Tara stares at the cottage. The slate roof is in good repair, and ivy is crawling up the sides. The yard is a mess of wildflowers, nearly hip high. There is a path of slate tiles on the ground just barely visible in the encroaching vegetation.

“Is this … Loki’s house?” she asks, remembering their original destination.

“Yes,” says Lionel, standing beside her.

“It’s not what I expected,” she says. “I expected it to be more …” She finds herself switching to English. “... supervillainy.”

He doesn’t call it gibberish. Ever since she told him her plans to leave, he’s seemed on edge. He isn’t meeting her gaze, and his motions have been sharp and abrupt.

It’s because of her. You’ll die, were his first words, not, you’re crazy or you’re an idiot. She feels crazy, like an idiot, and sick to her stomach as well—at the thought of leaving him, but also at the thought of staying. Odin’s oath, and the threat to Earth … both of those are too much to ignore.

“This isn’t what I expected, either,” Lionel says, staring down the overgrown path. “But there have to be World Gates here.”

Tara gulps. “Will helping me get you in trouble? I could take the basket and you know … disappear into the forest with it. Cyo said there are unicorns around. Maybe I could convince one to take me home?” She’s heard that virgin thing is a myth.

Lionel turns to her, nostrils flared slightly. “They’d gore you to death.”

Or maybe it isn’t.

Setting down the basket with a clink of porcelain, he pulls out a sort of pastry. It’s shaped like a cheap pie you get in rest stops, but from disappointing experience, Tara knows is filled with meat and vegetables. Taking a bite, he surveys the house, cottage, whatever, and says, “I expected it to be more … magical.”

Tara starts down the path, but Lionel says, “Wait! There could be traps.”

Tara waits. He finishes the pie, and then picks up another one. At her curious glance, he says, “Magic takes energy, and I have to be prepared.”

He eats another two with hardly a word. The silent minutes seem to emphasize the distance between them. Tara wants to say something that will make it better … but it’s impossible. She’s leaving, forever. That is the end of their story. Ever after, just not happily. Finally, Lionel heads toward the cottage and tests the doorknob. “It’s not magicked … or locked.”

“Nobody steals from a supervillain,” Tara muses. He doesn’t ask what she means, and her heart feels heavy.

They both step into a foyer. Directly ahead is a hallway that leads to what looks like an old-fashioned kitchen, complete with a wood burning stove. There is also a staircase going to the floor above. To the right is what is probably a living room, and to the left is probably a dining room, judging by the shapes of the sheets covering furniture to both sides.

“I feel …” Lionel heads into the living room. A moment later he starts snapping off the armor on his torso. He sets it carefully upon a maybe-coffee table, and lies down on the floor in front of what looks like a chair. He rolls onto his back and ghosts his fingers along the bottom, eyes closed.

He looked good in the armor, but the shirt-tunic thing he wears falls over his body in a way that she can almost taste the muscles of his arms and shoulders just by looking. He’s not bulky, just long and lean in the best possible way.

Lionel casually draws one leg up so it’s bent at the knee, and Tara’s eyes roam down the front seam of the tunic, over the flat planes of his stomach to—

She spins around. Would she really sell her soul for a good body and a handsome face? She swallows the lump in her throat. That’s not all Lionel is, though. He’s smart, funny, and curious when he’s not being angry and aloof. The sparks between them, they’re more than for his body now … she’d been attracted to him before, when he’d been shorter than her, and she’s pretty sure he’d been attracted to her, too.

Closing her eyes, Tara takes a deep breath. She feels like she’s being tempted by the devil. Spying through one eye, she surveys Loki’s foyer. She’s probably in the devil’s house. It’s homier than she would have thought.

From the living room comes the rip of cloth, and Tara’s tongue darts across her lips. Please let that be his shirt … She stamps her foot, irritated with herself.

“It’s not a gate,” Lionel says.

Turning back to him, she finds him holding two sheathed knives in his hands. The sheaths are attached to slender black straps. Sitting up, he examines them. “I recognize the spell on these. They’ll explode on impact if you want them to.”

Slipping one out of its sheath, he turns it around in his hand. “Dwarven made, perfectly balanced.”

Forcing herself to look at the blade and not Lionel, Tara notices it is perfectly symmetrical, and she’d guess that it’s steel, small, and to her eyes, very sharp.

Lionel tosses it in the air, and Tara gasps in horror as his hand whips out. Lionel catches it by the handle and looks at her with wide eyes, like she’s just caught him taking the last cookie out of the jar. His cheeks flush. “Peasant elves aren’t allowed swords or spears … only bows and knives. Sometimes on the border, things would come out of the Dark Lands. So, I am … ah …”

Remembering how the elves had seemed to feel disdain for his physical prowess, Tara says, “I was surprised … not disgusted.”

Lionel’s shoulders relax. “No proper steward would know how to do that, I suppose.” Dropping his voice to a whisper, he adds, “Or know how to enchant a knife to be explosive.”

Sliding the blade into its sheath, he rolls up his sleeve and fastens the straps to his arm. “You never know where you’ll emerge from a World Gate.”

He hands her the other sheathed blade. “Here, for you.”

Tara tilts her head. She takes the knife, but the straps on the clasp are like nothing she’s seen before, and she fumbles trying to put it on.

“May I?” Lionel asks.

Tara nods and holds out her arm. Lionel’s fingers trail over her skin, tighten the straps, and then he doesn’t pull away.

“Tara.” He exhales, and she can feel his breath on her forehead.

Tara keeps her eyes downcast, knowing that if she looks up, she’ll kiss him again … and more. Summoning all her willpower, she pulls her wrist to her stomach. “Thank you,” she whispers. Her eyes prickle with tears that don’t fall.

Lionel stands and leaves the room, floorboards creaking under too-heavy footfalls. She closes her eyes, relieved and heartbroken.

Climbing to her feet, she follows him into the kitchen. There are pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and some cooking knives in a wooden block. Lionel opens a drawer and pulls out another knife. It has a sheath, but no harness. He attaches it to the harness on his forearm without looking at her. “Don’t touch the small frying pan,” he says, “or the small paring knife. Both will explode at your touch.” With that, he leaves the room without a backward glance. Tara is left feeling adrift and cut off.

This is what you wanted, she tells herself.

But that’s not exactly true. She hears Lionel thumping around upstairs, and then he comes back down again, muttering, “No gates. I thought his home would be filled with them.” A few minutes later, she hears him in the dining room. “The magic in here feels … different … and strong. This could be it.”

Tara leaves the kitchen and finds him moments later in the second room off the foyer. He’s pulled sheets off the walls, revealing built-in bookshelves that stretch floor to ceiling. At the back of the room is a pair of double doors. Lionel is holding his hands in front of the doorway. “Nothing dangerous …” he murmurs. He puts his hands on the doorknobs, rattling the doors in the frame, but it they don’t budge. “Locked.”

Tara studies the doorframe and feels her stomach sink. She doesn’t really want this to be the way home. Nodding to herself, biting her lip, she reminds herself of the stakes and admits softly, “I know how to open it.”

Frowning, Lionel takes a step back and inclines his head to the door.

Tara grabs the knobs and slides the doors to either side. “It’s a pocket door,” she says. “I used to fix houses with my dad so …”

Lionel’s already plunging ahead into the room. “It’s not Loki’s magic in here … it’s …” He looks up at the ceiling and coughs, making dust swirl in the air.

“The room must have been closed up longer,” Tara says, fanning her face. There’s a chandelier made of whimsical crystal butterflies, and as Tara enters, they begin to glow. She surveys the room. It’s different from the rest of the house. It’s dustier, and the furniture isn’t covered. In one corner, there is a wicker wheelchair. There’s also a bed, a bookshelf that only goes to her hip—perfect for someone who is in a wheelchair—and hanging on the wall above it are painted pictures, each about the size of a small notebook. The subjects move in the frames—they’re very Harry Potteresque. A few are of flowers—or trees—blowing in the breeze. There’s one of a unicorn inquisitively poking its nose forward as though to nuzzle the painter. A few others are portraits, lovingly done. There is one of a woman with impossibly pale skin, blue eyes, and long black hair. Her beauty is not like an elf; her features are more … pronounced, human … but so perfect. As Tara approaches, the portrait woman’s eyes slide to the picture beside her. It is of a man with strawberry blonde hair and pale skin, and blue-grey eyes. He’s laughing, and in his arms is a little girl who looks to be about seven in human years. One side of her body is thin and pale with a light blue eye and light hair. The arm and leg on that side are twisted at awkward angles. The other side of her is glowing robin’s egg blue. Her hair and eye on that side are midnight black. She’s smiling in the picture. The portrait man holding her in his arms blows a raspberry and they both look to the picture farthest to the right. In that picture, the half-blue girl is sitting in the wheelchair. A giant wolf with adoring eyes has its head in her lap. Beside her, holding her blue hand is a woman with blonde hair, brilliant dark blue eyes that are nearly violet, and skin that is just a few shades lighter than Tara’s. Around them, two little blonde-headed boys are running, chased by the red-headed man.

“It’s her magic,” Lionel says. “The little girl’s. My queen—the Light Elf Queen—said Loki’s daughter was too strong.”

Tara’s eyes look to the center picture. The red-headed man is tenderly kissing the tiny little girl’s head now. “That isn’t Loki,” Tara says. “It can’t be.” The little girl isn’t strong, she’s fragile, and the man is too kind to be the being who brought skyscrapers to the ground on a whim.

“It is,” says Lionel. “That is Helen. Humans know her as Hel. Her magic—”

Tara has to turn away. She finds herself only inches from Lionel. Her eyes lift to his face. It hurts to look at him, to know she’ll have to leave him, but she can’t look away. She has to drink him up with her eyes, because she may never get another sip.

His gaze searches hers just as desperately. He loves her. Tara knows it with all certainty, with every fiber of her being … and also that he doesn’t want her to leave and he’s hiding something. But that makes no sense. “You could charm me into staying,” she whispers, the words out of her mouth before she’s thought of them.

“No.” Lionel huffs the word in a growl. Tara swears she can feel anger rolling off him. “I never want to see the light of you leave your eyes again.”

And she knows it’s true, all the way down to her bones.

Lionel’s eyes dart side to side. “Her magic is still here … we need to leave this room.”

Putting a hand through his hair, he goes out to the dining room.

Tara’s fingers curl into her skirts. He is hiding something.

Peering out the window in the other room, he says, “It’s mid-afternoon. We have to find a World Gate soon …” Surveying the bookshelves, he says, “Loki knew of all sorts of World Gates. He would know of any hidden ones from Asgard to Alfheim, Svartalfheim, Vanaheim, Jotunheim, and Muspelheim. One of these books must have a map.”

Her skin prickles. “… and Earth?”

Lionel looks back to her. “Of course. Come,” he says, beckoning with a hand. “Help me look.”

Tara leaves the room. As soon as she steps out, Lionel strides over and slams the doors closed.

She shivers again, although the room is warm.

Lionel almost drops the book as he pulls it from the shelf. Tara had almost seen through his plan to stall. Opening the book, Lionel can’t help glancing at the closed doors to Hel’s room with foreboding. The room’s magic had been dangerous. It had been truth.

For a moment, he’d seen Tara’s heart, and was certain that she loved him as much as even a soulmate could … although he’d been taught that was impossible for humans. It makes her desire to leave so much more frustrating—how do you throw away that sort of feeling on a technicality? He just needs to give her time to see she is being ridiculous. She can be free here.

He turns his attention back to the book, barely suppressing a grunt of irritation, and then his eyes are caught by the inside cover. It’s stamped with the seal of the All Father, and beneath his seal are a few ancient symbols stating that it is under no circumstances to leave Odin’s personal library. Lionel almost snorts. Loki was a well-known book thief. Rifling through the pages, his eyes are caught by the words, Oaths of the Einherjar have changed over time, and can’t help skimming the text.

“This book has a map!” Tara cries, startling him from his reading. They’d divided up the library, hunting for a map of Asgard’s hidden World Gates. Tara is seated on the floor, a stack of books beside her, one clutched in her lap.

Lucky book.

Tara flips to the front cover. “What is this book? The map looks oddly familiar.”

Putting his own book back on the shelf, Lionel strides over and sits on his heels behind her. Her shorter hair shows off the length of her neck. It’s an effort not to trace it with a finger, or his lips.

“I can’t read the title—it looks vaguely Elvish,” she murmurs.

Focusing on the text, Lionel says, “It’s Old Elvish.”

Eyes wide and enthralled, she whispers, “… oh, there’s an inscription in Asgardian.” She reads aloud. “Anganboða, I happened to stumble across The Book of Three in my journeys. You mentioned wanting to read it for yourself. Yours ever, Loki.”

Tara lifts her head and turns to Lionel. “Anganboða … that translates to Joy Bringer … but the queen called her Angrboða … Sorrow Bringer.”

Lionel leans toward her and he hears her swallow. Turning away, she flips through the pages. “Here is the map,” she says in a breathy voice.

Lionel studies it. “That map is not of Asgard. It won’t show us World Gates to get you out of here.”

He doesn’t know if he’s sorry it doesn’t show a route to Vanaheim, Svartálfaheim, or Jotunheim, or if he is relieved it doesn’t show an easy route to Earth. His eyes slip along her profile. If he sits here much longer, he’ll kiss her. Standing quickly, he goes to the bookcase, pulls out a book, opens it without paying attention, and instantly regrets it.

Sparkling dust explodes from the book and Lionel begins sneezing.

“What’s wrong?” Tara cries.

Sleeve covering his face, he gasps out between sneezes, “Spell … in … book.” He can’t get the tickle out of his nose, or even stand up straight. Tears fall from his eyes. It’s all very unelvish.

He’s struck by a gust of cool air. Lionel sniffs, straightens, and sees that Tara has opened the window. The sparkling dust is streaming from the room.

“Why put sneezes in a book?” Tara murmurs, and then laughs. “What am I asking? Loki is the God of Mischief. Are you all right?”

Lionel can’t answer. He’ll sneeze again. Instead, he walks over to the window and takes a few deep, careful breaths, his cheeks hot with embarrassment.

Tara leans on the windowsill beside him. He can feel the press of her skirts, even if his vision is still blurry. “It’s pretty,” Tara says.

Wiping his eyes, he sees a meadow filled with wildflowers. The forest is encroaching on three sides, but it is held at bay by a crumbling stone wall. From between the wall’s stones, small flowers spring. At the far end, there is a rickety wooden gate.

“It is picturesque,” he says. He almost turns away, but then hears Thor roar, “I’ll get you yet, you rat!” followed by a shriek of squirrellish laughter. The grass and wildflowers move as though a very small creature is running through them. Storm clouds form above.

At the furthest end of the meadow, a small squirrel jumps atop the wall, just beside the gate. “Kiss my tail, God of Blunder!” shrieks Ratatoskr. He rears on his hind legs and begins shaking his hindquarters in Tara’s and Lionel’s direction.

“I did not know squirrels could twerk,” Tara says with a giggle.

“Gibber—” Lionel’s comment is interrupted by a roar so deep and fierce that the window panes rattle. Thor comes charging out of the forest waving his hammer, his back to Lionel and Tara. He throws the weapon. Sparks fly. Cackling, Ratatoskr leaps from the wall to the top of the ancient wooden gate. Lionel feels the heat of magic on his face, the surge that can only be from a World Gate opening, and then Ratatoskr vanishes. Thor’s hammer loops from the top of the wall and back to Thor, smashing the ancient physical gate as it does. Roaring in anger, hammer back in his hands, Thor runs over to the remains of the wooden gate and begins pounding it into splinters.

Tara draws back. “Lionel, there was a gate there, wasn’t there? I mean, a World Gate. Is he destroying it?”

“Yes, there is a World Gate there,” Lionel says. “But Thor cannot destroy it. Only Loki—and maybe Odin—can do that.” He shuts the window, not wanting to hear any more of Thor’s grunting and cursing.

He turns around, and finds Tara meeting his gaze. Very softly, she says, “Then maybe you can take me through it? Even if it is not home …”

Lionel swallows. “Ratatoskr is a servant of the Norns. That gate must go to Nornheim.”

Tara lifts her chin. “It’s getting late, Lionel.”

Lionel’s eyes slide to the window. She is right.

“I’d rather go to Nornheim than take the oath,” Tara declares, and Lionel wonders if it is human to make brave, yet hasty decisions, on the spur of the moment without knowing the full consequences.

“No, Tara,” Lionel says, holding up his hands. “Any other realm, but in Nornheim, there are spiders and adze—”

“Adze?” says Tara.

Lionel tries to find an equivalent. “Zombies …”

Her mouth falls open.

“… with wings,” he finishes.

Her face crumples and her nails bite into her palms. “That’s my choice? Slavery or becoming a zombie?” Her lips curl. “I’ll take zombies then. At least I could fight!”

“We still have time, Tara,” Lionel says. “We just have to keep looking.” He turns to the side, but she puts her hand on his arm. His eyes slide from her fingers, to her hand, and up her arm. He finds her eyes on his.

“Promise me, you’ll send me to Nornheim, if it comes to that.” Her eyes are wide, imploring. “Just push me through,” she says, and this time her chin trembles.

Tired of resisting, he steps forward and cups her face in his hand. “Never,” he whispers. “If you go, I will go, Tara.”

She blinks, and her eyes sparkle. “Cellmates to the end,” she whispers so softly that he thinks he might have missed the words if his ears weren’t pointed.

Lionel tilts his head.

Clutching his hand, she looks down and stammers, “It’s a play on ‘soulmates’ … I… just …”

“I like it,” he says, stroking the other side of her face. She catches his hand, and he kisses her. Her lips answer, and for a moment he is spinning. Without the armor he can feel the press of her soft curves against him. It hurts to pull away, but the pounding of Thor’s hammer keeps him from forgetting himself.

Pulling away, he says, “We have to keep looking for a map.”

She nods, backs away, and then says, “Did Loki have a sword?”

“Yes, but I didn’t see—” Lionel starts to say.

Heading toward the foyer, Tara interrupts him. “I want a sword if I’m fighting zombies.”

“We’ll find another way!” Lionel protests.

But she only mutters some gibberish about “Michonne” under her breath.

“Tara!” Lionel says. “There could be—”

She stops abruptly in the foyer and looks up, her face bathed in an eerie red light.

“—other traps,” Lionel says.

He hastens to her and finds the magic light globe at the entrance flashing red. “Why is it doing that?” Tara asks.

“I don’t know,” Lionel responds.

“Could it be some sort of alarm system?” Tara suggests.

Lionel’s heart falls. “Knowing how many enemies Loki had … that would be very likely.” He puts his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t let me fall over.”

She clasps his fingers and nods. For an instant, Lionel marvels. She doesn’t protest that he is about to use magic like an Asgardian, or that he might be attempting magic above his station as an elf might. Tucking the observation away, he closes his eyes and lets apparitions fly. He sees a blur upon the Lake Trail and feels familiar magic. A moment later, the blur solidifies just outside. It is who he expects, but he is oddly not riding Sleipnir, his preferred eight-legged steed. Lionel does recognize the four-legged horse though—it belongs to Gna, one of Frigga’s handmaidens, and is capable of running over water, just like Sleipnir, but not quite as fast.

Lionel opens his eyes. Outside the cottage, he hears the man say, “Whoa, Hófvarpnir.”

Tara gasps. “Is that—?”

Lionel gulps. The door bangs open, and they both jump at the man standing just outside.

“Odin,” Tara says.

The All Father tips his head to Tara. “Yes, Ms. Gibson. I’ve come to take your oath.”