Marvel, page 4
It was Tony’s turn to laugh. And scoff. “Is that right? Then how about you lose my number, old friend. That’s a boundary, I’m sure your therapist has told you all about those.”
Tony dropped the call.
“Prick.”
Pepper bounced up and down on her four-inch heels while Tank opened the doors for them. “Good talk?”
“Well, Warren is being his usual sanctimonious—”
“Have you heard from Happy?” Pepper didn’t even let him finish his thought. Something was up. There was a black SUV waiting for them on the curb, but he knew right away it wasn’t his usual car. She took the coffee cup out of his hand and motioned him forward.
“No. Wait. Have I?” Tony finally remembered to check who had left all those voicemails. “Scratch that, I have. Fourteen times, in fact.”
Something definitely wasn’t right. Happy knew better than to pelt him with calls like that. Unless it was…
Unless it was an emergency. Tony remembered the smoke rolling through Manhattan. The helicopters. The chaos. Something wasn’t right. His hands went numb as Pepper maneuvered him into the back of the SUV. There was a sudden hollowness in his stomach, as if his body was preparing to hold something new and immense. He didn’t know when it had happened, but as they started to drive, he realized Pepper was holding his hand.
Something wasn’t right.
Fourteen missed calls. All from his chauffeur and friend, Happy Hogan. Happy, who was supposed to be on his way to Stark Tower to pick up Tony for his meeting with the DOD guy. Happy, who probably hadn’t taken the expressway.
“Hey, Tony, it’s me. Me, Happy. Right, you knew that. Anyhoots, it looks like I might be late this morning. I know, I know, I’m the worst, but you’ll live. Looks like an accident. Hopefully I can hook around onto 9th and be there in a flash. Talk soon, bye.”
His fingers tightened around Pepper’s, and he felt that heaviness in his gut threaten to yank him through the seat, through the suspension, through the road and into the center of the Earth. It was going to bury him, that feeling. It was going to pull out his insides, no mercy.
“Sheesh, this looks bad, Tony. Real bad. Something just—holy—”
Not Happy. Anyone but Happy.
“Pick up. Please, pick up.” Happy’s voice shook on the call. Tony could hear the note of terror creeping in, the higher register of a little boy hiding under the bed from the bogeyman. “Ah geez, it’s a mess here. There’s cars everywhere. Cops…Cops and SWAT, I think. Thank God. Something fell out of the sky, Tony. Something huge. Pick up, Tony.”
Pick up, Tony.
The message cut out. He let the next one play. An itch crept up the back of his throat, swelling his tongue, stealing his voice. Pepper squeezed his hand. The SUV flew down 9th until they stopped dead in bumper-to-bumper.
“F-faster!” Tony shrieked. He sounded crazed. He was crazed. “Just…go faster. I don’t care how. Go.”
“I think they’re from space. I know how that s-sounds, but…I’ve never seen anything like this, not in all my life. G-geez, they have—” There were explosions and screams punctuating each of Happy’s words now. Through the call, Tony could taste the smoke and char. Impatiently, he played the next message.
This one was different. Suddenly his friend sounded calm, almost composed. It was hard to make out the words over the utter chaos in the background. Explosions. Sirens. Voices. “Hey. I think this is it. I’m pinned down and there’s…there’s a machine attacking everything. It burns up men, cars, helicopters…I’m gonna try and stop it, Tony. Our city, right? Damn right. Our city. I have that thing you gave me. You know I hate guns, but when in Rome, right? I love you. I know I’ve never said that. I’m gonna try and stop this thing and…and I love you.” There was a pause, and a grunt. He was wounded, wheezing with pain. There was a scream of metal and concrete, like a plane had nose-dived into the ground beside Happy. “Shoulda outrun it. You were always on me about my cardio. No outrunning this. Nope.” Tony heard the electron churn and hiss of the experimental pistol he had given Happy for protection. Over the noise of it firing, Happy grunted with resigned laughter. “Didn’t do it. Some inventor you are. Tell Pepper to take care of—”
The message cut out. Tony ripped off his smart glasses and buried his face in his free hand, clutching it as he turned toward the window.
Not Happy, who always knew what music to play in the car. Happy, who loved the Yankees in almost a pathological way. Happy, who sometimes cried looking at pictures of golden retrievers. Happy, who somehow, after all these years, still humored Tony and laughed whenever he called him “Lively Grinder.” Happy, who treated his autographed Yogi Berra card like it was the Ark of the Covenant.
Happy, the nicest guy of all in a city full of jerks.
Happy Hogan, Tony’s best friend.
Hand shaking, Tony carefully put his glasses back on. He called Happy. He called him again and again.
“Tony?” Pepper asked. She had the same scared-little-kid voice as his friend.
“He’s, uh, he’s not picking up.”
Pick up, Happy. Pick up.
He kicked the divider between them and the driver. Pepper jumped. “Hey! Hey! Drive faster, all right? Take me to the accident.” Tony crumpled back against the seat. When Happy still wouldn’t pick up, he started the messages over again, listening for a sign, any sign, that his friend might have survived.
“I need to see it,” Tony whispered to himself. “I need to know.”
4
LOKI GIGGLED OVER HIS honeyed wine.
The plan was simple: He would sabotage the Bifrost’s Rainbow Bridge, briefly redirecting all travel to Midgard, and with the corrupted crystal installed in the Destroyer, Kvisa could control the Asgardian machine, turning it against Thor and his allies, causing maximum chaos and embarrassment to Odin’s golden son. At minimum, it would greatly annoy his brother. At best, it might see Thor imprisoned on Midgard, forced to look the fool.
And it had all gone as scheduled, at least for a little while. Loki sat in the sunshine at a table for two at the Plaza Ändlös. His legs were stretched out in front of him, ankle resting on ankle, a sparkling concoction of wines bubbling in his cup as he silently toasted his own devious brilliance. The empty chair, of course, was for Kvisa. Not that she would be joining him. Oh no, now that she had gotten her revenge, now that there was no doubt her innovation worked, she would have to go into hiding. He respected her willingness to sacrifice her future with the dwarves of the forge to prove herself right. Most know-it-alls were too precious to get their hands dirty like that. Perhaps it was petty, but it was a dedicated petty he happened to identify with strongly.
“Take care, partner,” he said, toasting her. “May you sip something as sweet as our revenge.”
The wine sparked like a new lover’s touch against Loki’s lips. The plaza was full of early-morning revelers, a looped cross of greenery raised in the plaza for Midsummer. The royal seat of Valaskjalf rose like a silver spike over the city, sometimes indistinguishable from the mountains flanking it thanks to a trick of the light. Ladies in white dresses laughed and danced around the cross, and sometimes tossed flirtatious glances at the Asgardian prince enjoying his victory breakfast. He pretended to ignore them, but secretly enjoyed the attention. Later, he would wander to the palace to hear the breathless report from Heimdall or Sif or whoever as they recounted Thor’s oafish performance on Midgard. What a laugh!
A strange light darkened the sky. It was just a flicker, but even the dancers in the plaza noticed it. They turned their rosy-cheeked faces skyward, brows furrowed. It was like a comet passing, or a sudden surge of clouds, a dark presaging that sent a shiver down Loki’s spine.
Across Asgard, peculiar bells began to ring.
They were discordant, clanging, not a heavenly summons of crystalline chimes or a deep drumming for war, but they conjured instantly a sickly pain in one’s chest. Loki set down his drink with a shaking hand, sloshing some of the liquid onto his unfinished plate of buttered leeks, pickled sill, and raggmunk smeared with lingonberry jam. One of the women in the plaza fell to her knees. The bells tolled again. There was another shadow over him now, arriving without warning, darkening his spread before a strong, unforgiving hand gripped him by the nape and slammed his face down against the table.
Spectral blades sprang to his hands, willed there by magic that hardened the knives into steel. He tasted blood and wine and berries and snarled.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“On your feet, snake of snakes, Thor is dead and his demise stinks of your roguery.”
Rūna. Of course. Only one of the original nine, first bearer of Jarnbjorn, could wield such speed and strength against him. He felt the whisper of something sharp against the side of his neck. Lashing out with the knives did nothing. Rūna’s grip was unshakable. Still, he tried, throwing his weight back against her, growling as his slashes were dodged. The plaza emptied. Everyone, he realized, was fleeing toward the palace.
“What you say is impossible,” Loki hissed. Thor dead? He laughed at the absurdity of it. Impossible. Simply unthinkable.
Something the size of a bull charged the table then. Rūna let go of him, and soon Loki was scooped up, feet dangling, air preciously thin as a powerful fist hoisted him above the scattered cutlery and broken plates of his breakfast table. Loki kicked and found his bearings, staring down into the fired golden eyes of Volstagg, Lion of Asgard. The warrior’s beard stank of ale as he brought Loki’s face close to his.
Rūna and the Warriors Three had come to collect him.
To meet his fate and punishment for killing his own brother.
No, no, my pranks would never bear murderous fruit.
And then, as his vision blurred, he thought: Was it my intent? Have I yearned for his death and not just his disgrace?
“By all my children, by my axe, I should sup on your eyes and drink the cursed wine of your blood. This is doom, a flouting of our ways, ruin to Asgard! Ruin to Ragnarok! Though I knew you for a sly fiend, Loki, I did not think you capable of this, of base murder!”
Loki smiled and tried to shrug, but his body was going numb.
“Peace, Volstagg. We have been charged with apprehending the prince, not executing him,” said Fandral, placing a hand on Volstagg’s bulging arm. Fandral hovered like a green fly at Volstagg’s side.
Hogun had come, too, his long, black mustachio twitching with disdain before he spat under Loki’s airborne feet. “I see no prince. I see only a traitor.”
“Come, fellows, come mourners, Fandral speaks true—Loki has been summoned to the palace for judgment,” said Rūna. Her vengeful stare was there to greet him as Volstagg lowered Loki back to the ground. She crossed her arms over the shining bulwark of her armor and scale maille, watchful as the Warriors Three surrounded Loki, each clamping a hand onto his arms or shoulder.
“Did you know, wolf of shadows, that your father is awake? The loss of his son rips him from his sleep, and now Odin All-Father would see you. It will be my great delight to deliver you, on your knees, to his throne.”
Confusion rippled through him. If this was a prank, if Thor had sent his friends to make the charade seem real, they were doing an impressive job. They were really, really selling it. Loki trembled but held his head high. They couldn’t keep up the ruse forever. The bells clanged on, woeful and out of tune, the ground shaking from the force of their vibrations. The city itself wailed its loss. Was it true? Was it conceivable? He had killed his own brother.
Thor Odinson was no more.
No, no, this was Thor’s elaborate response. It had to be. Though it was awfully…convincing, awfully clever to be of Thor’s design. His brain rejected it. Loki shook his head. If it were true, it would feel better. It would feel like victory. He tasted only the sour coin taste of blood. His neck throbbed where Volstagg had tried to squeeze the life out of it.
“Yet your eyes are dry, steward of the dead,” Loki whispered.
Without hesitation, Rūna cuffed him across the face. Fire seared down his neck.
“That’s right,” she continued, steely. “I will not allow myself to mourn until justice is done. Then, and only then, will I cry for Thor. For him, not for you. Never for you.”
It shouldn’t have been a shock, the force of their anger, but somehow it was. He didn’t feel innocent, exactly, because he wasn’t, and he didn’t feel sorry, because he wasn’t that, either, but he decided he didn’t deserve this. Immediately, he began bargaining with himself.
If it’s true, they won’t execute me because I’m the prince, or will they? No, I didn’t do this alone. When they find out I had help, they can channel their anger toward Kvisa. It was an accident, really. It was only meant to be a bit of a prank.
Not innocent. Not sorry. What was it, then?
Helpless. He felt helpless as Volstagg lowered him to the ground, spun him, and clamped his big bear paws over Loki’s hands. As a group, proud of their spoils, proud of the fruits of their hunt, they marched him toward the palace.
And he had felt helpless against the urge to undermine his brother.
“Just tell me why,” Fandral was asking as they went. Of Thor’s compatriots, Fandral was the least odious. Loki hated him only in an abstract way because he chose to associate himself with Asgard’s golden dumdum. “Why, Loki? What poisoned you against your family, and when? Who convinced you of this path?”
Loki didn’t answer him. He was still trying to decide if he should believe this pantomime. He closed his eyes and walked and pursed his lips against the blood running down his face. Rūna’s blow had sliced open the space above his left eyebrow. He could feel their bitterness and disgust battering against his denials. Maybe Thor was not dead but seriously injured. Maybe there was a way out of this. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Only Fandral’s voice and demeanor remained soft as they dragged him to his judgment. “Perhaps if you are sorry and if you beg for forgiveness—”
“I will beg for nothing.”
Fandral fell behind. His voice was quiet. “As you say.”
There was something barreling toward him that he could not yet name. A crowd of mourners had gathered outside the palace. All of Asgard had come to wail and throw themselves on the ground. Even Thor couldn’t sway this many people to play around with a prank, could he? Heimdall was there, his eyes searing coals as they fell on Loki. With his winged helm gleaming, Heimdall made a path. With each passing moment, it felt more real. More inescapable. These bells had never rung out across the realm. Such crowds had never gathered. The queen did not dispatch the Warriors Three and Valkyrie if the situation was not dire.
A prince was not humiliated in the streets for nothing.
That nameless thing was coming closer, gathering speed.
The bells were muted in the halls of Valaskjalf. As they neared the throne room, Volstagg lowered his head and pressed his lips to Loki’s ear. “I hope they cleave your head from your shoulders. I hope I get to watch.”
“And this from the mouth of a hero,” said Loki.
But there were no more words exchanged between them as they entered the cavernous hall. The walk to his parents was excruciating. He wished they would hurry up and drag him with greater haste, but the dreadful slowness of it all felt intentional. Nobody felt the fall of the axe, only the sickening tension of the swing.
Odin and Frigga waited for him wearing twin masks of frozen pain. At the foot of their dais, Sif, the raven-haired warrior, stood with her head bent, her hands and armor darkened with dried blood. His mother’s face was red raw, scoured by fingernails and tears. The ravens Huginn and Muninn eyed him from his father’s throne, their beaks no doubt eager to dig out his eyes. If it were real. If, if, if.
Odin wore a heavy black cape; it fell down his back like a long winter shadow.
“Father, you’re awake! What timing.” Loki was allowed to say that much before Volstagg and Rūna forced him down onto his knees. “Is something amiss?”
“Long have I suffered your jests and your jeers, but not today, Loki. Today, at last, you go too far.” Odin’s voice reverberated with barely contained rage. He swept his hand in an arc before him. “This is where I would show you the evidence of your crime, but Thor’s body is not fit to be seen. You have mangled Asgard’s son.”
“Your son, not mine,” Loki muttered. “None of this is mine.”
Odin’s chest heaved and he sighed. “It might have been, wayward prince, had you not squandered all that you were given. You imagined yourself the bane of this family, but now you have created it so.”
Imagined? What part of it was imagined? Frigga often recalled that he had been a babe who cried all the time, but he did not need to be told that he had become a boy who felt deeply, one keenly wounded by even the lightest slight or barb. He grew into a child who watched Thor rewarded for his strength, for the way everything rolled easily off his shoulders. But how unseemly, to be a soft boy with big feelings. This was not princely nor allowed. Odin carried a spear, not a quill, not a scepter. A spear.
“Tell me, Loki, did you act alone?” Odin demanded. Volstagg, Rūna, Fandral, and Hogun had backed up, perhaps sensing Odin’s thinning patience.
Loki expected Kvisa’s name to tumble right out of his mouth. But he looked at the All-Father, at the queen, at the armed warriors who had marched him here for punishment, and his tongue swelled up in his mouth. It would be a simple thing to blame another. That nameless beast that had been charging toward him in slow motion arrived at last. It slammed into his chest hard enough to make him reel on his knees.
