Chapter Two: It Is Not A Pigion

Ashley:

            She cried out as one giant talon managed to sink into her left shoulder, yanking hard. Nearly toppling, she instead fought to keep the other claw at bay, knowing she’d  never get out of its grip if it got her off the ground.

   Luckily, it couldn’t bend its beak down to stab her with its precarious balance. The downside was she couldn’t get a good grip on the scaly foot digging into her arm, enough to wriggle free. This left them (her more painfully,) in a wobbling standstill. She’d managed so far to hold the other talon away from her eyes, but with each swipe, those shiny, black hooks got closer and closer. The eagle would either rip her face off or yank her into the air.

   Just as she deflected another swipe, the eagle gave a very loud (and rather vulgar,) scream as something hit the leg trapping her shoulder, hard.

“ARR-grrr Heh-YOR-mun!” At least, that’s what it sounded like it was saying.

Twisted off-balance, she managed to glimpse the boy, carrying what looked like a mop, that had come to her rescue.

   He brandished the mop, disposable end still covered in plastic, like a baseball bat, lank brown hair flopping into his face. He shook his head, blowing at it ineffectually, before swiping at the eagle again.

   She’d hoped it would let her go, but no lock there. Instead it flapped, limp wings thudding against the air. “Intruding thaneling, I would rip you to pieces if I had the chance!”

“It talks?!” He asked, eyes wide.

“It also bites, so watch it,” she said with a humour she didn’t feel. It was hard to laugh when it felt like your shoulder was being popped clean off.

   Just then, the eagle changed the direction of its flapping, moving backwards. Her shoulder screamed in protest and she couldn’t help but start crying as she was half-dragged, half-bounced backwards. The boy charged after, just as the eagle at last got a better grip, talons slicing into her upper arm. She tried kicking out, only to feel the boy catch and hold her ankle. Opening her eyes, she saw him swipe his floor-scrubbing tool right at the eagle’s middle, just over her head. She ducked to avoid an un-needed brain surgery.

   “That is enough Hrack-Ning, thaneling. I will show you not to anger the giant, Thjazi!”

She was released so suddenly that she dropped flat on her back, thunking her head on the asphalt. Above her, the eagle was gaining height, seemingly ignoring her.

The boy looked down, opening his mouth to say, “Are you okay-“

It was then that the eagle –Thi-yah-zee, if he could be believed- managed to catch the wind and flew upwards, high over the cars. The stick was somehow still attached.

And so was the guy.

   “Let go!” she shouted, watching them spin higher.

“I can’t!” His voice was terrified, as was probably usual when being flown around by crazy, giant birds.

   The eagle, somehow managing to smirk even with a beak, shrieked a laugh, gloating, “You won’t be able to either, fool. Not while I still fly. You warriors are always so rash. You never expect my magic until it is too late.” He turned his golden eyes back downwards, scanning, “Now, where did the female go?” She yelped as he found her, below, and that bird-smirk grew into a bird-sneer. “Just hold still, for now, Hal-feer-ahs, I’ll be done with this fool soon.”

   Ashley liked to think that she was a nice girl, one that did what she was told, most of the time. But when a monster bird tells you to wait while he finishes off someone else so he can grab you, you have to figure that disobeying isn’t a bad thing just then.

She glanced at the grocery store, the tempting safety zone.

Then back up at the boy, wriggling like a fish when her grandpappy went fishing.

   Making up her mind, she ignored the smart thing to do in favour of the good thing.

Next time, she swore to herself, she’d be a jerk and abandon everyone else to their fate. Until then, though, she’d try out this whole ‘be a hero’ thing.

   The problem being was the ever-annoying ‘HOW’ question. The pair were nearly thirty feet up now, spinning in circles like a weird vulture merry-go-round.

   There was no useful “In Case Of Giant Eagle Monster, Break Glass” sort of thing nearby, and the tallest thing around was the grocery mart itself-

She sprinted towards the mart again, feeling the hard-working air conditioner welcome her with a cold blast to the face as she sped through the automatic doors.

“So you got away from the pigeon?” a customer asked.

“The what?” She asked, briefly shocked out of her plans.

“The little, angry bird, dear. Goodness! You do have some bad scratches on you. You should let a doctor see those. How did you get so bruised up-“

“I’m sorry, can’t talk!”

   The woman huffed, insulted, as she sped away, rushing down an aiele until she saw what she wanted. There were only four ten-foot bungie-hook luggage binders, but that would have to do. She dug a hand into her pocket, rushing for the front of the store, hoping the eagle –giant, monster- whatever it was, wouldn’t drop the poor boy.

   The clerk glared at her when she arrived. “Are you with that kid that stole the mop?”

“What? No. I need these, please.” She slapped down the rope, glancing out the window, teeth grinding.

“Whatever, kid.” He rang them up, saying in a bored voice, “Would you like a deodorant, today, ma’am? Buy two, get fifty cents off the third.”

“Huh? Um, no. No, thank you.” Could he go any slower?

Evidently so.

   On the last one, the scanner beeped mutinously, refusing to read the barcode. He continued to swipe it slowly over the red light, but it only rang out defiantly.

“Don’t you have an at’four key?” she finally snapped. What was WRONG with these people? They seemed unmoved by a giant freaking eagle attacking kids out front.

“Nope. Not allowed to use them,” he answered.

She saw a dark brown flicker as the eagle dove past the window, causing the guy’s legs to clip over a car hood. It promptly began to scream.

“What in the world. Who’s messing with my car?” The clerk grumbled.

Ashley stared at him. “You honestly don’t see the eagle out there?”

   The man eyed her and her torn up shoulders suspiciously, probably wondering if a pigeon could ever do that sort of damage. “Are you with that guy that was yelling about eagles earlier?” 

She was struck dumb for only a second before her brain triggered her mouth to speak, voice calm and at ease, “What guy?” It was one of the times she was glad that she was good at lying.

The clerk’s eyes narrowed, but then the bungee beeped mercifully loud, and he was distracted. “That’ll be $16.34 ma’am.”

She slapped down a twenty, not waiting for the change, and sprinted out the doors.

   The sun was blinding, and she briefly feared the eagle had dropped the poor boy to his death. But as her eyes adjusted, she saw the great expanse of wings as it turned, still carrying its wriggling captive.

   Running as fast as her tired legs could carry her, she went around the back of the building, watched by the few active security cameras up on the walls, and bolted up the maintenance ladder to the roof.

   Once there, she had a much better view of the cavorting eagle.

She ripped open two of the bungee cords, fumbling as she tied the ends together, doing her best to bend the hooks around the other cord.

Once done with that, she ran to the air conditioner roof unit, panting as she drove one end of the cord into the grate, tying it as tightly as she could. Wincing as she sliced open her thumb on the sharp metal, she then crouched down, trying to figure out the other end of the twenty-foot rope.

   By the time she stood up, the boy was hanging, limp and panting, from his bloodless grip on the mop. The little rags had torn free from their plastic cover and were slapping against his face as they continued to fly.

   It was then that she realized the problem with her plan, and started panicking. Thankfully, she found a pile of bricks, leftover from some rebuilding or demolition recently, and took one, wrapping the bungee cord as tightly around it as she could. It slipped the first time, barely missing her foot, and cracked in half. Grabbing another one, she was more careful in tying it, wasting extra cord just to make sure it stayed on. The other two bungees were tied to this, and rolled up in her hand like a hose.

   Once satisfied with this, she tromped to the edge of the roof, forcing herself to ignore how exhausted she felt and watched the circling eagle. It almost seemed to have forgotten her in finding its new game, and part of her whispered that she should just run away, get to safety. That part of her reminded her that she was bleeding, hurt, and tired from running. The smart thing to do would be to hide away, wait until it was gone, and stay inside for the rest of her life.

   Instead of listening to the Voice of Reason and Self-Preservation, she hefted the brick and bungee and hurled it as hard as she could when the eagle flew by.

   The brick flew true, the third bungee unraveling behind as it went.

It cracked right into the bird’s side, and she felt a bolt of terror that it wouldn’t work, or that she’d just smash the poor guy’s face, but sure enough, just like the mop, the brick stuck tightly to the eagle’s side, the extra bungee cords flopping over its other side. Some of the cord glued itself to the bird, but the rest hung free.

The Golden eagle screamed in pain, zeroing back in on her.

Both talons moved up and opened, before it dived.

Gunner:

            His fingers burned from holding up his weight, but he still couldn’t peel them off of the mop. The eagle –who’s name had sounded something like ‘Yatzee’- kept hitting his legs against car hoods, trees and trying to swipe him against the parking lot’s lightpole. His jeans were torn, knees skinned from all the sharp branches, as the wind from the eagle’s wings continued to buffet him from above.

   He got dizzy the instant his feet left the ground, and had to focus on the Yatzee-bird’s rounded, feathery belly to keep from losing his lunch.

   Maybe he could swing from side to side, knock the bird off-balance… but that would mean it would crash.

Or just drop him to the unforgiving asphalt below.

Yeah… that was not a comforting thought.

   But as the minutes seemed to drag on, constantly spinning, whirling his breakfast in his gut until it wanted to stomp upstairs to demand this tornado to set them down, he willed himself to thrash from front to back, side to side, which mercifully kept the enraged eagle lower in flight.

   He wasn’t sure what good this did for him until a weighted line of cable whipped out of nowhere, whistling as it hit the side of the bird. The brick smacked hard just above the drumstick, and like the mop, stuck tight. The leftover line flopped over the other wing, dangling down below. Blinking at this novelty, Gunner was surprised by Yatzee’s sudden change in direction, sending his stomach to spin cycle.

   He noticed, idly, that the eagle had a wide turning radiace. It couldn’t change direction instantaneously without giving up speed and going into a dive. That wasn’t too hard on it, though, as he realized Yatzee was wanting to dive anyway.

Below, looking like Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park, when he realized his brilliant plan at diverting the T Rex’s attention was going far too well, was the girl he’d attacked this bird to help out.

   She was scrabbling back, eyes wide, and pointing to the dangling rope –what he saw to be a bungee cord- next to him. He mouthed confusion, but was interrupted as his lower legs were slammed against the short safety wall of the roof. The breath left his lungs and he was dragged over the wall by the eagle’s momentum.

The girl took the chance to leap out of the way.

   As the eagle flapped his wings, steering himself higher for another chance to strike, it shook, sinking to the left slightly. Both he and Yatzee looked down the tightened line to see it was tied to an air-con. Gunner saw the girl signal towards the bungee again, and this time he got it.

   Before the eagle could quite figure out what was going on, he forced his deadened legs to kick out, swinging it off course. At the same time he lifted himself up on his aching arm muscles, swiping at the dangling rope with his feet.

   They probably looked hilarious, he thought. What did the drivers in the cars going by, think they saw? A big bird balloon with a guy hanging off it?

He kicked out, missed, and the eagle turned to snap at the line holding it.

He kicked out again, the cord just slipping off the end of his sneaker.

The eagle got a grip on the tether, tearing at it like a dead rat.

He swung as hard as he could, and it squawked in shock.

This time, he got the line.

   Using his legs to aim it, he kept swinging, making the bird fumble in mid-air, until the girl was able to jump up and reach it. From there, he continued to swing to upset it’s balance and keep its attention on him.

Sure enough, it looked at him, scarily sharp-beaked head upsidedown to see him, “You little Mouse-Leavings. I will peck out your eyes-“ It’s threat was interrupted as it made a noise like a microphone being tapped just as the other line grew taunt, tied down somewhere below.

   Gunner looked and saw the girl yanking on the other line, forcing it to wrap around the air-con. Sweat grew on her brow as the eagle flapped, and she collapsed before she could manage thee turns.

But it was enough.

   Unable to move enough air under its wings to keep aloft, the giant eagle repeated the tapped microphone sound and crumpled to the the roof.

   He was shouting in amazement until he realized that he was tumbling for the concrete roof with a massive eagle on top of him.

Ashley:

            She yelped and fell over as the eagle slammed hard into the roof. Rolling over instinctively, she pushed up on her elbows, primed in case the bird went back on the warpath.

   She hadn’t had time to think logically, and thank goodness, too. If she had, she’d never have thought of her crazy plan. Logically, birds didn’t talk; logically, they weren’t that big; logically, they didn’t have impossibly sticky bellies that magically were able to kidnap people with mops, and logically, if they said that the spell that held said mop-guy captive worked only while they flew, it didn’t have to mean literally…

But now she had to hope that poor heroic Mop-Guy wasn’t hurt…

   The eagle looked unconscious, but she wasn’t exactly an expert on bird sleeping habits. Creeping up on it, she suddenly realized she had no way to defend herself if it woke up.

Grabbing another brick, she moved until she stood over the bird, whose wings were crumpled at an awkward angle beneath it. Its tail was fanned wide, and its head was curled in her direction, a big cut over the eye and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a chip taken out of the beak.

The wound dripped golden blood.

   Just as she reached the crook between wing and tail, the bird shifted.

Eyes wide, she readied to hurl the brick at its head, just as a grumbling Mop-guy climbed out from underneath a wing.

   “You’re alive!”

“Is that why it hurts so much? Dang.” He winced, and she bent to help him crawl out. He was still holding the mop in one hand, although it was broken, making it about two feet long.

   “Well, I’M ready for the Zombie Apocalypse, how about you?”

She found herself giggling all of a sudden. She couldn’t help it. The guy had feathers in his hair and was coated in dust. When he grinned, his teeth were almost gray. It was too funny for the situation.

The eagle wriggled slightly.

Both tensed, and then jumped away, the guy holding his broken mop like a bat. He seemed to recall how well that worked last time and instead caught her wrist, “How about we run for our lives?”

“I like that idea,” she replied, pulling him to the ladder.

    They both scrambled down as fast as they could, hopping to the ground in a more or less graceful manner –okay, they both tripped, the boy landing on his butt- and then had a decision to make.

“We could hide inside,” Ashley asked.

“But there’s so much glass. Couldn’t he just smash through it?” the boy said, his voice changing tones, though Ashley barely noticed.

“I guess, but at least we’d be among other people. Safety in numbers…”

“They didn’t seem too useful a bit ago. They all thought you were being attacked by a pigeon.” He shrugged at her dumb-founded stare. “Hey, not my fault they can’t tell the difference between a rat with wings and a pigeon.”

   They both chuckled, just as a scream sounded from the roof.

As one, they made their decision and ran like mad towards the suburbs.

            Ashley had never seen a Golden Eagle, outside of the zoo. Sure, they were supposed to be native to the area, but so were Prairie rattlesnakes and snapping turtles, and she’d so far managed to avoid those.

   But this looked to be one of those, and a big one.

A REALLY big one.

   The shadow of wings overhead, as she’d walked under an oak on the way back from grocery shopping had caused a shiver down her spine. It was the sort of fear your monkey-brain remembered from days running from sabertooth tigers, strapping sharp rocks to sticks, and of course, getting carried away by shadows in front of the sun.

   She hadn’t stopped to think. Wacky as the thought was, she could only believe the thing above her was eying her for lunch.

   There was a swooping noise, followed by heavy whumph, whumph, whumphs, that blew so much air at her that her ponytail spun wildly over her shoulder, as if it were trying to wriggle away.

   Running helter-skelter, the plastic bag full of chips, eggs and a milk carton slapping against her side, she idly wondered if this was how ground squirrels felt.

   Feeling stupid for it, but needing visible confirmation for curiosity’s sake, she looked back over her shoulder at the thing.

A beak, curved like a giant can-opener, opened as it screeched, gleaming yellow eyes slanted for her. It was a dark brown, with fans of gold and yellow around its head, tail and eyes, with black stripes on its wing-tips.

   “You won’t escape me!” it shrieked.

Oh, yeah. It talked too.

   Visual confirmation granted. Her feet were only too willing to oblige her brain now.

It was screaming something like There’s a giant eagle behind me. It’s going to eat me. Why, oh why, did I have to crave a bag of Doritos today?

What a thing to die for: A bag of crushed Doritos.

    The day was abnormally hot for Great Fall Montana, the sun making dizzy little summer dust devils race the dead leaves and gum wrappers across the parking lot. On either side were lines of cars, metal hoods sizzling. Ahead was the road, a few cars swooping by.

Okay, maybe not swooping. They were only going about forty miles per hour, but can you blame her for having ‘swooping’ on the mind?

   Behind her, past the hooked, black talons of the eagle, was the grocery store.

Maybe she could dodge back…

“Quit running, thaneling! You can’t outrun me anyway.”

“Nope. I think I’ll keep running, sorry,” she panted, eyes jumping in panic. The cars were too close together to slip past, here. She needed a break in the rows- there! The little grocery mart had one lone cart-coral for the twelve or so baskets it sported. A full trash can with a small cloud of humming bees, was chained to one end.

It was the kind that was open on both ends.

   Slamming into one of the cart-rows, she put her hands out and pushed at the pair of baskets that was in it, shoving them ahead of her until all three burst out the other end. Scrabbling, crab-like, she spun up the other row of cars and ran hellbent back towards the grocery store.

   Behind her, the eagle was forced to slow, flapping madly for a moment to make the same turn. She was halfway towards the pair of glass doors, their “Melons on sale! Only $1.20 each!” slogans appearing like sanctuary, when she saw the reflection of the great bird tuck in its wings and dive right for her.

She never made it.

Gunner:

            It was a gaudy thing. And not very nice looking. But that had never stopped him from taking pens, paperclips, used erasers, and once, famously, a small Newton’s Cradle from Principal Katawa’s desk.

He’d been expelled, of course, and the thing had broken a few days later when his cat slept on it.

   Still, staring at the bent, palm-sized, double-fingered ring, with its tacky brown, red and yellow glass motif, he was trying very hard to keep his mind off of it.

He almost wished the clerk had been paying more attention to him, would shoo him away, rather than stare towards the front of the store. But the man was intent on something outside, something that was making him and a customer chuckle every few moments, ignoring the bottle of Ginger Ale that was rolling over and over at the end of the black conveyer belt.

   He looked up at the black glass of the security camera, noting with a sigh that it was still draped in cobwebs.

Well, that was helpful.

   The grocery mart was in the gutted innards of an old stripmall, meshed together with a Goodwill next door. Half the building was filled with rows of shelves, stocked with foodstuffs, and a few random gardening implements hanging on the far wall, while the other side was balanced with old clothes on mismatched racks, three changing room stalls and a large glass counter. Inside, on folded yards of cheap fabric, were bracelets, rings, brooches, little boxes, watches and other doodads.

   He had a pair of jeans and a black hoodie over his arm –his purchase- but he’d been admiring a pair of dented cufflinks with a matching tie tack for a few minutes before a lady had asked to see something in the glass case.

   Whatever was going on outside though, had distracted both the cashier, Goodwill blue apron cockeyed, and the customer. The bauble lay, tacky and tempting, on the top of the desk, right behind them.

   Gunner closed his eyes, cringing at his own habit and drumming his fingers on the hoodie quietly, forcing his gaze back to the racks of clothes. He could ignore it, keep his mind on other things. He was here for clothes, nothing else. Not some ugly ring especially.

   “What did she do to that pigeon, I wonder?”

Jumping like a thief at the voice, Gunner looked up at the clerk from the grocery side of the store.

“I don’t know, but it sure is mad at her,” shouted the Goodwill cashier. Done with their staring, they both returned to their customers, hurriedly packing their supplies. The swished Ginger Ale was replaced with one less likely to explode on opening. The woman that had asked to see the ring left without it, watching whatever was going on outside with that half pity, half giggle, that people used when something uncomfortable happened to someone else.

   Curious now, Gunner walked from one store to the other, to get a better view. His brain set on something else, his hand swept out with a mind of its own and plucked up the ring, tucking it into his pocket, all in one move.

   Once back in the grocery side of the stripped building, his eyes widened as he looked outside.

   “Oh man. Does anyone have a bat or something?!” His voice was shaky, unnerved. There was a giant eagle, grappling with a girl just a few yards from the doors.

“What’s the matter with you, kid? It’s just a pigeon. She probably walked too close to its nest or something. I heard they’ll attack if you do.”

“That’s ravens,” he said, his voice going back to its normal, low tone.

“What’s that?” The clerk asked boredly.

   “Nothing. Hey, where are the brooms?”

“Aiele Four.”

“Thank you.”

A minute later, the clerk was shouting as a young man ran by in a blur, broom handle held up and at his side like a jousting lance. Before he could get around the conveyer belt to catch him, Gunner had raced out of the automatic doors and was charging the shrieking girl and angry pigeon.

Thanatosis: The Dogs of Death

Thanatosis: Meaning:
1. Defensive behaviour in which a prey animal feign death. Employed only when escape is impossible. The technique is often effective against predators that kill only living prey.
2. A post-Freudian term used to explain man’s supposed ‘Death Drive’ (as opposed to his ‘Eros Drive’) whereby the person involved is compelled to engage in risky and self-destructive acts that could lead to their own death. Someone who is exhilarated the closer to death they are.

Dreams say what they mean, but they don’t say it in daytime language.  ~Gail Godwin

   You need to be careful, Lee! If you keep acting like a rabid dog, you’re going to get yourself or the men with you hurt, and I don’t want to be you the day you realize that you’ve gotten someone else killed because you wanted to keep going when you should have retreated.
   Anna-Lee Jones looked up at the off-white ceiling tiles –the cheap kind that could be lowered in the winter to save on the heating bill- her eyes half out of focus from staring at the same colours for nearly three weeks. Cream and white. White and cream.
   She grit her teeth, remembering her boss’s words. This made the lack of a reaction from the left side of her face all the more apparent.
She’d been shot in the line of duty. Been given the Law Enforcement’s Medal of Bravery.
   Lee Jones, honoured for her stupidity as she raced into the room where the kidnappers held the Aldersons’ daughter for ransom, ignoring her captain’s orders to keep back until they thought it was cleared when she heard the little girl crying… Lee Jones, honoured for thinking the smoke bomb hid her profile enough to keep her safe. Lee Jones, given the Purple Shield also for the moment she felt the searing pain dig through her side and into her back at once, the twin bullets making her body into mince meat.
Honoured for losing the ability to move half of her body.
   She couldn’t stop the frozen side of her face from crying, no matter how hard she tried, but she knew it was when she felt the faintest wetness near her blown ear as it landed on the pillow. She cried every few minutes or so, because part of the left eye had been damaged by shrapnel and thus the lid was taped up to allow the doctors to make sure the tear in her retina healed properly. She’d have a blind spot there for the rest of her life.
But, as the doctor was wont to say in his bright, cheery and utterly emotionless voice: at least she’d get to keep the eye.
   She looked at all the balloons around her hospital bed, not even remembering where half had come from, wishing she could roll over to not see them anymore. Her team had left a dozen flowers, all the glorious spray now beginning to wilt under the overhead lights. Roger, who had also been hit, but only in the hip, had made a full recovery and visited during the 3:30 shift change, telling the same old jokes they always did on stake outs, bringing coffee and bagels to relieve the boredom of hospital food. But otherwise her colleagues seemed to know that she didn’t want to be visited, didn’t want to be seen this way.
   She was stewing and she knew it. But damn it, what better time to cry in your eggs and beer than when half your upper body took a trip to Crapville?
Well, a better time would be if she actually had any beer…
   As if her thoughts had summoned him, at around 3:45 Roger came through the door, that big grin he always had on his face wide as could be. It made the little mustache he’d been cultivating look like a crushed black fuzzy caterpillar.
“Hola Loco-Girl, your favourite, incredibly handsome, and I do so say myself, partner is here!” He waggled his eyebrows, sitting in the chair placed on her good side.
“Ever modest aren’t you, Valentine?” She greeted.
“Of course! That’s me: devilishly handsome, a treat on the eyes and the ears, and the Bearer of Good Fortune. Or at least, coffee.” He winked, handing her a Starbucks cup of black coffee with cream and sugar.
Jones half-smirked, taking the cup from him and saying gravely, “Since you brought coffee, I’ll let you live, Handsome.”
“I knew you’d come around eventually Loco-Girl. You know you love me.”
“Like my cousin Eustace.”
Roger smiled.
“Don’t take it as a complement bucko, I shot him in the ass last Thanksgiving.”
“Ah Loco-Jones, you are such sweet company. And here I even brought you a donut!”
   Jones looked over at the paper baggie he offered, looking at him skeptically out of one eye, “You seriously got me a donut? What sort of kooky cop are you?”
“Well if you don’t want it…”
“I didn’t say that.” Lee’s smile quirked higher, and she pushed the button to make the bed lift up her top half into a seated position. God bless Morphine. High as a kite she barely winced as her side was forced to bear weight.
   Depositing the bag next to her good hand, Roger nonchalantly pulled the donut out and wrapped the napkin around it before handing it to her. She pretended the choke she felt came from swallowing a bite too fast.
   The other thing she hated about hospitals was the awkward silences. No matter how boisterous they pretended to be, the fact that she could never go back to her job hung in the air like the stench of burning tires.
   Finally Roger coughed, looking for once as if he was at a loss for words. She had to bite back a caustic remark before it could snap its way out of her mouth. Just spit it out Valentine! She knew what he was going to say, but the way he said it startled her.
Holding out his hand, she saw that he held her badge.
   This time the tears that threatened to slip from her good eye weren’t from the fact that her eye was taped open. Her teeth threatened to crack from how hard she was clenching her jaw. “Shouldn’t the boss be doing this?”
    Roger sighed, turning away briefly, “He said that he thought it’d be better if I broke the news to you first…”
Before she could think about it her anger rose like an inferno within her, and she nearly shrieked, “‘Break the news’? What news Valentine? That I can’t be a cop anymore? You don’t think I don’t already know that? Damn it, I’m crazy but I have a brain!”
   She clenched her good fist, trying not to look at her old partner. But when he placed the badge on her arm she looked down, pretending the lights were the reason her vision was hazy. Roger’s voice was faint as he said, “I’ll see you later, alright Jones? At least you’re almost out of here right?” He stood, walking towards the door. She saw his legs pause at the end of her bed and a hint of his humour entered his tone again, “You might want to be gentle with your donut there. You’re crushing it to death.”
Blinking at the decimated remains of the donut, Jones tried to say something but he’d already walked out.

   Every evening she had physical therapy, which was a pain in the ass and legs. She followed the nurse’s instructions, hobbling around a waist-high handrail like a horse with a broken leg, getting used to the way the world looked out of her scarred eye. Being average height, she normally didn’t have to worry about things hitting her head but there was a low-hanging Exit sign that she had begun to know intimately on returning to her room. Her job insurance was damn good or she’d have been screwed by the cost of all this.
   Allowed to use her crutch on the way back to her room, she winced at each step, until she could finally plop back into the bed with the too-white sheets and let herself breathe. The hovering nurse made little soothing noises, clucking like a mother hen as she strapped the young woman back into the endless contraptions that monitored her life. The Morphine plugged into the back of her hand and as the nurse gave it an experimental squeeze a freezing dose slid into her veins, making her head light. Damn. Why was it always so cold? It was like having ice water dumped under her skin and traveling up her arm…
   It also brought a sweet numbing that made all the hurt go away within moments. Her brain decided to take a swim and pettered off into the ether, taking her with it. From what she could remember she gave some brief rumble of content to the Nurse, something along the lines of ‘I can get used to the cold…’
   Jones had gotten used to waking up at odd hours in the hospital. People wandered in and out in an endless cycle. There was always someone taking blood samples or checking her supply of medications. The beeping of the machines seemed to decide to change somewhere around two a.m. and jar her awake by sounding just like her alarm.
And after a while she even dreamed of the damn place.
   But that night was the first time she dreamed of her boss there.
Holding her badge no less.
Bastard, that’s mine…
For a moment the Chief of Police looked at her, as if he had heard her thoughts, before looking at someone that stood on her blind side. “Why can’t you let the mortal live out her life as is? What would Atro’ say if you messed with her weaving?”
A faint chill, much like the seductive thrall of morphine, traveled over her skin as whoever was on her other side stepped closer. She heard him chuckle, a sound that made the hair on her neck run and hide yet somehow made her want to lean closer and listen to his soft voice.
   “Atropos, like all the others, knows that I have a right to do this. A deal is a deal, and if she takes the boon willingly then you couldn’t change her fate if you tried, Thief Lord.”
Thief Lord? What sort of crack dream was this? The chief of Police was not a thief… her thoughts stilled when her boss turned his eyes down on her. They’d always been a little creepy: being a sort of swirling silvery blue-
No. No they weren’t. They’d always been BLUE. A rather striking blue yes, but never anything like gray or that strange silver. Wow, whatever they gave her here, she wanted to ask if she could keep some for home.
   Turning those mercurial eyes back to the hidden voice, Terry Driscoll crossed his arms, frowning, “You’ve been taking more and more lately. I don’t like it. My men aren’t cannon fodder.”
   A soft purr of sound, “Hmm…” and Dream-Jones shivered as a blurry finger touched the skin just under her eye. She twitched, not liking that she couldn’t even see whoever it was to defend herself, and then the shiver followed the fingertip as it trailed along her skin. Growling in her sleep she pulled sharply away, ice cold tears dripping across her nose.
   That strange laughter followed her reaction, “Somehow I doubt she would allow herself to become ‘cannon fodder’, although, if you prefer, Odin has been hunting around for more Berserkrs. Perhaps I could tell him about her?”
“And watch her be funneled around a barbarian pantheon to be one of Loki or Aegir’s pets? No. Better you than them.” Terry’s voice was disgusted.
Okay, seriously, WHAT did they give her to sleep in this place? “Low-Key” and “A-Jeer”? Sounded more like what she’d dream about after too much Tequila…
   The cold tears finally stopped and she heard the barest movement behind her. Rolling unto her back again, she found herself crosseyed.
No, not crosseyed… She had two images to deal with.
It took her a moment to realize that she had her eyesight back in this dream. Distance was confusing.
   But what really got her was the fact that she could see the person standing next to her bed. Terry looked from her to the figure in a coal-gray suit and rubbed his temples tiredly, “Damn it all Thanatos, did you have to tempt her this early? That’s not even sportsmanlike.”
   “I never was a fan of sportsmen. That is your job I believe,” said the darkly beautiful man. Still unable to close the healed eye -evidently tape transferred into sleep as well, great- Jones could see the stranger hold up his arms in a grand shrug, purest white hair falling into his face. His grin flashed briefly, “I won’t take anything from her for that if it pleases you, Thief Lord. Just think of it as… a way to let her see what I could give her. After all, you could heal her just as easily, should you desire. A lack of morals just allow me to do so gladly.” A strange anger went through her at this. He could help her? Why didn’t he? Silently, she turned her glare on Terry and met his eyes.
Which positively glowed silver. He was not amused.
   “It has been a long time since I meddled in mortals fates, Death God.” He spoke to the pale-haired man but kept looking at her, as if boring the message deeply into her brain. “Unlike you, I want to right past wrongs.”
“How very chivalrous of you then. I prefer to be open in my using of their short lives.”
“I don’t USE them-“
“Oh, don’t you? What of her then? This girl you’d prefer see a partial invalid for one mistake? Or perhaps her mentor? You would have let him die entirely and go to your Uncle.”
   Terry sighed, sitting down in Roger’s vacated chair. His thumb rubbed at the numbers on her badge, “The only reason you save them is to send them back out to do your bidding. They are only human. They need rest or they go insane: no man should be immortal. Just because you CAN heal them, doesn’t mean you SHOULD.” Terry looked up wearily.
The other man merely responded, “Are you done yet?”
Terry shook his head and stood. “Of course. Not as if I can change Death’s mind after all. Might as well try to keep my Father loyal to his wife. Just make sure Hypnos lets her have a good rest before you pounce on her.” Her boss pulled open the drawer next to her bed, tucking the badge back inside. She realized idly he was wearing gloves, and that he even pulled the random stack of papers she’d dropped on top of the badge to hide it on top before closing it. In the back of her mind she knew that she’d never have thought this was more than a dream otherwise.
…Except for her eye.
    The dark man -Thana-something,- merely smiled, nodding his head as if Terry had just given him a great complement, “Don’t worry: my brother treats mortals better than I do. And I plan to give her a few days to get used to her new life before I ‘pounce on her’. That way she can make a thought-out choice.”
“You mean so she will beg for you to heal her.” Terry growled as he walked silently around her bed towards the door.
“Perhaps, little Psychopomp. It does make it easier for me. Less paperwork. And, after all, I did what you asked: she can hear what we discuss and knows how much you care about her. Enough that you wouldn’t heal her because she needs ‘rest.’”
“Be silent, Death God.”
   Terry sounded livid, and it was the first time in quite a while since she thought he might strike someone, (the last time had been when his half-brother had asked him for money for some massive bar tab he’d managed to get,) but the other man didn’t bat an eye. Instead she blinked her right eye in astonishment as his hand suddenly snapped out to encase his throat and slam him back against the wall. She couldn’t lift her head far enough to see much more than the back of the dark man’s head, but she heard his words as if he were shouting them into her ear, for all that they were barely a whisper.

     “Remember who you are speaking to, half-human. I am the death of all Creation and the Hater of Life. Do you really think that a mere son of that whoring Sky Darkener could destroy me? I’ll allow quite a bit, but I won’t let others think they can treat me with as much disdain as they please. One day you too must die, and I’ll be there when you do little godling.” Terry remained silent throughout this, and Jones found herself struggling to get up, move, anything to help. After all this was just a dream so she should be able to help…
Damn it, why couldn’t she dream she had her gun?
   But her 9 mm semi auto was in a lockbox at her house.
   The dark man’s voice stopped her cold.
“Well that is something. She’s trying to wake up to protect you. Should I be impressed that you cause such loyalty from your team?”
   Terry looked away from him, his eyes now not-quite white. Never having seen such a wild hate from him before Jones cringed, slipping back down with a hopefully silent whimper. She’d seen how tightly the man was gripping his throat and couldn’t believe he was still breathing. “Let me go, Thanatos. She’ll hurt herself if she tries to move under Hypnos’s thrall. What use would she be to you then?” his glowing white eyes faded back to blue, and he didn’t look at either this ‘tha-nah-tose’ or the sagging woman on the bed.
   But the other man gripped his throat tighter for a moment, saying only, “I’ve always been partial to live bait. What do you think?” Stepping back he released the younger man and for the first time Jones saw that he’d actually held him a few feet off the floor. Before her mind could quite take this in though she felt a warm hand touch her forehead and turned to see yet another man standing next to her bed, this one with jet black hair and soft brown-gold eyes.
How many more of you freaks are there?
   The newest member of the ‘Let’s-screw-with-Jones’-dreams-Club’ raised a midnight eyebrow and smiled thinly. “Are you always so charming?”
I do try Mr. Freak, sir.
“Ah.” and with that he pushed her back down into her pillow, then deeper, until she was falling back into Oblivion.

In a closed society where everybody’s guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.
                  -Hunter S. Thompson

   Normally, children went overlooked, forgotten by elders who disregarded their presence. They could make their way into the background, and from there learn the things of import of whatever adults spoke of. This is what made them a useful choice of form to hide when Loki wanted to remain unseen in Midgard.

Unfortunately for him, this night differed from the norm.

   He was in the “South End” of the town of Bridgeport, walking down streets with his dark head lowered, tiny hands in pockets. The stone hummed in one pocket, tuned to the nearby inlet of ocean-water. The Druag would certainly come here eventually. It was the nearest source of water, and the South End was where the ocean remained open and free of the bridges, docks and other manmade objects that would hamper the Druag’s powers.

   It was on Lafayette Street that the group of young male thugs came out of an alley, grinning down at him. “Where ya headed, kid?”

He brushed past the first of the four, “Out of my way, mortal.”

The other three bunched together, blocking his path. The first, a boy with a nose-ring that attached to a chain to his ear, laughed. “Mortal? Boys, I think this kid’s cracked!”

A red-head, the shortest, guffawed loudly, obviously trying to impress his leader with his loyalty. “Yeah, Blitz, he’s on somethin’ good I bet!”

    “Blitz” glared him silent, pulling out a flip-knife and prodding Loki in the back with his foot. “Now kid, just give us your lunch money and be off like a good wittle boy.”

“Do not touch me, human,” Loki said in warning, looking over his shoulder at the knife-wielding boy.

“Oooo, crazy brat has spunk. Maybe we should cut it out of him,” said the tallest boy, dressed entirely in black. The last one, with shockingly blue hair, nodded agreement, hand moving for his back pocket.

   Loki had, had enough. Green eyes began to glow as he lifted a hand-

   “Hey! What are you kids doing? Get out of there!” All five turned to see an officer step out of his car, sidearm raised at the sight of weapons. “Get away from that kid!”

“Oh damn, run!” Blitz hissed, dodging back down the alley. The others followed as Loki calmed the energy roiling around his fingers, just in time for the older mortal to clap a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, kid? What are you doing out this late?”

Loki sighed, saying truthfully, “I am hunting a Druag.”

The man crouched beside him, “A dragon? Whatever kid, I’m going to have to take you home. Do you know your parents numbe-“ the rest of his sentence was lost as Loki raised a glowing finger and touched it between his eyes. At once his limp hand released the god’s shoulder and he slumped, snoring, to the ground.

   Disgusted, Loki returned to his full form, dusting off his shoulder, and making his way unaccosted. He had no time for these mortals –he was hunting.

   Hours passed in a fruitless search, and he began to wonder if the spirit had yet made it to the city. “I’d know for sure if she was here –the screams always revealed her- and no doubt would feel her power were she to make it to the sea. Where is she?”

   The moon was a thin sliver above, waning into a needle-thin point. The stars were nearly transparent, unable to defeat the electric-powered lights the humans used to fight back the ever-pressing dark. There was a reason the race feared the dark so, and some would likely learn to fear it again in the next few days.

   He didn’t even think to call on the All Father for help, nor his brother. It wouldn’t do for them to know the powers of the stone he’d taken from the dead Sorceress.

   He ended up in Seaside Park, watching the sea lap along the harbour. It was calm, rippling like a discarded fish skin in the frail moonlight and the harsh city glare. Turning back, he made one more pass through the South End, thinking to meet Helblar up before she reached the water below. It was dangerous, in case she managed to sneak past him, but if he managed it, she’d be weak enough for him to bind again.

   North Grove Road led him to Waldemere Avenue. The god of Mischief passed darkened alleyways and closed businesses, late night bars and a few homeless mortals that stared open-mouthed at his horned helm and clothes. Ignoring them, he passed the mouth of one last alley before turning onto Park Avenue.

                                                  *

   Blinking up from the lit screen of her iPod, ‘Rie leaned against the brick wall of the Flower sellers and looked out into the street, only to see a green-cloaked man march past. Eyes widened in shock, she slipped the earphones down to her neck and peered out of the alley in time to see him disappear around the corner.

Two seconds passed as she digested this, then, “Hey, wait up!”

She gripped the iPod in one hand, hauling her pack up to her shoulder and jogging after.

            Crouching above Midgard, the storm paced the horizon, sending tracks of snapping lightnings across its underside like Fenrir’s enchanted bonds. Thunder rumbled angrily within the eldritch awnings of clouds.

   When it broke, the storm pelted the countryside with a fierce mixture of hale and biting wind. After each burst of purple light leapt from the glowing core, the echoing hiss of falling sleet followed a brief pause –like an intake of breath. If you listened hard enough, a sound like the clang of iron-shod hooves could be heard above the gale.

   Following a wayward path towards the sea, this storm caused the young girl, crouched beneath the brittle shelter of snow-coated firs, to cringe. Instinctively she started mouthing the wards against foul weather, only barely remembering to keep quiet. Too late, she went bolt still, hearing the storm reach a vicious crescendo directly above. The trees thrashed agedly in the wind, groaning like wraiths as she forced her feet to move, move, move through the underbrush. Out and away and fleeing like a rabbit, trying to ignore the sound of warrior women shrieking thunder behind.

   She raced up and down the uneven hillocks, coated in whipping dead leaves that clung to her hair, her skin, her clothes, giving her wet feathers of needles and mast. Her leather boots slipped on slick rocks or sunk into slush dropped from overhead.

   Behind and above the women screamed, the horses breathed balefire glows and the storm roared. She shrank low, clinging to her mantle desperately, and ran as fast as she could. Light and thunder bloomed around her, arrows and lighting hissed overhead. Herded, toyed with, hunted, she ran.

And then she was falling. Down into wet and gloom and dark.

Head striking stone, she could no longer see, could only hear the rush of storm-hooves overhead as darkness devoured her whole.

            The fire danced over the round, barrel-shaped kiln. Within, metal glowed red as a sunset, a simple ring of nails, ready to shoe an impossible horse. The shoes were already made, fine, heavy, iron things that were so large she could barely lift them. Dropping one experimentally, she heard it clang like a bell as it struck the dirt floor.

   The light of the fire drew her, enticed her to stand and watch her Uncle work the bellows, powering the rock forge that heated the belly of the kiln. Arms large and muscled, shining with sweat like the fine stallion that had appeared at their door, were sometimes licked by those flames. So much so that the hair had mostly charred off, leaving smooth skin, like a woman’s. Opposite of this, his long beard lay in braided ropes, tied behind his neck, weighted on his back by a brass ring, to keep it safely out of the fire’s reach.

  Aðísla had always been fascinated by watching her father’s older brother work his kiln. He used something as destructive as fire to meld and bend and control, to create entirely new things. Out of that chaos of flame he’d drawn torqs and armbands, horseshoes and bridle-clasps, ring-pins and fine wire, all of which slid red-hot and fierce into the pool at his feet to hiss dragon’s breath into the room.

   At his brother’s death, Rothgridr had taken in his niece and her Mother into his own extensive family. One stuffed to the brim with daughters already, so Aðísla was meant to easily fade into the mass. Unlike the others though, she’d found herself drawn, not to the fine things her Smith Uncle created, but to their very creation. How could fires that normally lapped so wildly create something so beautiful as the wire-bound torqs he sold to warriors, with their orm-heads and gimlet eyes? She just had to know. Bemused, the giant man, sonless, decided that he needed to pass his teachings on to someone, and if a girl was all their was, then why not? Perhaps she’d bring a son to him one day as an apprentice proper. It made sense.

   And so he let her guard the bellows, or watch, getting tools he may need, even once or twice allowing her to create a simple nail or turfpeg. It was that fire that did it finally, when she saw its reflection in that golden band on the Intruder’s wrist. He came, demanding fine things, fine food, wanting hospitality without cause, with winter not far off! And the fires in that ring were too much to ignore when he took it off to wash.

And now, she ran.

Light woke her, bringing her into a world steadily echoing with snowmelt from overhead. Her head felt like it’d cracked in two, and Aðísla could only look blankly up at the sheen of light above. It glowed, not an arm’s reach away, with spiderweb cracks and hoarfrost gleams. Eyes growing used to the sudden light through the head ache, she slowly remembered what had happened the day –hour? Week? Month? Who knew?- before and stiffened in her oddly warm bed. Were they coming? Worse, were they waiting for her to come out, waiting to pounce on her like a spring hare?

   She strained to listen, not used to this, not used to the strain of prey in the field. NOW she felt for the fieldmouse, for the hare and the grouse that fed her. What they went through in their short, paranoid lifespans.

She heard nothing but the white echo of silence and snow above.

   Carefully pulling herself up from the miraculously warm leaf litter, she prodded the light web and realized it was a tangle of deadwood, blown there in the gale. She had fallen in some form of hole and the very storm the Choosers of the Slain had called up to chase her, had helped her hide.

   A grin of triumphant defiance tilted her chapped lips and she paused at the weight at her throat, looking down. Pulling a thick leather thong from under her woolen dress, she noted there were now thirty-six thick rings upon it, heavy and clinking. Only being tucked in her breast band managed to stay the clinking terror it would be.

That meant three days. Four if she counted the day she’d tossed the extras away in her last desperate hope to mess up their trail.

That had bought her some time to sleep at least.

   Her victory was short-lived however, as reality showed her in her newest predicament. She was lost in a world of white, the ground now coated in bright, gleaming snow. A tentative step dropped her nearly up to her thigh in the ice. Struggling backwards, she managed to grip the roots around her hollow and used them to drag herself back out of the slush. Seated on these roots, her skirts and boots were now soaked, and she’d started shivering in the chill. Wrapping her mantle tighter around her shoulders, Aðísla looked around.

   The snow was deep, as if it’d been snowing non stop for hours. The trees, even the defiant pines and firs, had been stripped of all their leaves, making the surrounding area appear deeply entrenched in winter. If she hadn’t remembered the smell of the apples her aunt had boiled into the mead just last week, she’d half believe it herself.

   Walking blindly through the snow banks would be suicide: if a highwayman didn’t pick her off, the cold wet snow would.

   At least the sun was overhead, which told her it was late morning to midday at most. She could probably sit there for a while, and let the snow melt a bit, making it safe to walk-

Overhead came a harsh caw.

   She jumped, eyes wide in fear. Was it a normal bird? Or one of Odin’s ravens come hunting her? She couldn’t tell, couldn’t know for sure. But if it WAS Huginn or Munninn, then that meant his wolves wouldn’t be too far behind…

His ravens are Thought and Memory. They spy on the world, bringing back secrets to their master. His wolves are Ravenous and Greed, eternally hungry…

   That was the problem: she couldn’t tell. Even if it was a natural bird, she didn’t know if the all-Father had control over them as well. Making up her mind, the daughter of a Jarl looked to the tree next to her, gripping and snapping a branch off. Testing its length and heft, she pushed it into the snowdrift, poking it in until she found a place with higher ground. Hearing a returning caw in the distance, she made up her mind and set off, crunching through hip-deep snow.

   Using her stick to find higher ground, she managed to trudge though only ankle deep drifts, allowing her to continue on slightly faster. It took only a few minutes to have her clothes soaked through, and she shivered in the chill air.

   As she crested a low hillock, the thong around her neck seemed to vibrate. Daring to look at the rings, she watched, amazed as always, as the center ring shivered, twisted, then appeared to melt and stretch until it had spawned nine more of its like on the band. It was heavy against her collar bone, and cold, even with the heat of her skin. Always cold.

   Tucking it back under, she continued on. Her uncle lived in a relatively populated area, so hopefully she’d find a village somewhere if she kept walking…

   It soon became apparent that the Waelcerie had directed the storm to fall only where they’d thought she’d been. Within an hour of walking through the storm’s leavings, she found herself stumbling back onto natural mast, skidding in wet leaves from the melting ice. The trees here went from stripped and bare to leafy green, tall ash and yew that made for a bird’s paradise.

   She kept her stick, instinctively checking to make sure she hadn’t lost her knife. It was small, meant to cut honey combs out of a hive rather than a liver out of a human, but it was all she had been able to take with her when Odin had come back for her.

   The ground sloped downward, slick as grass when you gutted a sheep, and she had to balance on her makeshift crutch, while holding low-hanging branches to keep from tumbling down and striking her head on roots, tree trunks or rocks.

In this fashion, she continued her trek.

   We are so often ashamed of the Earth

—the soil of it, the sweat of it, the good

common coarseness of it. To us in our fine

raiment and soft manners, it seems indelicate.

                                                David Grayson

   Asgard gleamed in the light of the sun, fiery brilliant overhead. Golden beams and coruscating light flashed and shimmered like mirages, high-arched windows welcoming the warm glow to rebound off every inch of the godly halls, until lamps were needed only at night. Even then, on full moons they were left dark.

   His castle was no different, for being situated outside of Asgard proper, perched high on a cliff overlooking the Sea of Marmora. The rising sun caught on the yellow brickwork, leaping up the tower; up walkways, balconies and banners atop it all. There was light from sunrise to near sunset, when the mountains in the west managed to steal the last hour’s worth for themselves.

But even in this brilliant glow, another light managed to catch the eye.

   A gem in a pale gold setting hung off a large bronze carving of a tree that seemed to come right out of the wall of one hall, flickered and seemed to pulse. Smoky green, it warmed first to white, then blue, then suddenly settled into a brownish murk that was a complete change from its earlier beauty.

   Nearby, a man hunched over a book with words that didn’t remain still more than a few seconds glanced up at the stone, idly, not even sure why he did. Seated, he looked shorter than he actually was, but as he saw the stone’s changeling nature, he promptly sat up, back rigid.

   Walking up to the forged tree, he caught hold of the necklace, which felt like a heart, beating in his hand. Twin gold horns spiraled back from the helm on his brow, reflecting the stone back like a pair of eyes in the polished metal.

Rubbing a thumb across the stone’s surface, the green-garbed man muttered, “This is ill tidings…”

   As if in response, a cloud passed before the sun, a stripe of shadow swamping the room. Unhooking the necklace from the branches in some way known only to him, the man reached out his opposite hand. Light threaded along his fingers, and a cloak appeared over the arm, along with a traveling belt. Putting both on, he placed the necklace in one of the three pouches over his left hip.

   The cloud slid harmlessly past as the cloaked man left his castle, following the long trail first to the great Gopul River, then used its energy to teleport to the City of Asgard. Below that lay a valley where a lone tree dominated the ground.

   Black-barked and deceptively small, its branches stretched, eternally bare, into the ice-blue sky. The only thing in the valley, it rattled like bones whenever the wind stirred its limbs.

   That was when the man pulled out the necklace, gripping the chain tightly. The reason for this could be seen as the stone pulsed, suddenly leaping for the nearest branch, trying to tug free. He forced it back into its pouch, instead pulling a red-yellow stone out of the largest bag. “Great Tree, I come to you for aid. Tell me what has happened to cause the stone to return to life.” He had his suspicions but waited for the World Ash Tree to respond.

   It didn’t speak, but answered in its way, tiny branches growing towards the blank stone in his hand, able to carve into it a Rune shaped like the English letter H with two slanted middle bars. Hagalaz: Elemental Wrath.

Bowing his head, horns barely avoiding tangling with the twigs, the man nodded, suspicions confirmed. Magically wiping the stone clean, he started to ask how he should pass by the ever watchful Guardian of the Bifrost, “What do I need-“ but before he could finish, the branches rattled, digging into the stone again. This time a Rune like the letter Y with an extra center branch appeared, glowing resolutely. The man blinked, confused.

   “Algiz?” That meant protection, either defending yourself or others. A connection with higher powers and/or a guardian. Was the Tree saying he needed to guard himself carefully? But it wasn’t in the merkstave position, meaning he was in danger, but in the proper form.

   Putting this to the back of his mind, he communed quietly, listening and riddling the ancient Ash’s image-language until he knew for sure what had happened in Midgard below. Lastly, out loud (for three is, as always, a fateful number,) he asked how to sneak past watchful Heimdall.

   The symbol carved on the stone now looked like an hourglass on its side: Dagaz of the Dawn. Smiling, the man nodded once as his form flickered oddly, seeming to disappear. In his place was a beam of light, immune to shadow, perfect to blend into the reflections off the Rainbow Bridge.

   Racing underneath the Bifrost in a gleam of light, Loki made his way to Earth.

   It was to Oceola Lake that he went first. He needn’t have bothered. “The creature locked here is gone… and seems to have found a new body as well.” This last was said as he picked up a snapped fishing rod that had tangled in the grasses on the shore.

   Muddy tracks marched up the bank, into the trees. Following these, he soon made it to a highway, traversed by loudly honking trucks and other mortal transportation. The tracks of course, disappeared on hitting the asphalt, but he saw something else.

Red and blue lights, flashing just a half mile down. Keeping to the trees, Loki walked until he saw a pair of black and white vehicles, hoods and roofs adorned with flashing lights. Uniformed men were cordoning off the area with yellow tape and road flares.

   One man was shaking his head, looking at a crumpled form in the middle of one of the lanes. Another walked up, saying, “Vic’s ID says his name was Tod Folton. Looks like a suicide. Driver of the truck said he walked right out in front of him. Didn’t even try to get out of the way.”

“Damn way to go,” the first responded. “Where’s the driver?”

“Heading down to Bridgeport. We questioned him, checked his record and sent him on. There’s no sign of anything screwy, so we had no reason to hold him- ugh.”

“What’s wrong?”

The second man was scraping his shoe on the ground. “All this mud. Where did this vic come from? He’s coated in it. Smells like dead fish… Did he walk here from the lake?”

   Loki moved away, eyes on the road. He needed to go to this Port of Bridges now, he was sure of it. Helblar would be making her way towards water, first, before trying to find him. He had no doubt that she’d try to find him and the stone soon, and he needed to find her before she became too powerful.

   Just a little past Wordin avenue, about a half-mile outside of Bridgeport, drivers were forced to pass single-file along the narrow, two-lane road, careful to avoid wrecking, as a large semi-truck was stranded, hood steaming in the early night air, to one side of the road.

   The driver, a broad man with sun-burned arms, cheerful brown eyes and the lines of a ready smile, was at the moment levering open the large hood, cursing as a burst of steam roared out.

   Sighing, he shook his head. “This is a bad luck night, for sure.”

Ignoring the hand-motions sent to him by another driver, he climbed back into the cab.

The CB radio buzzed. “Steamed up, then Tony?” Roy asked over the line.

Picking up his radio, Tony pushed the button to open the line. “Yeah. Busted up something. Gonna let it sit a bit. This isn’t my night.” He cringed at that. Obviously it hadn’t been that other fellow’s night either. Enough that he’d been willing to make the acquaintance of Tony Ganzales’s front grill, and then his Maker.

What would make a guy do that?

   “You okay over there, Big T? Don’t be blamin’ yerself now. Some people just don’t have the will to live…” Roy’s voice was gentler than usual. Tony knew he was trying to help, and was thankful for it. “Good Ol’” Roy was a kind soul.

Another driver crept past, headlights brightening the road for an instant before disappearing, leaning on the horn the whole way.

“Seems people around Bridgeport sit on their horns and drive their seats,” he chuffed, trying at humour. After what he’d seen tonight though, it was a wasted effort.

“Yeah, you get that.” The radio crackled as he went in and out of range. “People have to slow down for half a minute to pass a stranded Semi and suddenly they hotglue their asses to the wheel.”

   The two talked for a bit while Tony let his engine cool. Night swelled beyond the cab’s doors, the road ahead obscured by the open hood. The thin cloud of steam caused beads of water on the windshield, like rain. Melding together, they wobbled, then slid down in murky brown streaks.

Wait. Brown? Why brown? Had oil somehow mixed with the radiator? No. It couldn’t have: the heat would have burnt it out.

“Just a sec, Roy. Gonna check something.”

“Okay, Big T.”

   Getting out, Tony carefully waved some of the steam away –it was oddly cool, for being that close to the engine still- and examined his radiator and oil lines. No leaks, but some bad news nonetheless.

   Opening his door, he keyed the mike, cussing.

“That doesn’t sound too good, buddy.”

“It isn’t. I don’t know what the hell happened, but it looks like my radiator damn well exploded.”

“Exploded? You serious?”

“Yup. Blasted right through the cap and busted the water tank at the seams. It’s still steaming, 10-4.”

   He waved his hand as the fog off the engine began to drift past his face, grumbling, “I’m going to call in a tow truck on this one. I can walk to town from here.”

You’re not going to get too many towers to come out on a Sunday night, man. Not without a lot of bitching and a lot more money.”

“I know man, but I don’t want to sleep in this thing, right now. I want to get the hell into town, into a cheap hotel, and to hell with night.”

“Now come on, brother. You’re just stressed. Calm down and think rationally. You don’t want to be walking on a road at night, ten miles outside of God’s Knowledge. It ain’t safe. 10-4.”

Coughing a bit at the steam, Tony said truthfully, “I’d feel safer behind some good walls than out here. I’m shaking, brother. It doesn’t feel right, seeing that guy do that, and being stuck out here. Haven’t felt this creeped out since my first night over road.” He paused as he coughed again, shaking his head like an angry horse as more of the cloud of precipitation settled over him like a cloak. “And this damned steam is getting everywhere-‘ button still depressed in his hand, he started coughing heavily, suddenly unable to stop.

   His eyes were tearing, leaving brownish trails across his cheeks. He could no longer see anything besides the light inside the cab, as the fog enveloped him completely.

   He was choking, gagging, swallowing massive amounts of water though he was still stumbling in the fog. Trying to escape whatever was attacking him, he used his hands to follow the cord of the mike, tripping against the step up into the big rig. Scrabbling on the seat, he finally managed to grip the seat and start leveraging himself up, dropping the mike in the process.

   Roy’s voice flooded the station, “Big T? Big T? Tony! You there, brother?”

Tony couldn’t respond, could only gurgle a weak “Help…” before his world went first white with mist, then black with oblivion.

“Tony? I’m loosing you. Are you still there? 10-4.”

The mist dissipated as Tony’s body twitched, flopping hideously as its new occupant tried to acclimate itself to the new form like someone working a new pair of shoes to a more comfortable fit.

“Big T? Are you-shhhhhsshshshshsh- I’m loosi-shshshshshsh…”

   Helblar ignored the hissing toy, forcing her new host to climb down from the cab. The mike was kicked out to hang, swinging, from the open door. The front seat looked soaked through.

   She needed to find a big source of water to ground her powers. Somewhere the Trickster couldn’t easily bind her soul again. The ocean. She could sense it… but when she’d tried to amble the dead fisherman’s body across the strange paved road, the great screaming behemoth had hit it, damaging the body enough she’d had to leave it for fear of being harmed herself. She’d been lucky, in that there was a tank of water inside the beast’s roaring maw, a place that could hold her safely for a time. It was hot, cramped, and soon she could stand it no longer, bursting free. Yet more luck was given her in the form of this mortal checking on the sorry state of his broken mount. Surely Fate was on her side in her battle against Loki.

   The presence of the ocean called her, pulsing like the heart of her Pendant. She would get that back as well, once she was powerful enough to force it from the Trickster’s death-bloated fingers.

Dripping and oozing murky water with each step, the Druag made her way onwards.

Chapter Two: Mischief

   History is the recital of facts represented as true.

Fable, on the other hand, is the recital of facts represented as fiction.

                                                Voltaire History

            “Jane, you are working yourself too hard. Stop and just take a break at least.” Erik frowned at the young woman as she glared defiantly at her computer screen, redoing equations over and over again. Each time she would rush to examine the archway set dead to the wall, wires and cables snaking across it in a writhing chaos of chromed tubes.

            His once good friend’s daughter looked back at him, defiance etched in her stance. “If I can only get this to work-“

“Jane, listen to yourself for a moment. You’re tired, and you aren’t thinking straight. If you continue like this, you’ll as likely drive yourself to exhaustion as manage to open even this much of a portal.”

            The woman opened her mouth, ready to snap, but he interrupted, “What use are you to the scientific community if you don’t get any rest? Just take a nap, I beg you. That boy has lasted this long without you, after all.” He winced as he said those last words. They rang in the purified air of the lab like hammerblows, and Selwig looked away.

But he didn’t take them back.

            This Thor, whatever he was, had managed to crack though to a part of Jane that he’d worried no one would. He couldn’t help but be happy when he saw her joy, almost like a father himself, but he’d been shocked at how fast she’d fallen for the man. In less than two days, she’d followed him into a military base, and then nearly been killed by that gigantic robot, all because she refused to leave him.

It worried him. He couldn’t help but wonder if the so-called god had been toying with her emotions, using her to retrieve Mjollnir.

            But then, he had told him to leave. Had the boy done just that?

Foster wasn’t looking at him. She said lightly, “I’m sure you’re right, Erik, but… I…” Her brow furrowed as she seemed to piece together what she wanted to say. “I just felt so… I mean. He’s proof of what I and my father have been trying to show the world –what he died before he could- and I can’t leave that now. Not when I’m so close to proving him right.”

            Dr. Selwig blinked, actually surprised. He’d thought her boundless determination had stemmed from her feelings for the boy but-

“I… You’re right. I need a break. I’m sorry, Erik. For being so scatterbrained lately…” Jane cast one last glance at the empty ring on the wall before walking over to the wall and picking up her coat. He kept quiet as she shrugged it on and walked out the door.

            The older man rubbed the heel of his palm over his jaw tiredly. He felt like a fool for not realizing how much her Father’s research influenced her. Of course she wanted to bring his image back out of the gutter.

“They are too alike,” he grumbled to the empty room.

            Sitting down, he put his head in his hands to keep the blinding lights overhead from bothering him as much. He could feel another one of his headaches coming on.

            He wasn’t sure what caused them. Maybe all the explosions from the giant robot had damaged something in his old eyes. Or maybe it was just this purified air and bright lights. He didn’t know, but whatever had happened, he got them worse when he was in the S.H.I.E.L.D labs.

            Massaging his brow, he laid one hand on the tabletop, carefully avoiding the piles of papers and models scattered about like a mad scientist’s dreamscape.

            But the ache only twinged, harsher and more insistent.

Deciding a walk would help, he got up and took his coat with him. Unlike outside, everything in here was cold as a freezer, which didn’t help his arthritis one bit, of course. Flexing his fingers as he walked the halls, he wasn’t meaning to go in any particular direction, just move. So, when he turned a corner to find the ‘Library’ as the other lab techs liked to call the Reference Stockroom, he was only slightly surprised.

            Lately, he’d been going here more and more often, reading up on whatever he could find on that strange Cube –which wasn’t very much. He wasn’t sure why he found it so fascinating, really: he didn’t think much of all the stories he heard about it, but, at the same time, the possibility of it fascinated him. He could be as bad as Jane with how much he tried to riddle it out.

            He had a passcode to allow him to read the older documents here, but there was next to nothing about the Cube that wasn’t a brief scrap of myth or fable, besides the one written record, translated from German, written by a Dr. Zola under Johann Schmidt that had been made to harness it. He wrote of it in a mixture of awe and fear. It had seemingly boundless energy, which no one could understand its source, and if controlled, had the ability to power cities, or engines longer than the lifespan of their driver… or, as he had been forced to use it: cause untold havoc and instant incineration of people it was tested on. One note in the margins spoke of a group of Camp dwellers that had been dispersed, atom by atom, screaming the entire time.

Every time he read that, he shivered.

             But still he found himself combing through the pages, trying to find something new, something that would help figure out the Cube for themselves. Because unfortunately, the notes in Dr. Zola’s journals held little of how he actually managed to do so. Those journals had likely burned when Steve Rogers and his men had destroyed the lab.

            He frowned, oddly annoyed at that fact. It wasn’t their fault, and really, if it weren’t for the brave boy, even these journals would likely have remained unfound, the demolished ruins of the bunker buried in the German forest forever. He at least remembered where it was.

            Reading, for some reason, usually soothed the headache, but today, it wasn’t working. He felt twitchy, rubbing his wrists as he stared blankly at the pages he’d poured over dozens of times. Paranoid. He needed to figure this out, somehow. It was of great importance-

He jumped at a noise behind him, turning to see Rogers coming in the opposite entrence, as if summoned by his thoughts. “Oh, sorry to startle you, Dr. I was just bringing this back.” He used his passcard to open the plastic case in front of one of the bookshelves, putting the book away.

He was young still, but had the ghosts in his eyes Selwig recalled from his father, a fighter pilot in the War. Selwig felt something in him wilt at the sight of such a young man bearing such an old gaze.

            Rogers looked up, as if feeling the scrutiny. At once, he was smiling, as if wanting to comfort him. “Busy as usual, Dr. Selwig?” In an instant the grim-eyed soldiar was gone, replaced by a polite, ‘All-American’ youth.

Erik blinked, then his brain kicked back in at the question. “Oh, no. Not really. Just trying to find something new in words I’ve read a hundred times already.” He laughed humourlessly, “You’d think it’d changed overnight or something, with how many times I read these journals.”

            Rogers smiled, nodding with polite disinterest. “Red Skull’s journals?”

“Yes. Well, his head scientist’s at least. I just can’t think of how he did what he did.”

Rogers pulled out a chair, flipping it around and sitting astride it. “You mean, making the canons and such, sir?”

“Yes. It just all sounds like a bunch of hoopla to me. And the only descriptions we have are of the damage, not the tool, so I can’t even fathom what it is. This Tesseract is sometimes the ‘Jewel of Odin’s Hoard’, others just a key to utter Destruction. But nothing I find knows what it is, really, or explains its use. We don’t dare try anything without knowing how safe it is…” His temple gave a sharp pang as his frustration fueled it. “If there was a decent description of what it did, maybe we could understand the energy source…”

            “I am sorry Dr. but it’s a tad more than hoopla, sir. It managed to power quite a few weapons, and nearly blasted a jet from the sky. …I rather finished that job.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, son. I’m just venting.”

“No problem, sir.”

“You know… you don’t have to always call me sir…”

“It’s a habit, sir.”

“Ah.” He winced again. “Er, anyway, I should probably leave you to your own reading. I’m sorry to bother you with an old man’s groanings.” Even if I’m technically younger than you. He stood up, closing his book and replacing it. “Have a good night, son.”

“Sir? Ah… Dr. Selwig. I’m not the best to explain that sort of thing, but if it helps, I did see the Cube in ‘action’ as it were.” His voice sounded dry, in another time.

            A sudden heightening in his headache made Selwig nearly trip over his chair. “You-you did? What was it like? What did it do?” His tone startled him. He sounded eager as a boy.

Rogers only shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not the best to explain it, but it was blue energy, off-white behind the eyes, and it seemed to make the Cube –er, Tesseract- heavier when used, as it bored a hole in the plane. But before that…” he frowned, remembering.

“Yes? Before that?” Was that his voice? He sounded so hoarse.

“Well, when Red Skull started screaming, the light changed colour, from blue to… everything in the spectrum. It was like when I used to go up Mag Hill to see the Milky Way, really. And then he disappeared in a beam of light. I never managed to write up a report because, well, I died.” He repeated the empty smile, before asking, “Is that helpful si- Dr. Selwig?”

Yes. Very much so part of his brain said victoriously, his headache reaching a crescendo.

“I… think it is, Rogers. Thank you. I know it is a hard thing to talk about.” But that victorious little voice didn’t care. What he described sounded very much like the wormhole Thor and his friends had used.

            Rogers looked up with that boyish smile. “I’m glad to have helped, sir.” He blinked suddenly, “Sir… your eyes…”

“What about them?” And just like that, his migraine was gone.

“Nothing, sir. My mistake. They had just looked very bright blue. Must have been these lights.”

“Oh. Yes. Must have been the… lights.”

“Of course, Dr. Selwig.” He shook his head, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and contemplating the tabletop.

Dr. Selwig, happy at the new knowledge and free of head pains, left.

Elsewhere, the dark-haired man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He’d have to remember not to let anyone notice his possession of the old human male. It was always better to have a secret spy behind enemy lines, and this one had been useful indeed.

So the Cube was likely of the same technology as the Bifrost.

This was quite worth a look.

He smiled, bright blue eyes lidded almost sleepily.

Who’s in or out, who moves the grand machine,

Nor stirs my curiosity, or spleen;

Secrets of state no more I wish to know

Than secret movements of a puppet show;

Let the puppets move, I’ve my desire,

Unseen the hand which guides the master wire.

                                       -Churchill

Immortality: A toy which people cry for,

And on their knees apply for,

Dispute, contend and lie for,

And if allowed

Would be right proud

Eternally to die for.

                                      -Ambrose Bierce

She was tired. Tired of the disappointments, tired of the look on Jane’s face when there was yet another failed attempt to open up a Einstein-Rosen Bridge –a wormhole- to the world Hammer Guy had come from, and tired of being the one to stand around, feeling useless because she couldn’t think of a way to help or at least comfort the woman.

It was hard enough being completely out of her element amongst all the technological gobbledygook, let alone dealing with the fact that a woman barely five years her elder was enmeshed in it up to the gills, impressing government officials so much that she’d been hired and given use of a lab that was like the Eden of Physicists. Twenty years old and all Darcy had to her name were six college credits. (If Foster remembered to write her a letter of recommendation…)

Another failed attempt and Jane had gone into her own little world, and Doctor Selwig was one of the few that could talk to her. Feeling like a stranger, Darcy had mumbled an excuse to leave the labyrinthine confines of the sub-floor labs in the S.H.I.E.L.D building. This was easier said than done, though, as she had to pass through the same seemingly endless amount of security checks, fingerprint scans and flash her ID no less than four times, just to get back up to the First Floor.

Once there, she grumbled past the normal security guards, interspersed among the Suits, finding herself a soda machine. Digging in her purse, she found a crumpled dollar bill that had seen better days, along with two dimes. Other than that, she had a ten and a twenty.

Of course, the machine demanded a dollar twenty-five, and hell no, it wouldn’t take a ten.

            “Wonderful,” She muttered, leaning her forehead on the bright red and white front, momentarily blinded by the brilliant Coca Cola legend.

Why couldn’t she be more useful? Political Science had become a cuss word around here.

            She was allowed to help Foster because she’d been working with her, and, quite frankly, because she’d seen Thor and his Crew with her own eyes. Evidently the Government hadn’t managed to create those brain-wiping penlights like they had in MIB, or else she doubted she’d have been left with the knowledge she had.

And what was it she knew? Not much.

            Okay, so yes, she knew about Asgard now, but that was garnered more from her talking to Fan-Boy –er, Fandral- and reading books on the Vikings at the nearest library. She had little idea what was truth and what, myth.

Nor did she really know anything about the strange people their little trio had met.

            There’d been only moments between speaking to the sudden influx of strangers, before the massive death machine had shown up to blast half the town to dust. After that, it was all a blur of dodging shrapnel, lasers and getting people out of harm’s way.

            Darcy could still smell the burning ozone scent in the air, the sound of shattering glass. It all raced fuzzily through her mind like a drunken carrousel ride in a toga (Okay, so maybe she’d done some crazy things in college, to have that simile, but oh well).

            Fandral. He’d spoken to her the most. But all she’d managed really was to ask how they all spoke such fluent (albeit Shakespearian at times,) English. He’d looked confused, then brightened, “How do you know that you aren’t speaking OUR language?” To be Frank (or Saxon, as the case may be,) he did seem to be right. Historians held that Old English came from Anglo-Saxon, which may have been influenced by these weirdoes. Who knew?

            Sif. She’d looked and acted bad ass: like Xena on steroids. Other than that, Hogun had been so quiet she’d thought him mute, and… Vole Stag?… had been a lot like her uncle, who ate too much, drank ‘a wisp to keep fresh’, and spent Thanksgiving pummeling nieces and nephews at home football games. She still imagined the man as a large teddy bear with a quadruple-bladed axe.

            Thor. Now there was a decent looking guy. Cute, but not the smartest apple on the orange tree. He’d appeared out of nowhere –well, out of the sky- and promptly turned the world upsidedown, while instantly falling for her student mentor.

No, no, no, no. She was not being jealous. Crap.

            “Hormones, oh how you screw with me.” Shaking her head, she forced her musings away from all her problems, instead rubbing sight back into her eyes and making for the front door.

Freedom!

            “Ma’am? May I see your pass, please?”

Darcy sighed, but nodded politely, turning back around and holding out her extendable lanyard to show once more. Should’ve figured she wouldn’t get anywhere without showing her pass five times.

            The guard looked over the ID, flipped it over once, then swiped it through the machine. This made even the length of cord to tighten, causing the young woman to cough and stumble.

Looking sheepish, the man tipped his hat, carefully handing the pass back so it didn’t snap like a rubber band. “Sorry Miss…”

“Darcy Lewis. Don’t worry, no one ever remembers my last name.” Flinching at the undeserved bitching, she softened her tone, “Be back in a bit. Hunting something to eat besides cafeteria chow.”

            This seemed to make the man feel better, and he smiled as she left.

Once outside, the heat descended like a fangirl on Justin Beiber. Within minutes the New Mexico sun was scorching the top of her head, making her debate whether she should have worn the thin sweater or not. It was overly-warm, but it also kept her pale skin safe from sunburn.

Life’s full of tough choices, idn’t it? Oh God, she was quoting Ursula in her head. She was officially insane now.

            Trying to avoid thinking of villainous Disney sea witches, she made her way down the street, stopping at the first ice house she passed and buying an Icee. Yes, it was twice the price of a soda and had half the amount in it, but damn, these things tasted good.

            And they turned your tongue different colours. What’s not to love?

Making sure no one was looking, the young woman stopped in front of a restaurant window, sticking her tongue out to see the blue streak of raspberry flavour. Childlike, but ever the awesome.

Her reflection grew murky and a second pair of blue eyes appeared next to hers in the glass. Whirling around and blushing like mad, the girl looked up at a dark-haired man in a trim green suit –how in the world was he not dying from the heat?- and coughed, embarrassed. Oh, come now earth, why can’t you just open up and let me disappear? 

              But the man only looked at her, as if trying to recall something unpleasant. Unsure what to do in the silence, she coughed lightly, deciding to ignore the situation, and went inside.

              The smells of fried chicken and french fries hit her, making her stomach growl appriciatively. That decided that.

Ordering herself two chicken sandwiches and some fries, along with an order of tenders for the lab team back at HQ. She counted up her change, arranging it in piles on the little table before her. She had enough for one of the KFC chocolate cakes, so she could get one of those and take it back for Jane and Selwig, to hopefully help Jane feel better. Cake was good at solving problems, or helping you to forget them for a bit. 

              When her number was called, she added the cake order, earning a glare from another waiting patron, standing near the counter. It was clear she didn’t like that Darcy was being served again, before she’d gotten her order.

Well, excuuuuse me, lady. All they had to do was get the darn thing out of an ice box and microwave it. Compared to an entire order of wings and thighs, that’s not too hard.

              Her luck caught up with her when the lady behind the counter told her they didn’t have any more bags. Sighing, she started the age-old struggle of food-masonry, building a tower out of the large box of strips, the smaller one with her sandwiches -extra spicy, of course- the cake, and balanced atop it all, the little round containers of sauce. Tossing some salt, pepper and mustard condiments into her purse, she gripped it in her teeth and carted off her good-smelling gains.

              The door was an issue, as Unhappy Patron Lady decided to hurry through it and slam it nearly in her face, but one of the bus boys kindly opened it for her. Backing out, she smiled, only realizing afterwards that it probably looked stupid with the purse in her mouth. 

              Back in the swelter, she paused, shuffling the packages around, trying to keep from crushing the half-an-Icee in the crook of her elbow, and started to make her wobbly way back to the S.H.I.E.L.D building.

She had to wonder how long it had been there. She didn’t live in NM, coming from an out-of-state college, but she thought she recalled the building as being an old Stark Industries or something. How long had it taken them to tunnel out all those rooms below? Had it been an old missile silo or something? God and Mr. Fury only knew.

              The purse was becoming a problem. She needed her chin to hold the sauce-cups, but at that angle, she was getting a tonne of spit in her mouth. Unless she wanted to start drooling over her punk purse, she needed to fix the stability issues.

              Leaning against the crossing light in front of the KFC, she spat out the bag carefully, swallowing the embarrassing saliva in the meantime. Working it around without knocking over the sauce cups, she tried to move the tower into the other empty, crook of her arm.

“This should be an Olympic Sport. I swear.”

And just as she thought she had it just right…

“Oh, damn it.”

              Her purse, along with two of the sauce cups, tumbled to the ground. One cup managed to miraculously stay closed, while the other popped open and splattered on her pant’s leg. Oh fabrjous day.

             The universe and passing motorists laughing at her, she squatted down, saving the one cup and picking up the bag-

Only to have it upend, contents flying out.

“Oh REALY,” She said in the fashion of a true movie heroine. Added to that was a stream of muttered cursing as she hastily stuffed the usual supplies of a woman’s purse out of sight. Her ID, which she tucked into her bag on leaving the building, flipped out of reach. Just as her fingers touched it, a shined, sharp-toed shoe landed on it.

             Looking up, her glasses slid down her nose for a moment, obscuring his face, but she knew it was the same man from before. Whipping the pass away, she moved back in an instinctive crouch, just as he spoke.

“Darcy. Now I remember you. You’re not the woman my brother was so besotted with, but you are one of her retainers, yes? A Jane Foster?”

“I’m her little helper gnome, yeah. And I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Wouldn’t want to miss my Oprah-” She jabbered, scooping everything up but the Icee. Gauging her likelihood of bending back down to get it without dropping everything, she decided to abandon it and turned away, only to have the man follow her, keeping pace.

             “Okay man, look: I don’t know who you are, but back off!” She didn’t know who this man was, nor how he knew Jane, and she didn’t really give a damn right now. Her purse now hanging on her shoulder, was in easy reach. Her hand slipped inside it as she eyed him.

He was, she had to admit, kinda hot. The suit, well, suited him.

Oh no. Not going down this road. Psychos were not her cup of cola.

           But he ignored the words, speeding up to put himself in front of her again. “You know my brother, I know as much from what Heimdall reported.”
Heimdall? Wait. Hammer Boy had mentioned him before going whoosh with the Warriors Three and the Sif Chick…

           The man stopped in front of her, imposing in his height. He had blue eyes, a narrow face, and sleek black hair. Her hand clenched in her bag, searching. “Whatever, man. I need to get going now. Ciao.” She made to go past him but he moved again, placing himself in the way. She was getting scared now, she had to admit. And she started looking at the cars driving lazily by. They didn’t seem to even notice them.

“They won’t see you, or hear you,” the man explained.

Oh, jolly damn.

Without a thought, she drew her tazer out of the bag, firing it pointblank at his chest. The red light flickered before the charges popped off, flying towards her aggressor -slipping clean through him like a ghost.

“What the he-” she managed, stumbling back as the man smirked, shimmered, and disappeared. Backpedaling, she felt solid hands grip her shoulders. Looking up at the same man, she had no time to struggle before he reached out and touched her forehead.

“Sleep,” he commanded, and she did, slumping instantly.

             The same woman that had been in the KFC before doubled back, having forgotten to get condiments. Just as she exited the door, a pile of boxes appeared out of thin air and crashed at her feet. A sauce cup exploded all over her skirt.

Prologue:

Be not like the bird that sees the seed, but not the trap.

                                                -Judah ibn Tibbon

   The lure bobbed on the water gently, red and yellow tape reflecting the sunset in lapping ripples. Evening and early morning were the best times to fish, and the least crowded. It let Tod Folton have a chance to think, to not be trapped in the hubbub and chaos of life. Oceola Lake was calm now, no longer churned by boatmen or skiers. Even U.S. 6 behind him was mulled by distance, as if, for just a while, he was in another world, one where he wasn’t as worried about how he planned to pay his bills or his alimony.

   But today wasn’t his day, it seemed. Figures, this month had been pretty poor all around. He was getting on in years, his boss had said. Needed to slow down. Damn it, he was ten years away from retirement and all of a sudden he was training his own replacement! What a life.

   Tomorrow started another day of job hunting. But this evening there was fishing to do.

Standing knee-deep in the chilly water, he made sure to wriggle his toes periodically, to take breaks and walk his muscles warm again, but mostly he stood, casting out line and gently reeling it back in. Each time he thought this’d be the last, but somehow there was always another casting, another reeling in. His mind drifted to other things, less pleasant, and his mood soured, ruining the relaxation.

He needed work.

He needed money.

He needed to pay his bills, his ex-wife and that damned mortgage on the house they’d bought together and she’d left him purely because she knew it hadn’t been paid off.

He wanted to see his kids.

   He’d thought his life was firmly grounded. Instead, it’d turned on its head.

Oh well, the only certain things in like were death and taxes.

   It was getting dark enough that he could no longer see the line as he cast it out. Without the bobbing white floater and years of memorizing the different sunken brush, catches and snags in the lake, he’d have lost the hook for sure in some driftwood or rocks. Deciding, finally, that this was indeed his last cast, he started drawing in the line, faster this time.

And then it bobbed under.

   Blinking, he watched the float, easing up on reining it in.

Bob, bob.

It bounced on the rippling surface.

Plop! And under it went.

   “A bite?” he asked incredulously, already instinctively widening his stance to get the best balance. Pulling up on the rod, he was surprised when it bent sharply downward.

“A big one,” he finished, gritting his teeth in a grin and relishing this one fight that had nothing to do with life falling to pieces and everything to do with man against nature.

   The rod continued to tug, vibrating in his hands. He blinked at the strength but continued to reel whatever it was in, closer and closer.

Where was the splashing? A fish always broke the surface, struggling, when it moved to this depth. It wasn’t even tugging away, just downward, letting itself be drawn in, but making itself known.

If he didn’t know better, Folton would have thought it wanted to be brought into the shallows.

   He stepped back a step as the bobbing float entered the shallows, before suddenly the fish decided it didn’t like this game and hell no it wasn’t going any farther. His rod began to flex and bend considerably, and just as he was thinking it’d be better to just drop the damn thing and let whatever monster this was go, it tugged so sharply downward that the center snapped right in half. Caught off-balance, Folton was knocked on his bum, splashing down into the cold water up to his chest.

   Shivering, he tried standing up before the sight of something rising from the water dragged his attention up at an impossible sight.

Flashes of growing limbs, rotting and bloated and still somehow swelling with breath, were all he managed before the creature dove towards him, hitting him like a living deluge of murky water and flesh that smelled like old fish and marsh grass. He was choking, mouth and nose filling with disgusting water, eyes glazing over as his head pounded. He could feel his stomach, his lungs, all of him up to his very pores filling with the slime. The last thing he thought of before the living water drowned him was of his sons, and that he’d never be able to go to their birthdays this month.

And then he was gone.

   The human body sagged like a wet oilskin around her. It was a tight fit, and wouldn’t last very long. As long as it aided her in getting away from this blasted Lake, she’d be happy. Helblar looked up at the moon from constantly watering eyes. The mouth of her victim flopped open like a dead fish’s, oozing murky liquid. “Soon, Trickster,” it gurgled. “I will have what is mine again.

“And you will suffer the fate you gave me.”