“I’m sure this is it,” Amy shouts over the wind. Her left hand trails along a stone surface, too regular to be natural. She can hear the hum of the snowmobile engines just meters away—she looks over her shoulder, but can’t see them, the snow is falling too thickly. They’d made it across Lake Balstead without incident—well, if you call leaving behind a pod of dead and dying killer orcas “without incident.” But then the storm had gotten worse. Berry says that the snow is falling much too heavily to use the tent for shelter. Fortunately, Amy has Loki’s memories, and just before the world had become, in the SEALs’ words, “a complete whiteout,” Amy had seen the shape of the too-smooth stone beside her and steered the team here.
She looks back at the hulking forms trailing behind her, unrecognizable in all their gear. She comes to a corner, rounds it, and finds herself facing a dark ovoid entrance about ten feet tall and fifteen feet high. “Yep, this is it!” she shouts, and almost steps in, when someone’s voice crackles over the radio. “Wait! We have to make sure it’s secure.”
Amy blinks. Actually, that’s a good point. “Hello, anyone there?” she calls in Jotunn.
Over the radio, she hears the mean guy Rush say, “Well, now they know we’re here.”
She thinks she hears Steve sigh, and then his voice buzzes over the channel. “Let us handle this, Doctor.”
Steve, recognizable because he is the tallest on the team, and four SEALs take up positions on either side of the entrance.
A gravelly voice she cannot identify hums over the radio. “Could be animals in there.”
“Should we use a grenade?” someone else asks.
At that moment, from out of the blizzard comes a familiar woof. Before anyone can react, Fenrir comes bounding out of the white blur, darts between the SEALs and vanishes into the darkness of the entrance.
Amy’s heart leaps into her throat.
“Hold that grenade!” cracks over the radio. She blinks. She’s sure it’s Larson’s voice, but she can’t make out which of the four white forms he is.
“Thank you, for not blowing her up,” Amy says.
One of the white Michelin-men people shapes rocks back on his feet. Another pulls off his goggles, and she finds herself staring at Larson’s icy blue glare. Someone else’s voice cracks on the radio, sounding slightly scandalized and hurt. “We’re not puppy killers.”
Steve shakes his head.
Amy feels her cheeks flush. She thought that with the ease with which they’d killed the orcas that they might not consider Fenrir’s life worth preserving.
Rush’s voice buzzes over the radio. “The dog’s actually useful.”
The implication stings. Fenrir’s useful, unlike her. Bohdi’s voice snips back over the shared frequency. “I’m pretty happy not to be dead from bear flu.” She hears the crunch of snow, and he materializes out of the swirling white. He’s covered head to toe, like everyone else, but Amy recognizes him by his height, slenderer frame and just the way he walks—not as rigid as the other guys, more fluid. Beside him is her grandmother, unmistakable because she’s got her umbrella open above her head.
The guy with the gravelly voice says, “Maybe the dog will let us know if anyone’s inside.” Someone kneels in the entrance and says, “Come on out girl, come on out.”
Amy hears more muffled foot steps. She looks past Bohdi and sees Harding—her small stature unmistakable—and the tall willowy Gerðr, Promethean wire glinting on her head and wrists. Without warning Gerðr takes off her magic-blocking accessories.
Steve throws his hands in front of his eyes, “Gah!” The other men’s responses are about as dignified. Their guns drop, they drop their mufflers, raise their goggles, and practically drool. Ignoring them, the Frost Giantess closes her eyes and lifts her head. Opening her eyes a moment later she puts her bracelets and hat back on. “It is empty. Safe.”
The guys cough. One of them adjusts himself. Rush smirks. “Why didn’t we just send you out into the firing line when we were attacked? We could have incapacitated the enemy.”
“No,” says Larson, jaw tight.
“We won’t put you in that situation, Gerðr,” Steve says.
Gerðr turns to Steve. “It work in close fighting. Not distance.”
“Still might be useful,” says Rush.
“No,” Larson says. Gerðr doesn’t even glance at him—her eyes are still on Steve.
“This conversation is over,” says Steve, not meeting Gerðr’s eyes.
At that moment, Fenrir pokes her head out and gives a happy yip. One of the guys absently scratches her between the ears. Larson says, “Looks like we can move in,” and then begins barking a series of orders and names so fast Amy can’t keep up with anything more than, “Doctor Lewis, you stay here and out of the way. Patel, go help with the gear.”
Because she doesn’t know what else to do, Amy obeys. Two of the SEALs stay at the opening too, rifles swung in front, looking out into the blizzard. One of them pulls down his muffler and lifts his goggles. He is as broad as Steve, but not quite as tall, and he has brown eyes and a thick five o’clock shadow. Amy can’t remember his name. As people run past, he says in the gravelly voice she’s heard over the radio. “This structure doesn’t look natural, but it doesn’t look like any dwelling I’ve ever seen either. What is it?”
He’s focused on the blizzard outside as he talks, and Amy doesn’t realize he’s talking to her until Beatrice nudges her with her umbrella. “Oh,” she says. “It’s a glove, I mean not really—but it fell off the big statues that are,” she turns north and sees only white. “Well, they’re over there, but you can’t see them.”
Gaze still focused away from Amy, he says, “Is it like the myth … with Utgard’s disappearing castle, when Thor and Loki slept in a giant’s glove?”
Amy blinks in surprise.
“What are you talking about, Thomas?” The question comes over the radio. Amy recognizes Rush’s slightly contemptuous voice immediately.
The guy in front of Amy, the guy who must be Thomas, says, “Didn’t you read the myths when you found out this was our mission?”
Amy’s radio crackles with a chorus of “Yep,” and “Sure did.”
Over the shared channel, someone’s voice cracks. “Well, is it true?” Amy can’t tell who said it. Guys are streaming in and out of the glove, anonymous and ghostlike in their full gear.
She scuffs a bit of snow with her boot. Actually, when Thor and Loki had spent the night in the glove, it had been on the way to see Gullveig in the Iron Wood, not Utgard; but if Heimdall is listening she doesn’t want to give away their destination. Instead she says, “Yes,” surprised they made the connection. “They stayed here. They could have used another World Gate that didn’t drop them off in the Southern Wastes, but it would have meant a trip across the Southern Sea. After helping defeat the Spanish Armada Loki had an aversion to being on boats.” Realizing she’s babbling, and none of this probably interests the SEAL team, she snaps her mouth shut.
In his gravelly voice, Thomas says, “Loki helped the British defeat the Spanish Armada?”
“Yes,” say Nari and Sigyn at once.
“No … ” someone says, but he sounds excited more than unbelieving.
“It was an act of Chaos,” says Bohdi. “The Spanish should have won, but they didn’t due to random factors outside their control. Loki was the incarnation of Chaos—he gave them random factors.” Amy’s eyebrows rise. She thinks that’s the nicest thing Bohdi’s ever said about Loki.
“On a philosophical level,” one of the guys says, “that makes sense.” Amy perks up, trying to identify who said it.
Larson’s voice cracks over the shared frequency. “I’m not buying it, Brill.” Amy tries to picture who Brill is, but can’t.
“There were other logistical problems with Spain’s planned invasion,” Larson says.
Amy wipes snow from her eyes. She doesn’t know why, but she hadn’t expected even this much enthusiasm for the topic—or even the tiniest bit of open-mindedness. She blinks. Even if the Spanish Armada hadn’t been completely defeated by the weather, there’s more. “He also caused the fog that allowed the retreat from Dunkirk during WWII,” Amy says.
Her radio crackles again. “Really?”
“Yes,” says Nari and Sigyn again.
“Some of those small boats could have escaped the Luftwaffe,” Rush says.
Berry’s voice pipes over the frequency. “Oh, come on. The majority of the British troops would have been wiped out. It was only by the grace of God.”
“That’s my dad!” shouts Valli.
The radio crackles with snorts and grumbles, but someone actually laughs and there are a few whistles too.
A few moments later, Sigyn emerges out of the snowy gloom, cruising into the glove on one of the snowmobiles. At the entrance she dismounts and pulls off her muffler. She raises her eyes to the ceiling, “He never told me about this place …” Her voice drifts off, and her face becomes sad. For once she looks slightly vulnerable. Amy bites her lip, unsure of what to say, thrown into a memory of Sigyn and Loki, right before his trip to the Iron Wood and this place.
Loki runs his hand over Sigyn’s bare hip. Her back is pressed to his chest. The morning sun is gleaming in her hair. Next to her warm gold skin, his hand looks pale, almost sickly. She stirs beneath his hands, but doesn’t wake.
Sheets are tangled at their feet. He kisses her shoulder and closes his eyes. He shouldn’t savor his moments with his ex-wife as much as he does but he can’t help it.
She hadn’t agreed to renew their wedding vows. In a fit of defiance, to show just how very resilient he is, he’d gone off and bedded others, but he always comes back to her and she always comes back to him.
He chuckles.
In a sleepy voice she says, “What?”
Sliding a hand down her thigh, he sighs. “This is foolish, Sigyn. You and I, we belong together.”
She presses her face into a pillow, and sighs. “I do miss you …”
Hope rises in his chest. “Then come back,” he whispers in her ear. “All you have to do is say the words.”
She huffs. “Are you sure you want to give up your life as a free man? I’ve heard about your exploits.”
Loki bites back his mirth. Is that his only obstacle now? “I would gladly give up my freedom to know I will never share you with anyone.”
She turns her head, as much as she can on her side, and raises an eyebrow.
He grins. “I freely admit I am a selfish, jealous man, but if it suits your purposes, why should you care?”
Her lips part, and her eyes widen. “And do you know my purposes?”
For a heartbeat, Loki does not know what to say. But he recovers. “With the ferocity with which you’ve been training with the Valkyries, I’d guess it would be to bring Odin to his knees.”
Her mouth snaps shut. And then she raises an eyebrow. “And how do you feel about that?” Her tone is light, playful.
Loki licks his lips. “I would so much rather it be me kneeling before you.”
Her jaw gets hard. “This is just a joke to you, isn’t it?”
He shakes his head and kisses her. “No,” he whispers. “This is no joke.” He wants her back desperately, in this house, in this bed. He lost more than a lover when she moved away … maybe she is stability, maybe she is hope … no, she’s more than those things. She is his fellow conspirator, the only person over all these years who has always been on his side. She’d helped him kill Baldur, nursed him in the cave, given him two strong boys, and saved him in the land of the Dark Elves. In her ears he whispers, “You are my victory, Woman.”
“Victory over what?” she says.
“Everything,” he whispers. “Come with me before the judges of the Diar. Let us renew our vows.” He slips his hand around her waist, pulls her close, and feels her soften in his arms. They still work together, still fit together, and he knows she will say yes.
“We can go today,” he says. “Before Thor and I go to the Iron Wood.”
Sigyn’s body becomes rigid.“The Iron Wood?” she says.
Loki sighs. “Ah, well, Thor is going for his usual winter hunting trip, and Odin has asked me to go with him.”
“Odin never asks you to go with Thor on his winter hunting trips in Jotunheim,” Sigyn says. “He is afraid you’ll stay with your kin.”
Loki harrumphs. “My kin despise me more than most of Asgard, and Jotunheim is very cold.” He kisses the back of her neck. “Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon.” He tries to move his hand lower, but Sigyn catches it.
“Why is Odin really sending you to the Iron Wood, Loki?” She looks up at the ceiling. “This is about Gullveig, isn’t it? He’s always hated her. What has he ordered you to do?”
Loki’s skin flushes at mention of Gullveig. She is the cousin of his dead wife Anganboða and leader of the tribes of the Iron Wood. “I’m not being ordered to kill her,” he snaps, yanking his hand from hers. Odin has asked him to kill for him before, but always people Loki was all too happy to end, like Baldur or the Dark Elf that kidnapped the child of Thor’s adopted son, Ullr.
Sigyn sits up, circling an arm over her breasts. “Then why are you going?” There is a frantic edge to her voice.
Loki sighs. “There are rumors she and her people have been intervening with affairs of humans on Midgard.” Odin does not allow magical creatures to venture to Earth or interfere in human affairs. The Allfather gave an oath to someone that he would protect humans from magical interference, Loki has never been able to divine who, but he knows the arrangement pleases Hoenir and Sigyn herself—lately she’s become very fond of humans. Surely, she can see how this time the Allfather’s interests are her own?
Sigyn shakes her head. “No, no, I would know if that were true! I follow affairs on Midgard more than anyone. I read the tapestries Frigga weaves of that realm and the dregs in Hoenir’s teacups.”
Rubbing his temples, Loki sighs.“The rumors are real.” Whatever Sigyn believes, Loki could tell Odin had not been lying. Dropping his hand, he meets her eyes. “I will investigate. If I find an open World Gate, I will destroy it … those are my only orders.” He leans forward and takes Sigyn’s hands. “Gullveig is a weak leader, perhaps one of her own without her knowledge are—”
“She is not a tyrant!” Sigyn snaps. “Just because her rule is constrained by tribal law, that doesn’t mean she is a weak leader! If she were, the tribes would have ousted her long ago.” Sigyn looks away. “No one would get away with such shenanigans under her nose.”
Loki rolls his eyes. “The Iron Wood just prefer a weak, easily manipulated … ” he almost says woman, but says, “... leader ... as a figurehead.”
Sigyn draws her hands away. “That’s Odin talking. He wants to destroy her … I don’t know why, but he does.”
Loki blinks. “You’re being paranoid.”
Sigyn drops her head into her hands. Her chest heaves. Loki touches her side. “Sigyn,” he says.
She lifts her head, and he sees tears standing in her eyes. “He’s using you, Loki.” She takes his hand. “I’ll say yes, I’ll renew our vows, but only on one condition.”
Loki smirks. “Love is not conditional, Sigyn.” Not that he believes that fairy tale— unconditional love is reserved for children.
“My condition is that we move to Jotunheim, to the Iron Wood, that we join the tribes of Gullveig.”
Loki blinks at her. “You’re mad.”
“What is your answer?” Sigyn says.
“No!” says Loki. “Give up life, youth, health, and wealth for a frozen wasteland and death? I love you, I want to keep you! I went to a cave for two hundred years so that I wouldn’t lose you and our children to the slow disease of age.” He looks at their hands. “That would be our end if we are lucky.” In Jotunheim death at the end of a spear, or starvation, would be just as likely.
“Some things are worth dying for,” Sigyn whispers.
“Yes,” Loki says. “But a fight with Odin over nothing isn’t one of them!”
Sigyn closes her eyes; when she opens them, they are wet with tears. “I will miss you.” She pulls away her hand again. “Goodbye, Loki.” She turns, gathers her clothing and leaves the room.
Loki rolls his eyes and rubs his temple. He’ll go to Jotunheim and find out what, if anything, is happening in the Iron Wood. He’ll probably wind up closing a World Gate and uncovering some Frost Giants who have been pretending to be gods on Earth out of Gullveig’s sight. Loki will try not to be too smug when Sigyn realizes she is wrong and he claims his victory. He looks at the empty side of the bed and feels heavy … he shouldn’t feel like he’s lost. Shaking his head at the useless sentimentality, he goes to retrieve his armor.
Amy gulps. That was Sigyn’s and Loki’s last night together. In front of her, Sigyn seems to snap from a daze.
Someone’s voice buzzes over the radio. “Gerðr, how long will this storm last?”
In halting English, the Frost Giantess says, “Maybe days … week?”
Sigyn looks over her shoulder at the blizzard. “The snow will obscure Heimdall’s sight and deter Odin from sending troops. We will be safe until the storm ends.”
Rush’s voice crackles in Amy’s ear. “That will be comforting if we’ve frozen and starved to death.”
It’s probably the first thing he’s said that Amy agrees with.