Chapter 6
Amy has more dreams later that night. They aren’t as pleasant and she has trouble falling to sleep again. In desperation, she pulls Fenrir up near her pillow. Still, she doesn’t go to sleep until the very early morning. When she wakes up, it is to Fenrir whimpering by the door. She blinks at the light and then does a double take. It must be nearly noon.
Amy gets up quickly, dresses, and heads down to the kitchen. Beatrice has her apron on and is leaning over the sink washing dishes. She smiles up at Amy. “Good morning, Dear.”
Thor is sitting at the table, in his retro outfit, a Chicago Transit Authority map spread out in front of him. How did he get invited to breakfast? Or brunch, or whatever.
“Good morning,” he says. He looks like the guy she remembers from the police station. A little rumpled, shoulders not quite square, expression soft. The sort of shy guy who filled her with trust. He doesn’t look like the mischievous guy in her dream last night, the one who turned himself into an Amazon, or the guy in the armor.
She blinks as she lets Fenrir out the back door. The kitchen is flooded with warm yellow light. Thor is complimenting Beatrice on her cooking; there is a bowl of freshly scrubbed strawberries on the table; the room smells like coffee, bacon and toast.
...and it feels even more dreamlike than Amy’s dream of Thor the Amazon.
“Amy? Amy?”
Beatrice is suddenly standing very close to her.
“Are you all right?” her grandmother says.
“Yes,” says Amy.
“Sit down,” says Beatrice. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
“No,” says Amy. “I’ll make some myself.”
She goes to the cupboard and takes out a cup. It crashes to the counter but doesn’t break. Amy shakes her head and rights it. She lifts the coffee pitcher off the base and starts to pour. The stream of hot fluid bounces around, some spilling on the counter. She wipes it up quickly with a dishtowel and goes to sit at the table.
Taking a sip, she notices that her grandmother’s and Thor’s eyes are on her.
“I’m alright,” Amy says.
Her grandmother tilts her head. “You’ve had quite a shock.”
“I’m alright,” Amy says again, more forcefully this time.
“I’m sure you are,” says Thor. Turning to Beatrice he says, “Thank you for the map — and of course, for breakfast.”
Picking up a cup Amy knows contains chamomile tea, Beatrice nods, “You’re always welcome at this table, of course.” There’s something about the way her eyes are narrowed and the way she peers over the cup that tells Amy something isn’t quite right.
Thor doesn’t seem to notice. “I think I better go now,” he says with a warm, sunny smile. He stands up from the table, the Chicago Transit Authority map and a tiny white book in one hand. “Oh,” he says suddenly. “You must have dropped this last night. I found it on the floor.” He puts her driver’s license on the table and slides it towards Amy. She doesn’t remember taking it out of her wallet since the police station.
A few minutes later he’s gone. Amy scowls. “Did you invite him in?”
Beatrice nods and looks towards the door. “It’s better to make sure he’s always invited.”
Amy stares down at her coffee. What does that mean?
Tilting her head, Beatrice pulls the tea bag from her cup. “Of course, it is nice to be able to cook for someone again,” she says brightly.
Amy reaches over and grabs her license. “I need to get ready for an interview at a new temp agency.” The one she used to work for went out of business.
Beatrice blinks. “Are you sure that’s wise? You don’t seem quite yourself.”
Amy stares at her coffee. She isn’t herself. But she just has to get over it. It’s not like this experience is completely new; it is just extreme. She’s dealt with creeps before. What woman hasn’t? She’d been felt up on the ‘L’ one time — and had elbowed the guy so badly he’d sputtered and nearly puked. Some really lovely gentleman had followed her home from the bus stop one night and she’d unslung her backpack, screamed at him like a banshee, and chased him away.
She puts her head in her hands. She didn’t escape this time. She was rescued. It turns out maybe there is a big difference. And if she hadn’t been rescued...She screws her eyes shut and starts to sob.
“There, there,” says Beatrice.
“Grandma,” she says. “If it wasn’t for Thor...” she can’t talk about the pictures, can’t say what she saw in them — or them bursting into flames. That part was real, the fire, wasn’t it?
She takes a big gulp of air. She isn’t sure of anything anymore. “Should I have invited him home?” she says. “He, he, he...” What? Has featured prominently in some weird dreams, or... “Maybe I trust him more than I should because he saved me, but he could be crazy, too.” She shakes her head.
Beatrice’s hand stops. “Oh, I don’t think you or I have anything to worry about from our guest.” She looks around the kitchen, “Other than that he might eat us out of house and home. Always better to invite him to the party, though...”
“Grandma?” says Amy.
Beatrice blinks. “Oh, nothing.”
Amy stares at her grandmother for a few moments. She looks tiny and frail. But she’s not — or she wasn’t.
Beatrice’s parents put Beatrice and her two brothers on a boat to the free world back in 1940, just before the Nazis invaded. Before they left they’d already lost family members and friends under Soviet rule — some disappeared in the middle of the night, others simply died in the great famine of the early 1930s.
Beatrice lost her entire world. Amy feels like her world has changed forever, that she’s lost something precious — but compared to Beatrice, Amy has lost nothing.
“How did you do it, Grandma? When you got on the boat...”
Beatrice blinks. “What?”
Swallowing, Amy looks down at her hands and plays nervously with her fingers. “I was just wondering how you kept going...after you lost everything.”
Beatrice sighs and looks down at her tea. “You just do.”
Standing up, Amy wipes her face. “I’m going to get ready to go.”
Beatrice looks at her for a moment and then nods.
Amy manages to get ready for her interview, and she gets out of the door with plenty of time to spare — even though leaving her home shatters her sense of security.
What she doesn’t manage to do is drive. She stares at her grandmother’s Subaru Forester, keys in hand, and decides she’d rather take the bus. She’s not sure if it’s because of the rollover, or if she just wants to stay around other people.
As she walks out to the front walk and heads towards the ‘L’, she sees an older man, perhaps in his 50’s, buying an ice cream from one of the Mexican ice cream bicycle carts that frequent her neighborhood. He’s got a stern square jaw and is completely bald on top. Amy notices him because he’s wearing a gray suit despite the heat. The suit looks too nice to belong to an old timer from the neighborhood, but he isn’t young enough to be a yuppie. As she walks by, he tips his head at her over his drumstick ice cream cone. Not wanting to be rude, she nods back.
x x x x
Loki consults the CTA map and his book. The location is right.
The building in front of him looks to be about 100 years old. It has not been maintained very well. The facade of brick and cement is crumbling. Cutting straight through the heart of the building is a covered brick alleyway that leads to a dismal inner courtyard. There is a decorative iron gate that is rusted and blood colored. Loki scowls — it is strange that mortals tend to erect physical gates where World Gates reside. Another strange bit of human magic? He tilts his head; fortunately the iron gate is now open and won’t be in his way. Beyond the iron gate, on the far wall of the courtyard in peeling paint, are the words, “Graphic Arts Co.” Set into the walls are boarded up doors and windows covered with graffiti.
&nb
sp; Loki looks around. He sees a few men down the street unloading a small van. They don’t seem to notice him. Loki has altered his Midgardian attire considerably. As he walked here — only a few short miles — he observed the natives and gradually modified his clothing. He now appears to be wearing a gray tee shirt, breeches of a thick blue fabric, gray shoes with laces and stripes, and dark glasses. And he appears to have a black rectangular bag slung over one shoulder.
He is actually wearing his armor, with his helmet on, visor down. Over one arm he’s slung his army knapsack filled with the two remaining grenades, some of last night’s ham and bread, and a large bottle of water he nicked from a store on the way.
Moving beneath the overhang towards the iron gate he closes his eyes. An instant later he is invisible to anyone who looks in his direction.
Loki walks until he feels a shiver snake its way up his spine. The World Gate is here. He can feel the tug of magic in the place where time and space are weakly defined.
He begins to murmur a childhood rhyme he used to recite to his children. It isn’t a spell, per se; but it helps him focus his mind. Lifting his hands, he closes his eyes and begins to imagine pulling back a heavy curtain. The gate opens surprisingly easily, and a swirling vortex of color spins before him.
Loki steps forward...
...and feels stone beneath his feet. He takes a deep breath, drops the invisibility spell to conserve magic, and opens his eyes to the bright white-blue sunlight and silvery hues of Alfheim, land of the Elves. He looks down; beneath his feet is a silver road. That is right. The realm is right. But...
Scowling, he spins around...On both sides of the road is dense forest. On one side of the road the tree trunks are light lavender; the undergrowth is sparse and dotted with blue and yellow flowers. On the other side the trunks are deep indigo and nearly black; the undergrowth is dense and dark. Above the dark trees is an ominous swirl of dark gray magical clouds. He is certain he sees eyes peering at him from beneath the dark branches.
Unsheathing his sword, he switches to the tongue of the Dark Elves and says, “Don’t even think about it.” Just to be on the safe side he concentrates his magic towards the undergrowth and imagines the molecules there swirling and dancing together. There is a burst of flame, just as he intends, and a curse from his onlooker. He hears stirring in the undergrowth as the Dark Elf disappears into the forest.
Letting the flames dissipate, Loki consults Lothur’s journal. His jaw goes tight and his brow furrows. It’s colder here than in Chicago, but he feels himself getting hotter beneath his armor. He should be so close...but the entrance point is wrong.
Narrowing his eyes, he lets his consciousness fly to the air. He sees what he is looking for, the palace of the queen of the Light Elves about 100 miles down the road. Once this World Gate would have dropped him right outside her door, but the branches of the World Tree grow, and as they grow, they shift.
It is said the elf queen, like Odin, Heimdall, and possibly Hoenir, can see all that happens in the Nine Realms if she wishes. She may be able to tell him where his sons were deposited. Since Heimdall and Odin aren’t likely to be helpful at the moment, and Hoenir will be difficult to reach, the elf queen seems like Loki’s best option.
Most of the way the road abuts the dark forest. The Dark Elves won’t harass travelers on the road by day; but by night it will be another matter.
There are other ways to get to the elf queen’s palace besides the road. If he takes those ways, when he emerges on the other end, he won’t be helpless, but he will be much weaker, very tired, and ravenous. Not a way to make a good impression, and definitely not good if his reception is less than welcome.
He lets his consciousness sink back into his body. There is a part of him that wants to instantly go forward. The information he needs is so close...and he is strong again. Yesterday it was easy to be patient, he was too weak to be otherwise. But now, it is a struggle not to be impetuous.
He takes a sharp, frustrated breath and considers his situation. If only he had a carpet or...
Sheathing his sword, he turns and steps back to where the World Gate has shut. Closing his eyes he begins to tug at the gate again until it is open as wide as it will go. Furrowing his brow and concentrating to keep it open, he quickly measures the width by pacing the length. It is just wide enough.
Nodding to himself, he is just about to leave Alfheim, when a flash of something white on the light side of the road catches his attention. Turning towards it he scowls.
Sure enough...
Unsheathing his sword, Loki stands before the semi-open World Gate and glares at the unicorn emerging from the wood. What it wants in Midgard Loki can’t imagine, but it’s not coming through Loki’s gate. Hoenir would never hear the end of it if he let such a vicious temperamental creature loose in a major Midgardian metropolis. Lifting his sword high like a spear, Loki says, “Don’t you think about it either.”
The beast lowers its head and snorts. The air between it and Loki shimmers with heat. With a curse, Loki forces the excited molecules to quiet. Lowering the sword, he pulls a knife from his belt and hurls it in the beast’s direction, but the monster vanishes and the knife explodes harmlessly against a tree.
Narrowing his eyes, Loki shouts, “You’d taste good on an open spit!”
There is no sound. Loki doesn’t turn his eyes from the forest. Rather than risk being gored in the back, he makes himself invisible, carefully backs up through the World Gate...and promptly collides with the iron gate on the other side. He feels like Thor has just heaved him against a wall — in anger, or worse, enthusiasm. Loki doesn’t curse, but it’s a near call.
He lets the World Gate dissipate, turns around and surveys the situation. There is a plate on the gate that looks like it may have had a locking mechanism at one point, but now it’s partially rusted through. Instead, the gate is held by a simple padlock on a rusty chain. It takes hardly a thought to make the padlock spring open. He pushes at the gate gently, but it’s hanging so low on its hinges that it scrapes the ground. A tiny push isn’t going to do it. Loki grasps the metal plate and lifts. Pain shoots up his hand and he lets go. There is a loud clang as the last bit of the ancient plate falls to the ground. He does curse.
Someone shouts something from an open window.
Scowling, Loki lifts the gate again — this time using one of the great rusting vertical iron bars. It opens easily enough and he slips out of the alley and onto the street.
He walks down the block until he finds a vehicle that he thinks will suit his purposes. A Mercedes-Benz emblem is on the hood; he recognizes it from his journeys through Nazi Germany. What’s more important is that, as odd as the shape is, sleek and low to the ground, it has a visible stick shift. Most of the cars don’t. Loki’s last attempt at navigating a human vehicle didn’t end well, and he’s afraid of trying to master a new and more difficult technology on short notice. He puts a hand towards the lock, reaches out...
The car begins honking. Loudly.
From down the street he hears a man’s voice. “That’s my car!”
The car is calling to its master! Humans have crossed the divide between makers of machines to makers of living things!
A window opens. “Shut it up!”
Loki is invisible. He does not need to run. But he does anyway.
x x x x
When Amy turns up Beatrice’s front walk it is still light out and the Mexican ice cream bicycle cart is still wheeling up and down her block, its bell ringing cheerfully.
She really should have stopped by the vet clinic and the restaurant where she normally hostesses over breaks. She doesn’t want to risk coming home after dark though. Not yet.
She feels like she is covered with a second skin of pollution, dried sweat, and grime. Chicago in summer. She sighs.
As soon as she is inside, she heads to the shower. When she is clean and feeling human again, she curls up with her iPhone on a big chair in the living room.
She frowns at her phone. There are several missed calls. One from Chris, a guy she briefly dated. Chris is very nice, on a track to success, and a good, solid person. Someone Beatrice would like and Amy should like, but couldn’t. She thinks of their awkward fumblings in bed that never quite worked for her and blushes. Chris said she’d get it with time...she swallows. In the end she’d just made herself unavailable. He deserves someone better.
She scrolls down and sees her vet-wannabe friend Andrea called. Andrea will be sympathetic and probably make her laugh. Andrea will probably press her to see a shrink...but after she’s done with that they can talk about their Equine Theriogenology course and everything will be good. Suddenly possessed not just with the desire, but the need to call Andrea, Amy puts the phone to her ear. That’s when Beatrice walks in.
“It’s been awfully quiet today,” says Beatrice, sitting down on the sofa.
Putting down her phone, Amy looks up at her grandmother.
Reading the unformed question on her lips, Beatrice says, “I guess I just expected that the police would call. Or maybe the press...”
Amy blinks. “Please don’t call the press, Grandma.” The last thing Amy wants right now is flash bulbs and interviews.
Beatrice snorts, and Amy smiles. Good, strong, private, Ukrainian Beatrice wouldn’t want that.
“I don’t think I’d worry,” Amy says. “The police have my contact info. And they kept Thor and me for a really long time. They let us both go — the evidence was pretty...” Amy trails off.
“Oh, my!” says Beatrice. “I forgot. I have to go buy a new ham for my church group. Do you think you’ll be okay if I go out?”
“Sure, Grandma,” says Amy. She’s actually looking forward to calling her friend Andrea. She might tell her some of the details she didn’t tell Beatrice.
Beatrice gets up a little stiffly and heads towards the front door. A few minutes later, Amy hears the door slam and picks up her phone. She’s just about to dial the number when there is a knock at the back kitchen door. Fenrir dashes towards it, and Amy scowls but gets up and follows.
Thor is standing right outside on the stoop.
Amy remembers her conversation with Beatrice earlier when she questioned Thor’s trustworthiness. For a moment she hesitates, but then Fenrir does her happy dance, wagging her whole body and hopping on her feet. Fenrir doesn’t like anyone, except maybe Beatrice and Amy. The whole reason Fenrir’s name is Fenrir is because man-hating-bitch-from-Hell is too much of a mouthful, and you can’t say it in polite company.
Amy tilts her head and looks at her ecstatic little dog. Pursing her lips, she opens the door.
“Amy,” Thor says as Fenrir twines around his feet. He’s wearing clothing that looks more decade appropriate, and she wonders how he got it. “I need your help.”
Amy’s brow furrows, waiting for him to explain. He lifts his hand to push back his hair, and she notices his hand is bleeding.
“Oh, wow! Your hand,” she says. “Come in. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
He looks down at his hand as though puzzled but doesn’t protest, just steps into the kitchen.
“Better wash it out in the sink,” she says going to the cabinet for the first aid kit. “How did you do that?”
“Rusty gate,” he responds.
Looking over her shoulder as she pulls down the kit she says, “I hope you have a tetanus shot.”
He blinks as he puts his hand under the sink. “Tetanus?”
Raising an eyebrow, she says, “Tetanus, it’s a disease caused by bacteria; it’s also called lockjaw. A very bad way to die.”
“Oh, a bacteria...I am safe from that.” He lifts his hand up and stares at it. There is a huge gash running down the middle of his palm. “It’s really not as bad as it looks,” he says.
Shaking her head, Amy takes his hand. He doesn’t resist.
“It’s not going to heal very well. Every time you bend your hand it’s going to open again,” she says, staring down at the cut. “I have some Nu-Skin; it’s a liquid adhesive bandage. It’s probably your best bet.”
“It’s not necessary,” he says.
“It is necessary...” Amy stops. The cut is melding itself back together before her eyes.
She gasps. “How?”
“Just a little concentration,” he says. “I can heal myself quite well. Unfortunately, I can’t do it for others.”
Amy is suddenly aware that they are standing very close, and that she barely knows him. She should back away, but instead she pulls the hand closer to her, fascinated. The skin on his hand is fresh, new, and unmarred. She lifts her eyes to his face.
He smirks. When he speaks his voice oozes bitterness. “There’s something in my nature, maybe it’s a manifestation of my selfishness, my self-centeredness...but I can’t heal anyone else, no matter how I might wish to. Even Thor, though he detests magic, has exceedingly good healing skills.”
“What are you talking about?” Amy says quietly.
“Come on, Miss Lewis,” he says. He’s so close she can feel his breath against her hair when he speaks. “You already have discovered who I really am. And I’ve given you ample proof.”
“You’re crazy,” she says, finally dropping his hand and backing up. “Or I’m crazy.”
He takes a step forward. “No, you’re not crazy. The wolf, the armor...” he smirks again. “The lovely lady you found yourself talking to last night. All real...or perfectly serviceable illusions.”
Amy feels her back hit the wall. “No.”
He grimaces. “And the picture folio catching fire and the candles last night were probably me, too — but I didn’t mean for those to happen.”
“Stop it,” Amy says, moving sideways to the kitchen door. “Just stop it.”
“No,” he says, moving forward and catching her wrist. The clothing he is wearing seems to shimmer, like heat waves above a road on a hot day, and there he is in his armor again. “I need your help,” he says, his face very close to hers, and Amy can see his blue eyes are so pale they’re almost white. “And you owe me.”
“I don’t owe you anything! Let me go!” Amy says, trying to twist her hand from his grasp. When that doesn’t work she tries stomping on his feet...but he’s not there.
From behind her his voice comes again. “Your life is worth more than a bed, some ham, and stuffed cabbages, Girl. You do owe me, and you will pay up.”
Amy spins around. He’s blocking the door from the kitchen to the living room.
She spins around again to run out the back door but he’s already standing there, his head canted forward, a scowl between his brow. “I really do not want to hurt you. I need your cooperation, my sons’ lives — ”
“I won’t!” Closing her eyes, she shouts, “Fenrir!”
From the floor comes a happy yip. She scowls down at the dog. When did her brave mutt become so unreliable?
“Just hear me out,” he says through gritted teeth.
“No!” Amy says. “You. Are. Crazy.”
“What do you want...Loki?”
Amy turns her head. Beatrice is standing in the doorway, purse in her hands; she is trembling slightly.
“Grandma?” says Amy. “I thought you were going to get a ham...”
Not taking her eyes off Thor...or Loki, or whoever it is, Beatrice says. “I forgot my wallet. What do you want, Loki?”
Straightening, mystery weird guy says, “A car ride.”
Beatrice swallows but then juts out her chin like she does when she’s about to complain to a store clerk. “You could have just asked.”
“To Alfheim,” he says.
“Oh...” says Beatrice. “Land of the Elves. Oh, my.”
Amy runs to her grandmother and grabs her shoulders. “Come on, Grandma, let’s go.”
“No,” says Beatrice, her eyes still on whoever it is. “You are worth more than a few cabbage rolls, Dear.”
“Grandma,” says Amy. “This is crazy, he isn’t...”
&
nbsp; “Amy,” Beatrice says, meeting Amy’s eyes. “He just changed his clothing into armor, and I saw him shape shift last night. We don’t want to be in his debt.”
“Good point, Beatrice.”
Amy turns her head. Loki, Thor, or crazy fundamentalist home schooling escapee is walking towards them.
Shrugging, he says, “I’m sorry to be so insistent. Really, I’ve had a lovely time with the two of you. But I’ve recovered, and I can’t dally anymore.”
“Will you bring me back?” says Beatrice.
“Grandma!” shouts Amy, shaking her head. Beatrice brings one hand up to her shoulder and squeezes Amy’s hand.
Bowing, he says, “Of course.”
Beatrice narrows her eyes. “Do I have your oath?”
Whoever it is stops. He stands up straight. For a moment he says nothing. And then, tilting his head he says, “That is too broad a promise. You have my oath that I will do everything in my power to bring you back safely. More than that — ” He lifts his hands and lowers his head, eyes locked on Beatrice.
“Grandma, you don’t drive!” says Amy. The only reason Beatrice has a car is because the ten-year old Subaru in the garage belongs to Amy’s grandfather and Beatrice doesn’t have the heart to part with it.
“But I can,” says Beatrice. Turning, she nods at the crazy man. “I will do it, Loki.”
Crazy man beams. “It actually might be good fun for you. The Light Elves have nothing against humans.”
Shivering a little, Beatrice smiles. “Might be worth it to see Alfheim, before I die.”
“There’s no such thing as elves!” Amy says.
“On Earth,” says Crazy Guy. Bowing in her grandmother’s direction, he says, “Beatrice, you are a true lady. If you were a few hundred years older — ”
Beatrice’s smile drops. “Stow it, Silvertongue. How long will this take?”
“This is crazy, Grandma!” says Amy, dropping her hands. Her grandmother doesn’t even meet her eyes.
“About a day,” he says, face going serious.
“Take what you think we’ll need from the refrigerator. I’m going to get ready,” says Beatrice. She turns around and starts walking towards the stairs.
Amy glares at Crazy Guy. “I’m not letting her go alone anywhere with you!”
“You’re more than welcome to join us,” he says, going to the fridge.
“You fucking jerk!” Amy hisses. “Taking advantage of an old woman like that!”
Loki-Thor-Crazy Person scowls over his shoulder at her. A rag on the counter bursts into flames. Amy’s eyes widen. She looks at Crazy Guy. He is staring at the fire with eyes wide as hers. Turning to her quickly, he says nervously, “I didn’t do that!”
Frantically pushing the burning rag into the sink with a stray fork, Amy douses it with the faucet. “Of course you didn’t. That would be impossible,” she whispers.
She’s got to convince Beatrice not to go with this guy. As soon as the flames are out, she runs up the stairs and finds Beatrice packing a small overnight bag in her bedroom.
...and she gets nowhere with her cajoling, arguments or pleas.
“I said I will drive him and I am going to drive him,” her grandmother says.
“But it’s crazy! You can’t drive to Alfheim! Alfheim doesn’t exist!”
“Then maybe we’ll drive a bit and come home,” says Beatrice.
“He’s a lunatic!”
Putting a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in an overnight bag, Beatrice smiles. “A charming lunatic.”
“So was Ted Bundy!”
Zipping up her bag, Beatrice blinks at Amy. “Who was he?”
“A serial killer!”
Beatrice’s eyes go hard. “Do you really think Loki is a serial killer? Really?”
Amy remembers the picture in the van going up in flames, and Thor...Loki...nearly stammering, I’m sorry...I didn’t mean...
Shaking her head, Amy closes her eyes. “No, but that is not the point.”
Putting her bag on the floor and wheeling it out into the hallway, Beatrice says, “Well, then what is your point?”
“This is madness.”
“I said I would drive him,” says Beatrice, beginning her agonizingly slow descent of the stairs.
Strong, independent, stubborn, Ukrainian. She hasn’t driven in years — Beatrice behind the wheel is probably more dangerous than Thor-Loki-whoever.
Swallowing, Amy shouts, “I’m driving!”