Shrugging his coat against the cold, Steve quickens his steps. He’s almost across Jackson when his phone vibrates in his pocket. Stepping onto the curb, he pulls it out and scans the screen. A new text from Prometheus.
Still no news on the whereabouts of Miss Lewis and the other human?
Steve starts walking again, somewhat surprised by the question. They’ve been assuming that Prometheus was at least located in Asgard part-time. Maybe he isn’t. Or maybe he is and this is just a ploy to uncover how much Steve knows. So Steve punts that ball right back at their sometime source.
No, Steve types. It’s a lie. From the last transmissions received by the drone, ADUO is almost dead certain that Lewis and Bohdi are in Asgard.
Tapping his thumbs on the screen, he asks, Do you have intel?
Three little dots flash on the screen.
For a few seconds, there is nothing. And then a message appears. I cannot see into Nornheim, but I do not believe that the Norns will harm Lewis. When will you send in a recovery team?
So much emphasis on Lewis. And certainty that she is still alive. Interesting.
Logistics under review, Steve types back.
A one-word reply appears on the screen: Understood. And then Prometheus disconnects.
Steve sighs. Well, at least someone understands that a mission to Nornheim is a little more than a walk in the park—or even a rescue from Somali pirates.
Slipping the phone into his pocket he walks across the courtyard that separates the Board of Trade from the building to the east of it. He spares a look up at the Board of Trade—a hulking, bent shadow against the weak winter sun. His heart sinks. There has been no progress on rehabbing the structure. It’s a monument to defeat. He’d almost rather see the damned thing torn down, but it’s a national landmark, and that’s not going to happen.
Shaking his head, he reaches the east side of the courtyard and ducks into the restaurant there. He’s met by a new waitress. She’s pretty, in a typical way. Blonde, busty, with a tan that is too expensive for a waitress salary.
“Just one?” she asks. Her accent sounds vaguely Norwegian. There has been a small surge in immigrants from Scandinavia since the appearance of Loki.
“Meeting some people,” Steve says.
Picking up a menu, she says, “Oh, you’re Steve Rogers. I’m Cindy. Your party is in my section. Right this way.”
A few minutes later, Steve is sitting down at a table with three members of Chicago’s Democratic Party, “Fats” MacNamara, a stout, ruddy-faced man in his fifties, and two young guys. Harrison, an African American with an East Coast accent and Harvard degree who Steve has mentally nicknamed “Two-for,” and Richard, a young white kid with stringy, dirty blond hair and a baseball cap. “Two-for” and Richard have convertible tablets open in front of them, every now and then their fingers dance across the keyboards. The conversations of scientists and tourists fill the restaurant. In the corner a TV is tuned to CNN.
“Thing is, Steve,” Fats is saying, “you’re divorced, and still unmarried. And voters don’t like that…”
Richard blinks up over the screen of his tablet. “Oh, come on, unmarried divorcees have become mayors before…”
Two-for shoots a withering glare in Richard’s direction. Fats’s face goes a little ruddier.
Steve’s lips twist into a bitter half-smile.
Looking embarrassed, Fats says, “Steve is black.”
Steve rolls his eyes and resists the urge to hold up his hands and say, What? I am? If Bohdi were here, he’d make that joke for him. Tapping a finger on the table, he smiles tightly.
“Cory Booker!” Richard says. “Mayor of Newark!”
Two-for shakes his head. “Never married. Not divorced. And everyone thinks he’s gay.” He turns to Steve. “Are you gay? Because we could work with that. If you’re gay, that makes the divorce more excusable. You were finding yourself, your divorce is amicable…”
Steve narrows his eyes. “No.”
Richard perks up. Face becoming animated, hands leaving his keyboard, he says excitedly, “No…you’re not gay? Or you don’t like that plan? Because, dude, being gay would go a long way to easing the younger generation’s anxiety about your membership in the Republican Party when you were in college.”
“Might also help with the allegations of sexual harassment of that Frost Giantess,” says Two-for.
“Those allegations are baseless and I will be found innocent,” Steve snaps. Two-for and Richard draw back.
“Steve’s not gay,” says Fats.
The two younger men turn to Fats, shoulders slumping slightly.
Steve leans back in his seat. “And it wouldn’t play with the older generation in this town.”
Turning to Steve, Fats says, “But the divorce is an issue. If there was—”
With a brusque wave of his hand, Steve cuts him off. “There are no sordid stories of clandestine affairs, Fats.”
Fats leans closer to Steve. “You’ve given full access to surveillance of the giantess in your custody. Transparency is going to solve your sexual harassment issue… If you gave that same transparency to your divorce, opened up your divorce papers for the press…”
Lowering and shaking his head, Steve says, “No. It would hurt my daughter. And…no. Not happening.”
Fats sighs. “Steve…isn’t your daughter in the Ukraine now?”
Steve lifts his eyes, his insides turning to lead. Claire is in the Ukraine. This very day going to the Kiev Ballet for a tour, and then to the president’s residence for a reception. What had Claire said? Her dress was like a real princess’s?
“Think about it, Steve,” says Fats. Looking at his empty plate, he says, “Where did our waitress go?”
Steve looks at his own empty coffee cup. He suddenly needs more. And he wants to step away from the table. Scanning the room, he sees the coffee maker at the bar underneath the television. Grabbing his cup, he says, “Anyone else want more?”
The three political gurus shake their heads, and Steve steps away. The only person at the bar is a woman in a neat pantsuit, a tablet in front of her. She looks up at Steve and his breath catches. Her features are very African. She has a wide mouth with full lips, and a flat nose. Her skin looks like it’s been cut with cream, though. She is a light tan, her hair slightly darker. But her eyes are stunning, wide and nearly black. Her lips stretch into an easy smile. “Hello.”
Steve’s brain blinks off for a second. As he gathers himself, his first thought is that this is why marriage is preferred in politicians. If you don’t have someone, you’re always looking.
His eyes take in the hard hat on the counter beside her. The architectural designs laid out on the tablet, and the black portfolio leaning against the bar between their feet. Someone on the Board of Trade rehab team, maybe?
Almost against his volition his own lips turn into a smile. “Hi,” he says, feeling himself lean imperceptibly closer.
From behind the bar, a man’s voice says, “Oh my God. Is that real?”
Steve and the woman both turn. Steve’s eyes lift to the screen. At first, he thinks he’s looking at a trailer for a movie. A winged woman in armor is on the screen, a spear upraised in front of her, a silent scream on her lips. The end of the spear is glowing red. A heartbeat later, a drop of what looks like lava congeals on the tip and blasts toward the camera. The screen goes black. All voices in the room go silent.
The frame switches to a building too engulfed in flame be recognized…but the fire is wrong. Too red, and too bright. Magic.
Steve steps closer to the bar. The bartender turns on the sound and an announcer’s voice fills the room. “This is a shot of the Kremlin… We’ve also got reports coming in that the residence of the president of Belarus is targeted…and wait, wait…” The screen flashes to another building bathed in the same too-red fire. The announcer says, “And this is a shot of the residence of the president of the Ukraine.”
Steve’s jaw drops. Someone says, “Are you all right?”
“The parties responsible have not been identified. Some are wondering if it is the work of the elves. However, some reports on the ground are that the attackers look more human than—”
Steve pulls out his phone and frantically goes to check the time in the Ukraine.
Someone is patting his shoulder. It’s Fats. He’s saying something.
Hands shaking on the phone, Steve can’t hear him. His fingers are searching for the time in the Ukraine. His body goes cold.
“She’s there,” Steve shouts. “She’s there for the reception…”
“Who?” says Fats.
“Claire…Claire…” says Steve, now almost a whisper. “And Dana…”
He puts the phone in his pocket. He feels like he’s being crushed by an invisible hand. Like the air pressure has suddenly increased. An emergency exit in the corner catches his eye.
“I have to leave,” he says, already walking to the door. The office. Someone will know more. And he can’t talk here.
“Steve, wait,” says Fats.
But Steve is already out the door. Without conscious thought, he breaks into a run and bolts across the street, dodging cars, not caring about the car horns that blare at him, or the cabbies’ swears. Once inside ADUO, he passes quickly through security and dashes to the elevator banks. He jams his fingers on the call button. Time seems to stand still. He hasn’t run far enough to be winded, but he is panting. Spinning to the stairs, he slams through the fire doors and then takes the steps two at a time.
He’s on the third landing when his phone starts to buzz and the tinny sound of Green River starts to play. Steve takes a few more steps and then stops, suddenly realizing who it is. Pulling his phone out, he hits accept and says, “What do you know, Dale?”
“Steve, buddy, I want you to sit down…”
“Dale, don’t fuck with me!” Steve shouts.
“Sit down. Sit down and get out of traffic right now if you’re in your car,” says Dale.
Breathing shakily, Steve falls onto the stairs.
“Are you sitting down?” says Dale.
Wiping his head, Steve grinds out. “Yeah, I…”
“I have her,” says Dale. “She’s here with me.”
“What?” says Steve, voice going soft.
“Claire. There was a mistake in the invitations to the dinner, and Claire wasn’t invited so we stayed at the ballet school. She’s here, Steve, she’s okay, but Dana… I’m sorry.”
It takes a moment for Dale’s words to sink in. And Steve is glad he’s sitting down, because as it is, his elbows are on his knees, he thinks he might hyperventilate, and he thinks if he wasn’t sitting he might have fallen over. Still, he can’t believe it…
And then he hears Claire’s voice in the background. “Daddy!”
“Want me to put her on?” says Dale, his voice almost a whisper.
“Yeah,” says Steve, biting back a sob of relief more powerful than any grief or terror he’s ever felt. “No, wait…give me a minute.” He takes a few deep breaths and squeezes his eyes shut to hold back the tears. He can’t let Claire hear him like this. She’s already hurting. He has to be strong.
“You ready, buddy?” says Dale.
“Yeah,” says Steve, wiping his face with the back of his hand. But it’s only a half-truth. Something gnaws at him. His daughter has been spared, but this still feels like the end.