2

Present day

Six years. Over six years, actually, since I’d first met Heimdal. I couldn’t have told you the exact span of time—I never learned how to convert Alfheim’s or Asgard’s dates to those of Midgard, where I now lived. But on days like this one, in the season peculiar to Midgard that lay between Alfheim’s summer and Asgard’s winter, I thought about him.

Far more than I liked, I thought about him.

I was the only employee working Cox Lake Resort’s rental office—which was not unusual. Like many of the resorts surrounding the plethora of lakes that filled central North Dakota, this one was a small mom-and-pop operation. Most of the fishermen and occasional families who stayed here registered over the weekend and settled in for a week-long stay. Today was a Wednesday, so at least the office wouldn’t be busy.

Delicate sunlight streamed through the east-facing windows of the log-constructed building which housed the rental office. I stood with my back to the light, letting it stream through the strands of blonde hair hanging in my face. With my mug of morning coffee clutched in both hands, I propped my butt against the registration counter behind me.

There were no customers at the moment. In a few minutes, I’d wander through the open doorway between the office and the tiny general store that took up the other half of the building, to see if Claire needed help restocking anything. Coffee and chewing gum, most likely. The folks who frequented the Cox Lake Resort tended to be self-reliant sorts, for the most part. No touristy-types on the books this week.

In a minute, I’d do that. For now, homesickness powerful enough to be real pain twanged behind my eyes. Longing as thick as nausea gripped my throat.

Breathe, Iris. Just breathe.

Which I was more homesick for, Heimdal or my home world, was up for grabs. I had nightmares sometimes still, filled with pillars of blood red flame and choking black smoke. And I shouldn’t, quite honestly, miss Heimdal at all. I should be furious, glad he was gone, cursing his very existence.

But some days, holding onto that anger was just too much effort. Some days, I just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been.

I could at least be grateful for the comfy jeans and simple blue t-shirt I wore. Not every place I’d worked over the last six years had such a relaxed dress code. Moments like this, relaxed was a good thing.

Mid-September, the air outside was cool but not cold. I’d already cracked open a window, so fresh air wafted into the office. I focused on following my every inhalation, clear air flowing into my lungs and then back out again. Breathe. Feel the rise and fall of my stomach.

Curse the gods who did this to me.

What I really wanted was to be home. Home would make all the pain go away. Even just the ability to go home would cure everything.

The pain in my head twanged, and I backed away from that line of thinking. I’d wasted enough years on self-pity and futile wishing. Going home? That wasn’t happening.

The next best thing for distracting myself from homesickness was painting, but I couldn’t do that here and now. Third best thing, then.

An over-sized frame window filled the office’s west wall—scenic views were a thing you couldn’t get away from out here. Sunlight glittered on the furthest reaches of the lake, visible between the trees that flanked the lake—a motley crowd of elms and aspen, with a sprinkling of poplars and birches closer to the water’s edge. I imagined a brush in my hands—I’d load it with burnt sienna.

I could smell the trees, an earthy sharp scent that filled my senses and distracted from other thoughts.

A glaze to create the deep shadows. A heavier-bodied mix with yellow ochre, then, and denser brush strokes. I leaned forward, as if into the scene I was painting in my head. Next would come crimson. Vermillion. A bittersweet autumn breeze tickled my nose, the scent of summer life bowing before winter’s impending death.

A warmth blossomed behind my eyes and seeped through my forehead and along my scalp. As often happened, the comfort I took in painting felt nearly like a tangible thing.

A bell chimed. For a moment, forgetting myself, I ignored it.

“Hey?”

The bell repeated itself. A split second later, I recognized it.

I shoved away from the rental counter and spun around.

A fisherman stood on the other side of the counter, beside the “ring for service” sign. He held one big hand poised over the call bell sitting beneath the sign. He was an older guy, salt and pepper peeking from beneath a crumpled and stained cap.

“Either of you gals working today?” His equally crumpled and stained flannel shirt shifted as he lowered the bell-ringing hand. His mouth crooked into a lazy grin.

“Mr. Davis. I’m so sorry.” I took a step back from the counter and pasted a polite smile onto my face.

Rick Davis waved away the apology. With his other hand, he hefted a familiar red can. It wafted the warm-rich scent of coffee.

“It happens. Not a worry. You ring this up for me, sweetheart? Ain’t nobody next door.”

Nobody next door?

I frowned. Irresponsibility wasn’t a new thing for Claire, the girl who was supposed to watch the general store. Two days ago, Claire flat out hadn’t shown up for work at all. I had juggled both the rental office and the store, not so much to cover for Claire but because our boss, Maureen, had enough on her hands without worrying about her employees.

Before that day, Claire hadn’t ever done anything quite that extreme. She’d been getting progressively worse. But I was positive she’d come in this morning. I’d seen her battered green van.

Mr. Davis lifted the coffee can a little higher and raised his eyebrows.

I pasted on my practiced smile-for-customers again. “Of course I can. Step back into the store. I’ll be right over.”

My hiking boots beat a lighter patter between the man’s heavier footsteps as I followed him across the plank floor and through the open doorway.

The store’s lights were on. I glanced into the surveillance mirror in the back corner of the ceiling, but no one stood between the half dozen aisles of shelving that comprised the Cox Lake Resort General Store.

“Claire?” I called out as I rounded the short counter. I reached for Mr. Davis’s coffee with one hand and toward the register with my other.

No answer.

I didn’t call out again. I rang up Mr. Davis’s coffee, made change for him, and saw him off with the “have a nice day now” version of my practiced polite smile.

Polite was fine. Genuinely friendly, I rarely had the heart for. Genuine emotions led to genuine relationships, and those only ever led to pain.

Through the store’s front window, I could see the gravel parking lot. Claire’s van sat at the far end, beside my Jeep. Claire was definitely here, then. Somewhere.

The register drawer jingled as I shut it. I headed for the storeroom beyond the store’s main aisles, cutting between shelves of packaged snacks and the beer cooler.

The storeroom door was closed, but a sound came from the other side.

I hesitated. I didn’t know Claire well, but I knew enough about her lifestyle to extrapolate a lot of potential scenarios.

If I catch her back there smoking or snorting something, I’ll have to report her to Maureen.

If the Alfar had laid any claim to fame—beyond that of our ability to open bridges between worlds—it was for a compassion that went above and beyond that of most other races. My people had long been the negotiators, the peace-makers, the creators of truces between worlds. As I had been frequently reminded, my penchant for landing waist deep in the troubles of other people was likely a genetic thing.

On Asgard, that had led to nothing good. And Claire’s insistence on walking at the fringe of legality was not something I wanted to get in the middle of.

But I was here now. I had to do something. If nothing, else, I needed to be sure Claire was on duty so I could scamper back to the relatively safe haven of the rental office.

With a resigned sigh, I knocked, one light rap on the scarred surface of the door. “Claire?”

“Iris? I’m OK.” Claire’s voice wavered. She didn’t sound high.

She sounded like she was crying.

I wasn’t sure which would be worse. I glanced longingly toward the doorway leading back to my little realm of rental counter and paperwork. And then toward the unmanned store register.

Here now. Do something.

Damn it anyhow.

I pushed open the storeroom door.