Lokis gambit, p.100
Loki's Gambit, page 100
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
From behind her comes a frightened cheeping. Spinning with the current, she sees Mr. Squeakers on the roots of an enormous log only a few feet away. But where is Bohdi? Something dark catches her eye, bobbing on the surface. She reaches forward and her hands connect with smooth skin. She slips her arms underneath what she hopes are armpits, pulls, and finds herself staring at an armload of adze—its limbs unmoving, eyes open to the sky, mouth slack. With a gasp, she pushes the creature away. It quickly disappears beneath the surface.
Struggling to stay afloat herself, she hears a gasp and a sputter, spins again, and sees Bohdi just a few inches from Squeakers’ log. A rush of gratitude to God or the universe or something shoots through her. She kicks in the direction of the log just in time to see Bohdi sink beneath the surface.
“Bohdi!” she screams, plunging her hand down. Her fingers connect with the collar of his shirt, and she feels herself going under. Throwing out her other hand, her fingers find a part of the log, slick, but firm. Pulling herself to the log with one hand, she yanks on Bohdi with the other, despairing that they’re both already lost—she’s too weak, she hadn’t been strong enough in the chariot—but then Bohdi’s head pops above the surface.
Mr. Squeakers cheeps in alarm. Amy’s gaze is glued to Bohdi. His eyes aren’t open. Pulling him toward her, she wraps her arm around his waist and spins him so he’s in front of her. She tries to press him against the tree trunk but finds herself pressing him into the maze of the tree’s root system instead. His body must be caught on a part of the tree beneath the surface, because she suddenly can’t move him anymore. Sputtering, Amy slides beside him and nudges him deeper into the roots until his chin is resting on another root, just barely above water. His mouth is open, but she’s not sure if he’s breathing.
Mr. Squeakers’ cheeping becomes frantic, and then suddenly the mouse is in her hair, his tiny feet scraping against her scalp. She looks up and sees the adze swarming above her.
One tries to land in the roots above her head. The tree must hit something, because a tremendous shock ripples through the log, and the adze slips off as the makeshift raft spins in the current. Instinctively, Amy squeezes Bohdi’s stomach, and he heaves and coughs. She gasps in relief, but it’s short lived. Three adze alight on the trunk of the log, the wind in their dragonfly wings making them list dangerously to the side—one topples into the water, but the other two drop to all fours and begin crawling forward, hanging on with the long, catlike claws of their feet and hands.
Amy pulls herself tighter to Bohdi with one arm. She can hear his breathing, ragged and strained. She feels his heart beating in his chest, and the warmth of his body through his thin clothes. Her other arm is trembling, and her fingers are burning, as she clings tightly to a root above, trying to hold them both just high enough to breathe.
Mr. Squeakers gives a cheep; Amy hears a hiss and sees an adze just a few feet away, its head pressed between two thick roots. Its skin is gray, its eyes are wide and unblinking, and they glow in the low light. It’s completely hairless. It opens its mouth and Amy can smell decay in its long razor-like teeth. Hissing, it leans back and shoots an arm forward through the gap.
With a cry, Amy presses her face against Bohdi’s head. She feels the air stir above her and the adze releases a furious snarl. Amy’s whole body quakes. She wants to let go, take her chances with the current. But she finds she can’t. Bohdi would die, and it’s a relief and agony to know she can’t let that happen. She hears a cry and realizes she’s sobbing. The sky is almost black with adze, and their screams and the flapping of their wings is as loud as the river. Occasionally there is a splash and snarling as the adzes knock one of their own into the river.
There is a snap of wood, and pain races through the fingers holding to the root above. She hears a snarl that sounds almost like a chuckle. Fury wracks through her body; looking up between the roots she sees the adze licking its claws. She can’t fight it; her hands are tied. Lips curling, tears streaming down her cheeks, she starts to shout. “Fuck you! Fuck you! Go to hell!” It’s a hopeless waste of what little strength she has left, but it feels good somehow. Like she’s telling off fate. The adze leans forward, sniffing the air. Amy spits at it and hits it squarely in the eye. She almost laughs as it draws back with a startled hiss.
Between the wings of the swarm, a bolt of pink light suddenly shines. The adze’s cries of fury begin to change to cries of fear. The second adze on the log leaps into the air. The one sitting in front of Amy sits back on its haunches and stares at her. Amy squeezes Bohdi tighter reflexively, preparing for the creature to strike. But then it raises its wings and takes to the sky.
Amy drops her head to Bohdi’s. She’s suddenly aware how cold the river is. After a few minutes, she begins to carefully untangle herself and Bohdi from the tree roots.
Chapter Fourteen
The log drifts and spins slowly with the increasingly lazy current. The forest fire rages on. By Amy’s guess, it’s less than half a mile north from them.
Even with all the smoke in the air, the sun is hot on Amy’s back as she kneels over Bohdi’s prone form. She has one knee between Bohdi’s legs, and the other precariously perched on the sloping side of the log. They’re very lucky it’s one of the big trees they found. At some point, they’ll have to worry about getting stuck in shallow water, but for now…
Amy takes a breath and runs her hand between Bohdi’s shoulder blades and down his spine. Lying on his stomach, head draped over the side, he coughs. It’s a horrible, wet choking sound. Some water spews from his mouth into the river.
Where he’s tucked in her shirt, Mr. Squeakers gives a worried cheep.
Keeping her voice calm, patient, clinical, and steady, Amy rubs Bohdi’s back and whispers, “That’s it. Let it out.”
Inside she’s screaming, Please, please, please, don’t die. Her hand stills on his spine. Beneath her fingers she can feel his muscles and bones drawn taught by the coughing spasm. She lifts her eyes. He’s looking at a distant point in the water. His face is drawn, a day’s worth of beard growth a shadow across his cheeks and chin. Weak and helpless, he doesn’t look like the ghost of Loki that he did in the spider’s nest.
She bites her lip. If they were on Earth, she’d have called an ambulance and insisted they administer oxygen. Bohdi inhaled a lot of liquid. Dry drowning is a real possibility.
At a loss for anything to do, she leans over and presses her ear to his back. Her fingers instinctively clench against his sides…as though she can hold his life in the shell of his body if she squeezes tight enough. “Breathe for me,” she says, “as deep as you can.”
Bohdi obliges. Without a stethoscope, Amy’s not sure if she can trust her ears. She tells herself she’s imagining a slight crackle. She bites her lip. She doesn’t know the incidence of pneumonia after drowning, but it has to be pretty small…unless of course, you’re on a foreign planet with bugs you’ve never encountered before and have no resistance to. She glances down at her hand. She’d left the cut over her knuckles free to bleed, hoping to purge any foreign bacteria. It must have worked, her knuckle is scabbing over beautifully.
On the log, Bohdi begins hacking water out of his lungs, again. He’s stronger than she is, and it seems a strange twist of fate that he should be the one who’s hurt and sick.
Sitting up, Amy resumes rubbing his back.
As the spasm comes to an end, Bohdi whispers, “Amy…still have…your phone?
“Yes,” says Amy.
“Is my phone…still in…” He rasps and stammers. “…back…left…pocket?”
It’s the most he’s said since she pulled him onto the log. And a good sign. Amy looks down. “Yes.”
“Take it out,” Bohdi whispers.
Amy slips her hand into his pocket. Her mind is immediately filled with the very inappropriate realization that Bohdi has a well-conditioned gluteus maximus. She flushes. Wrapping her hand around the phone, she pulls it out as fast as she can.
“What do you want me to do with it?” she asks.
“Nothing…” His eyes slide shut, and he smiles. “Just wanted…you to…feel me up.”
Amy’s skin goes hot. She gives him a hard thump on the back. He immediately spits out a little more water.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
Amy sits back on the log with a harrumph.
He gasps. “Need to take…them…apart.”
Amy blinks.
Before she can ask, he says, “If parts dry out…may be able to use them later.”
It’s a good idea. Amy starts to back away, but Bohdi whines. “Please don’t go.” He coughs.
Her chest constricts. Does he know what bad shape he’s in? She remembers him grabbing her wrist and dragging her through the trees—she couldn’t have run so fast without his help. And she remembers him beating back the spider, leaping onto its body as light as a flame. He hasn’t moved since she helped him lie down on the log. There’s a good chance he knows.
“Don’t worry, I know you’ll be fine,” she says, as much for herself as for him.
Bohdi’s muscles tense beneath her. Instead of coughing, he sneezes.
Amy silently wills Bohdi to not be getting a viral infection. Without a word, she takes off her winter coat, lays it over his lower thighs, and scoots back so she can sit between his calves. Silently shifting, he reaches into his front pocket, pulls out his knife, and hands it back to her. As she takes it, he begins hacking again.
“Amy?” Bohdi whispers, after the coughing subsides.
“Hmmm?” she says, using the knife to undo a few screws.
“Talk to me,” Bohdi says, his voice faint.
Amy lifts her head. “About what?”
“Anything…” he rasps.
Amy bites her lip. She’s never been a good storyteller. Detailed anecdotes about operating on cats fall flat at cocktail parties. She winces. She knows.
Perking up, she says, “I didn’t finish telling you about Loki and Freyja’s necklace.”
Groaning, Bohdi rasps out, “I only want to hear that…if you tell me the dirty parts.”
Amy gives his leg a smack. “There aren’t any dirty parts.”
Bohdi lifts his head. “But he was…” He coughs. “On his way to her house?”
Slipping the casing off the phone in her hand, Amy frowns. “No, he was on his way to get a drink…”
It is just Loki’s luck that Freyja’s husband, Ord, is at the pub he goes to. Even more his luck when Ord buys him a drink and invites him to sit down with him and his friends. The friends cast suspicious glances in Loki’s direction, but Ord is oblivious.
Sitting next to the man Loki is about to prove was cuckolded when Freyja traded sexual favors with three dwarves for a magical necklace leaves Loki feeling too sick to do more than sip his ale. Pointing out the sexual peccadilloes of Asgardians has gotten Loki in trouble before—it certainly didn’t help his sentence when he was sent to the cave.
His hand tightens on his knife. He is risking everything on this errand for Odin. Not just his marriage, but his relationship with his boys. They’ll be even less likely than Sigyn to forgive him if they find out Loki’s cheated on their mother. Sigyn might believe him if he tells her he did it under duress. Sigyn knows Loki isn’t interested in Freyja. Loki’s inherently lazy. Sex with Freyja is a lot of work, and then afterward, she forces her lovers to engage in her favorite topic of conversation: herself.
Maybe if he just gives Freyja a spanking and calls her a few naughty names, he can tie her up and use the time to find the necklace. If he’s clever about it, she’ll be none the wiser. And if he leaves her unsated she’ll be happily furious…and maybe Sigyn won’t see that as infidelity per se…
Jamming his knife into the tabletop, Loki drops his head into his hands. Sigyn will be furious either way. She is enthusiastic about the reforms Freyja is petitioning for. And when Loki casually mentioned the “rumor” of Freyja and the dwarves, Sigyn snapped, “I don’t care if she slept with dwarves, I care what she can do for Asgard. Just like I don’t care about you sleeping with dwarves, I care what you do for our family!”
Loki had blinked. “Who told you I slept with dwarves?” That had been before they were together, he hadn’t thought she’d known—quite frankly, he’s shocked that she married him if she did know. Even for a man, sex with dwarves was decidedly…unsavory.
Sigyn had just rolled her eyes. “Who haven’t you slept with, Loki?”
Ord’s hand falls on Loki’s shoulder. “Loki, are you all right?” Loki silently curses him for being so kind.
At just that moment, one of Odin’s ravens flies in an open window. Landing on the table it bobs its head and says, “Hi ya, Loki! Just saw Valli and Nari with Odin.”
Sitting up straight, Loki meets its beady eyes. Odin never has audiences with Valli and Nari. This is just a not-so-subtle reminder that Odin holds the fate of Loki’s family in his hands.
Cocking its head, the raven rawks. “Don’t you have an errand to do?”
Loki’s hands curl into fists at the implicit threat. “Right,” he says. Wishing he’d tried harder to get drunk, he stands and says his goodbyes.
When he arrives at Freyja’s home, he is greeted by Valkyries and Einherjar guards at the front door, and one very nervous servant girl. With a tip of her head, the servant says, “Right this way.”
Following the girl, Loki scowls. He had expected the servants to be dismissed so that this bit of business could be kept as quiet as possible. His skin heats, and his fist clenches at his side. At least he won’t have to fake wanting to smack Freyja.
The servant turns down a corridor Loki has never been down before. Halting before a set of double doors, she throws them open, and beckons Loki to enter.
Stunned by what he sees, Loki enters, his ire momentarily forgotten. He is in a library. Shelves stretch upward at least three stories on all sides. They are overflowing with clay tablets, books, and scrolls of parchment, silk, and papyrus. Light streams from a circular skylight overhead. The light falls in a golden curtain upon Freyja, bent over a desk, her cats on either side of her.
She wants help clearing her desk? Well, at least this is slightly different…
Looking up from where she is sitting, Freyja gently lies down an enormous quill pen. “Ah, Loki…”
Her voice is faint, unusually uncertain. Even when she requests to be humiliated, or thrown over a knee, Freyja is demanding.
Immediately on alert, Loki scans the room, almost expecting to see her Einherjar or Valkyries slip from the shadows.
Freyja waves her hand, and the servant disappears, closing the doors behind her.
“We are alone,” says Freyja, stepping around the desk. Her movements are unusually hesitant.
Smirking, Loki takes a step forward. “A new game, Freyja?”
Grecian garments are the style of the day, and her dress is open in a deep V at the neck. Trailing her fingers down the bare slope of her skin, she says, “I’m not playing a game, Loki—but you are.”
Her voice isn’t accusatory. It’s soft, as are her eyes. Tilting her head, she says, “The only question…is why?”
Taking a step forward, Loki grabs her wrist. Freyja’s mouth opens, and her pupils dilate. She trembles under his hand and swallows. “I want this…”
“Well, then—”
Twisting her wrist, and pulling back with her considerable magical strength, Freyja frees herself with frustrating ease. Quickly putting her other hand on Loki’s chest, she pushes him back, gently, but firmly. “But you don’t, Loki. So why are you here?” The warm pink of her magic rises in the room.
If she were angry, Loki might fight. But her voice is soft and soothing.
Freyja licks her lips. “I’ve always been able to see who a man’s in love with…” she looks Loki up and down. “And right now, you are in love…with your wife…” She huffs, a gentle laugh, that is somehow empathetic and not mocking. Loki’s fists unclench.
Shaking her head, almost sadly, Freyja says, “Being in love won’t stop a person from taking a lover. But we both know Sigyn would have your head if she found out.” Meeting Loki’s eyes, she reaches up and touches his cheek. “And you wouldn’t risk it,” she whispers, her eyes wide, as though seeing something for the first time.
She pulls back, and her mouth drops. “Loki, you’re not here for yourself…” Her voice trails off. “Odin…he wants something.”
Loki takes a step back and stumbles on a cat, threading its way between his feet.
“Whatever he is offering,” Freyja says, as Loki regains his balance, “I can match it.”
Loki raises an eyebrow. There is nothing she can offer more valuable than the lives of his sons.
Freyja steps forward, putting her hand on his arm. Her magic rises around them again, and something else twists with the pink of her aura, darker and warmer. He cannot and doesn’t want to move.
“It’s not riches, or power, you want…” She draws her head back, as though surprised. “Those things don’t mean much to you…”
Pulling his knuckles to her lips, she kisses them. It’s oddly not erotic; it’s maternal. Loki stands transfixed, unable to move or even think.
Freyja’s eyes widen a fraction. “I can help you take care of them, Loki. I can help you take care of your family.”
Gasping, Loki drops his head. Overwhelmed. Freyja can be loving… How had he not known?
Still stroking his cheek, Freyja whispers, “I have the hearts of the people of Asgard, and the swords of all the Valkyries and half the Einherjar. I can protect you, and them.”
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