approach the first of the stairs, she begins to hear the murmur of the men’s conversation, and she has a little flutter of panic. What must Bohdi think of her? He’s a nice Indian boy, probably from a nice Indian family—even if he can’t remember them. All of his compassion in the moment aside, what must he think of her getting “knocked up” by the guy who wiped his memory?
Beatrice and Amy are almost at the top of the stairs when the first of the conversation becomes intelligible.
“You did not,” says Bryant.
“I did too,” says Bohdi.
Amy’s and Beatrice’s heads clear the stairs. Bohdi’s back is to them; all of the men’s eyes are on him.
“I’m telling you, I slept with her!” Bohdi shouts, whipping something hot pink from his pocket and hurling it at Bryant.
Amy gasps. Brett’s eyes meet Amy’s and go wide.
Bryant shouts as whatever it is lands on his shoulder. Amy blinks. It’s a thong.
Hopping and shouting, Bryant flicks it back at Bohdi who snatches it from the air and stuffs it back in his pocket.
Brett clears his throat loudly. Beatrice huffs. Rolling his eyes, Steve says, “Hello, Dr. Lewis. Welcome back.”
“Hi, Amy,” say Brett and Bryant in unison, Bryant still wiping at his shoulder.
Bohdi spins around, his eyes wide, mouth open in a startled “O.”
Amy’s coffee crashes to the ground at her feet.
Bohdi has filled out over the past two years, in a good way. He’s still a little on the skinny side, but his shoulders are broader. His hair is also neater. His face, with his wide almost orange brown eyes, adorable slightly squished nose, and full lips, is just as open and innocent-looking as she remembered.
She feels a blush rising to her cheeks. Innocence—that’s a lie, obviously. Maybe it’s Amy’s imagination, but the sky above her seems to darken.
With a shaky exhale, she looks down at the spilled coffee at her feet. “Grandma,” she says, “I think I need to go back to the café.”
Beside her, Beatrice says, “Of course, dear.”
As they turn and walk down the steps, Amy tries not to take off in a jog. Beside her, Beatrice tsks. “That boy is an alley cat…”
A strong wind buffets Amy’s back. She and Beatrice look up. The sky had been clear when they left the office, but now dark clouds are moving in.
Beatrice scowls. “I don’t remember rain in the forecast.”
x x x x
The crimson that had crept into the edges of Bohdi’s vision when Bryant had taunted him starts to recede. Bohdi’s eyes are trained on the retreating forms of Amy Lewis and her grandmother, but in his mind, he’s seeing only the look on Amy’s face—her blue eyes very wide, her full lips parted in shock. His throat feels tight. When had she come back to Chicago? Why hadn’t anyone told him she was back?
Why had she just looked at him like he was a puppy kicker?
He straightens his shoulders. And why should he care? He thought they’d shared a moment there back in the hospital—but who was he kidding? She had been practically unconscious the whole time. And Amy’s not just cute, she’s a doctor of veterinary medicine, which makes her smart. Caring what smart, cute, girls think is just asking for trouble. You go gaga for them and then they dump you for a neurosurgeon because you don’t have a college degree.
From behind him, Steve says in a dry voice, “And that is why I have told you time and again, gentlemen tell no tales.”
Bohdi turns. Steve is cradling his coffee in one hand, arms crossed over his chest. The expression on Steve’s face is so severe and unforgiving—like every drill instructor Bohdi ever had in the Corps—that Bohdi’s body automatically snaps to attention. He almost blurts out “Yes, sir,” before he catches himself. Face heating, he slouches deliberately and gives Steve a devil-may-care smile. “I thought you kept me around because you like living vicariously through my tales?”
And besides, Steve had also told him never to “get involved” with anyone in the office, but Bohdi had with Marion, and that had turned out all right.
Steve raises an eyebrow, his jaw set into a hard line. “I keep you around for comic relief,” he says, his tone hard, and not comical at all.
Bohdi winces and averts his eyes. Besides being his boss, Steve is probably Bohdi’s best friend. But the bastard’s taller than Bohdi’s six foot and change—which gives Steve the unfortunate ability to literally look down on Bohdi when he’s figuratively looking down on Bohdi. Like now.
“We’ll just head back to the office now,” says Brett, making his way to the stairs. “Right,” says Bryant, following his brother.
Steve doesn’t budge.
Bohdi’s eyes slide to the side. “You’re not mad at me, are you? You left the bar, and after you did, Frieda seemed upset so I…”
“Offered to comfort her?” Steve supplies.
Bohdi rotates his shoulder and pats his arm. He’s still sore from last night’s comforting session. “Errr…”
Steve rolls his eyes and looks away. “I’m not mad at you,” he says. It sounds a little forced. “Better it was you.” He shakes his head and lets out a huff. “If it had been me, it would be all over the news that the black mayoral candidate couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
Rotating his shoulder again, Bohdi says, “But you’re not even officially running yet.”
Still not meeting his eyes, Steve says tersely, “Doesn’t matter.”
Bohdi takes in the hard set of Steve’s jaw. Steve doesn’t talk about racism much. Bohdi has experienced racism from the opposite end of the spectrum. He’s taken for the nice Asian boy—not the stereotype you want attached to you in the Marines—but in the real world, kind of convenient. He doesn’t know what to say to Steve, so he says nothing.
A wind buffets Bohdi’s back.
“Come on,” Steve says, voice still tight, walking toward the stairs.
Bohdi remembers how Steve had been so animated talking to Frieda, the woman who’d approached them—well, Steve—last night. It suddenly occurs to Bohdi that the tight set of Steve’s jaw isn’t about sex, or even racism. Steve’s lonely.
“So, that date your mom set you up on last weekend…” Bohdi starts to say.
Steve’s eyes slide toward him. They’re dangerously narrow. Bohdi belatedly remembers that little tidbit is something he learned from Steve’s mom, Ruth. Bohdi doesn’t live with Steve’s parents anymore, but he regularly shows up at their house for dinner. He likes Steve’s parents. Also, there is free food.
Steve’s glare shifts to an indefinable point in the distance. Feet flying down the steps in an unbroken rhythm, Steve grunts noncommittally. “I don’t have time for dating right now.”
“But when Claire moves with her mom—”
“We’re not talking about that,” Steve snaps.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Bohdi finds the familiar comforting cool surface of his lighter. He looks down at the sidewalk. Steve’s ex-wife, Dana, just married the US Ambassador to the Ukraine. Dana and Claire are relocating there to be with him.
Claire’s smart, daring, and funny. Although Bohdi doesn’t really know what it’s like to have a sister, he thinks Claire is like a little sister to him. He’ll miss not seeing her around.
Steve won’t just miss her. Steve sees his divorce and inability to provide Claire with a stable two-parent home as the two greatest failures of his life. Having someone else step into the role of father, and not being able to see his daughter more than a few times a year…
Steve lightly swats the back of Bohdi’s head.
Bohdi lifts his eyes.
“Throwing underwear? What were you thinking?” Steve says.
Recognizing the change in subject as an escape from unpleasant realities, Bohdi gives his most charming smile. “I wasn’t really thinking.” He feigns a yawn. “Probably because of all the sleep I didn’t get last night.”
Steve scowls at him. “You need to take a sexual harassment seminar.”
“What?” squeaks Bohdi. “No, I was…”
Above their heads comes the sound of loud rawking. Bohdi and Steve both look to the sky. Two ravens are circling between the skeletal remains of unfinished construction.
“Huginn and Muninn,” Steve says, jaw tightening again. “It’s been two years…Why are they back?”
In the sky, Odin’s winged messengers laugh. “Hey, Steve, miss us?” Bohdi squints up at the birds, he’s only seen them a few times. They used to trail Steve quite a bit, but had stopped shortly after Loki blew up large sections of downtown.
The wind picks up behind them and Bohdi stares at the clouds. When had they gotten so dark? “I didn’t think the forecast was calling for rain,” he says.
Steve’s face hardens. “We’re about to get company,” he says, increasing his stride. Bohdi has to jog to keep up.
Snapping his phone open and putting it to his ear, Steve says, “Lewis? I think I’m going to need you at HQ.” An instant later, he’s shouting in the phone at Bryant, but Bohdi is too distracted by a flash of lightning and almost immediate roll of thunder to pay attention to the conversation.
On the sidewalk, people stop and stare at the sky. Steve walks around them so quickly Bohdi loses him for a second. When he catches up, he sees Amy down the street, just outside HQ’s revolving doors. Her grandmother is with her, pink umbrella unfurled, despite the fact there is no rain.
Falling behind Steve again, Bohdi scampers to catch up but then stops in his tracks. A cold feeling of dread rises in his chest, and a sense of déjà vu. They are only a block away from Bohdi’s first memory—being found by Steve. The thought still brings the taste of dust to his mouth.
A shape comes hurtling through the sky around the corner where LaSalle Street meets Jackson Boulevard, a lightning bolt streaking out in front of it, crackling down the center of LaSalle. Cars and messenger bikes dart to the sides; a flurry of horns and curses rise from the vehicles and are almost immediately drowned out by the boom of thunder.
The dark shape plunges down to the center of the street, and cars swerve to the side. Bohdi blinks and realizes it’s a chariot, drawn by no visible means, with two men in it. One man is red haired, tall, and muscular. He wears Viking-meets-futuristic-video-game armor and a helmet that seem to melt into the scene behind him. Bohdi’s seen plenty of footage from the battle with Loki to recognize him—it’s Thor. During Loki’s attack, Thor had stood beside the police, government agents, and firemen who tried to defend the city.
The chariot bounces to a stop on the ground in the very center of the street, and for a few heartbeats, Bohdi and the rest of the crowd stand immobilized in collective shock. It strikes Bohdi that in real life, Thor is a lot bigger and more imposing than in YouTube videos. Without pausing, Steve walks right out into the street to meet him.
“Well met, Steve Rogers!” booms Thor, as camera flashes wink from the sidewalk and windows of cars.
Shaking himself out of his personal bout of shock and awe, Bohdi slips out onto the street to stand behind Steve. He’s just close enough to hear his boss say, “What brings you here, Thor?”
The space Viking nods his head. Bohdi had nearly forgotten the chariot’s other passenger, but now that man exits the chariot and walks around to stand before Steve, his head held high. The man’s hair is bright blond, nearly white, and his skin is very pale. He is wearing metal armor. A sword is sheathed at his side. In one hand, he bears a thin wooden stick like Bohdi had seen the conductor use when Steve’s mom dragged him to the symphony. The man doesn’t give the street, or the throngs of humans pressing closer, a single glance. He just looks at Steve and says nothing.
Exiting the chariot, Thor nods in the man’s direction. “This is the mage Skírnir. We are here, Steve Rogers, to ask you for a boon.”
As agents spill out of headquarters to contain the crowd that is forming around the two alien visitors, Skírnir raises his chin. Eyes on Steve, he says, “We wish to speak with the Frost Giantess Gerðr you hold in your custody.”
Bohdi blinks at mention of Gerðr. “Giants” is a bit of a misnomer when used to describe the people of the planet Jotunheim. The Jotunns visited Earth in the age of the Vikings. Gerðr is only about as tall as Bohdi, but the average Viking male was only five foot six. To them, the Jotunns must have appeared to be giants, and the name “giants” stuck. Bohdi doesn’t know whether the adjective “frost” before the word “giant” is due to the average temperature of Jotunheim, or if they all share Gerðr’s frosty personality.
Beyond Thor and Skírnir, Bohdi sees Amy making her way forward. Beatrice is at her side, umbrella closed and raised like a sword. Frowning in Steve’s direction, she nods her head in the negative.
Steve’s eyes flick from Amy back to Thor. “Let’s discuss it in our boardroom,” he says.
Thor nods, but Skírnir pulls his head back as though Steve has just slapped him.
Steve gestures toward the HQ’s door and says, “After you.”
As Skírnir and Thor walk toward the door, the crowd surges. The black-suited agents can barely keep it in control. Flashbulbs go off around Skírnir, Thor, and Steve. Bohdi hears someone that must be in the press shout, “Rogers—did you know about this visit? Is this something you planned to boost your rankings in the mayoral race?”
“No comment,” says Steve, his face grim as Bohdi sidles up beside him.
They’ve just cleared the doors, and Bohdi’s about to ask Steve if he did know, but Steve steps away from Bohdi, holding up a hand in Amy’s direction. “Lewis!”
Amy and her grandmother are at Steve’s side a minute later. She meets Bohdi’s eyes very briefly, and then turns away. Bohdi finds himself staring at the back of her slightly messy, light brown ponytail.
“What do you know?” Steve asks her.
Amy whispers, “Skírnir’s presence may be triggering to Gerðr. Don’t make her be in this meeting.”
The hushed tone of her voice, the set of her shoulders—Bohdi doesn’t have to ask triggering for what.
Jaw tight, Amy says, “Skírnir forced her to marry his master Freyr by threatening to destroy her homeland and her people…and then later, as Freyr grew tired of her…” There is anger bubbling in her voice.
Lifting his head, Bohdi looks at Skírnir walking a few meters ahead of them, armor glittering. The Frost Giantess Gerðr has remained in ADUO’s custody as a “prisoner-consultant” since her team tried to steal Cera, the World Seed, years ago.
Bohdi doesn’t like Gerðr. No one does. She has, upon occasion, loudly declared humans to be on par with snow weevil shit. But still…he narrows his eyes at Skírnir’s back and his hands clench at his side. Glancing down, he sees Steve is having a similar reaction.
Steve tilts his head. “I’ll look out for Gerðr. I need you in the meeting though, Lewis.”
She nods. “Of course. By the way…the little stick he’s carrying is Gambanteinn, a magic wand.”
“Like Harry Potter?” says Bohdi without thinking.
Glancing back to Bohdi, Amy says to Steve, “It’s not really like a Harry Potter wand.” Her voice goes soft. “It’s not as versatile. I think it may have some powers of compulsion…but in some stories, it was also used as a sword.”
They step into a hallway, and Beatrice falls back until she’s walking side by side with Bohdi. They’re just past a service hallway when Thor and Skírnir, escorted by Bryant, Brett, and Hernandez, slip between two armed guards into the magically sealed conference room. Steve and Amy follow them in, and Beatrice and Bohdi step forward as one to do the same—and both of them run into a hand of the guards
“Excuse me, young man,” says Beatrice, glaring up at her guard, the tip of her umbrella just beneath his chin.
Giving his guard a smile, Bohdi says, “I’ll just go in in case they need audio-visual help.”
Both guards step sideways so they’re blocking the now-closed door. The one in front of Beatrice says, “Sorry, Ma’am.” The one in front of Bohdi—Smith, or Jones, or something—just glares at him and says, “No.”
Beatrice backs up a step. “I’ll just wait for my granddaughter here, then.”
“Could be a while, Ma’am,” says one of the guards, his voice apologetic.
Bohdi’s eyes dart to the side. The hallway is pretty clear. “Hmmm…well, I’ll just get back to work,” says Bohdi.
“You do that,” says the guard whose hand he’d run into earlier. The guy doesn’t even look at him. Which is good. Bohdi walks casually down the hall. The guards continue to talk to Beatrice. Which is also good—it keeps them distracted.
“Do you want to pull up a chair?” he hears the nice guard say to Beatrice.
“Are you offering to get me one?” asks Beatrice.
“Well—”
“We can’t leave,” says the other guard.
Bohdi checks over his shoulder. No one is looking. He sidesteps into the short service hallway and hears Beatrice’s voice echo behind him. “Well, I’m not leaving either.”
The service hallway is only a few feet long. Besides some dust bunnies, there is a dirty window, an emergency exit that leads to a fire escape, and a non-descript door. Pulling out his wallet, Bohdi extracts a credit card and checks over his shoulder one more time. He’s still alone. With a quick movement, he slides the credit card between the door and the wall and feels the lock give. Checking one more time over his shoulder, he opens the door, steps into the room, and then shuts the door quietly behind him.
He looks around. It’s the same room Steve and Hernandez had locked him in two years ago and it brings a bitter taste to his mouth. Of course, Steve would have him enlist into the most fucking gung-ho branch of the armed services. If Bohdi had known what a shit deal joining the Marine Corps would be and how easy this particular lock was to unlatch, he’d have taken his chances being no one in nowhere. He shakes his head. But of course, if he’d run away, he wouldn’t have Steve’s parents to retreat to on Sunday nights for dinner. And enlisting did get him his current job—it’s a job he usually loves—spending all day trying to hack into the classified files of the FBI and ADUO. When he’s successful, he’s not supposed to read the files, but of course, he does. It’s awesome.
He looks around the room. His job may be awesome, but listening in on Thor and Skírnir’s conversation with Steve right now? He’s betting that’s even better.
They’ve changed the space into a storage area since he was last here. Unused desks, folded up and coated with dust, lean against one wall. Fortunately, they’ve left the wall with the air-conditioning intake free. Bohdi smiles.
Instead of being cooled and heated by a central air conditioning and heating system, ADUO’s headquarters have heavy-duty industrial heating and AC units set into the walls at regular intervals. Most of the units cool more than one room. The unit with the intake vent in this little room cools the conference room next door. The units are so loud that in the winter, the office just relies on the building’s ancient radiators.
Quietly unfolding a foldout chair leaning beneath the window, Bohdi steps up. Through the vent, Thor’s voice booms, “We have come to your realm seeking passage to Nornheim.”
Amy’s voice isn’t as loud; Bohdi has to press his ear to the vent to hear her reply.
“Asgard has its own World Gate to Nornheim,” she says, her voice firm and clear even if it’s soft. “What are you hiding from us?”
Drawing back, Bohdi scowls and takes out his knife. If he’s going to hear all of this conversation, he’s going to have to get a little closer. Flipping open the Phillips-head screwdriver hidden in the knife handle, he begins to work on the grate.