Loki sends Sleipnir barreling in the direction of his guardian. A few of the swarm land between Loki and the Allfather, and Loki roars in fear, hatred, and desperation, his skin heating so much, he thinks his blood is boiling, his vision turning to a tunnel of red, the sound of the swarm’s shrieking being joined by a sound like a thousand twigs cracking.

  The adze in front of him drop out of view, and Sleipnir hops over their bodies. Dismounting, even before the horse has stilled, Loki is at Odin’s side a minute later. For the first time, he realizes that what he took for a tunnel of red is a tunnel of flame, the sound of twigs cracking the sound of adze’s wings on fire.

  Odin falls into Loki. It is all that Loki can do to keep the heavier man upright. Beyond Odin, the circle of light is dimming. “Quick, we must get through the gate,” the Allfather mutters. Pulling Odin to Sleipnir’s side and helping him into the saddle, Loki looks back the way he had come. Only one Einherjar is still standing. The warrior breaks through the dwindling flames toward Loki and Odin but is set upon by dozens of screaming adze. An instant later, he vanishes into a pile of writhing bodies. More adze fall on the smoldering remains of their own kindred and the fallen warriors. Loki’s jaw drops.

  “Loki!” Odin says. “We must leave.”

  Odin’s voice shakes Loki from his stupor. Fear and adrenaline give him enough strength to leap onto Sleipnir’s back. Bracing the Allfather’s dangerously listing body, he gives Sleipnir a quick kick. The horse darts forward. Even though the circle of light has gone out, Sleipnir has the ability to open World Gates and walk between realms, just as the beast’s mother had, just as Odin and Hoenir can do…and as Odin says Loki will one day be able to do, too.

  There’s a flash of rainbow colored lights. For an instant, Loki can’t see Sleipnir’s ears, then his neck, and then the shrieking of the adze is gone, replaced by the clatter of Sleipnir’s hooves on stone. Instead of darkness, there is sunshine pouring through a window. Instead of a sky filled with the darting bodies of adze, there is a ceiling. Loki looks up to see an ornate mosaic, a depiction of the Greek myth of Leda and the swan.

  “Father,” calls a small voice, as the last of Sleipnir’s hooves clacks into the room. Loki brings his gaze down. Odin has opened the gate directly to his own chambers. To one side, there is an enormous bed with heavy draperies. To the other side is a fireplace, above which is a painting in the realistic perspective that is the new-elfish style; it features Odin, Frigga, and a golden-haired, straight-limbed, clear-eyed, pink-cheeked Prince Baldur.

  Leaping from a plush chair by the fireplace is Baldur himself. To nearly everyone, the painting is the spitting image of the prince—but Loki sees something very different. Loki sees a fourteen-year-old who is chubby, his hair a dingy brown, his eyes a muddy hazel. And his face is peppered with acne. Loki supposes if no one can see your imperfections, it’s very difficult to fix them.

  In front of Loki, Odin lists dangerously. Loki manages to keep him on Sleipnir’s back, but it’s a close call. “Guards!” shouts Baldur.

  Loki hears several sets of footsteps behind Sleipnir and another voice, this one feminine. “Odin!”

  Loki turns to see Queen Frigga striding into the room with Odin’s two most trusted servants. They run to Odin’s side and Loki eases the Allfather into their arms.

  “You see, Mother,” says Baldur. “I knew if he was forced to make a gate, he’d open it here. He’d never let the court see him so weak.” At those words, Baldur narrows his eyes at Loki.

  “The prince is always wise,” says one of the servants, carrying Odin to his bed with his comrade. Normally Loki would roll his eyes at the sycophantic words, but he can’t bring himself to care. As he dismounts Sleipnir, he notices his hands are shaking.

  Baldur trails after the servants. Frigga and then Loki follow, Sleipnir tagging behind Loki like a dog.

  Odin’s eyes flutter a bit as they prop his head on a pillow.

  “Get him some water and food!” Baldur commands the servants. The men bow and leave the room. Baldur sits on the edge of the bed beside his father and takes one of Odin’s limp hands. Climbing onto the bed, Frigga sits next to her husband on the other side. Laying a palm upon his forehead, she murmurs, “He is warm, he was not scratched or bitten.”

  Loki swallows. Feeling relieved, but anxious to see Odin recover completely, Loki stands a few feet away, head bowed. He wants to sit on the bed, too, but that would be overstepping his station.

  Baldur’s eyes go to Sleipnir, then to Loki. “Wonderful, the whole family is here.”

  Behind Loki, Sleipnir lets out an angry sounding snort—perhaps picking up on Baldur’s tone? Loki blinks. It’s the only time that Baldur has ever called Loki one of the family.

  Baldur drops his head to his father’s hands. “Wake up, Father,” the prince says. Voice cracking a little, he whispers, “I hate seeing you like this.”

  Loki bows his head again…and the images of the falling adze flash before his eyes. Maybe Odin was bitten or scratched, maybe he is more than just magically exhausted…

  Taking a step forward, Loki says, “Are you sure he will be all right…”

  Voice not unkind, Frigga says, “He is just magically exhausted from creating a New World gate. He cannot do it with the ease of Hoenir.”

  Raising his head like a viper, Baldur hisses. “You weren’t worth the risk.”

  Taking a step back, Loki bumps into Sleipnir and the horse gives a whicker, then drops his head over Loki’s shoulder and stamps all eight of his feet.

  On the bed, Odin’s one eye opens. “No, Baldur.”

  Baldur and Frigga turn their eyes to Odin. “It was terribly risky,” Frigga says.

  Patting her hand, Odin says, “Yes, but as soon as I found Loki, we both knew the odds would rearrange.”

  Frigga sighs. Loki sees only the back of Baldur’s head and can’t see his expression.

  Odin’s gaze finds Loki’s. “You fought well.”

  Loki remembers all the Einherjar they’d lost. The praise feels hollow, but he nods.

  Odin smiles gently. “Now would you mind taking Sleipnir out of my bedroom?”

  Loki flushes and stammers, “Yes, of course.”

  As Loki turns to grab Sleipnir’s magic bridle, he sees Baldur frowning at him. He’s just entered the hallway when he hears the prince say, “The court will say that he’s your toy, that you’re buggering him—”

  Loki draws to a halt.

  “Baldur!” says Frigga.

  “Any man that says that will have his tongue cut out,” says Odin. “I am Loki’s guardian, and I treat him as a guardian should—such rumors would dishonor me as much as him.” Standing a bit taller, Loki smiles. Whistling loud enough for the royal family to hear, he leads Sleipnir down the hall.

  Eyes still closed, Amy brings a hand to her forehead. To see Loki so young…so distraught by violence and bloodshed, and so different than the Loki she knew… It makes her hurt, and miss him…even though that was a Loki she never knew. But she had seen that Loki, in bits and pieces, hadn’t she?

  She lifts her chin and exhales. It doesn’t matter. That Loki is gone. All that matters is finding the new Loki and letting him—or her, or it—know what he is. She presses a hand to her temple. As interesting as the family dynamics in the memory were—Odin’s protectiveness, Baldur’s jealousy, and Loki’s obliviousness—there isn’t anything that will help her find the Norns.

  Still, when Steve is done with Beatrice’s paperwork blizzard, she’ll talk to him. They have to try and find Loki.

  She shakes her head. But will Steve agree?

  She opens her eyes and turns her attention to the task in front of her. Work is always a good distraction from unpleasant thoughts. Straightening her shoulders, she pulls the sheet off the troll’s body, and her heart quickens.

  Normally, she’d rather put critters back together, but being able to dissect a troll—a real-life alien—is pretty darn amazing. Laid out on the operating table, the chest of the beast is a foot above her head. If the troll were standing, it would be as tall as an elephant, and perhaps broader side to side. It has some greenish hair on its head and greenish skin marked by regions of swelling that look a lot like boils.

  She blinks, and another Loki memory comes to her. Loki, was a little boy, sitting on a workbench beside a rough-hewn table. He was playing a hand-slap game with a hand that was protruding from a box…much like the hand from The Addams Family. Only this hand was giant, green, and covered with boils.

  Next to the box was Mimir’s head, propped up against a crate. Long ago, Mimir had been decapitated by the Vanir for talking too much. His body had been lost, but his head had been magically preserved and animated so that all of his wisdom would not be lost.

  “Trolls’ native habitat is the surface of Svartálfaheimr, land of the dwarves,” Mimir said, in his most officious, school master voice. “Svartálfaheimr’s molten core is hardening, its magnetic field weakening, and its surface is buffeted by cosmic rays. The dwarves moved underground long ago. The trolls stayed above ground, their hides becoming tougher and tougher to resist radiation. But water is scarce on Svartálfaheimr’s surface, and most other species have gone extinct. Trolls derive some of their nutritional needs from the symbiotic bacteria that make their skin green, but it isn’t enough. Whenever a troll discovers a World Gate, it will open it and cross through in order to find food. That is why they now inhabit all the known worlds.”

  “Except for Earth, right?” said Loki. He couldn’t have been more than eight; the troll’s hand was easily as large as his head.

  “Well, Hoenir is working with Odin to get all the trolls off Earth…” Mimir said.

  Beside Loki, there was a cough, and he turned to see Hoenir approaching. An apron was pulled over Hoenir’s paunch, and what was left of his hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The older man held a nearly barrel-sized jar of a purplish liquid with hand-sized bobbing eyeballs.

  On the table, Mimir said, “Loki, would you please stop playing with the troll hand? Hoenir needs it to open the velociraptor treats.”

  Hoenir cleared his throat, and Mimir added too quickly, “Did I say velociraptors? Having velociraptors about would be against Odin’s orders…”

  “Then who are the treats for?” said Loki.

  Mimir’s eyes slid toward a doorway at the far end of the room. “Loki, did you know the spidermice that moved into Hoenir’s dresser just had kits? Wouldn’t you like to see them?”

  “Yes!” Loki shouted, standing up and dashing from the workroom.

  The memory ends and Amy is staring at her troll again. Scrunching her eyes shut, she tries to recover any memories involving troll anterior cruciate ligaments.

  Nothing comes.

  Opening her eyes, she sighs. But not unhappily. Really, even if she could find those memories, she’d still want to see the ligament for herself. Putting on a pair of goggles and reaching for a scalpel, she approaches the cadaver’s left kneecap.

  Forgetting the day’s trauma turns out to be easier than Amy expected… partially because dissecting the troll is much more difficult than she expected. The troll’s skin is so tough that after her fourth scalpel blade is dulled to the sharpness of a butter knife, she gives in and takes out an electric bone saw.

  She’s finally through the outer layer of dermis, turning off the saw, and picking up a new scalpel when there is a knock at the door.

  Shifting the plastic bags from 7-11 to one hand, Bohdi checks the time on his phone. Scowling, he knocks on the door to the morgue again. The duffel bag on his shoulder nearly slides off with the movement.

  Bohdi checks his pocket one more time for his lighter and his knife. He’s not authorized to carry a gun, and hadn't had time to surreptitiously borrow one from an agent. Patting his stomach, he looks down. But at least he is wearing his lucky pink shirt that ticks Steve off; he’s set.

  Adjusting the bag and his shoulders, he waits for the door to open.

  And waits.

  And waits.

  He’s reaching forward, about to knock again, when the heavy metal security door groans inward.

  Bohdi’s jaw drops, and so do the 7-11 bags he’s holding. Propping the door open with a hip, Amy’s holding a wicked tool that looks like the baby of an electric drill and a saw, and she’s got a scalpel awkwardly clutched in the same hand. Covering her eyes are goggles flecked with what looks likes the remains of bugs that met a windshield…but that’s not what makes him gape.

  Behind the plastic lenses of the goggles, Amy’s eyes widen a fraction, as if to say, “What?”

  Swallowing, Bohdi points very slowly to the top of her head. “I, umm…I think a tarantula is eating a mouse…” He winces. “In your hair.”

  Amy stares at him for a few heartbeats. And then she backs up so fast the door nearly slams in his face. Catching it with a sneakered foot and grabbing his bags, he enters the morgue.

  Backing up, Amy drops the drill-saw and scalpel on a small rolly table in front of a very large, dead troll that smells like chemicals and cold. Bending slightly, she reaches up to the top of her head.

  Holding up a hand, Bohdi blurts out. “Do you think you should…”

  …touch it.

  Before the words are out of his mouth, the spider-eating-a-mouse comes hurtling toward him and lands on the top of his outstretched hand. Bohdi is too shocked to move.

  “Don’t hurt Mr. Squeakers!” Amy says.

  Bohdi looks to Amy. She has one hand pressed to her mouth, and she’s pointing at the thing that has just sprung on him. The gears in his brain start to turn again, and he looks down at the critter that must be Mr. Squeakers. It isn’t a spider eating a mouse; it’s a little gray mouse with eight long black spider legs.

  “He’s a friend…pet…spidermouse,” says Amy quickly.

  Oh. Well, then. Peering closer, he drops his duffel and the 7-11 bags. He holds out a finger to the little guy. Mr. Squeakers grabs it with his two front legs. Bohdi grins. “He’s kind of cute.”

  And then he feels a familiar sense of disorientation. “Are spidermice something else I’ve forgotten, or are they new things?”

  “Ummm…” says Amy. “He’s a magical creature, if that’s what you mean…and new. I don’t think you’d have ever heard of one…”

  Bohdi lets out a relieved sigh and brings the spidermouse up to his face to get a closer look. Mr. Squeakers pokes his little nose at Bohdi and wiggles his whiskers.

  “Please don’t tell Steve,” says Amy quickly. “He’s just a harmless mouse.”

  The only warning Bohdi gets is the tickle at the back of his nose. He pinches his nose and closes his eyes, but it’s too late. He barely turns his head in time to miss sneezing on Squeakers and Amy. Sniffling and looking for a Kleenex, he hands the mouse back to Amy. “Sorry, little guy, I think I might be allergic to you,” he says.

  Tucking the mouse into her lab coat pocket, Amy takes off her goggles. “Why are you here?”

  Bohdi reaches into his pocket and finds the comforting shape of his lighter. Why is he here? He must be crazy—his life is good, great job, great friends, and what he’s about to do will terrify Ruth and Henry. He swallows and thinks of the man and woman in the picture.

  He knows more now about the immigrant experience than he did when he first “woke up.” A lot of immigrants send money back to their families. Bohdi’s parents are wearing simple clothing in the photo. They don’t look particularly wealthy. But even though he’s lost some of his mind, what he has left works rather well. Bohdi speaks English, Hindi, and the same regional language that is spoken in Bangalore—but with a Kashmiri accent. He also knows the three regional languages of Kashmir—but speaks them with a Bangalore accent. He reads mathematical notation with ease, and several computer languages. And even if his knowledge of recent history is nearly non-existent, he has weirdly accurate knowledge of the WWII era and prior. He may not have a college degree, but someone made sure he had an education.

  He takes a breath…There’s no way he would have gotten his sweet job with the FBI without them. And if he’d been smaller, and weaker while he was in the Marine Corps…

  He has to find his parents. He owes them everything.

  Shifting on his feet, his fingers tighten on his lighter. He can’t bring himself to say all that. Instead he just smiles as cockily as he can and says, “Want to go to Nornheim?”

  Amy says nothing for a few long seconds. And then her gaze becomes hard and calculating. “How?”

  It takes a moment for it to register in Bohdi’s brain that she hasn’t said no, or called him crazy. But then, Amy hasn’t traveled just between realms; she’s traveled between universes if what he overheard her telling Steve once is right.

  Feeling a little small, he spins the wheel on his lighter and says, “With Thor.”

  “Thought he lost his ride?” Amy says.

  Picking up his duffel, Bohdi opens the zipper to reveal two spools of Promethean wire, each about two feet long and a foot in diameter. “We’re his ride to Nornheim. He’ll show us the way to the Norns once we get there. All we need is the exact location of the gate in Loki’s condo…”

  Amy’s face softens at the mention of the “secret” gate in her ex-boyfriend’s old apartment. It makes Bohdi weirdly uncomfortable.

  Amy’s eyes drop to the Promethean wire. Two years ago, Amy held up Laevithin, Loki’s magic sword, in a room sealed with Promethean wire. Bohdi had walked into the room, broken the seal, and allowed some of Laevithin’s magic to open a pathway to the In-Between. The physics guys theorized that Promethean wire, when forced to contain too powerful a magic source and not sealed completely, can create tears in space time. Picking up on what he plans, she speaks quietly, “We need a magical power source.”

 

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