Loki's Kitten

Chapter 12: Prince of Asgard

The relaxed atmosphere of the bar is suddenly disrupted by a commotion near the back entrance. The doors slam against the walls as they are thrown open, and a dark figure sweeps into the room, uttering menacingly, "Get out of my way!"

People move and stumble to let the figure past as he strides purposefully towards the bar. On reaching the counter, he stretches out one long arm, grasping the barman around his neck by the collar and pulling him across the top of the bar. The figure hisses in his ear. Words seemingly spat out of either hatred or anger. When the terrified attendant is finally released, he scuttles off into the back room. The figure turns lazily, leaning both elbows on the bar and scanning the room. You knew. You knew by the heavy cloak, the leather boots, the raven black hair, who this was. But when he turns, you do not recognise his face. His eyes, wide with power, penetrating the room; his expression, a leer of pleasure at his own audacity. It is Loki. But it not the Loki that left you earlier in the evening. You heart skips a beat. What has happened to him? Why is he so changed? Is this the Loki that the rest of the Universe sees when he is not with you?

You raise your hand to your eyebrows, covering your face and turning your head towards the wall. You are acutely aware that Loki had expected you to stay at home. He certainly does not look in any mood to find out that you have come out into the city alone, without him. He stalks towards the table to your right, slamming both palms down on the surface.

"Move," he commands darkly. The impact of his instructions is immediate and the three occupants of the table leave instantly, without hesitation, rushing to the door. He spins a chair and sits, swinging his feet up to land, crossed, on the tabletop with a thump. There are two older females sitting at the adjacent table and one furrows her brow, tutting at the display. Loki fixes his eyes on hers and raises from his chair. He bows pretentiously, grasping her unwilling hand.

"Madam," he says silkily, grinning, "do forgive any offence I have caused." She is trying to pull away, but his grip is firm and he will not relinquish her hand. "Am I to understand that you had rather I had joined you at your table?" he pulls her closer, delighted by her squirming and discomfort. Finally, she frees her hand, letting out a shrill scream of disgust and scuttling out of the door. Loki starts to snigger to himself then laughs openly, raucously, as he seats himself again, settling his feet back on the table. Many others have left that bar by this stage, clearly alarmed by the antics of the lunatic in their midst, but you dare not move. You are too near to him. If you draw any attention to yourself, he will see you. And then what?

At this point, the well-dressed male you saw Loki speaking with yesterday emerges from behind the bar, bringing a bottle and two glasses to Loki's table. He sits; measured in his movements but clearly confident to deal with his unruly client. He pours a drink for Loki and himself then speaks quickly and urgently in an undertone with Loki. After a brief conversation, the drinks are downed and the well-dressed individual returns from whence he came. Loki is left looking more at ease, with the bottle and his glass, which he refills. This is now dangerous. The bar is becoming rather sparsely populated and Loki is idly glancing around him as he drinks. Just as you think it might be worth trying to make an escape, his eye settles on you. You are not looking at him, but you know. You stare into your lap, pretending to attend to a broken nail, a twisted ring, anything that will keep your gaze low. You sense him rise; hear his heavy footsteps as he crosses the few paces to your table; feel the weight of his shadow cast over you.

"May I?" he enquires. You dare to glance upwards and see him holding the bottle and glasses, indicating to the seat opposite you. His face is set into a charming smile and his eyes seem to undress you. This comes as a total shock. What had you imagined? Disappointment? Anger? A reprimand? You gawp for a moment, unsure how to respond. Surely, he has recognised you. And he has chosen this approach. So... he is playing? Teasing? This rings of top-level Loki mischief that you are not sure you can match.