Marvel, page 30
I listened to two songs on repeat during drafting: “Nightsong” by Borislav Slavov and “Turbo Killer” by Carpenter Brut.
This book was written during a period of immense pain, catharsis, and transformation. I lost my brother less than a year before turning in this book, and his spirit was with me the whole way through; Tony Stark was his favorite Avenger. I wish he had lived to see his little sister write for Marvel. For anyone struggling with grief and loss, I hope this book helps in some small way.
YGGDRASIL
NOW
THE WATCHER TASTED CINNAMON. The Rainbow Bridge linking Asgard to the other nine realms glittered, and sugar danced on the Watcher’s tongue. The child half-god Quinn had stirred something in her, a memory felt in the blood. The definition of possible was changing.
I am changing.
No, remembering. No, becoming.
Becoming. She had watched this universe’s Loki do the same. Was it evolution or a lateral move? It was defiance. Inspiring.
I was like that once. Wild. Sweet. Young. Rebellious. Growing into…someone. Something.
But how? Her life would not have been an earthbound life. The bright stripe of the Rainbow Bridge faded, resolving back into a ribbon stretched across the stars. Her heroes were scattering. Loki and Valkyrie and Mr. Horse to Buffalo, New York; Jennifer Walters to Los Angeles; Quinn and Jane Foster to the city, and then, at summer’s end, New Mexico. Her heart felt simultaneously light and heavy, guilty and relieved.
New York City. It glowed with familiar warmth. Memories. Her memories.
How?
There it was again, the taste of cinnamon and sugar, and a comforting warmth in the belly. The Watcher blinked, watching an old woman’s face rise above the Rainbow Bridge. Somewhere, a little boy laughed, and it felt like raindrops on her face. The old woman spread her hands, revealing the lines carved into her palms, deep and natural like the grooves in the World Tree’s celestial bark. A card sprang forward, colorful and worn. It showed a robed man with his back turned, carrying the burden of heavy chains, chains that lifted a shallow, tarnished bowl. Truth.
The old woman withdrew her hands, bangles and jewelry twinkling as she did. “Stubborn, mija, like your mothers. It took a village to raise you, mm?” She spoke Spanish now. “And that’s the truth.”
A village. Like the village it would take to raise the god-child Quinn Foster-Thorsdóttir.
The old woman and the card vanished, but the Watcher was not alone. She reached out and brought Earth closer to her, pressing it to her chest as if she could absorb all its strangeness and struggle and pain and love. When she released it, floating away, the World Tree shook as if caught in a sudden breeze. A sparse fall of crisped leaves rattled across the universe, but her eye fixed on their departure.
Day leaves grow surely.
“Day leaves,” the Watcher said, testing out the words. “Day-lee. Deli. Grow surely. Grosurly. Grocery. Deli Grocery.”
The boy’s laughter swirled around her. She remembered the papery touch of the old woman’s hands on her cheeks as she pulled her in close for a kiss on the top of her head. The lady’s cold bangle bracelets brushed her ears, tickling. There would be free horchata with every tarot reading, and they amused her little brother to no end.
“Why do you believe in that junk?” Alberto would tease her. They called him Berto. They. Her, and her adoptive family. They were always hanging around the Deli Grocery in Washington Heights until the manager, Mr. Narvaez, kicked them out for being too sugar-high and giggly.
I know myself, my brother, my past, my name.
America, a nation, an idea, a woman.
America Chavez. What had she been? What had she accomplished? Who had she loved? Relief and regret. She had been someone before she had become the Watcher, and that’s why mere observation hurt so much. Loki, Ru¯na, Quinn, Stark…she might have intervened, might have smoothed the path, but she hadn’t. It was pure luck that they survived.
Or…
The Watcher revolved slowly around Earth, studying it. There was something drawing her here, there was no denying that now. As she stared at the realms of this multiverse, it changed, suffused with a pink cast, as if dunked like an Easter egg into a bath of magenta dye. Something had drawn her here. But what? Gods died all the time. People changed. Wars ended or didn’t and plots hatched or fizzled out.
A god reborn, a shield maiden, a man of metal, and more…a meddlesome presence.
The crystal, the crystal and the stranger who carried it, that was the presence. Who was this crystal-bearer who came and went, danced in the shadows, fiddling, prodding, whispering, and vanishing? She raised her hands and found they were now truly her own, brown and strong and capable of shifting the balance of worlds.
But a Watcher observed. A Watcher did not get involved. But what would happen next time this meddlesome whisperer with his reality-bending crystal appeared? That Loki, that Ru¯na, that Quinn might not be so fortunate. She sought Loki out, locating him on Donna’s flannel-checked couch, where he caught a much-deserved rest, almost ordinary again in appearance, but the Watcher did not miss the way the light bent around him. Pink light.
This Loki was special. Well, all Lokis were special, but this one had more work to do.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, your rest will be brief.
This Loki was special. A focal point. A crack in the looking glass. A vortex.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. America Chavez, the Watcher, sighed. A looking glass. Just the thought created the object, and as time passed through the tangle of her mind, the looking glass became a window. America pressed herself close to it, fogged the window with her breath, then wiped her fingers through the haze.
The window tilted downward, showing her New York City once more.
I’ll see you soon.
* * *
HE MISSED THE COZY little outpost on Nidavellir, but this office in Bushwick would suit for the moment. It was closer to his interests, anyway, and the Wi-Fi was lightning-quick and the Ethiopian restaurant down the street was top-notch. A cup of coffee on the desk steamed the room with a chocolatey scent, and he breathed it in, as if even the vapor itself would caffeinate his mind enough to begin.
There was work to be done.
To his left, settled on a raw-edged piece of black velvet, the M’kraan Crystal pulsed and bloomed, delicate and pink as a spring peony. A TV above his desk droned the low-volume voices of some old plastic surgery drama; he changed it to the local news. They were covering Tony Stark’s most recent press conference, the one where Stark, recovered but now confined to a wheelchair due to the scope of his injuries, announced a foundation and scholarship to patch up his crumbling public image. It hardly mattered; Stark didn’t figure into his calculations, though he had very nearly bungled it all up.
No matter. Water under the bridge carrying pebbles downstream.
The mathematical excerpts glowing on-screen were elegant in their complexity, but more inspiring still was what they would produce long-term. The letters and numbers and brackets were seeds planted by knowledgeable hands. Nothing was random if one really cared to look. He clicked around, then listened to the printer ca-chug ca-chug his work onto paper while he tugged on a pair of latex gloves. Preparation. Diligence. Results. Fingers protected, he whipped the fresh page out of the printer and folded it neatly. The letter went in a simple envelope, and he added a printed label that read, parkers.
The subway journey to the quaint little neighborhood in Queens took him nearly an hour and a half. He didn’t mind it. There was pleasure in anticipation, in finalizing the details that only he would ever get to enjoy. The train was a paradise for observers; he was disappointed when the tattooed man busking with his banjo got off the E train before Jackson Heights.
It was dark when he arrived outside the house. Lights twinkled inside, shy behind half-drawn curtains. Inside, he imagined all the mundanities of family life—one Parker cleaning the dishes, another working the drying towel, meaningless chatter passing between them while their child slept peacefully in another room.
He almost regretted upsetting the neat balance of their lives.
Almost.
The Whisperer left the envelope on their front stoop, unseen, unheard, and continued casually down the block as if he had never been there at all. How long until they found it? How long until the next phase began?
Ah, well, he could be patient. He whistled as he walked, hands in pockets, mind at ease after a good day’s effort; there was no use hurrying and making waste. The work had just begun.
BY MADELEINE ROUX
Allison Hewitt Is Trapped
Sadie Walker Is Stranded
Salvaged
Reclaimed
The Book of Living Secrets
The Proposition
Asylum
Asylum
The Scarlets
Sanctum
The Bone Artists
Catacomb
The Warden
Escape from Asylum
House of Furies
House of Furies
Court of Shadows
Tomb of Ancients
World of Warcraft
Traveler: The Shining Blade
Shadowlands: Shadows Rising
Dungeons & Dragons
Dungeon Academy: No Humans Allowed
Dungeon Academy: Tourney of Terror
Dungeon Academy: Last Best Hope
Critical Role: The Mighty Nein—The Nine Eyes of Lucien
Marvel: What If…Loki Was Worthy?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MADELEINE ROUX is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty books for teens, adults, and children. Her bestselling Asylum series has sold over a million copies worldwide. She has also written for Star Wars, World of Warcraft, Dungeons & Dragons, and Critical Role. Roux lives in Seattle, Washington, with her partner and beloved pups.
madeleine-roux.com
X: @Authoroux
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Madeleine Roux, Marvel
