Gods and Mortals: Fourteen Free Urban Fantasy & Paranormal Novels Featuring Thor, Loki, Greek Gods, Native American Spirits, Vampires, Werewolves, & More (37 page)

Loki says nothing the entire way. He just slouches over in the seat, his breathing ragged and uneven as though he’s extremely tired or might weep.

It’s still mostly dark out when she backs into the garage, and she doesn’t see any neighbors about. Beatrice says, “Oh, my, are we home already?”

Before Amy’s even parked, Loki jumps out of his seat and walks out of the garage.

“I’ll be right back, Grandma!” Amy says, following him.

She catches him just a few feet outside of the garage. “Loki,” she says putting a hand on his left arm that doesn’t have any armor on it. He stops but doesn’t look at her.

Jaw tight he says, “I think you should know, I have tangled the branch of the world tree we came through. Neither Odin or Heimdall will be able to follow it and find you — ” He stops, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and disappears. For an instant Amy feels him beneath her hand, warm and solid, but then that’s gone, too.

Fenrir barks in the garage. Amy just stands staring in the empty alley, feeling hollow and empty.

I
t’s nearly 9
:00 PM, three days after Loki disappeared. Amy is just coming home from a shift as vet tech at a clinic up on the North Side. She only gets about eight hours a week from the clinic, and she has managed to get another four as a hostess at a restaurant, but jobs are surprisingly hard to come by this summer.

As Amy climbs the stairs with Fenrir scampering at her feet, she sees Beatrice’s door ajar, the light on. She peeks in. Beatrice is sitting on her bed. The dress from Alfheim is hanging on her closet door. It still glows.

Beatrice must hear her because she turns to Amy, a little girl smile on her face. “Would it be wrong to put on our dresses occasionally and throw tea parties?”

Amy blinks, feeling her eyes get wet. Beatrice’s memories of Alfheim are only good. Despite Amy’s decidedly more mixed experience, she understands what Beatrice means. “I’d be happy to join you for tea,” Amy says.

Beatrice sighs and relaxes. “I’m not just going senile. It was real, it really happened!”

Amy stares at the dress.

Beatrice sighs. “Still no sign of Loki. He left his sword.” She turns to Amy. “That must be a sign he will come back?”

Amy bites her lip. She is worried it might be a sign of something worse, something self-destructive. “I hope so,” she says. Loki in some ways reminds her of the worst frat-boy she’s ever met, except with magic. But there is a part of her that believes he’s good, and noble even. She remembers the way he stood up to Thor when that big overgrown oaf suggested keeping her as a pet. And Loki did save her from Malson. And then the way he danced with Beatrice... She swallows. Hopefully he’s out there, and okay.

Amy looks at Beatrice’s beautiful dress and then down at her slightly stained blue scrubs. Suddenly realizing how much she smells like ill cats and dogs, she says, “I’m going to go take a shower.”

Beatrice nods.

When Amy comes out of the shower, Beatrice’s light is off. With Fenrir by her side, Amy curls up in her own bed and tries to read a book. She’s exhausted, but she’s still having trouble sleeping. After an hour or so, she turns off her light. She lies in the dark gazing at the ceiling for far too long, but she must eventually drift off because she lifts her head at one point and Fenrir says in a deep masculine voice, “Amy, get up.”

Amy stares at her little dog. Fenrir is lying down at her feet, her ears cocked, seemingly staring at a point at the end of her nose.

Amy blinks. It must be a dream — if Fenrir spoke it would be with a girl’s voice. At least I’m sleeping, she thinks. With that sleep-induced logic at the forefront of her mind, she lies back down and closes her eyes.

“Ahem!”

Amy opens her eyes. Where her little Fenrir was lying at the end of her bed, there is now a giant wolf sitting on its haunches.

Amy screams, scrambles backwards, and hits the backboard of her bed so hard her head bounces. She tries to jump out of her bed, catches her feet on the sheets, and promptly falls flat on the floor.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says the wolf in a voice that is still masculine, but also familiar...and slightly slurred.

Amy turns her head. “Loki?” she asks cautiously.

The wolf raises a paw to its mouth and snickers. Putting the paw down, it says in a loud voice, “I am the spirit of Fenrir!” Letting loose a howl, it lies down on the bed, rolls over on its back, and closes its eyes. From tail to nose it completely fills the bed. Amy’s mouth opens, and the real Fenrir runs over and starts barking at the wolf.

From the door comes a knock. “Amy?”

“It’s alright, Grandma. I think it’s just...Fenrir.”

The wolf blinks its eyes open. “Actually, you were right the first time. Sort of. I think I’m more Loki’s subconscious.”

“Loki’s subconscious?” says Amy.

“Loki’s subconscious?” says Beatrice through the door.

Rolling on its stomach, the wolf says, “Yes, that tiny, tiny, little part of him that doesn’t want to drown in his own vomit in your backyard.”

Amy springs up and opens her bedroom door. “Grandma,” she says. “I think Loki is in the backyard.”

Beatrice looks past Amy and says, “Who were you talking to?”

“The wolf.”

“Wolf?” says Beatrice.

Amy looks back. The bed is empty.

“Never mind,” she says, turning and running down the hall. She hears Beatrice following more slowly behind her.

A few moments later Amy throws open the kitchen door. Sure enough there is Loki sprawled out on the lawn on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, his attire flickering from armor to street clothes and back again. She sees something wet glistening on his chin and winces. Magical frat boy indeed.

Behind her she hears Beatrice tsk-tsk. Her grandmother walks right by Amy and out onto the lawn. As she goes over to Loki, a light in the neighbor’s house goes on. A window opens and said neighbor, Harry, a sixty five-ish year old man who’s lived there forever, says, “Beatrice, I saw that bum pissing in your bushes! Want me to call the cops?”

Amy sags. Whatever hope she had for nobility in Loki is flushed down the drain. Or peed into the hedge.

“No, no, no! That’s alright, Harry!” Beatrice shouts. “We know him.”

“What’s that he’s wearing?” Harry shouts. Several other lights down the block go on.

Beatrice taps Loki with a foot, then looks up at Harry again. “Clothes, Harry! Clothes!”

Loki begins to cough.

“Amy!” Beatrice says. “Help me roll him over!”

Startled out of her reverie, Amy runs out and helps Beatrice roll Loki onto his side. He smells like a wino, and up close she can see he hasn’t shaven, probably since Alfheim.

“Ugh,” says Amy.

Beatrice turns her head and winces.

Fenrir, Amy’s Fenrir, moves closer and licks his face. Which is probably a testament to just how disgusting whatever is on his chin is.

“Eww...” says Amy.

Beatrice puts a hand over her nose and her mouth and kicks Loki in the ribs with surprising force.

Loki’s eyes flutter but don’t open.

“Get in the house, Loki!” Beatrice says.

“Grandma,” Amy says, “I don’t think that’s going to work.”

Beatrice kicks him again. To Amy’s surprise, Loki rolls over onto his stomach and pulls himself up onto his feet, but he tips dangerously.

“You get under that arm,” says Beatrice resolutely. “I’ll get under this one.”

Together they manage to get Loki across the lawn and up the stoop. They’ve just stepped into the kitchen and Amy’s head is bent over when Beatrice screams and drops the arm she’s holding.

Loki falls to the side and crashes on the floor. Amy looks up and there is wolf Fenrir sitting in front of the kitchen sink.

Grabbing her grandmother, Amy narrows her eyes. “Couldn’t you have just made yourself look like yourself!”

“That would be needlessly straightforward,” says the wolf.

“Wha — wha — wha -” says Beatrice.

“It’s alright, Grandma,” Amy says, patting her back. “It’s just Loki’s subconscious.”

Tilting its head, the wolf says, “Shouldn’t you move him to the couch?”

Amy looks down at Loki lying on his side on the floor in a semi-fetal position.

“Should we, Grandma?”

Eyeing the wolf carefully, Beatrice says shakily, “No, it’ll be easier to clean up if he throws up here.”

The wolf puts back its ears, bobs its head, thumps its tail and opens its eyes wide.

“No,” says Beatrice, the self-assuredness back in her voice.

Straightening, the wolf sighs. “It was worth a try.”

The real Loki mutters in his sleep.

Wincing, Amy says, “What happened?”

“He went on a three day bender,” says Beatrice, her voice very dry, a scowl settling on her features.

“Why?” says Amy, walking over to get a dish towel. The spittle or whatever it is on his chin is grossing her out.

“They killed his sons...and Hoenir, Mimir and Sigyn,” the wolf says.

Amy looks up from where she is about to wipe Loki’s face.

She looks over at Beatrice. The hard lines in her grandmother's brow have softened.

The wolf settles down on the floor with a whimper. “Gone now like Aggie and Helen.”

“Helen?” says Amy.

The wolf stares at Loki, his voice far off. “You know her as Hel.”

“And Aggie...” says Beatrice. “Angrboða?”

Turning its eyes to Beatrice, the wolf snarls. “Her name was Anganboða, bringer of joy! Do not call her by the name Baldur gave!”

Beatrice puts her hand to her mouth and steps back.

Snarling, the wolf says. “Baldur destroyed her! Called her a troll and a witch. Even Odin spoke ill against her.” The wolf’s voice takes on a sing-song quality. “Because no one would ever gainsay the words of Baldur the Brave.”

And then dropping its head down, the wolf that is maybe a figment of Loki’s imagination puts its paws over his nose. “She saw Baldur for what he was. What she saw in Loki...” The wolf whimpers.

T
he great hall
of Odin’s palace is filled with golden firelight and the buzz of conversation. Loki stands just to the right of the thrones of Odin, Frigga and crown prince Baldur.

Loki’s lips were released from the dwarf wire just a month ago, and he isn’t quite healed. Small circles of white scar tissue dot his upper lip and chin. As proficient as he is with magic, the wire itself was magical; the scars are slow to heal and difficult to cover with an illusion.

Odin has commanded he be here. Asgard is receiving King Frosthyrr from Jotunheim, land of the Frost Giants. Loki has never been to Jotunheim — not since Odin rescued him as an infant during a campaign, anyway. He doesn’t know Jotunn customs, and the scars on his lips don’t speak well of his treatment in Asgard. He has no idea what his presence is supposed to accomplish.

Now as they wait for their guests to enter, Loki scans the hall. He catches Thor’s eyes. Thor smiles with too many teeth and raises his hammer. Loki looks away.

He sees Sigyn in a distant corner and looks away again. Hoenir is standing near her in the shadows. Mimir is with him. For the occasion Mimir has been mounted on the end of a long staff. Loki contains a wince. Mimir loves being on the staff point. It gives him a better view. It also is a quite gruesome sight to the uninitiated. Loki wonders how Hoenir convinced Odin to allow it.

Catching his gaze, Mimir smiles brightly at Loki and lifts his eyebrows. It’s a Mimir rendition of a wave. Loki nods in his direction.

Horns announce the Jotunn’s arrival, and the hall goes quiet. Great double doors opposite the thrones open up and the Jotunn delegation marches in. King Frosthyrr is just one of many kings of Jotunheim squabbling for control of that realm. The civil wars on Jotunheim have given Frost Giants a reputation for primitive savagery, but you would not know it from looking at King Frosthyrr or the lords and ladies accompanying him. Their armor and clothing are fine, their bearing regal. But whereas Odin’s palace is bathed in warm colors — oranges, reds and golds — the Frost Giants wear whites, silvers and blues. The giantesses wear jewelry of cool crystal. Like Loki, to a one they are pale, their skin almost translucent.

At the head of the procession marches King Frosthyrr with his daughter, Princess Járnsaxa. Odin has instructed Baldur to pay special attention to the princess. Loki notices with some disappointment that she is actually quite lovely. Her pale cheeks are rosy, her eyes blue and sparkling beneath dark blonde locks. She is smiling perhaps more than a princess should, but overall...Loki sighs. Why does Baldur always get the pleasant tasks?

He looks over at the crown prince. To his surprise, Baldur’s eyes are riveted at the far end of the procession. Loki blinks, and then he sees what has caught Baldur’s attention. A giantess stands there, her attire somewhat more modest than her companions. She has the darkest hair Loki has ever seen, falling behind her shoulders like a black curtain. Her features are delicate and fine except for wide generous lips. Tall, and voluptuous without being fat, her bearing is as regal as a queen’s.

She is the most beautiful woman Loki has ever seen; and next to her, Princess Járnsaxa is only plain.

He shifts on his feet and finds her eyes on his. Her gaze quickly drops and wanders over the royal family beside him, and then it comes back to Loki. She smiles slightly as though they are sharing some secret joke, and then the man standing next to her whispers something in her ear and she frowns and looks away.

Loki stands transfixed for a moment, Odin’s words to King Frosthyrr are an unintelligible murmur at the edge of his consciousness. He looks to the crown prince. Baldur’s eyes are still riveted on the giantess.

If she has the attention of the golden prince, she is a lost cause. Loki looks away, but over the next few hours his eyes keep going back to her.

Much later in the evening, after the feasting is mostly done and the festivities are turning to dancing, Loki eyes are still wandering to the giantess. He’s learned her name is Anganboða. She is unmarried; the man she was speaking to earlier is her brother. Now she stands between said brother and Baldur. Loki scowls.

Thor’s loud voice bellows over his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Scar Lip? Won’t anyone dance with you?”

Loki glares at Thor. “I simply have not asked anyone.”

Thor’s eyes sparkle and he smiles wickedly. “And you think anyone would give you that honor?”

Loki feels his blood go hot. Without thinking he says, “I bet you six months of your princely stipend that the very first individual I ask will be unable to refuse me.”

Thor’s smile drops. “If I win I get your stipend for same.”

“Done,” says Loki, smirking despite the fact he has no idea how he’s going to pull this off. His eyes pass over the room. The only woman who might dance with him is Sigyn, but he recoils at that idea. And then he blinks, and recalling his wager, he turns and walks, nay nearly skips, over to Hoenir and Mimir. Bowing low before the staff that Mimir is mounted on, Loki says, “Mimir, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”