I Bring the Fire Part V: Warriors Read online

  Katherine shrugs. “We were given access to embryonic cells.”

  Amy feels a cold tingle at the base of her spine. Could they have gotten those ethically? “What kind of embryo?” she says.

  Katherine looks away. When she speaks her voice is more subdued. “As near as we can tell, they are a from a Frost Giant-human hybrid.”

  For a moment the world stops … Amy doesn’t blink. She doesn’t think her heart beats and she feels like there is no air in her lungs. She knows exactly where they could have gotten Frost Giant-human hybrid stem cells. From her miscarriage.

  “Amy, are you all right?” Katherine says.

  “It can’t be ethical,” Amy says, the words coming out before she can stop them. This was done without her consent, without her oversight. Amy’s legs feel weak … in her mind she sees Eisa, her little girl, staring at her from within the magical column on Nornheim. What they could do if they cloned her little girl, what they could do to her little girl ...

  “You don’t know that,” Katherine says. Amy meets Katherine’s eyes. Of course, her friend wouldn’t do anything unethical.

  Katherine shakes her head. “No one knows where they came from.” She bites her lip. “They wouldn’t …” she doesn’t look like she believes her own words. An uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. Looking away, Katherine pulls out her phone. “Would you like to see some pictures of Lucas?” she says, referring to her toddler.

  Amy’s eyes start to blur. Steve had known who Katherine was without an introduction … and he knew about her miscarriage. He was part of this, she knows it.

  Trying to smile, Amy pats Katherine’s arm. “My phone is buzzing, I think it is my grandmother … I have to go.”

  And then she spins on her heels toward Steve. Her fists clench at her side, her teeth grind. She’s going to kill him.

  x x x x

  From across the room and over the reporters’ heads, Steve sees the exact moment Lewis knows. Her jaw falls and then her eyes flash in his direction. For just a moment, a few loud beats of his heart, he thinks maybe she’ll confront him privately.

  But then she abruptly turns from where she is talking to Dr. Swanson and strides in Steve’s direction, hands fisted at her sides. And what did he expect? She once called Thor the So-Called God of Blunder and shouted at Steve’s boss in a meeting. Going into damage control mode, he scans the room. The side door he came through is guarded by two security guards. They’ll let him through, and probably Lewis, but not the press.

  Smiling at the reporters he pulls out his phone. “Sorry, guys—and ladies—I have to take this, but I’ll be right back to answer your questions.” Before Lewis is close enough to confront him, he spins and walks purposefully to the door, the reporters’ questions ringing in his ears. Holding his silent phone to his ear, feigning deep concentration, he glances back into the ballroom one last time. Lewis has stopped, she has her phone pressed to her ear, her eyes are wide, her lips not moving. Has she just finished telling someone what he’s done? He can’t face her in front of the press. He pushes on through the door.

  The hallway he enters isn’t the main thoroughfare and is nearly empty. At one end, he sees a few Chicago police officers by the fire exit. In the same direction he sees a vaguely familiar, too-tan serving woman with bobbed blonde hair going in a swinging door. He hears the clatter of a kitchen beyond that. Looking the other way, he sees the intersection with a larger foyer. A few more of Chicago’s police department are standing there.

  He rubs his head. He can’t miss this conference. This confrontation with Lewis is happening here and now. He looks back to the door he just came through. Backing away a few steps, he waits for the doctor to barrel through.

  It takes too long. He wipes his face. Maybe she ran into the press. Maybe she’s telling them. Steve’s heart sinks, and he feels all his ambitions begin to unravel.

  He takes a step forward. The door swings open, almost hitting him in the face, and there is Lewis, phone out and lit up in her hand. Tears are streaming down her cheeks—and that makes Steve wilt a little—even if he should have expected it. Once Lewis had told him he was a good dad. Would he have done to his kin what he did to hers?

  Holding his hands toward her, he says, “Let me explain—”

  Lewis’s voice comes out in a strangled sob. “Fuck you, Steve! You hid it from me, and I would ruin you—” she wipes the tears from her eyes and waves her phone at him, “—if Fenrir hadn’t just hit a car!”

  Steve blinks, and Lewis spins toward the main foyer. Uttering a loud “Arrrggghhhh!” she breaks into a run, nearly toppling over a woman coming down the hallway as she does.

  The strange woman’s eyes meet Steve’s. But he doesn’t really see her. Will Lewis talk to the media? He puts a hand to his face and rubs his jaw.

  The woman comes forward. “What was that all about?”

  Steve’s attention snaps to her, and he almost does a double take. The woman he is looking at is of African descent, nearly six feet tall and athletic. Her hair is hanging down her back in loose black ringlets. She’s gorgeous.

  Steve’s mouth goes dry, but he manages to say, “She works for me … Her dog was hit by a car.” Amy had said a car was hit by Fenrir, but that can’t have been right. “She’s upset.”

  The woman’s brows draw together. “How sad … ”

  Steve finds himself holding his breath.

  She looks at the door he just came from and then back to Steve. Putting her hands together, she winces. “So it might be a bad time to ask … but will that door take me to the Technomagic Initiative meeting? I’m not invited … but I was thinking of crashing the party.”

  Steve’s breathing starts to return to normal. His mind spins at her question. Space at the meeting is very limited. He should be suspicious, but he’s grateful for the change in subject, and finds himself wanting to help her. Still, old habits die hard. “Are you press—or a scientist?”

  She looks at the ceiling and bites her lip. “Neither, I’m actually a pediatrician. I was in the hotel for a meeting—learning to identify the physical manifestations of psychological trauma in children—and helping children recover.” Her lips turn down. “As doctors, we’re often on the front lines of such things ...”

  Steve swallows, thinking of Claire. Recently she’s been prone to outbursts, anger, and tears. He wishes it was puberty; but nights when she wakes up screaming for her mother say otherwise. He meets the woman’s gaze and feels as though a haze is disappearing from his eyes. Where a moment ago he thought she looked beautiful, now he sees … or maybe feels … something more. Steve doesn’t believe in love, and yet his heart is starting to beat fast and his suit is beginning to feel too warm.

  She smiles and shrugs. Meeting his eyes, she says, “I just find magic fascinating.”

  And maybe there isn’t such a thing as love, but there is loyalty, and there is need. His eyes scan her fingers for rings, and he feels a rush of victory when he sees none. “There’s guards behind these doors,” he says.

  Her shoulders fall. Behind him he hears a door swing, footsteps, and the sound of serving ware clinking.

  Steve leans toward the woman. “But I may be able to help with that.”

  The woman beams at him, bright white teeth showing between full burgundy lips. Steve smiles back and moves toward the door. The woman steps close, her hand going to his arm ...

  Behind him he hears a gasp. And then a woman’s voice that sounds slightly Scandinavian rises in the hall. “Stay away from him!”

  Steve and the woman turn. Down the hallway, pushing a serving cart, is the same familiar-looking blonde staff worker he saw earlier. There’s something about her too expensive tan …

  “Who are you?” says the woman beside him.

  “I know who you are, Freyja!” says the blonde woman, pulling something from the smock she wears.

  A cold jolt goes down Steve’s spine—Freyja, goddess of love and beauty, capable of being anyone’s ideal. Steve p
ulls away from the woman on his arm. Turning to him, she meets his eyes. “This woman is obviously unstable—”

  The woman by the cart comes running in their direction, a blur of something gray and sharp in her hand. Steve’s about to intercept her, but the woman next to him is faster. Stepping forward, she catches the gray blur the other woman holds between her hands.

  “Stop!” screams the blonde, her chest heaving.

  The mouth of Steve’s beautiful companion drops. Her eyes go wide, and she seems to freeze in place. And then her face appears to melt … and Steve is staring at a very different woman. She is not African—or any discernible race, really. Her hair is dark brown and straight, her lips are thinner, her skin is olive, and her eyes that had just been nearly black are a light brown. She’s still tall. Still beautiful. But in a way that is generic.

  He looks at the blonde woman. Her eyes are over the shoulder of Steve’s companion. “Einherjar!” she says.

  Steve turns. Eight police officers are coming down the hall—they’re a very mixed ethnic group—a few Chinese—but very tall, a few of African-descent, even someone who looks Native American. Steve’s mind spins, and a chill runs up his spine. On this beat, the police are almost exclusively white.

  “Can you trust me?” says the blonde woman.

  Meeting her eyes, Steve says, “I don’t think I have a choice.” He blinks, suddenly recognizing her. She was his waitress months ago in the restaurant the day Claire’s mother was killed. “Cindy!” he says.

  Nodding, she wraps her hand around his wrist. Steve’s eyes snap to the movement … and he sees nothing. His heart rate jumps. He looks down at his body and sees the carpeting beneath his feet. He glances toward Cindy and sees only empty air. Steve’s gaze goes back to the woman who must be Freyja. In her hands, she appears to have caught the sharp blade of a spear. The spear point winks from existence, and Freyja starts to move, immediately uttering a loud curse. Her appearance changes again—her ears begin to grow, her frame shrinks, and he’s staring at a delicately-boned blonde elf.

  He feels a tug on his wrist, pressure on his shoulder, and a gentle gust of air by his ear. Cindy whispers, “The police at the fire exit are hers … to the kitchen, quickly.” She gives another tug to his wrist. Turning, Steve jogs with Cindy toward the kitchen door. Steve feels like he’s floating, and like he’s not really in control of his limbs. He collides with something soft, and hears Cindy mutter “Oomf,” in the space he thought was only air.

  “Sorry,” he whispers. He tries to find her arm and instead his hand connects with the back of her head. “Sorry,” he says again.

  “I’m alright,” says Cindy, but she sounds breathless, and she isn’t moving.

  From behind him he hears a click. Turning his head, he sees Freyja has pulled out a semi-automatic handgun. Instinctively Steve reaches for his Glock. He raises it and realizes he can’t see his own weapon or even his hand—he can’t aim. Beyond Freyja and her men there are other guests in the foyer. Someone says, “Is there a problem, officers?”

  Cindy starts to pull him toward the kitchen again. They’re only steps away. Freyja utters something that might be a curse, and the police officers answer in kind. One of the officers by the fire exit begins to charge toward the kitchen door. It swings open in front of Steve, and he’s yanked through.

  Shouts erupt from the other side of the door and from within the kitchen. Letting himself be led by Cindy, Steve keeps his face turned toward the door and his Glock raised. He hears kitchen staff around him, the bang of pans, the rush of water. A police officer comes through the door, handgun raised, screaming in Steve’s direction in a language that isn’t English. Suddenly Steve sees himself flickering into view. In a heartbeat he readjusts his aim. Pulling the trigger he feels the shock of recoil, hears the cartridge fire, and then Cindy is yanking him to the left. The man falls, but the door swings open. “Down!” shouts Cindy, and Steve drops and finds himself sheltered by a stainless steel counter, just as shots ring through the kitchen.

  Cindy has a phone in one hand. Pressing it to her ear, she’s shouting in a language that sounds a lot like the one he just heard. Steve saves his questions for later, just keeps down and fires a few rounds at the impostor police officers crouching in the door frame. He hears a groan and sees blood running to a drain in the kitchen floor. Bullets fly overhead. Someone left water running somewhere, and it’s pouring out onto the floor.

  “Come on,” Cindy says, grabbing Steve’s arm. “Help is coming.”

  Nodding, Steve follows her through the kitchen, crouching low to stay behind the islands. In front of them is an emergency exit. Steve hears the door behind them swing open, and the sound of many feet.

  Cindy grabs his arm, and they’re invisible again. “Run!” she screams, pulling him to the door and Steve doesn’t look back. He stumbles with her to the exit; they plunge through the fire door and into an alley filled with puddles. Cold rain pelts them from above.

  Cindy flickers into sight and points toward the street. “This way,” she pants. Taking a step forward, she suddenly bends over and looks like she’s about to fall. Steve grabs her shoulder and helps her stand. The door they came through bangs open. Steve aims his weapon, and then Cindy and he flicker out of sight again.

  Cindy’s disembodied voice comes in a low, stammered whisper. “Get to the wall. Then get to the street.” Beneath his arm, she trembles. Steve looks back. A man, gun raised, is peering through the door. Steve pulls Cindy toward the wall and looks toward the street. A group of policemen is coming toward them. Are they real cops or …

  “Norns!” says Cindy.

  From the door behind them come shouts in a foreign language. The cops at the intersection to the street respond in kind, raise their guns, and begin to slowly walk forward.

  “Just a few more minutes … just a few more minutes … ” Cindy stammers. And then she and Steve flicker into view. Gunfire erupts around them. Steve hears a bullet hit the brick wall above his head and feels bits of brick rain down on him. Raising his Glock, he fires at the man in the door. With his back pressed against the wall, his stance is shit, even for a one-handed aim. He still hits the man in the door—but another man is suddenly there to take his place. The guys at the entrance to the alleyway are shouting.

  Steve spins toward the front of the alley—and he and Cindy are invisible again. He pushes her to the ground as bullets fire and the wall where they’d been standing erupts in a waterfall of falling brick. “Stay down,” he whispers. He wraps one hand around her shoulder, and they crawl awkwardly down the alley, the frigid water of the puddles seeping through Steve’s clothes. Bullets are still whizzing overhead. He hears sirens and prays they’re real cops. He looks up and sees a beat-up sedan pull onto the sidewalk and into the alley, knocking over several impostor police officers as it does.

  “They’re here,” Cindy whispers. Maybe. Steve can barely hear anything over the sound of gunfire.

  And then he feels a burning sensation on the back side of his neck. He tells his body to crawl, but he can’t. His single arm and legs give out beneath him, he falls to the ground, and one side of his face hits the wet pavement of the alley. Something warm oozes toward his hairline.

  He hears a car screech to a halt. Gunfire sounds overhead, a wind comes from somewhere, and he’s buffeted by rain so hard it stings. He hears screams and louder sirens.

  Steve blinks rain out of his eyes and wills himself to get up. But he doesn’t move.

  He sees Cindy above him out of the corner of his eyes. Staring down at him wide eyed, she stammers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m not so good at magic as my …”

  And suddenly there is a man standing above her. He is holding a sword in one hand, and an AK-47 in the other. His wet hair looks darker, and his skin is tanner than Steve remembers, but it’s not a face Steve will ever forget.

  Steve’s eyes go wide. “Loki,” he whispers. And then everything goes black.

  CHAPTER 2

&
nbsp; Bohdi sits with his back against the prison cell wall. The concrete floor is cold on his bare feet—they took his shoes and his socks.

  He scowls across the cell at the bed hugging the opposite wall. Bohdi lost his lease during his adventures off world; he’s been house sitting for a too-tidy, very nice, but never-around Japanese businesswoman since his return. The woman’s place is too sterile, and too cold, but the jail bed makes him nostalgic for the too-hard mattress. Are those little black dots swirling across the mattress bed bugs?

  Lip curling in disgust, he looks at the bars to his right. A few cells away someone is fighting—again. Bohdi taps his feet on the floor. He almost wishes he’d been put in a cell with other people. He’s so angry, he’d love it if someone gave him a reason to punch them.

  It feels like it’s been hours. Where is Steve? Why hasn’t he come to get him?

  Bohdi wipes his face with his hands. Has he finally gone too far? His skin heats. But that isn’t fair! Steve told him that after what happened to Bohdi on Nornheim and in Asgard anyone would suffer some PTSD, and that a little slip here and there was to be expected. Of course, Steve didn’t really know all that had happened to Bohdi—all that he’d learned. If he did ...

  Bohdi runs his hands through his hair. Would he cast Bohdi out if he knew Bohdi was the most recent incarnation of Chaos? Turn him over to the Feds? Let the researchers, that Bohdi’s heard whispered about, dissect his brain? Bohdi doesn’t have any magic to speak of, but they might want to check for themselves. Bohdi swallows and drops his hands to his knees.