The photo isn’t labeled. Bohdi’s not sure if he is the child, or even if the couple is his parents, but usually he likes to think that they are. Not so much today. They look so clean, happy, and so good—what would they think of him if they knew what he’d done?

  He had done it with the best of intentions. The security loophole was glaring and dangerous, even if it was only on the intranet, and behind firewalls and logins. After weeks of alerting ADUO and nothing being done, he’d proven it.

  A true criminal would have put the personal details of all of ADUO’s personnel on the Internet. Bohdi just changed all the names to Pig Latin—a silly language he had learned from Claire, Steve’s eight-year-old daughter.

  A true criminal’s hands wouldn’t tremble at the memory of the confrontation with Steve afterward.

  “Do you think this is funny?” Steve had demanded, hovering above Bohdi’s desk.

  Unable to suppress a smile, Bohdi had replied, “Esyay?” He’d meant to launch into a defense, an explanation of how easy it would be to change the names back, and how now Steve could get funding for more tech support. He’d never gotten the chance.

  “Don’t you understand we’re busy protecting people out there,” Steve had shouted, pointing to the ruins of LaSalle Street where magical beasties still had a habit of popping up.

  “Of course,” Bohdi responded. “But this is about protection, too…protecting your employees’ identities from espionage and blackmail!”

  Face going a shade darker, Steve snapped, “You acted unilaterally—without respect for authority. You made this department look bad, and me look bad, at the worst possible time.”

  Bohdi’s skin heated. That was what Steve thought this was about? Trying to make him look bad? His vision had gone red around the edges.

  “There’s no ‘I’ in the word team, Bohdi!” Steve shouted.

  Bohdi’s lips curled into a snarl. “But there’s a ‘U’ in fuck.” As soon as he had said the words, he regretted them.

  Steve’s face melted into a look of such unmitigated rage that Bohdi shrank in his chair, all his own anger vanishing. “I’m sorry,” was on his lips, but Agent Hernandez had interrupted him. “You do realize, you are now a felon?”

  Bohdi hadn’t even realized Hernandez was there. Chin tilted low, eyes glinting in Bohdi’s direction, Hernandez said, “You’re not an American citizen. Do you know what we could do with you?” Hernandez shook his head, his fists tight at his sides. When Steve had fought to keep Bohdi at ADUO, Hernandez had argued he should be deported—or even sent to Guantanamo.

  Fear twisted so violently in his stomach, Bohdi felt like throwing up.

  “Get up,” Steve said, jaw tight. Bohdi just barely managed to stand. His legs felt like rubber.

  Hernandez and Steve had led him to this room. Steve ordered him to sit; then they left and shut the door. He heard the lock click.

  Bohdi looks down at the picture in his hands. The man, woman, and baby are seated outside, behind them rises dark green vegetation. The sunlight makes flecks of dust glimmer in the camera’s eye and burnishes his parents’ shoulders. He imagines that is how the sun is in India, a warm hand on your shoulder all the time. Not like the sun in Chicago in winter. He looks out the window. The sun’s position is impossible to know behind the gray of the clouds and smog.

  He imagines what the smiling woman would say to him. “You had a good thing, with good people, and now you’ve ruined it!” He wipes his face with his hand. He did have a good thing. Steve looked out for him. He’d gotten him a job—and okay, even if it is just as a glorified receptionist, it’s probably better than driving a cab—and set him up with his parents in their enormous greystone out west near Garfield Park. Ruth and Henry Rogers fuss over him like a second son.

  Now they might deport him... If he’s lucky.

  He looks toward the fire escape. He thinks if he just opens the window, he can make it. And then where? He’d have to leave Chicago.

  His breath steams the glass. The only frame of reference he has for the country beyond Chicago is the child’s map in Steve’s boyhood bedroom. In Bohdi’s mind, each state is a different bright color, with some landmarks—the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, the Statue of Liberty—drawn in friendly caricature. Beyond Chicago, nothing is real. He’d be no one in nowhere.

  Bohdi backs away from the window, nearly knocking over the chair.

  The door clicks and he drops quickly into the seat.

  Steve walks into the room, shutting the door behind him with a bang.

  Not meeting his eyes, Bohdi stammers, “I’m sorry.”

  Steve doesn’t respond until he’s sitting down on the table. “You’ve got to be more than sorry.”

  Bohdi looks up in alarm.

  Silhouetted against the cheap fluorescent lights, Steve’s skin looks so dark it is almost flat black. His expression is difficult to read. In low, clipped tones, Steve says, “It is not without precedent for the US government to hire talented pranksters with the idea it’s better you’re with us than against us.”

  Leaning forward in his chair, Bohdi feels a weight lifting off his chest.

  “But I can’t do that because you’re not even a goddamned citizen,” Steve says.

  Bohdi shrinks back in the seat. Shoving his hands in his pockets, his fingers go to his lighter. He begins to nervously play with the thumbwheel.

  “What do you want me to do?” Bohdi says.

  Without a word, Steve holds out a hand with a Post-It note. Taking it, Bohdi sees an address and phone number on it. “That is the nearest Marine Corps recruitment center,” Steve says. “I’ll hold off the filing of the charges…somehow. If you prove that you are willing to fight and die for this country, I’ll have something to tell the higher ups.”

  Bohdi stares at the handwritten scrawl. Die?

  Steve exhales sharply. “I’ll have to think of a way to get you out of the Corps later.”

  Bohdi looks up.

  Steve shakes his head. “You’re brain is too valuable to lose if you get shot.”

  Bohdi almost smiles.

  “But boot camp may teach you some discipline,” Steve says.

  Bohdi fiddles with the corner of the Post-it as Steve says, “Stodgill’s already working on the recruiter to deal with the paperwork that will result from your special situation…”

  Bohdi nods at the mention of the legal counsel’s name. He’s needed her help a lot. It seems like you need a social security number for just about everything in this country.

  “…all you’ll have to do is show up and sign the papers.”

  Blinking up at Steve, Bohdi nods again, hoping he looks sufficiently grateful.

  Raising an eyebrow, Steve says, “Just don’t wander off into the desert and die during boot camp. Someone always does that.”

  Bohdi’s eyes go wide. Beyond the door, shouts can be heard. Bohdi hears the words “troll” and “new gate.”

  Grumbling, Steve slides from the table and heads to the door.

  Standing shakily, Bohdi says, “Thank you.”

  Steve meets his eyes just before he leaves the room. “My mother would kill me if I let them send you to Gitmo.”

  Before Bohdi can respond, Steve’s gone. But he leaves the door open.

  Bohdi looks down at the address in his hand. He can picture it. Not the building, but the blue dot on the public transit map he’s memorized that marks the Blue “L” line stop nearby. He takes a shallow breath. What choice does he have?

  Crinkling the paper in his hand, he heads toward the door, the nearest “L” station, and the recruitment center.

  He almost makes it.

  Why the University of Illinois Chicago Medical School hasn’t been used for a horror movie’s set Steve will never know. The centuries-old, gothic-style building is a hulking dark form on the downtown’s southwest horizon. It’s the sort of place you’d expect a troll to pop by. Thankfully, the creature was quickly dispatched with goat meat loaded with explosives.

  Now Steve is standing in a crumbling archway with other ADUO agents and police, fielding questions from the press, as cameras flash in his eyes.

  “Director Rogers, when will the troll sightings stop?” someone asks.

  Most likely never. “As yet, that is uncertain,” Steve says.

  “Is it certain whether or not you’ll be running for mayor?” someone else asks.

  There are shouts and cheers through the press corps.

  “What about president?” someone else shouts. “We need you to take on the trolls and wyrms in D.C!”

  There are some more cheers and the adoration feels like electricity under his skin. His mind feels sharp and clear; he feels strong and alive. “Uncertain at this time,” he says and the crowd gives a collective “aw” of disappointment, and it just buoys the rush.

  Fighting to keep from smiling, he wonders if this is what drugs feel like. Someone else raises a hand, but an obnoxious ringtone that Steve certainly didn’t download begins to blare over his phone.

  The moment is over; his jaw ticks. He doesn’t have to look at the ID to know who it is. Giving a quick excuse to the press, he turns and walks back through the arch, clicking to accept.

  “Bohdi,” he grinds out. “Tell me you are at the recruitment center.”

  “I was almost there,” Bohdi says, sounding a little frantic, “but then I ran into Amy Lewis.”

  Steve starts to pace when he hears the name of the girl who had been Loki’s…well, something. “What happened?”

  “I was just walking, and I saw her as she fell. I ran over to help. She didn’t have her phone, so I couldn’t call her grandmother…”

  “Bohdi, what happened?” Steve snaps.

  “We’re at the hospital. She’s having a miscarriage.”

  Steve stops mid-stride. He hadn’t realized Amy was pregnant. Had she hidden that tidbit of information from him deliberately?

  “Can you call her grandmother?” says Bohdi.

  Steve draws his tongue across his teeth. Amy’s grandmother, Beatrice Lewis, is Amy’s only real family.

  “Sure,” says Steve, motioning with a hand for Hernandez’s attention. “What hospital are you at?”

  Bohdi gives him the hospital name and Steve says, “I’ll be right there.”

  “What about her grandmother?” says Bohdi.

  “Hanging up right now to call her,” says Steve as he hangs up on Bohdi. He immediately turns to Hernandez. “Get the car started.”

  With a nod, Hernandez takes off. Steve stares at his phone. The FBI has been waiting for an opportunity like this. He doesn’t look for Beatrice’s number. Instead he makes another call. After a few short words with the agent at the end of the line, he heads over to the waiting car, smiling and waving for the press as he goes.

  A few minutes later, Steve is at the front desk in the ER, holding up his badge. “I’m here to see Amy Lewis. She was brought in about half an hour ago. She was having a miscarriage—”

  The nurse behind the counter looks at his badge and her brow furrows. “You’ll have to wait; the doctors are in with her now.”

  “This is very important,” says Steve. It’s been only eight weeks since Loki disappeared, and he has no doubt whose baby it is.

  “Then maybe you should talk to the father,” snaps the nurse, pointing down a nondescript hallway. “He’s in the waiting room around the corner.”

  “The father is here?” Steve says.

  “Yes, he—”

  Before she can finish, Steve is bolting down the corridor, nearly colliding with an attendant pushing a wheelchair. As he slides around the corner, his hand falls to the Glock at his hip. He almost pulls it out before he remembers it would be useless.

  Breathing heavily, he enters the waiting room. Magic detector silent, his eyes scan over the dozen or so people seated there—the only person he recognizes is Bohdi.

  Striding over to him, Steve says, “Where is he? Where is Loki?”

  Murmurs go up around them. Bohdi glances around. “I don’t know.”

  “The nurse said the father is here!” Steve says, grabbing Bohdi by the collar.

  The lights above them flicker. Meeting his eyes, Bohdi swallows. “I lied to get into the ambulance.”

  For the second time in one day, Steve resists the urge to strangle him.

  Behind him he hears the sound of rapid footsteps. Bohdi’s eyes slide to the side. “Why are all the agents here?”

  Men in black file by them and head down the hallway beyond Bohdi and Steve. The recovery team. Steve watches them go and reminds himself it’s not a baby, it’s a fetus, and it is already dead.

  Turning back to Bohdi, he lies. “Someone told the hospital that the father was here, I had to be prepared.”

  Bohdi’s nose wrinkles up like he might sneeze, and Steve lets go of his collar.

  “Where’s Beatrice?” says Bohdi, falling back into his chair and rubbing his nose.

  “She’s coming,” Steve lies.

  Bohdi lets loose a furious, sneeze, and looks up at Steve with weepy red, narrowed eyes.

  Steve feels a twinge of guilt. Putting a hand on Bohdi’s shoulder, Steve says, “Come on, I’ll make sure you get to the recruitment center.”

  Drawing back, Bohdi wraps his hands so tightly around the chair’s armrests, his knuckles go several shades paler. “No. I have to make sure my wife’s okay.” He says it loud enough for a passing orderly to hear. The man gives Steve a dirty look.

  Rolling his eyes, Steve waits for the man to pass, and then says, “Why is this an issue for you?” He’s hoping the question will help Bohdi cut through the clutter of his own internal bullshit. The kid doesn’t talk about Lewis, they’re not friends, and they’ve said maybe a dozen words to one another since Bohdi “arrived.”

  Bohdi drops his head. His long bangs falls in front of his eyes. Steve expects him to confess something along the lines of, “I’m afraid to join the service…”

  Bohdi shrugs and swallows audibly. “She and I…” he shakes his head, looks up, and gives Steve a bitter smile. “We were both screwed by Loki,” says Bohdi.

  The kid’s eyes are a little unfocused. He sounds so lonely and so lost. With an exasperated sigh, Steve sinks into a seat beside him.

  Chapter One

  2 Years Later

  Stepping out of the coffee shop, Amy glances down LaSalle Street. Lifting her head, she gazes up at the former Chicago Board of Trade building, still listing to one side. The windows are dark. Weathered scaffolding protects the sidewalk below from falling rubble. The building has been leaning since the largest earthquake in Chicago’s history wrecked its foundations. Coincidentally, at the exact same time, Loki had been dancing in an ADUO interrogation room.

  “Such a lovely day!” says Amy’s grandmother, Beatrice, cheerfully.

  Amy blinks at the sky. There is no snow, just a blanket of early morning fog. It’s warm for December, but gloomy. Turning to her grandmother, her lips quirk. “Do you mean the weather… Or are you referring to the troll this morning?”

  Amy’s staying with Beatrice until she finds an apartment. This morning, a troll popped up in their neighborhood, and their commute involved an hour-long detour. Periodic trolls, wyrms, and others visiting Chicago through magical World Gates is why the city hasn’t been repaired.

  “It is just so nice to have you back!” Beatrice says, sipping at her coffee. Her pink flower umbrella swings on her free arm.

  Amy raises an eyebrow. “Grandma, you drove down to check on me every weekend while I was at school in Oklahoma.”

  Beatrice nods and smiles happily. “And now I can check on you every day while you’re in the office, too.”

  Amy stifles a sigh. Not that she doesn’t love her grandmother, but Beatrice has been a little over-protective of late. Amy only managed to keep Beatrice from moving to Oklahoma with her by finding her a job at ADUO. Beatrice is fluent in English, Ukrainian, and Russian. Just before Loki attacked Chicago, the city had been visited by Dark Elves bearing AK-47s. After the attack, Russia, the Ukraine, and Belarus had pushed for the elves to have the rights of the Geneva Convention. The US government even released the captured elves to the Russians. No one knows precisely what the elves are offering the Russians in return for weaponry, but Steve has Beatrice monitoring communications from those countries, looking for clues.

  Amy appraises Beatrice. She walks with a spring in her step that belies her gray hair and wrinkles. Beatrice has the energy and sharpness of mind of a twenty-something. Before Cera and Loki destroyed Chicago, her grandmother had been in a nursing home, unable to remember her own name. And then…something happened.

  Suffering from wounds inflicted by an ill-advised SWAT team raid, Amy watched the battle of LaSalle Street from Loki’s apartment. When the battle was over, Amy’s injuries were healed and Beatrice was there, her mind and body restored, the outrageous flower umbrella in her hands.

  Steve and Beatrice posit that Loki healed Amy and Beatrice as a parting gift to Amy.

  Amy rubs her temple. What Loki did give her as a final parting “gift” was his memories…and in all his memories, Loki was incapable of healing. Someone else had healed Beatrice and Amy, someone who was a master of biology, someone immensely powerful, and it could only be…

  Pain flares behind her eyes, and she stops sharply. She winces. Sometimes this happens when she tries to think about that time…

  “Are you alright, dear?” says Beatrice.

  Amy drops her hand from her temple, and finds her grandmother’s eyes peering at her from beneath neat, gray bangs. Beatrice has a rather fashionable bobbed haircut. And she’s wearing a sharp white skirt beneath her fitted, black down jacket. She looks more put together than Amy does in jeans, tennis shoes, and casual ponytail; but Steve promised Amy a troll to dissect today. No way is she getting formaldehyde on good clothes.

  “I’m fine, Grandma,” Amy says, trying to give a reassuring smile. Why should she care how she and Beatrice got better? The important thing is that they are better…

 

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