This is a long one and I'm not too sure how the footnotes worked out, but I hope you enjoy.
Tristan Loke put his thin, manicured fingers together and
smiled. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Reese?”
A.
Reese, a heavyset biker in leathers and shades, cracked his knuckles
menacingly. He looked extremely out of place in the nondescript office
belonging to his financial representative. “You can tell me where the hell my
money is!” he snarled.
“Ah.”
Loke nodded reassuringly. “The fact is, it’s on its way to your account as we
speak. There was some difficulty with the bank, as your previous assets were
frozen because of a computer gaffe. The modem crashed and some financial
records had to be reassessed, so that took quite a while to complete. And then
there was the matter of the periphrastic in the checking account…”
Reese’s
expression was blank. Loke sighed.
“To
put it in your terms,” he explained, “a computer went no-worky and our
bookkeeper mismana—fouled up, but it’s all sorted now.”
“It
better be,” snarled Reese. He was back in his element now. “Cause if it isn’t,
then I’m gonna take you to the cleaner’s, pretty-boy.”
Loke
pressed his fingertips against his eyes. “Threatening your financial agent is
not an effective or efficient method of operation, Mr. Reese.”
“Yeah,
well, am I gonna get my money or not? I made a hell of a lot on that last stunt
gig and I wanna blow it all in one place.” His eyes glazed over. “I got my eye
on a nice little Harley. She’s a beauty. You should see her! Five cylinder
engine, red chrome, shiniest gal you ever laid eyes on. Beautiful. She’s got a
high-tech speedometer and shiny exhaust pipes and—”
“I
get the picture,” Loke said, rolling his eyes. “Now, is there anything else you
wanted help with?”
“Yeah,
there is.” Reese dug a handful of rumpled papers out from the pocket of his
motorcycle jacket. “I need ya to look over these before I sign ‘em. It’s my
contract for More Rapider and Enrageder 8. I’m
playin’ the main dude with the wicked shades an the jacket an the cool bike.”
Loke
took the papers and flattened them. “You know,” he said, exasperated, “you
shouldn’t carry important legal documents crumpled in your pockets. It makes
for inaccuracy and unreliability later. Also, I’m not actually a legal
consultant. I just handle your money.”
“So
handle the money in the contract an tell me if it’s legit!” yelled Reese,
snapping from content to irate
with alarming speed. Loke could almost hear
the gears crunching.
He
raised an eyebrow without looking away from the papers. “You remind me of one
of my nephews.” (He neglected to mention that that particular nephew was in
jail.)
Reese,
unsure of whether he was being complimented or not (he wasn’t), crossed his
arms and looked menacing. It was something he did rather well. “Look, wise guy,
you handle the papers and I handle the awesomeness, okay?”
“Norns
help us all,” murmured Loke, shaking his head. He passed the battered papers
back across the desk. “Your contract looks fine. Your money should be in your
account by tomorrow. Anything else?”
Reese
thought about it for a good long minute before shaking his head. “Nope, that’s
it.”
“Excellent.
Val will show you out. Val!”
A
blond woman poked her head around the door. Her name was actually Maggie, but
Loke tended to call all of his blond, female employees Val. It was a private
joke.
“Show
Mr. Reese to the lobby, would you, Val?”
“Yes,
sir. Oh, and there’s a woman to see you. A new client, I think.”
“Excellent.
Send her up at once.” He rose and shook hands with Reese. “Great dealing with
you, Al. I hope to see you again soon.”
“Ya
know,” said A. Reese, crushing Loke’s hand in his own, “you Northerners ain’t
too bad. I always liked you guys. Thanks fer all yer help.” He left the office
and immediately started hitting on Maggie-Val.
The
funny thing was that Tristan Loke looked just as out of place in his own office
as A. Reese did, but in a completely different way. Where Reese was heavyset
and powerful, Loke was slim and delicate, with a pointed chin, nose and ears.
His chin-length red hair caught whatever light was available and glimmered with
hints of gold and crimson, and his golden-green eyes sometimes unnerved his
clients when he narrowed them in a certain way.
Loke
took out his iPad and tapped the screen, pulling up A. Reese’s financial
account. He transferred just enough money to keep Reese happy to the bank
account before diverting the substantial remainder into his own account in the
Cayman Islands.
Then
he leaned back, studied the device, and wondered if he should drop Reese from
his clientele.
Sure,
Reese was easy to rip off, and he provided Loke with lots of money—he’d bought
Loke a rather nice villa on a small Caribbean island without knowing it. But
where was the fun in swindling an idiot like Reese? The moron was so
disorganized in his financial affairs that without his bank manager he wouldn’t
have noticed anything wrong until he was evicted from his eight-million-dollar
mansion. It was, simply put, much too easy. And it wasn’t like Loke desperately
needed the money—he enjoyed having it, but he also enjoyed having to work to
get it.
He
pulled up a list of his appointments and smiled. One o’clock: Minerva Thena.
Now there was someone Loke could be
proud of ripping off. Her keen intelligence and perspicacity made it very hard
to trick her, but so far Loke was managing it. A delightful challenge.
The
office door opened and Loke hastily cleared the iPad screen, slipping the
device back into his briefcase. He looked up with a smile.
“Good
day. Now what can I…”
His
smile flickered.
The
woman before him had appeared on many billboards and would appear on many more.
She was shapely, voluptuous, with pouting lips and blue mascara-lined eyes; she
was wearing the latest fashion in the form of a little black dress, but it was
her hair that truly attracted attention. It fell in golden waves to her waist,
thick and long and shining. Every strand had an ethereal luminescence. It
glowed from within. It was what made her such a successful model, that
incandescent quality that no amount of conditioner could achieve.
Loke
frowned, offended. “Sif, you cut your hair. It used to be to the floor!”
Sif
tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Hello to you too, Loki. Times change. Was
that Ares I saw leaving your office?”
“Indeed
it was. He’s one of my most valued customers. But I made you that hair!”
“You
didn’t make it. You just had it made, and that was only because you cut the
original off.”
“Still.
Cost me an arm and a leg, that hair. Cost me a mouth, too.”
Sif
rolled her eyes. “No, the mouth was because you lost a bet.”
“Still.
It was because of the hair.” Loki crossed to the door, opened it, and stuck his
head through. “Val, don’t let anyone in. I am not to be disturbed.”
He
closed the door and motioned for Sif to sit down. She took the chair in front
of the desk and pulled a compact mirror out of her glittery purse.
“So,”
said Loki, sitting opposite her, “how’s your husband?”
“Ex-husband, as of nearly twenty years ago.” Sif reached
for her lipstick. “As I’m sure you very well know, Loki.”
“Ah
yes, Thor always was rather troublesome, wasn’t he? When does he get out of
prison?”
“I
have no idea. Hopefully not for a while.” Sif rolled her eyes. “He never did
adapt well to the times.”
“Of
course he didn’t. He’s been depressed since Odin’s Jotun
Treaty of 1815. Speaking of which, have you heard from Odin?”
“Oh,
you know him. Still up in Asgard liaising between the Pantheons, silent as
ever, enigmatic as hell. Oh yes, how’s your daughter doing?”
“Hel’s
doing great
,” said Loki,
leaning back. “Got engaged a few months ago. It’ll be an…interesting wedding.”
“Really?”
Sif crossed her legs. “Who’s the lucky groom?”
“One
of those Grecian-Roman fellows, Hades. They met through their work.”
“Oh
my. That will be an interesting wedding.
Isn’t Hades divorced?”
“Eh,
Persephone was never right for him. They split up the moment divorce became an
institution. How are your kids doing?”
“Ugh,
don’t ask.” Sif began to reapply her still potent lipstick. “Thrud just
graduated from the police academy, Ull’s still off being a mountain guide,
Modi’s still in court-ordered anger-management therapy and Magni’s a
stormchaser.
You know,
flying into hurricanes and such.”
“Really?
Good for him! Hey, I heard Forseti
made it onto the Supreme Court.”
“Well,
we always knew he’d go far, despite his father’s untimely death.” Sif fixed
Loki with a look which clearly communicated that eight hundred years had in no
way been enough time to forgive him for killing Forseti’s father. Everyone had
loved Baldur.
Loki
spread his hands. “Hey, I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve changed. Honest!
Do you see anything criminal about this office?”
“Besides
the fact that well over half of your clients’ money goes straight into the
Cayman Islands?” Sif glanced at Loki from the corner of her eye.
“Besides
that.” He seemed unperturbed.
“Well,
there’s the appalling coffee.”
“They
just don’t make it right anymore.”
“And
the fact that you’ve been hiding from the Aesir since the First World War.”
“Ah.”
Loki nodded. “How long have you known that I was alive?”
“About
two years. I suspected a decade ago. Things started to look…fishy with some of
the Grecian-Romans. Those who had taken up careers in acting didn’t seem as
wealthy as they should be. When there’s a hint of trickery about, I always look
for you.”
“How
touching.”
Sif
uncrossed her legs and leaned across the desk. “More importantly, how are you
alive? I know for a fact that you haven’t touched one of Idunn’s apples
for nearly a hundred years.”
Loki
shrugged. “I have my means.”
“Which
are…?”
“Why
should I tell you?”
“An
interesting question.” Sif sat back and re-crossed her legs. “Do you want to
hear another interesting question?”
“Sure.”
“What
is there to stop me from going to Odin and having you thrown back into Niflheim
for treachery, murder, genocide and embezzlement?”
Loki
nodded, and then said, “It’s amazing what a little nectar and ambrosia every
now and then will do for a body.”
Sif’s
perfectly plucked eyebrows furrowed. “You aren’t that kind of god, Loki.”
He
shrugged. “You have to build up a tolerance, of course, but given time it’s
quite effective.”
Sif
threw her head back and laughed. Her hair swished around her head in a motion
that had been patented by an expensive shampoo company. “Oh, Loki, you’re
always full of surprises!”
“Unlike
Thor, I know how to adapt.” He shifted in his seat, leaning forward with his
chin resting atop his laced fingers. “Now that we’ve caught up on the small
talk, Sif, what do you want?”
“Hmm.” Sif sat back and tapped her lips
with her compact mirror. “How to phrase this? I want you to help me take back
the world.”
There
was a pause.
Loki
blinked. “I…never saw you as the ‘world-domination’ type, Sif.”
“Have
you seen the movies they made about Thor?”
“You
mean the ones in which he’s a superhero? Of course! They were hilarious.”
“They
were blasphemous!” Sif leapt to her feet and paced the office. “Those idiot
mortals got just about every single detail wrong!”
“Well,
yes.” Loki smirked. “Thor isn’t nearly that intelligent in real life.”
“I
mean it! How can you take this so calmly?!” She whirled and pointed at him.
“You were in them too! You were a dark-haired megalomaniac who was also Thor’s
brother!”
Loki
winced at the memory. “That was a bit
embarrassing, now that I think of it.”
“You
and Thor are not brothers! You and Odin
are brothers!” Sif turned again, her hair
swishing perfectly. “The whole reason that the Aesir cannot kill you is that
you have Odin’s blood in you veins! You’re more like Thor’s adopted uncle
than his brother!”
“To
be fair, they got the adopted part
right,” Loki pointed out. “And I think Thor and I had more of a brotherly
relationship back in the old days. We were closer to each other in…well, not age,
but maturity.” He snickered. “Besides, he
was so much fun to tease. Remember the time he had to wear that wedding dress?”
Sif
couldn’t help smiling at the memory. “That wasn’t one of your pranks, though.”
“It
was still hilarious.” Loki chuckled at the memory, then grew more serious. “But
what was that about taking back the world?”
“My
point about the movies was that our stories have been—perverted,” snapped Sif. “No one remembers us, not the way we’re
supposed to be. People worshipped us, Loki. They prayed to us. Do you see anyone doing that now? Don’t you miss
it? Don’t you miss being loved?”
“They
loved you,” Loki replied. “And Baldur,
and Freya, and maybe a few others. But Odin and Thor and me?” He smiled
wickedly. “We were feared, not
loved.”
“So
you miss being feared, then!”
Loki
stood up and walked to the window of his office. Sif watched him carefully as
he folded his hands behind his back and looked out. The morning light outlined
the profile of his slim features and set fire to his red hair.
“Perhaps.”
Sif
smiled. “So you’ll help me?” She walked to him, stood close enough that he
could smell her perfume. Her hand crept up to his shoulder and her pale fingers
slid under his collar.
Loki
carefully kept himself from shivering.
“We
could rule this world together,” Sif whispered into his ear. “We could make the
mortals fear us. You could be a king.”
Loki
smiled slowly. “Mm-hmm. And you would be queen, then?”
“Of
course.”
A
car’s horn honked far below.
He
nodded. “Thanks. But I’d rather not.”
Sif
smiled triumphantly. Then Loki’s words sank in fully and she jerked away,
glaring at him. “What?!”
Loki
turned and walked back to the desk. He picked up a framed photo and looked at
it.
“I’m
a trickster, Sif. I let other people make the rules, and then I break them.” He
looked up, his golden eyes meeting Sif’s blue ones. “I may have wanted to rule
once, but not anymore.”
Sif
stared at him, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Why not?”
“Honestly?”
He shrugged. “I’d get bored.”
“What?”
She blinked. “But…but you’d have power!”
“Well,
ye-es, but that was more fun in the old days when it was a monarchy.” Loki
tossed the photo aside and leaned against the desk. “These days it would be all
cabinet meetings and bureaucracy and delegating and never getting a break for
tea. I get enough of that here. It’s not
worth my time.
“Besides,”
he continued, “do you really think this would get very far? Odin loves humans! Most of the Greek-Romans are pretty fond of
them too! I don’t want to get their bad side. I mean, have you seen Ares? He’s three times my size and he has a gigantic
sword!”
“You
got on
Thor’s bad side plenty of times,
and you’re still here!” snapped Sif. “I daresay Mjolnir’s
worse than any Greek sword!”
“Ah,
but Thor can’t kill me. I’m Odin’s blood brother,” Loki reminded her. “The
Greeks wouldn’t have any problem chopping me into itty-bitty pieces. And
they’ve always been of the stabby persuasion.”
“You’re a trickster,” said Sif. “You
could talk your way out of it.”
“Yeah,
maybe…” Loki raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, Sif, do you actually have a plan of how
you’re doing this?”
“What?”
Sif hesitated. “Of—of course I do!”
Loki
smirked. “Do tell.”
She
hesitated again, searching for words. Then she looked away. “My plan,” she snarled, “was to get you to make a plan. You’re the bloody trickster.”
Loki
nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Sif
stared at him. She narrowed her eyes. “These are excuses, Loki. What’s your other
reason?”
He
smiled.
“Mortals
fascinate me. I mean, look at them, Sif. Yes, they’re changing the stories, but
that just shows how amazing they are. The old ways can’t last forever, so they
change the stories, make up new ones about us.
“My
point is that we haven’t been forgotten.”
“Some
of us have.” Sif’s voice dripped resentment.
“Not
true.” Loki shook his head. “Anyone who looks can find us quite easily on the
internet. But the way that they’ve changed us—it’s a testament to their
ingenuity. Making Thor a superhero, me a supervillain—I think it’s quite
amusing. The humans underestimate each other. The screenwriters and the people
who make comics, they want to keep us alive, but they’re desperately afraid of
rejection. They think their readers won’t be able to understand us. They’re so
scared of making unsuccessful art that they just use whatever’s popular and
insert us into it—in this case, comic books. You can’t take it personally,
Sif—it really says much more about their abysmal attention spans than it does
about you or me.”
The
clock on the wall ticked. The sound of screeching tires floated up from the
pavement.
“Just
to be clear,” Sif said through gritted teeth, “you are saying that you don’t
mind being known as a ranting supervillain.”
“Well,
some of the fan art is truly disturbing,” Loki mused, “but yes, that’s what I’m
saying.”
Sif
bent her head in a carefully controlled gesture. “Then I have no more to say to
you.”
“Apparently
not.”
Sif
turned, her hair whipping behind her, and walked to the door. She opened it and
then paused.
“You
realize, of course, that I cannot conceal your whereabouts from the Council of
Pantheons. You’re a wanted criminal, after all.”
Loki
smirked. “Of course.”
She
turned and looked at him. Her beautiful face was ugly with hatred.
“Look
at you,” Loki said quietly. “You didn’t used to be this resentful. I feel sorry
for you, Sif. Thor’s not the only one who can’t adapt to the times.”
The
door slammed so hard that the framed forged certificates on the walls shook.
Loki
sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Then he walked to one of the walls and
ran his fingers across its surface. He pressed down and a rune glowed under his
hand. A doorway appeared, revealing a secret closet.
Loki
had been planning his exit from the Tristan Loke Representation Company since
the company’s inception. In the closet were stashed a suitcase full of money,
well over a million dollars in various currencies and jewelry, as well as a
stringed pouch with three sets of passports and drivers’ licenses. Each set had
a different name on them, but all of the photos were of Loki.
Loki
slung the pouch around his neck and tucked it under his shirt. Then he hauled
the suitcase out into his office, shut the door to the secret closet, and took
a piece of chalk out of his desk drawer. He painstakingly drew a rune onto the
suitcase.
He
tapped the rune and it glowed. There was a soft pop and then the suitcase was the size of a Barbie’s
purse. Loki picked it up and tucked it into his breast pocket.
He
walked out of the office and strolled through the lobby.
“Are
you going for an early lunch, Mr. Loke?” asked Maggie-Val,
glancing up from her desk as he passed.
“Yep.
Then I’m taking a walk. I won’t be back for a few hours.” A few hours would be
plenty of time for him to escape.
He
knew there would a massive imbroglio when his embezzlement was discovered. It
didn’t bother him. It wasn’t his mess to clean up. That was the way Loki worked
these days: He had his fun and left the nasty bits for someone else to take
care of. It was quite an agreeable way to live.
Loki
walked out of his office. He immediately noticed the two stern-looking
gentlemen across the street. Sif certainly hadn’t wasted any time alerting the
Pantheon Police about his whereabouts. He strolled casually down the street,
stepping into the first dark alley he came to.
Once
he was alone, Loki smoothly shifted shape, going from man to rat in less than
ten seconds.
It
took skill to keep his clothes within the shift, but Loki had mastered it long
ago. When he took on human form, his clothes—and the suitcase in his
pocket—would be with him, as well as the new identities.
A
common Rattus norvegicus skittered down
the street and slipped into the nearest sewer grate, indistinguishable from any
other rat.
Loki has three children: the Fenris Wolf, the Midgard
Serpent, and Hel. Hel runs the underworld.
