Black Magic Woman (An MCU SI)

Chapter 1
Chapter 2

 

Chapter One

You know how, to hear some people tell it, it’s possible to end up shunted into a new world just by going to sleep and waking up there?

Yeah, I drove into a goddamn hole.

It was not my idea, I promise you; the long and short of it is, I was stopped at a light waiting for the guy ahead of me to make his left turn, he made it, I made my turn, a rip in the fabric of reality opened before me to reveal a vast cosmic abyss, I slammed on the breaks, and the blind idiot behind me rammed me into its gaping maw before hitting his own breaks.

(In retrospect, I have to wonder what – if anything – he told his insurance company.)

So there I was, screaming inside my head, reverting to basic driving school instructions for lack of anything else to do, scanning my mirrors and the glittering road ahead for elderly sorcerers and joyriding kid-Planeswalkers. Luckily none were in evidence. Plenty of whirling nebulae and streaking lights, though. I suppose I’m fortunate that I’m not one of those people who threw up watching the Speed Racer movie, because the colour palette of interdimensional travel tends toward ‘kindergarten classroom’; it was like if Kandinsky had busted out his Crayolas and glitter glue one day and graffiti’d the hyperspatial wormhole from Star Wars.

“My god... it’s full of stars,” I whispered. I figured I would never have a better reason to, considering I was likely to be dead within the next few minutes. If this wasn’t a death hallucination already.

Finally, with a bump so gentle I actually laughed in shock when I felt it, the car landed.

While the landing was soft, I had to step on the breaks almost immediately; I nearly hit some poor woman carrying a basket of oranges, who dove out of the way. If I had been a halfsecond later I might’ve taken out the kiosk selling housewares behind her, but as it was I merely jostled the counter, along with my nerves.

For a moment I just sat there, and tried to catch my breath. Then a merchant-lady poked her head out over the rows of porcelain bowls that filled my windshield, and, satisfied that she was not about to go flying, got to her feet with a frown.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled under my breath, still too dazed to move.

After taking a moment to collect myself, I raised one hand defensively while I put the car in park and unbuckled my seatbelt with the other, and repeated, louder than before, “I’m sorry! Hold on, I’ll see what I can do about this.”

“You’ve done more than enough, in my opinion!” the woman said indignantly, holding up a shattered vase.

“Oh, crap,” I said, quickly getting out of the car. “How much was it? I have some cash on me – well,” I added hesitantly, looking around, “I don’t know if it’s worth anything, here...”

It didn’t look like the kind of city that saw cash of any kind change hands often. Everything was clean, shiny, and new – or at least it looked that way; the buildings were an odd blend of breathtaking crystalline skyscrapers and low-rise structures that brought to mind an affluent Southern Californian shopping centre. The whole place screamed ‘plastic and wire transfers only’.

The people had the well-fed and well-rested look of first-worlders (though a much larger proportion of them seemed to be in good shape than the people back home), and their clothes, although generally in a rather more traditional style than their surroundings would lead me to expect, were of fine wools, silks, and leather – high-quality and long-wearing materials. Many of the women wore gold brooches and amber necklaces, and a few wore jewellery of stones and metals I couldn’t identify.

A trifle selfconsciously, I pulled my camel-hair coat closed, suddenly embarrassed by my thin t-shirt and acrylic cardigan.

I’ll bet if Dubai tried to ask this place to the prom she’d ditch him to spend the weekend at her parents’ lakehouse with Minas Tirith, I thought.

How have you ever talked anyone into having sex with you? another part of me wondered, incredulous.

“Cash?” the woman said in disbelief. “First I’ve heard of a witch carrying coin on her. There’ll be no need for that, girl; remake what you broke and you can be on your way. You and your...” She eyed the car warily. “... carriage.”

Witch?

I have to admit, for every part of me that was now worried my entrance had given people entirely the wrong idea about me, there was another part that was ridiculously flattered that someone had mistaken me for a magic-user.

“For Asgard!” a tiny voice yelled before I could reply, and a mop-haired little boy ran out of the crowd waving a wooden sword. Making a beeline for the sedan, he wasted no time setting about ‘smiting’ my vehicle.

“Whoa!” I cried, leaping over and pulling the sword out of his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy, there, man-”

“Oi! Unhand my blade, witch!” he demanded immediately, kicking me futily in the shins. A few passersby chuckled, which I found more than a little reassuring; if they were laughing, I didn’t suppose anyone was about to start shrieking about a foul sorceress bullying children.

“You’re going to hit me just for falling through a portal?” I lifted the sword into the air to keep it out of grabbing range.

“Only witches can use portals!” he insisted, crossing his arms skeptically. “Honest folk use the Bifrost. Everyone knows that!”

My heart leapt into my throat.

Bifrost. And they’re pronouncing it American-style. ‘For Asgard’. Oh, shit, please let this be the movie universe, please oh please oh please, I cannot handle comics canon without internet access...

“Tell you what,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll give your sword back if you promise not to keep bashing up my car. Or me, or any of my other stuff,” I added, knowing from fifteen years as an older sister the importance of not giving children loopholes. “Deal?”

He growled, and I was unable to keep from smiling at how cute he sounded. “The men of Asgard don’t make deals with invaders, woman.”

“Njali, you mind your manners!” the woman with the shattered vase scolded. “Or I’ll tell your mother you’ve been playing soldiers when you should be at your lessons!” She gave me an apologetic look. “Begging your pardon, miss. Now, about my wares-”

“’m not playing, she’s a witch!” he interrupted, with all the usual exhasperation of a small person surrounded by useless grownups. “We all saw!”

“What exactly was it about my wildly careening into someone’s place of business with a stupid look on my face that made you think driving through a portal was my idea?” I asked, my voice starting to get a little shrill. It wasn’t even eleven yet and I was in another universe; today was not looking like a great day, to say the least.

“All right, move aside,” a voice came over the crowd, and the onlookers quickly parted to reveal three men in gleaming armour. The short one – well, short by the standards of the locals, he was still 5’10” at least – gestured at me with his spear. “You, girl, how did you come to be here?”

In person, those dorky-looking helmets are a lot less amusing.

Slowly, feeling like a complete nitwit, I lowered the toy sword.

“I fell through a rift in reality,” I said nervously. “Forgive me, is there somewhere I can park my car? I don’t want it to keep obstructing the thoroughfare.”

My attempt at steering the conversation in the direction of the mundane seemed to defuse the tension a bit; the man retracted his spear and nodded, though he didn’t look any friendlier.

“My mam runs a carriagehouse up on the Street of Hay,” Njali piped up, apparently having forgotten his previous stance on witches.

“You may store your conveyance at the palace stable,” the lead guardsman said, ignoring the boy.

I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “The palace? But-”

“You are expected,” he cut me off.

“Oooooof course I am,” I muttered miserably.

With a sigh, I handed the wooden sword back to the little boy. “Good work holding me off until the reinforcements showed up, young man. You did your family proud.”

He jutted his chin out proudly and ran back into the crowd.

“Here!” The woman with the vase called, slightly more uncertainly than before. “What about my damaged property? Who’s going to pay for this?”

“Shut up, Arnveig, you old skinflint,” one of the other guards said dismissively, “that’s the same vase those hoodlums smashed last month and we all know it. What are you called, girl?” he added in my direction.

“Magda Quickfinger,” I said, whilst performing the mental equivalent of a roll of the eyes. Really? That’s the best you can do on the spot, a name from a Pathfinder game four years ago? Why not just go whole hog and call yourself Alyosha Popovich, for fuck’s sake.

“You must come with us, Magda Quickfinger,” the short one said, with much more solemnity than a name that silly warrants.

I took a deep breath. Well. Okay. Time to dig in. You saw Thor 2, you know how this goes. If you behave like an ordinary modern mortal, they’ll treat you like a dimwitted pet. Show some dignity, girl.

“Very good,” I said archly, retaking my seat behind the wheel and closing the door. “Lead on.”

“Make way!” called the last guard, turning back the way the group had come. The spectators began to disperse a bit, heading to one side of the street or the other.

As I took the parking brake off and slowly began creeping forward, I saw the boy, Njali, following my escort, making the call along with them, but adding his own flavour:

“Make way for Lady Magda, the Car-Tamer!”

=


Mirror for the SB thread. I'm still not totally happy with this bit or the next bit, so despite my claims over there I may not update until tomorrow.

 

Interesting. Kind of right up 'your' alley, with your knowledge of Norse legends and all. Pity about the witch label, as I recall any warriors acting unmanly are probably gonna be laid at your door.

Not quite as relevant to my interests as Knight in Ribbons (my knowledge of Marvel Asgard is mostly limited to the movie and the Voluminous Volstag), but I'll be reading along.

 

Chapter Two

As I drove, I thought. And planned. And quietly panicked.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, you can cry later when you’re alone, I promise, but right now we have to work. You are not going to die; not if you get a grip.

My lack of optimism on the survival front was simple; all I knew for sure was that I was in a place called Asgard, and someone in the palace wanted to see me. Obviously everything around me would seem to suggest that I was in a Marvel Universe of some description, but the fact that I came to that conclusion so easily meant that it was just as likely, if not moreso, that someone was fucking with me. If I was willing to accept that I might be in the Marvel universe, shouldn’t it then follow that I ought to be willing to accept that one of the many, many reality-warping or illusion-casting assholes in that universe (pleasenotLokipleasenotLokipleasenotLokipleasenotLoki) might have me in their clutches? If that were the case there was more or less nothing that couldn’t happen to me next; I was powerless, or as good as. What good was a pseudonym if they could just pluck my real name out of my head and play merry hell with my autonomy, my soul, whathaveyou? I wasn’t a main character, or dating a main character, so there wasn’t even the hope of rescue.

In the back of my mind, some optimistic bit of paranoia was attempting to cheer me up by suggesting that this whole experience was just me descending into full-blown schizophrenia.

But there was no point in worrying about that. If that were the case, it was already game over. It was more constructive for me to proceed as though I were actually here.

Nevertheless, even if everything I now saw, smelt, heard was real, my situation still wasn’t looking too rosy. The list of notable palace-dwelling Asgardians (subject to timeline and universe variability, of course) who would be interested in a tempest-tossed mortal was not long, but all of the names on it were bad news as far as I was concerned.

When I finally pulled into the stable (the horses and oh my god giant kitty! were less than happy with the new addition to their ranks), I made a quick survey of the car, checking the back seat and the glove compartment seats for anything I could use in this situation, anything that could be helpful. I wasn’t asking for miracles, I just wanted to know if maybe I could have a shot at surviving until lunch. And if not, that I could at least cause some kind of damage on my way out.

My inventory as it stood was mostly useless, either because the objects could only work in plans that would take time and a familiarity with my surroundings I didn’t have, or because I couldn’t possibly conceal them on my person without arousing suspicion.

However, never underestimate a writer of phantom thief stories. Certain discreet items went into my purse, and the most important one fit right in my coat pocket. Then, checking my hair and makeup a final time, I got out of the car.

The great big fluffy cat who was just a precious muffin now wasn’t he jumped about a foot in the air when he heard the lock-confirmation beep. I would have laughed, but his expression was an exact mirror to my emotional state at the moment, so instead I apologized for startling him.

“I say! Decent people are still resting at this hour, you know,” he sniffed, and settled his head back down on his paws.

The guard in charge coughed quietly, and I fell into step behind him, with the other fellows flanking me.

I tried to sneak a couple of looks at them as we walked. They didn’t look bewitched, but then, this wasn’t a children’s cartoon; there was no reason to give them pupilless eyes or a sparkly-green aura around their heads to tip off the viewer. Quite the opposite, in fact; it’d be a pretty shitty mind-control spell that announced itself that blatantly.

The palace was... most definitely a palace. There were no concessions to upper-middle-class conceptions of ‘taste’ here; anything that could be slathered in gold or lacquer, was. I tried to keep pace with the others, but it was difficult when I kept passing jaw-dropping mosaics and tapestries. Eventually I had to force myself to keep my eyes dead ahead, or there was no chance of me ever looking like I had a right to be here.

“Are you at liberty to inform me whom I’m to visit?” I asked as we mounted a stairway.

“No,” the leader said.

... well, I guess that settles that. Not only was this meeting a mystery to me, it was supposed to be somewhat private, too.

So I wasn’t as startled as I might have been when I was shoved into a secret passage behind a statue by one guard while the other two kept walking.

Which definitely isn’t to say I wasn’t startled at all.

“Unhand me!” I snarled, leveraging myself out of his grasp and elbowing him in the stomach. To my surprise, he actually staggered backward with a muffled ‘oof’. Pulling away and turning ‘round in a martial stance that was doubtless amateurish and wide open, I eyed his midsection, and frowned.

He’s wearing armour. How can I possibly have done anything to him?

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.

He straightened, and held a hand out placatingly.

“My apologies, Magda Quickfinger,” he said, sounding like he was sure he’d fucked up bad, which I took as a good sign. “Fear not, you are not a prisoner, but discretion is called for in this matter.”

“Discretion?” I said, a brief laugh falling out of my mouth alongside the word. “I drove a white Prius out of a wormhole in full view of the public. I think we’ve passed the point of subtlety.” At least, I hoped we had; I hoped it wouldn’t be so easy to make me disappear.

“Your travel habits are your own concern,” the man replied, “but my Lady’s affairs are mine.”

And he gestured down the torchlit hall.

I contemplated making a break for it, but thought better of it. Where the hell would I even go? It was a straight passageway with no doors leading off it that I could see.

I exhaled hard. “If I’m not a prisoner, then surely you won’t mind walking in front of me rather than behind.”

He nodded once, said, “Of course,” and strode past me.

I blinked. That was literally the first time in my life I’d made a request like that and the guy hadn’t rolled his eyes or laughed or slouched into that would-be-good-guy posture that says “You’re irrational and paranoid, but I’m gonna try and be cool about this you lest you go crazy and call me a rapist at some later date.” It was refreshing to have a stranger show that kind of respect for my concerns.

Of course he doesn’t mind walking in front of you, I thought a moment later as I followed him. You’re a human. It doesn’t matter where you are, he can take you. And if he can’t, the Enchantress sure as shit can.

Amora had been at the bottom of my shortlist of disastrous Possibly Interested Parties, but not for lack of power. I just thought she was least likely to be interested in letting a younger woman with innocent-looking grey-blue eyes within ten yards of the possibility of running into Thor, especially not with a sob story to spill about being alone in a strange new world.

(Yes, innocent-looking. I know this for a fact, I’ve seen them. I used to have a lot of fun in high school calling people motherfuckers and watching them bluescreen.)

But now, I had to answer the question of why. What was she looking for? Why did she need someone from another universe? Why did she need me?

Everything I could think of was self-aggrandizing. There was some prophecy, I had some physical property that humans from this universe lacked, my synaesthesia was a sign of some heretofore undiscussed divine heritage and she was either going to drop a Mystique bomb on me or kill me for being Thor’s kid of whom she’d wiped the memory.

It’s the Marvel universe, it’s supposed to be wacky, I thought with manic self-pity.

As I walked, I slowly and carefully slid my right hand into my pocket and closed it around my only shot.

When my mother dropped me off at university, the last thing she did before she hugged me and got back in the car to drive home was take her kubotan off her keyring and hand it to me, to slip onto mine. U of T’s Mississauga campus is full of leafy forest paths and secluded walkways, and the last thing she wanted was for me to be walking along them after dark unarmed.

It’s a black steel rod about five inches long that tapers at one end, with grooves to fit your fingers in. Cops call it the ‘instrument of attitude adjustment’. Properly trained, someone can use it to restrain a person’s wrists, or hammer at small, vulnerable points on the human body, like the armpit of a six foot guardsman where the armour didn’t cover.

Or a woman’s eye.

It was really the longest of shots, not least because I didn’t actually have that training; all I knew was how to use the damn thing to beef up my punches. But by definition an only shot means you don’t have any other viable options, so I was going to have to make it work. After that I’d pull those bungie cords Dad kept in the back seat for some mysterious automotive purpose out of my purse, hook or tie them together, climb out a window (I was pretty sure we were still only on the second floor), and haul ass back to the stables to try and get the fuck out of here somehow. It’d been over a decade since that single week of riding camp, but I still remembered vaguely how to tack a horse and ride English-style. I’d ride breakneck for the Bifrost and beg Heimdall on my knees if necessary to send me to Midgard. Getting home probably wasn’t in the cards, but at least Marvel Earth has procedures in place to absorb otherworldly weirdos.

After far, far too short a time, we reached the door. Beefcake gave a knock, and a sweet voice called, “Enter!”

I steeled myself. By which I mean I tried desperately not to shove past the man in front of me and charge my kidnapper like a fear-and-rage-fuelled dumbass.

I’m sorry you’ll never know what happened to me, Mom.

The room was in stark contrast to the passageway that led to it; everything in here was bright and airy, from the pale, foam-like curtains along the full wall of windows to the butter-coloured settees and their colourful cushions. Even the tables and the bookcases had long, delicately-carved legs, and the wood panelling on the walls was in a herringbone pattern that drew the eye upward from the tumbling-block marble tiles on the floor to the whimsical stamped-silver ceiling above. In a castle full of handsome masculine architecture, here at last was a woman’s touch.

“My Queen,” the guard said, bowing, “I’ve brought the girl as requested.”

“Thank you, Hlin,” said a woman seated at the rosewood desk at the far end of the room. Standing, she added, “That will be all.”

The guard hesitated, but bowed again, and departed by the same door through which we’d entered.

I, meanwhile, struggled not to outright cry in relief as the woman approached.

Frigga. It was Frigga. And what’s more, it was Rene Russo-Frigga, in all her goldielocks glory.

It was like getting shoved into a swimming pool on a hot summer day.

I was in the cinematic universe.

I knew things here. I didn’t have to focus on just surviving for now, I could have an actual life that wouldn't be over in the next twenty minutes. I could plan.

I would have curtsied, but between my shaking knees and the jeans I was wearing, I decided a Japanese-style ladies’ bow was a safer bet.

“Your majesty,” I said, swallowing hard to steady my voice, “I am more pleased to make your acquaintance than I can possibly explain.”

 

OK, you had my curiosity, but now, you have my attention.

 

Chapter Three

“Rise, Magda Quickfinger,” Frigga said gently, and I did so. “I hope your journey was not too distressing. If it had been in my power I would have sent someone to fetch you by the Bifrost, but I am given to understand that your realm is somewhat beyond our reach.” The implied question hung in the air, but with so little pressure that I felt it would be the height of rudeness not to answer it.

She was good, I could already tell.

“I believe it is, ma’am,” I said. “Before I explain, may I first ask if I was brought here for some purpose by a third party, or if it was pure chance as far as you can tell?”

She sighed. “It appears to be the latter. But it was ever thus with powerful sorceries. Please, sit.”

She led me to the sitting area and told me to feel free to lay my coat over the backs of one of the chairs. I did so, and took a seat at a right angle to hers. The space between the arms of our chesterfields was filled by a small table bearing a plate of cream-filled pastries dusted with sugar, of a kind I’d never seen before. They smelled absolutely delicious, and I thought for a moment about asking if I could have one before I remembered my theory about this being a massive illusion and decided against it. If I was snatched by fair folk, there was every reason not to stuff every delicious thing I saw into my mouth.

“You hide your fear quite well.”

I looked up in surprise, to see Frigga smiling indulgently at me. She reached into some artfully hidden pocket in that diaphanous gown of hers and pulled out a small something of iron. “If it will set your mind at ease, please take this.” She held it out in her open palm.

Looking it over, I saw that it was cast in the shape of a leaping cat.

I took it, and gasped. In that moment, I felt the weight of reality around me, and knew that I could not possibly be anything other than fully awake and present. I could feel all the veins in my body and the blood flowing through them, and that chill that runs down your spine when you come to a realization rolled out from the back of my neck to cover my whole body in a momentary flash, like a diagnostic test for my skin.

If you had asked me at the time how I knew this wasn’t just another illusion layered overtop of the old one, I’d have looked at you like you’d just suggested using pancake batter to wash my car. This was no spell; this was the exact opposite of a spell.

“Thank you,” I said very quietly, feeling about eight inches tall. I tried to hand the charm back to her, but she just pushed back my hand and shook her head.

“Keep it. You will have much greater need of it than I, I am sure.”

Well, that’s nice and ominous.

“Now, then,” she went on, “how is it that a mortal woman of a realm not directly connected to the Nine knows not to eat food offered by elves?”

Clearing my throat, I did the only thing I could think of to do under the circumstances. I told her the truth.

“In my universe, there is an epic relating to events in a universe very much like this one, if not exactly like – I haven’t seen enough of this place to tell. It’s pure coincidence as far as I know,” I added, in defense against the usual cry of ‘seers!’ that this kind of revelation prompts in stories, “but as you yourself said, with powerful magic involved it can be difficult to tell the difference.”

I certainly wouldn’t discount the possibility of Stan Lee being a prophet. He knows how to make one, at least.

“I see,” Frigga said, sounding somewhat troubled. A moment later she let out a small laugh, trying to lighten her own mood. “No wonder you were so nervous; you must have thought you were going mad when you arrived.”

“Honestly, I was more frightened when I heard that I was expected,” I admitted with a smile. “Forgive me, but I’m quite aware there are people within Asgard whose intentions towards a stranded traveller from another world would be... less than pleasant.”

Her smile became slightly sad. “It pains me to know my home is not regarded as a safe haven from such concerns.”

“My apologies, ma’am,” I said, wincing at my own tactlessness. Stupid morbid sense of humour. “At the very least, please know that I regard your company as just such a haven.”

This wasn’t pure flattery on my part. If you watch the movies, it becomes readily apparent that anyone Frigga takes under her protection stays protected, even if not necessarily by her. Hell, she even managed to keep Loki alive after the Jotunheim and Midgard fiascos.

She brightened a little bit at that, enough to tease me with her next question. “Oh? What reputation have I in your world, that I inspire such confidence?”

“Much the same as the All-Mother of our own legends,” I said, before kicking myself for just dumping that on her.

As expected, that remark got a bit of a reaction. “Have I a double in your world, then?”

I flinched. How was I going to explain this?

“... the tales in the epic regarding Asgard are very, very loosely based upon a body of mythology and a faith originating in the North of my world,” I admitted finally. “Some things are similar and some are completely different – there are no Warriors Three in our legends, for example. Lady Sif is primarily concerned with agriculture, not war, and Loki...”

I really wasn’t prepared to have a conversation about Loki.

“... is older,” was the best I could do. As far as tl;drs go, it wasn’t terrible. I just hoped she could get what I meant.

She got something, anyway; she gave me an appraising look.

She nodded at my necklace. “I had wondered why one born so far from Yggdrasil’s reach would wear its likeness as a charm. You are a member of this faith, then, I take it?”

“In my own way,” I replied, biting my lip. I was not telling the Foremost Lady that I worshipped an alternate-universe version of her foster son; it was entirely too fucked up a topic of conversation, even for this situation. Nor was I keen to get into the whole range of Odinism/Asatru/Northern Tradition/Norse Reconstructionism/eclectic paganism/my own bit of strangeness and the distinctions and conflicts between each. And fucking forget explaining Rokkatru to a woman whose husband lost an eye fighting the local equivalents of the jötnar.

“Sorry,” I added lamely. I sort of felt like I should, you know?

Frigga laughed, and patted my knee. “You are the first mortal I’ve ever met who’s apologized for that, I have to say.” She picked up the tray of pastries (semlas, I later learned they were called) and offered me one.

“Thank you.” It tasted a little like a paczki, only with marzipan stuffed in with the cream. I wasn’t sure if I liked it, but I find sugar is always comforting in new situations, and so it proved now.

“Your majesty?” I asked, when I’d swallowed my first bite. “May I ask why I’ve been brought here? Was it just to satisfy your curiosity about my point of origin, or have you some need of a mortal hack writer?”

Frigga swiped a thumb across her lips to get the cream off them, then licked her thumb. I couldn’t help but smile, having seen my grandmother and aunts do the same thing dozens of times.

“What do you know of magic?” she asked.

“... what kind of magic?” I said, frowning slightly. Being a geek, I actually knew quite a lot on the basic theory side of things in several different systems, at least in the same sense that a child who watches Bill Nye and Neil deGrasse Tyson knows some things about science. But this wasn’t an online discussion of how to make a fusion universe from the components of DC, the Venture Brothers and Discworld; Frigga was a professional. And I was starting to think she was a professional who preferred the Socratic method.

“Any magic,” she said, and while her tone was no less friendly, I got the impression the actual interview had begun. “How does it work?”

Well, unpublished or not, I was still a fantasy writer. We all have opinions on crap like that.

“I really think it depends on the type,” I said honestly. “In my mind, magic is any process that subverts the guidelines of reality to achieve a different outcome than would occur without the aforementioned meddling. So one person might have been born with a strong tie to some elemental force that jumps to their aid whenever their emotions get the better of them, and another might study that force until they find out the proper way to coax it into doing what it does for the first person with no effort at all. Or someone might gain the favour of an elemental being through various means, and be able to employ spells of the element that way. And so on with non-elemental spells of the various kinds.” I paused, and shook my head. “Or did you mean ‘how does it work’ in the sense of ‘what allows people to use magic’?”

That smile was almost a smirk. “Whichever.”

I nodded to myself. “Okay. A combination of willpower, their knowledge base, a set of skills I wouldn’t be able to properly understand without studying the stuff myself, probably, and the payment, whatever that may be.”

“Payment?” the goddess inquired, something glittering in her eyes.

“Magic costs something,” I said, with what must have been a ridiculous level of confidence from someone who had never cast a real spell. “That’s the one thing all magic has in common; you have to pay for it. It might be just the time you take and the attention you pay to learn the spell properly, or it might be a favour done later in exchange for the favour you want now, or it might be your life, but it always costs something. ‘Teachings that do not speak of pain have no meaning.’”

I blinked. Oops. I... kinda got on a roll there, didn’t I?

I looked back at Frigga. She wasn’t smiling anymore, but she didn’t... seem angry.

“... ma’am?” I asked hesitantly.

“Forgive me for asking such an... abstract question,” she said, and she sounded like she was miles away.

Oh, crap.

“Your majesty?” I asked, in the voice I generally reserved for people who had asked me to wake them up from naps. “Are you having a vision?”

The focus came back into her eyes immediately, and she did not look pleased.

“No,” she said coldly, “and you are not to reveal to anyone that that may be a possibility, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I said swiftly, frozen, unwilling to make any sudden movements while that glare was on me.

“Good.” She exhaled. “I apologize for frightening you again. What you must think of me.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s a state secret, I understand. Our Frigga can’t even tell people what she sees.”

“That much we have in common,” the Queen said, sounding very tired. “As I was saying, I apologize for springing a philosophical quandary on you, but I had to know I was making the right decision. I want to offer you an apprenticeship.”

I nearly dropped my semla.

“With you?” I blurted out. “In magic?”

“Yes to the second, no to the first,” she replied. “My son is in need of a pupil, to prove he has truly attained the mastery he claims.”

Holy motherfucking shit I get to learn magic from Loki Loki Loki I should have driven through the torn fabric of reality years ago!!!

“What are you punishing him for?” was the first thing I could think of to say that wasn’t inane fangirl gibberish.

That doesn’t mean it was the first thing I said, though. Depends if you consider a brief, high-pitched squeak to fall under the heading of ‘saying something’ or not.

“Whatever gave you the impression I was punishing him?” Frigga asked, amused. “Do you believe your company so trying?”

“... um... would you like an honest answer to that question?”

“Nonsense,” she said, taking my hand in both of hers, “I’m quite sure the two of you will get along famously.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Just don’t let him bully you.”

I suddenly got the strong impression that my acceptance of this offer was purely a formality.

Why would you say no? part of me thought. Are you insane? Magic! From a certified genius of the art! Who is smoking hot! And kind-of-sort-of Loki!

He’s a Loki, I thought back stubbornly. He’s not our Loki.

Of all the times to be picky about-! You realize we have literally nowhere else to go if we refuse, right? Can we please just trust the kind-hearted enormously-rich lady who can see the future?

“... I know you can’t give me specifics,” I said, watching her expression carefully, “but I’ve already worked out that you must have had a vision at some point to know I was going to come through that portal.”

She didn’t nod, but she didn’t contradict me either. She was just waiting.

I swallowed. “What I want to know is...” C’mon, how do you get around this? “... knowing what you do, if you were in my position, would you say yes?”

This time it wasn’t a smile. It was a full-on grin.

“Absolutely.”

She was either telling the truth or a great actress. Hell, probably both.

Fuck it. Gotta die of something.

 

Chapter Four

“You don’t have to carry that,” I said without thinking, then hastily added, “Wait, right, her majesty told you to, never mind. I’m sorry, I’m not used to having servants around.”

“Quite all right, Lady Magda,” the girl – girl, what girl, she was probably older than my dead-and-buried great-grandmother – said in reply, sounding faintly amused.

That, on the other hand, I could definitely get used to. ‘Lady Magda’. Sounds nice and respectable, with just a hint of mischief.

My room was small, but somehow – I don’t know how – the Queen had known I would want one right near the library (or, as I would discover to my glee later in the evening, one of the libraries), so I was perfectly comfortable by my own standards. The view wasn’t bad, either; I could see rooftop gardens on the condo towers across the square from the palace, and a little playground with a fountain and some climbing structures that were too far away to make out. I couldn’t wait to see the city lights at night. Maybe I could get a good picture with my phone to prove I’d been here, if I ever got home again.

Ooh, speaking of!

“Do you know who I should speak to about adapting my phone to a less primitive power source?” I asked the maidservant. I sure as hell wasn't sticking with regular science in a universe where magic and SCIENCE! co-existed.

“Oh,” she said, in that slightly crestfallen tone people who aren’t good with tech always get when asked questions like that. “I suppose you could speak to Hugmodur, if he’s at the feast this evening.” She craned her neck across the bed. “What is a ‘phone’?”

“It lets someone who can’t use magic talk to people far away,” I said, checking its current battery life (75%; not bad, but not great, either). “Or listen to music, or capture still images and... well, here, let me show you.” I hit record, and, holding up the phone, said, “Say something.”

“... what should I say?” she asked hesitantly, still looking at me, not the camera.

“Anything you like,” I said with a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Birna, milady,” she said.

“Nice to meet you, Birna.” I hit stop, and came over to her side of the bed to show her.

When I hit play, she blinked in surprise. “Goodness! I haven’t seen the like of this in some time. So the mortals have acquired the knack of light-scribing?”

“Is light-scribing the way your people refer to recording motion pictures?” I asked. From the way it was phrased I couldn’t be sure if it wasn’t an elegant term for microelectronics or something.

Birna nodded, her braids bobbing. “Yes, it was quite a popular when I was a child. My brothers used to ‘scribe each other performing death-defying feats to impress the local girls. There was a board in the square that the braver boys used to post on.”

I snickered. Why am I not surprised that a bunch of alien Vikings loved Youtube?

I was told that my formal introductions would be made at the evening meal; until then, I had free run of the palace.

I still couldn’t quite believe that. Or anything in this situation, really. So in the end, I just did what I always do when I can do anything I want. I went to the library.

=

My initial goals were simple; find a magical-theory-for-children-and-morons book, a genealogy so I could figure out just how many divergences there were from both the myths and what little I remembered of the comics, an atlas of the Nine Realms, a couple of books on Asgardian history, and some novels for bedtime reading - because contrary to one of the most depressing bits of fangirl-fanon, a human-ish civilization that doesn't have a poetic, dramatic or literary tradition after thousands (let alone hundreds of thousands) of years at the top of the socio-economic food chain is a statistical nonentity.

There wasn't a librarian's desk, so I had to tap someone reading on the shoulder and ask them where history section was. Thankfully everything was organized by section, and I found the history books against the back wall on the second floor without too much trouble. I made a mental note to look into whatever the Asgardian answer to the Dewey decimal system was and try to commit it to memory.

I wondered giddily if I might have the chance to look at some of the books Loki undoubtedly kept in his personal library. Master sorcerers always have one or two books they only pass on to those they consider their successors, after all.

But that could wait. For now, I was just happy to be back in an environment that was at least somewhat-

I stopped dead in my tracks, and stared at the neatly-shelved spines before me.

... no.

For whatever stupid reason, whatever faint, flickering hope, I pulled one of the books off the shelf and flipped through it.

nononononononononononononononononono...!

Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, I finally gave in to the emotional rollercoaster I’d been on for the last three hours and burst into tears.

I should have remembered, really, but I suppose in the rush of discovering I was mostly safe for now, I somehow expected good things to keep happening.

Instead, I rediscovered that Asgardians don’t write in English. Their runes aren’t even the Futhark – not when their written records predate that alphabet by more than twenty millenia.

It’s called Allspeak, not Allread, you fucking idiot.

My throat felt hot, and far too large for my neck, full as it was with moans that I would not let out. I was not going to be found huddling on the floor with tears rolling down my face like a child; I would not be humiliated further.

I was in the most beautiful library I had ever set foot in, surrounded by thousands of books that no human had ever read, and I was illiterate.

I was a writer, and I was illiterate.

I was myself, and I was illiterate.

I wanted to scream. To keep myself from doing so, I dug my nails into my arms.

What on earth made you think you were good enough to learn magic from a god?

I slapped myself in the face, trying to silence the loathing before it made me sob and draw attention.

Oh, I’m sure he’s just dying to teach a weepy little bitch like you. What, do you think if he comes around that corner right this second and sees you like this he’ll cradle you in his arms and fix everything? Fucking pathetic.

“Worthless,” I whispered, and hid my face in my arms.

When I had calmed down enough that I trusted myself not to start crying again, I raised my head and took a deep breath.

It was as I exhaled that I saw, along the spine of a book shelved directly across from me, exactly one word I could read.

The book was a slim volume bound in dark yellow leather, with plain black lettering on the spine, in contrast to its gold-engraved brethren to either side.

The weird part was, it wasn’t in English.

Or French, or Japanese, or any of the other languages I had picked up words from here and there over the years.

It was like being really tired, and reading something written in French, taking in the meaning before fully processing that I’d been reading my second language, not my first.

On the one hand, the title read “Galastria,” clear as day. On the other, the title meant ‘Grammar’.

If I had had to rationalize how the hell I came to this conclusion, I’d have probably pointed out that galdr, the Old Norse for incantation, comes from the word gala, whose precise meaning I didn’t remember, and from there it was an intuitive jump to ‘grammar’ based on the (admittedly limited) context.

I certainly didn’t give a toss about any of this at the time. I was just fucking relieved to have something, anything to go on.

Eagerly, with a slightly hysterical laugh, I pulled out the thin book and flipped open to the middle. The contents were just as mysteriously clear as the cover had been; it was a section on conjugating the verb ‘to run’. I run, you run, he runs, she runs, it runs, we run, you run, they (m) run, they (f) run, one runs...

I started crying again, and hugged the book to my chest.

Abruptly, I got to my feet, and paid the price when a wave of wooziness came over me and forced me to lean on the windowsill until the headache went away. I gave the sweeping view of the palace grounds a determined smile.

I had work to do.

=

“Are you in need of assistance, little lady?”

‘Little lady’; now that’s something you don’t hear very often in 21st-century Canada without it being a lead in to a girl-power joke.

Granted, in my case it was descriptively accurate. I was below average in height even by the standards of other girls my age back home; in Asgard I was lucky to come up to most women’s noses.

Besides, I had one hand holding onto the ladder and the other weighed down with four hardcovers while my right foot tried desperately to keep a fifth book that I’d dropped from falling, all while I was wearing a long, deep red dress that had definitely not been designed for indoor mountaineering. Even if I’d had the inclination, playing the don’t-condescend-to-me-you-big-ape card would have been very counterproductive.

“Could you please?” I asked, wobbling. Then I got a good look at who it was and I outright fell off the ladder.

Two green-clad arms like iron bars wrapped in meat caught me, and I was suddenly looking up into the smiling face of a fair-haired man with a moustache Errol Flynn would kill for.

“Light as a feather!” he declared, setting me back on my feet. He bowed in exactly the manner you would expect from a guy who is basically Westley from The Princess Bride with better dress-sense. “Forgive me for taking the liberty, sweet one – I am Fandral, known as the Dashing. And you are?”

“Magda the Vaguely Runny, I suppose,” I said, smacking some of the book-dust off my clothes. “Thank you for the save- no!” I cried suddenly, catching sight of a true tragedy in the making. I dropped to the floor and hastily scooped up the volume that had caused my outburst. Just in time, too – it had fallen in such a way that the back cover was grinding up against the spine; if it’d stayed like that too long the bindings would have ripped. Straightening out that potential disaster, I looked back up at my rescuer. “Sorry, give me a second.”

“Not at all,” he said brightly, crouching to gather the other books I’d dropped. “I must say, it’s rare to find a lady so devoted to scholarship. But, ah, perhaps...” He handed me a two-volume set with a fond smile. “... you should pace yourself?”

I smiled back, and shrugged. “I thought I was. After all, I only took five; that leaves, what...” I took a look at the shelves around us and let out a deeply-contented sigh. “... thousands to go.”

His eyes bugged, and he coughed, almost certainly to stifle a laugh. “I see. Do you intend to read all of them, then?”

I shrugged, grinning. “If I don’t die first? Yes.”

Oof, I thought, taking in Fandral’s slightly off-put expression, I really have to lay off on the flippancy. This is not the audience for it.

“Sorry,” I said, falling back into a habit I acquired in middle school from watching too much anime and rubbing the back of my neck. “I suppose I should have mentioned I’m mortal.”

“Mortal? As in, a human?” he said, his expression upgrading from kind-of-weirded-out to kind-of-perplexed. “Forgive me, Lady Magda, but this is nearly unprecedented. How did you come to be in Asgard?”

“Did you by any chance hear something about a witch coming through a portal in the markets this morning?” I asked.

He nodded, still a little shocked. “Yes, but if you walk through Asgard’s markets you’ll hear ten such rumours in ten minutes. That was you?”

“In the flesh,” I said proudly.

“Well, they did say you hatched out of an enormous white egg,” he said, giving me a once over. “As you are so swan-like in other respects, I see no reason to disagree with them.”

XD Damn, Guiche de Gramont is all grown up!

He was laying it on a little thick, but I kind of liked it; it was a balm to my nerves after an uncertain kind of day.

I wish I could say I said something witty in response, but even when they’re bad at it – especially when they’re bad at it – I’ve never been very good at dealing with men flirting with me. So instead I have to report that I mumbled something about him being far too kind and blushed furiously.

After that I couldn’t get rid of him. He insisted on finding me a good chair under a window, with plenty of natural light, and a nearby table to hold the stack of books.

“May I inquire, my lady,” he said, glancing at the cover of the topmost tome, “why these five?”

“It’s a long story,” I said with a sigh.

“Fandral!” A booming voice filled the room, easily drowning out the handful of people it left shushing in its wake.

“Ah,” my companion said, glancing in the direction from which the voice had come, then turning back to me, “I’m afraid I must take my leave of you here, fair Magda. Will I see you at the feast?”

I nodded.

“Until this evening, then.” He kissed my hand, and winked at me. “I’d suggest keeping to the books on the bottom shelves for now.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” I said with a laugh, and called to his retreating back, “Nice meeting you!”

“Shhh!” someone hissed again.

... I just got hit on by a man older than the Magna Carta.

I took a moment to absorb this information, before shaking my head and opening The Golden Heritage: A Genealogy of the Nine Worlds alongside the grammar book. I only had a few hours before dinner to make some headway.

 

Chapter Five

Large crowds of people suck, no matter whether they’re in miniskirts and jeans or Sword Art Online cosplay.

The feast wasn’t like some hoity-toity Disney affair with a page announcing everyone as they entered; it was way more chilled out. People came or went as they pleased, and the party easily spilled out of the hall where it began into a gambling room next door, and thence (presumably) to the little curtained-off alcoves down the corridor.

It was kind of like a high school party in a movie, honestly. They even had a pool outside – it was more Art Deco than Suburban Casual, but people still traipsed between the starlit water and the dining tables without a care for their (still somehow effortlessly elegant) bathrobes, or their drippings. And why shouldn’t they? There were a couple of wolfhounds onsite who were more than happy to go after any food or water that hit the floor.

One of them came over to check me out, and growled at my proffered hand before moving on. I straightened up, surprised and stung; I’d had dogs dislike me before, but they’d never dismissed me. I felt like a comedic minion in a children’s film.

Well, if Prince Fusspot’s Mom can talk him into it, you kind of are, I thought. At least those kinds of characters usually survive.

Thor was already in the middle of it all when I arrived, though at first I almost didn’t notice. All I knew was that a bunch of people were crowded around someone telling a story toward the far corner of the hall. Then the storyteller raised his voice to properly imitate an ogre and I said to myself, Oh, that’s Thor’s voice. And when I looked over again, sure enough, generically handsome beardguy was name-brand handsome beardguy.

It was weird; I wasn’t excited or really all that surprised, even. I just felt kind of... it was like walking into a relative’s house for a family holiday and hearing your uncle telling a bad joke in the next room. It isn’t anything particularly novel, it’s just kind of nostalgic.

I half-looked for Fandral, but spotting him at the edge of the storytime circle with an Ursula Andress lookalike on his knee, I decided it was best that I find somewhere else to sit.

The afternoon I’d spent painstakingly translating the genealogy book didn’t do me as much good as I’d hoped it would; I could spot the major players all right (I was pretty sure that man in the tight pants talking to Hogun was Frey, for example), but the people on the next rung down – my social level, I supposed – were a mystery. And it wasn’t like I could just go up to someone and start a conversation; I was awful at small talk even when it came to other humans. What common ground did I have with any of these people?

At least I look good, I thought, taking comfort in my own shallowness. I don’t know what Birna had done to my skin with that cream, but my acne scars were invisible – if they were even still there. My hair was long enough for a respectable braided-chignon thing, too, so I didn’t look like a tourist playing dressup in the gown I’d been given.

I wasn’t really hungry enough to have a whole meal (mostly I wanted to get back to my research), so I took an unused plate off the table and got some brisket-looking thing that I was pretty sure was venison from the taste, and some of the juiciest fruit I’d ever seen. Then I found a comfortable place to sit and listen to the story.

I have to be honest, I don’t actually remember what it was about. I tried to pay attention, I really did, but Thor is just not very good at telling stories. Not long ones, anyway; he can get across important information very quickly and effectively when he wants to. But a full narrative, with a three-act structure? Really not his strong suit. The only real impression I have of that first night hearing him talk about rescuing some girl from something or other was coming to the conclusion that he should never, ever be permitted to see a Michael Bay movie.

Apparently, though, the rest of the court disagreed. They took his confused ordering of events and the excision of any explanation of why people were doing what they were doing in their stride. I guess Thor had been telling them about his adventures so long in his rambling style that they were used to it. Rank hath its privileges, after all.

“... until, in the end, he was forced to concede to the better man,” the thunderer said, beaming at his audience, who laughed and clapped with wide smiles of their own.

Sonofabitch. XD He just paused for applause in a story about himself.

“The better showboater, definitely,” I said under my breath.

“So good to see you enjoying tonight’s entertainment.”

I turned so fast it’s a wonder I didn’t give myself whiplash.

I don’t have to tell you who it was.

“Let’s just say,” I said slowly, forcing myself not to stumble over my words, grinning like the big stupid idiot I am and praying he would mistake it for a smirk, “I would be very interested to hear you tell this story.”

Goddamnit, how is he handsomer in person? This is exceptionally unfair.

Loki’s eyes (so blue, holy crap, how did anyone who saw the movies come to the conclusion they were green?) flicked over to his brother. “There are fewer decapitations in my version, I must admit.”

“Well, that’s lucky,” I said. “For a minute there I was wondering if Alfheim had any ogres left to behead.”

He laughed, and my brain did a little victory dance for a moment or two before I realized he was saying something else.

“... tells me you are not of Midgard, despite your human look.”

... hey, I didn’t even think of that. I’m an extradimensional alien! That’s so cool.

I shrugged. “Not as you know it. I mean, I’m from a Midgard, it’s just... mine’s a few universes over, I think. If I knew any more details than that I’d tell you, but I didn’t so much travel here of my own accord as I did... flail wildly through the Blind Eternities and try not to drive off the road.” I realized I was babbling, and shut up.

“You give yourself too little credit,” he said, and there was something else in his voice now, a strange sort of curiosity. “The path you took to get here has never before been opened; that you arrived in one piece on your first such journey speaks well of your instincts.”

“... thank you,” I murmured, as whatever hope I had of making it through this conversation with my dignity intact decided to step out for a smoke; I knew he was probably full of shit and trying to get some information out of me that I didn’t have, but I was so far beyond caring you have no idea. I didn’t know if I was blushing or not, but I was pretty sure I was about to go monosyllabic.

Then, with a start, I realized something.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” I said, wincing. At his perplexed look, I continued in a lower voice: “That door’s unusable now, isn’t it? Now everyone knows it’s there. Shit!” I frowned. “That would have been a really convenient location, too. I’m sorry.”

“Yes... you mentioned that,” he said, staring at me like I’d started shoving grapes up my nose.

“Arrgh!” I rested my hand over my eyes for a second, and tried to wipe the idiocy out of them as I got to my feet. “Sorry, that was a stupid thing to bring up – terrible timing – can we start over?” I finished, slightly desperately.

“Are you always this nervous meeting new people?” he asked, faintly amused. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, though; I could tell he was still stuck on my knowledge of his little inter-planetary constitutionals. I wondered for a moment what exactly his mother had told him about me.

“Yes,” I replied with a sigh. “But I don’t usually babble when I am. I guess you’re just special.”

“Well, one certainly doesn’t encounter a Prince of Asgard every day,” he said teasingly, and I was greatly heartened by how little preening there was to his delivery. Obviously there was going to be a fair bit, Loki being Loki, but there was less than I expected.

“You’ve got that right,” I replied, grinning.

This is nice, I thought, hope peeking out from behind cover. Maybe we can actually be friends.

He cocked his head to the side. “Then again, I suppose it’s not every day one meets a woman named ‘Magda Quickfinger’. Should I offer condolences, or a list of alternatives?”

I groaned, and outright facepalmed. “The state my nerves were in, I’m lucky I didn’t try to tell them I was you.”

I could hear him smiling at me. “They’d have known you were a fraud the moment you started apologizing.”

I lifted my head back out of my hand, curious. “Do you really have a list of alternatives?”

“Alas, no,” he said – and for the first time in my entire life, a twenty-something guy saying that sounded completely natural.

Real-Loki would have had a list of alternatives, a part of me thought sulkily. Some of them would have been way bawdier.

“What I do have are some questions for you,” he continued in the same warm tone. “primarily concerning your-”

“This is certainly cause for celebration,” Thor said, making me twitch slightly. It was like Jurassic Park with that damn t-rex; he was just there, no blur in my peripheral vision or anything. “I rarely see you so animated in conversation, brother!” And he clapped Loki on the shoulder. The Liesmith either sighed or had the wind partly knocked out of him, one or the other.

Oh god. He’s trying to pull wingman duty. You poor sweet dork.

I wasn’t sure which of them I meant by that last.

“And who is this?” the man-mountain inquired, smiling at me. And despite all my good sense telling me it was the wrong move to make in front of Loki, I was unable to keep myself from smiling back.

Seriously, you know how sometimes you hear people talk about how Bill Clinton has this knack of making the other person in the conversation feel like they’re the most important person in the room? Thor has it, too. When he looks at you, it’s like the sun coming out. It’s no longer much of a surprise to me that Odin thought he was ready to be crowned; that’s the kind of skill that covers up a multitude of faults – especially in your kid, I’ll bet.

So, yeah, I smiled. What I didn’t do was introduce myself. There’s charisma, and then there’s the ability to magically make me forget my social anxiety, and Thor, bless him, does not possess that particular talent. Instead, I looked back at Loki.

He blinked at me, and for a second I thought I’d screwed up somehow. That’s correct etiquette, right? A higher-ranked person introduces a lower-ranked person to another high-ranker?

Then the moment was over.

“This is Magda Quickfinger, brother,” he said finally. “Magda, my brother, Prince Thor.”

“Delighted to meet you,” I said, with a kind of nod-bow thing I’d seen hotel staff give important visitors.

Huh, plain Magda. Does that mean he’s made up his mind to accept me as a student? Or just that he’s not playing ball with the whole let’s-give-the-little-half-monkeys-courtesy-titles thing?

Thor returned my nod. “How do you do, Lady Magda?”

“She’s to be my student in the mystic arts,” Loki added, and I almost laughed out loud. He sounded like my younger sister calling dibs on leftover pizza.

Well, pizza is a good start. Everyone likes pizza.

“Truly?” Thor asked, and when he looked at me again he was obviously sizing me up. Then he let out a laugh and slapped me on the back – though thankfully he took it easier on me than he did on Loki. “Congratulations, my lady – there is no finer sorceror in all Asgard than my brother.” He leaned over and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t let him keep you cooped up indoors studying all the time – Loki is not merely a scholar, but a fine warrior as well. Ask him about his part in our recent adventure.” And he gave his brother a prompting look that he probably thought was subtle.

... d’awww. And also ouch. Way to indavertently give the impression you don’t think your bro’s capable of getting laid without assistance, dude.

Loki was saved from having to think of an answer that didn’t include the phrase ‘we survived, despite my brother’s best efforts’ by the arrival of Frigga, who looked absolutely flawless. If she weren’t already married I bet every woman in the room would have hated her.

“Mother!” Thor called delightedly, and abandoned the pair of us like last year’s Christmas presents.

“Well, that happened,” I said.

Loki cast a sidelong glance my way. “You have never had a moment’s magical training in your life.”

“Nope,” I said with a sigh. I didn’t see any reason to lie to the guy; enough people were doing that already, in my estimation. “Inasmuch as I have training in anything, I’m a failed bard.”

He let out a sigh of his own, an impatient one, and I could tell we were wondering the same thing: What exactly is Frigga planning?

“Do you know any magic at all?” he asked finally.

I gave my new teacher a slightly pinched smile. “... I can make people like me enough that they forgive me when they probably shouldn’t. Does that count?”

He stared at me for a moment. Then, letting out a small puff of air that could have been a laugh or a scoff, he shook his head.

“No. But it’s a useful skill to have nonetheless.” He smiled, and if I hadn’t been looking for it I wouldn’t have noticed the calculating gleam that immediately set my heart racing.

We’re in business~!

We’re a minion, my self-respect said flatly.

We’re a von Zinzer, I concluded diplomatically.

“Your first lesson will begin tomorrow at noon, in the southwest library,” was the last thing he said before striding off to have a word with his mother.

“See you then, sensei!” I called after him, causing a few heads to turn in my direction, and a few mouths to titter discreetly.

Wow. Laughing at a wizard, right in front of him. Lotta people eager to find anthills in their beds tonight, I see.

Humming the Harry Potter theme quietly to myself, I was about to dig into the strawberries on my plate when I realized something that brought me to a halt, the first piece of fruit halfway to my lips.

... wait... southwest...?

A manic smile crept across my face, and I had to force myself not to cackle.

How many libraries are there?