Chapter 158:
– Haru –
By the time I stepped back through the Fox Hole's door and into Kyoto, I had learned two important things.
First, Naruto could hit considerably harder than he had any right to.
Second, proposing marriage to two Uzumaki women at the same time was apparently interpreted as consent to be kept awake for the next two nights.
Naruko and Kushina had been very happy. Enthusiastically happy. Aggressively happy.
The kind of happy that left a True Demon Lord with ten tails, nearly limitless stamina, and regenerative abilities considering whether crawling home counted as a dignified mode of transportation.
Not that I regretted it.
Even remotely.
The image of Naruko staring down at the weapon and armor I'd commissioned for her, eyes wide, lips parted, all nine crimson tails standing rigid behind her, had been worth every broken bed slat that followed. Kushina had cried when I placed the chained katana in her hands. She had tried to hide it by calling me an idiot and punching my shoulder, but then she'd kissed me so hard that my lower lip had split against one of her fangs.
My newest fiancées.
The thought made warmth swell through my chest all over again.
It also made my ears twitch at the memory of just how thoroughly they had celebrated.
I adjusted the collar of my dark kimono as I walked through Yasaka's palace, trying to conceal a bite mark Kushina had left near the base of my neck. It was a losing battle. Naruko had left another on the opposite side, and no amount of fabric could hide the fact that several of my tails were still slightly disheveled despite an hour of grooming.
My mother would know.
Who was I kidding? My mother probably already knew.
The women's group chat had likely transformed into a natural disaster the moment Rias announced the proposals. Yasaka had spies in every major faction, access to multiple divine communication networks, and the supernatural smelling ability of a twelve-tailed fox goddess.
There was a nonzero chance she had known before I did.
I passed beneath a carved cedar archway and entered the quieter residential wing of the palace. Afternoon light spilled through the paper screens, painting broad golden rectangles across the polished floor. Somewhere in the gardens, water trickled over stones. A pair of yokai maids hurried past carrying folded linens, bowed deeply when they noticed me, and then immediately began whispering behind their sleeves once they thought I was out of earshot.
I could still hear them.
"His Highness looks exhausted," one maid whispered.
"The proposals must have gone well," the other whispered back.
I kept walking. My ears burned. I had almost reached my mother's private sitting room when a familiar voice erupted from behind the closed sliding door.
"HARU IS MY BESTIE, AND HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE MY WIFE! HMPH! HOW DARE HE PROPOSE TO OTHER GIRLS BEFORE ME?"
I stopped in the middle of the corridor.
My tails stopped with me.
There were voices in the multiverse that were difficult to mistake. Milim's was one of them, mostly because it carried enough energy to penetrate three walls, two privacy wards, and possibly low planetary orbit.
I stared at the door. "Well," I muttered, "this should be calm and reasonable."
The two maids stationed outside the room smiled at me with the serene expressions of women who had been listening to this argument for long enough to start taking bets.
One of them reached for the door. "Her Majesty has been expecting you, Prince Haru," she said.
"Of course she has," I said.
The maids slid the door open together.
I stepped onto the tatami.
Yasaka sat at the low table near the center of the room, wearing a deep crimson kimono patterned with golden maple leaves. Her twelve tails were arranged behind her with such perfect elegance that I immediately suspected at least two maids had spent the better part of an hour brushing them.
Across from her sat Frigga, composed and radiant in a pale blue robe that looked simple until I noticed the runes woven into every thread. Her golden hair had been loosely braided over one shoulder, and the soft smile she gave me carried enough warmth to always make my tails wag.
Hela occupied the cushion beside her in black and green Asgardian leathers, one leg folded beneath her and the other raised in a posture that would have earned Kunou a lecture on proper sitting. A cup of mead rested in one hand. Her dark hair spilled freely down her back, and her luminous green eyes lit up with open appreciation as they swept over me.
Milim was pacing. Or attempting to pace. She had too much energy for the dimensions of the room, so what she was actually doing was bouncing between opposite sides of the tatami in pink blurs, turning at the last instant to keep from crashing through the walls.
She spotted me. Her blue eyes widened. "HARU!"
"Oh, shi—"
Milim vanished.
The air cracked.
Something pink slammed into my chest hard enough to lift me off my feet and carry me backward through the doorway. My tails flared on instinct, catching against the frame before the two of us could flatten the maids in the corridor.
I landed on my back with Milim wrapped around me like a very affectionate cannonball.
"Ow," I wheezed.
"HARU!" Milim shouted again, apparently concerned that the first one had not adequately conveyed my name. She buried her face against my neck and squeezed hard enough to make my ribs creak. "I missed you so much!"
"I noticed," I said.
She lifted her head, pink twin-tails bouncing behind her. "And I've been stuck doing a whole bunch of actual work after the Walpurgis meeting," Milim complained. "It's been super boring! Frey kept making me read things, and Carrion wanted to renegotiate trade routes, and Guy said I couldn't punch anyone just because the meeting was taking too long."
"Guy was probably right," I said.
"He usually is, but that doesn't make it less annoying," Milim said. She tightened her legs around my waist and pressed her face closer to mine, her cheeks puffing out in an impressive pout. "And what's this I hear about you proposing to other girls before me?" she demanded. "You're supposed to be my wife!"
Behind her, Hela covered a laugh with her cup.
Frigga looked politely amused.
My mother didn't even attempt to conceal her grin.
I sighed, slid one arm around Milim's waist, and pushed myself upright enough that I was no longer lying halfway out in the corridor.
"Milim," I said patiently, "the wife is traditionally the girl."
She blinked. Her eyes wandered upward as she worked through this revelation. "Oh." She considered it for another second. "Right," Milim said. Then she shrugged. "You're supposed to be my husband, then."
"That's usually how it works."
"I knew that," she said.
"Of course you did."
"I just said wife because I was angry."
"Naturally."
She stared at me suspiciously.
I smiled and kissed her cheek.
The suspicion vanished instantly. Her face lit up, and her arms tightened around my neck as she pressed herself against me with a pleased hum. "I really did miss you," Milim said, quieter this time.
The sincerity beneath her usual explosive enthusiasm struck me harder than the tackle had.
My smile softened. "I missed you too," I said. "I'm usually not gone from the Fox Hole for days like that. Naruko and Kushina's proposals took longer than expected. There was a lot of…cuddling afterwards."
Hela's eyebrows lifted. "Is that what the people call it now?" Hela asked. "Here I thought you all were fucking for two days straight…"
Frigga made a small choking sound into her tea.
Yasaka laughed outright.
I turned my head and gave Hela a flat look. "It was a complicated diplomatic ceremony," I said.
"Ah," Hela said. "One requiring you to arrive home with bite marks on both sides of your neck and the walking posture of a wounded cavalryman."
Milim immediately pulled back and examined my throat. "You have bite marks!"
"Thank you, Hela…"
"You're welcome," Hela said sweetly.
Milim touched the mark Kushina had left, then narrowed her eyes. "Should I bite you too?" she asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trying to preserve what remains of my neck."
"I can bite somewhere else."
"Milim."
"What?" she asked innocently.
I looked past her toward the two goddesses.
Frigga's cheeks had turned faintly pink. Hela's smirk suggested she had at least six unhelpful suggestions and was struggling to choose between them.
I decided not to give her the opportunity.
"Hello, Frigga," I said. "Hello, Hela."
Frigga set her cup down and smiled.
"Welcome home, Haru," she said. "And congratulations. We heard the proposals were successful."
"Thank you," I said. "Both of them said yes." A strange thrill ran through me as I spoke the words aloud.
Hela watched my expression with unsettling accuracy. Her smirk softened into something more affectionate. "You look happy," she said.
"I am," I admitted.
"Good," Frigga said. There was no jealousy in her voice. No reservation. Only quiet warmth.
I shifted Milim's weight slightly and smiled at both goddesses.
"How's everything going here?" I asked. "Did you two find the Tesseract, conquer Earth, or accidentally overthrow any governments while I was gone?"
"Not yet," Hela said. "Though the day is still young…"
Frigga sighed. "We were discussing several potential approaches with your mother," she said. "Locating the Tesseract without alerting Odin—or the mortals who currently possess it—will require subtlety."
Hela took a sip of mead. "Which is apparently the polite term for not killing everyone who refuses to answer our questions."
"It is one of the polite terms," Frigga said.
Hela glanced at Milim, who was still clinging to me with no intention of moving. "Everything was going fine," Hela continued, "until this pink-haired menace stormed into the palace, ignored every guard who attempted to announce her, and interrupted our meeting to complain that you had married half the multiverse without consulting her."
"I didn't marry half the multiverse," I said.
"Yet," Yasaka added.
I looked at my mother.
She smiled beatifically.
Milim twisted around in my arms and stuck her tongue out at Hela. "That's Demon Lord pink-haired menace to you."
Hela stared at her.
Milim kept her tongue out.
Hela slowly extended her own tongue in response.
Frigga closed her eyes.
Yasaka looked as though she was reconsidering every decision that had led to hosting multiple goddesses and Demon Lords in her private sitting room.
I rubbed my forehead. "These are some of the most powerful beings in existence," I muttered.
"And yet," Yasaka said, "they remain beyond my ability to make them behave during tea."
Milim turned back toward me. "Hela started it!"
"You burst into the room shouting," Hela said.
"Because Haru proposed to people without me!"
"You weren't even here…"
"I was doing paperwork! The ultimate EVIL!"
"That sounds tragic…"
"It was!"
"Enough," Yasaka said. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The full authority of the Yokai Queen settled over the room like a warm but immovable mountain. Milim and Hela both stopped immediately, though Hela's expression suggested she found the experience amusing rather than intimidating. Yasaka looked toward Milim. "Milim," she said kindly, "would you please get off my son?"
Milim's arms tightened around me. "No."
My mother's smile tightened by half a degree. "Or," Yasaka continued, "at the very least, sit in his lap in a more dignified fashion. You are a Demon Lord attending a formal discussion, not a scarf."
Milim looked down at herself. She was still wrapped around my torso, legs locked around my waist and arms around my neck. One of her twin-tails had somehow become tangled with two of my fox tails. She pouted. "Fine."
Milim untangled herself with considerable reluctance. She shifted around, used my shoulders for leverage, and rearranged us until I sat properly on the cushion she had abandoned. Then she dropped into my lap with her back against my chest, settling between my legs as though that had been Yasaka's suggestion all along.
My arms came around her waist automatically.
Milim caught my hands and pulled them more firmly around her middle. "There," she said.
Hela snorted into her mead.
Frigga hid her smile behind one elegant hand.
Yasaka studied us for a long moment. "I suppose that is the best I'm going to get," she said.
Milim leaned her head back against my shoulder and beamed.
I rested my chin lightly atop her pink hair.
Honestly, I'd attended less dignified political meetings.
Frigga set her teacup carefully on its saucer. "Haru," Frigga said, "I know you have only just returned, and I suspect you would prefer to rest, but there is a favor I wished to ask of you."
"I'll do it," I said immediately.
Frigga blinked.
Milim tilted her head back to look up at me, nearly smacking the top of her skull against my chin.
Frigga's lips parted, and the faintest wash of pink spread across her cheeks. "You have not heard what I wish to ask," Frigga said.
"It doesn't matter," I said. "I'll do it anyway."
The room went quiet.
I didn't think it was a particularly dramatic declaration. Frigga needed something. She had spent more than a thousand years trapped inside a false life constructed by a monster who had stolen her memories, her identity, her freedom, and nearly everything else that made her her. She had arrived in Kyoto with little more than the robe she wore and the certainty that returning to Asgard meant being enslaved again.
If she asked me to fight a god, I would fight a god.
If she asked me to help rebuild Vanaheim, I would start drawing up supply lists.
If she asked me to cook dinner, I was already mentally considering whether she preferred venison or wild boar.
The details mattered considerably less than the person asking.
Hela's slow grin revealed that she understood exactly what had gone through my head. She leaned toward Yasaka, resting one elbow on the table. "How did you raise such an amazing son?" Hela asked.
"Ara, ara," Yasaka said, placing one hand against her cheek. "I ask myself that all the time."
I stared at my mother. "You also regularly tell people I was a menace who once burned down half a garden because Kunou dared me to cook a rock," I said.
"You were 8 and it's one of my best memories," Yasaka said.
Milim giggled against my chest.
Frigga watched the exchange with a tenderness in her eyes that made her look younger than she had in Asgard. Not physically, she already looked like an immortal queen sculpted by an artist with an unreasonable fondness for soft curves, but in the way tension had begun disappearing from her face. Every day in Kyoto seemed to loosen another knot Odin had tied inside her.
Then her expression became serious again. "The favor does not originate entirely from me," Frigga said. "Hela and I spoke with Director Fury earlier today."
I groaned quietly. "Nick Fury," I said.
"The mortal with one eye and an impressive collection of concealed weapons," Hela said.
"That sounds like him."
"He gave us permission to search Midgard for the Tesseract," Frigga said.
My ears lifted. "How generous of him," I said carefully.
Hela snorted. "The mortal spy is playing his games…"
"Hela," Frigga said.
"I am not wrong."
"No," Frigga admitted. "But we are guests in his realm, and his organization is currently attempting to prevent a secret army of human fanatics from seizing control of that realm's governments. Courtesy costs us very little."
"Until it costs us something valuable."
"That is why we discuss the price before agreeing."
Hela opened her mouth, probably to explain that killing everyone involved would eliminate the need for negotiations.
Frigga reached across the table and took both of Hela's hands in hers.
The transformation was immediate.
Hela's argument died before it could leave her lips. Her green eyes dropped to their joined hands, and a flush spread slowly across her pale cheeks. For a woman who had spent most her time discussing regicide with the enthusiasm of someone planning a picnic, she remained remarkably vulnerable to gentle affection.
Frigga's thumbs moved over Hela's knuckles. "It is best not to upset potential allies when there is no reason to do so," Frigga said softly. "Especially when those allies may possess information we need."
Hela stared at her. "I dislike it when you become reasonable while holding my hands," Hela muttered.
Frigga smiled. "Why?"
"It makes disagreeing with you considerably more difficult."
"I shall remember that."
"I know you will. That is the problem."
Frigga's smile deepened.
Hela made no effort to pull away.
I watched the two of them for a moment. They had known one another for only a short time, but something strong had already formed between them. They were bound by Odin's cruelty, certainly, yet it wasn't only shared pain. Frigga gave Hela the patient tenderness she had been denied for millennia. Hela reminded Frigga that anger wasn't shameful and that taking back what had been stolen from her didn't make her cruel.
They were good for each other.
Milim began squirming excitedly in my lap. I tightened my arms around her before she could launch herself across the table. "What favor does Fury want?" I asked.
Frigga looked back at me. "He specifically requested your assistance," Frigga said. "In exchange, he will give us access to all information his organization possesses concerning the Tesseract, including classified records, recovered artifacts, and any locations where it may have been studied or stored."
"That sounds suspiciously useful," I said.
"It is," Frigga said. "Which is precisely why I did not reject his condition."
Hela rolled her eyes. "He knows Haru has access to warriors, gods, aliens, ninjas, undead kings, and at least one pink-haired catastrophe capable of breaking continents," Hela said. "Of course he wants something."
Milim gasped. "Is Haru getting recruited to be a super-secret spy?" Milim asked. She twisted around in my lap until she was sitting sideways, one knee draped over my thigh. Her blue eyes shone with immediate and dangerous enthusiasm. "Can I be one too?" Milim asked. "I can be really sneaky."
Everyone in the room looked at her.
Milim looked back at us.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls, a flock of birds erupted from the trees, possibly startled by the memory of her last attempt at stealth. "You once tried to infiltrate the Fox Hole by wearing a cardboard box."
"It almost worked."
"The box was bright pink and had 'MILIM IS NOT IN HERE' written on the side."
"That's how people knew not to look inside!"
Frigga pressed her lips together, fighting a losing battle against her own amusement.
Yasaka lifted her tea with the serene composure of a woman who had ruled Kyoto for centuries and had decided this was no longer her problem.
Milim folded her arms and pouted. "I could still be a spy," Milim insisted. "I'd be the strongest spy!"
I couldn't entirely argue with that.
Hours later…
"Hello again, Agent Natasha," I said.
The beautiful redheaded spy looked up from the phone in her hand and gave me the sort of measured stare people usually reserved for unexploded bombs.
We stood on a Manhattan sidewalk across from Stark Industries headquarters, surrounded by roaring traffic, impatient horns, crowded crosswalks, and enough human noise to make my ears ache even though they were currently hidden. The city smelled like hot pavement, exhaust, street food, old rain trapped in concrete, and approximately eight million people trying to get somewhere five minutes ago.
None of my yokai features were visible. No fox ears. No golden eyes. No ten tails swaying behind me and knocking pedestrians into traffic. A thin layer of illusion magic covered all of it, leaving me looking like a completely normal human man.
A completely normal, unfairly handsome human man, obviously, but normal by New York standards.
Milim was tightly attached to my left arm.
She had insisted on dressing appropriately for espionage, which apparently meant a fitted black business suit, a pink blouse, dark sunglasses despite the overcast sky, and a tiny communication earpiece that wasn't connected to anything. Her long pink hair had been gathered into a high ponytail. She looked less like a professional intelligence operative and more like an ancient Demon Lord cosplaying as one.
Which, to be fair, was exactly what she was.
Natasha's eyes moved slowly over me. Then they shifted to Milim. Then down to Milim's arms wrapped possessively around mine. Then back to me. "This is a terrible idea," Natasha said.
Milim's mouth dropped open.
"I'm more than enough for this assignment," Natasha continued. "But I won't go against the director's orders."
"Hmph!" Milim said. She pushed her sunglasses down just enough to glare over the top of them. "I won't fall for your tricks, human," Milim declared. "You're just afraid I'm going to show you up and out-spy you!"
"That's not a—" Natasha began. She stopped. Her eyes closed for one long second. "You know what?" Natasha said. "Forget it."
Milim pushed her sunglasses back into place with a smug little smile. "Scared already," she whispered.
Natasha definitely heard her.
So did everyone else within half a block.
Natasha pointed across the street toward the immense glass-and-steel Stark Industries building. "Let's go in," she said.
I looked up at the tower.
The Stark logo was mounted high above the entrance with all the restraint one would expect from a billionaire who had recently announced to the world that he was Iron Man.
Which was to say none.
The building practically radiated Tony Stark's personality: expensive, polished, technologically impressive, and very aware that everyone was looking at it.
A few hours earlier, I had been sitting across from Nick Fury while he explained the mission over coffee strong enough to strip paint.
HYDRA had gone quiet. That was the problem.
Ever since Fury hired Konoha's shinobi to begin purging the organization from S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA had abandoned its usual networks, severed communications, and started disappearing into isolated cells. The ninja teams had already uncovered dozens of sleeper agents, hidden facilities, shell companies, weapons caches, and enough stolen intelligence to make Fury invent several new combinations of swear words.
But the surviving cells had realized they were being hunted. Cornered animals were dangerous. Cornered Nazis with decades of intelligence access, and a pathological need for revenge were worse.
According to Fury, chatter intercepted through several compromised channels suggested HYDRA intended to strike at symbolic targets connected to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s founders. Howard Stark's name had appeared repeatedly.
Howard was dead. His son wasn't. Tony Stark was many things, billionaire, genius, weapons manufacturer, superhero, professional narcissist, but discreet wasn't one of them. His address was known. His company was public. His daily activities generated news coverage even when he didn't want them to.
Which I suspected was almost never.
Fury believed HYDRA might try to kill him as revenge against both the Stark family and S.H.I.E.L.D.
So Natasha was going undercover inside Stark Industries. That part sounded familiar.
This was the beginning of Iron Man 2, or close enough that some of the pieces were already sliding into place. I vaguely remembered Tony getting sick because the thing keeping him alive was also poisoning him. He behaved like even more of an asshole than usual because he thought he was dying. There was a Russian man with electric whips, a smug weapons dealer, a racetrack, a lot of exploding robots, and Scarlett Johansson changing clothes in the back of a car…
Unfortunately, the useful details had been buried beneath almost two entire lifetimes of memories. My past-life knowledge used to feel like an advantage. Now it was more like trying to remember a movie someone had played in the background twenty years ago while I was chopping onions.
My job was simple, at least in theory.
Get inside Stark Industries. Stay close enough to Tony that any HYDRA assassination attempt would fail catastrophically. Avoid revealing that his new chef was a ten-tailed Demon Lord capable of eating gods.
And keep Milim from turning Manhattan into a crater while pretending to be a spy.
Honestly, the HYDRA part sounded easiest.
Natasha held a slim black folder out to me. "Your paperwork," she said.
I accepted it with my free hand and opened the folder.
Inside was a complete professional history constructed by S.H.I.E.L.D.: identification, immigration records, references, letters of recommendation, culinary certifications, school transcripts, and a resume polished to within an inch of its life.
I skimmed the first page.
Haru Yasaka.
At least Fury had let me keep my name.
According to the document, I had graduated with distinction from three different culinary programs, trained under respected chefs in Kyoto, Osaka, Paris, and New York, managed private kitchens for wealthy international clients, and specialized in Japanese cuisine, French technique, nutritional planning, and adapting menus for extreme dietary restrictions.
It was impressive. By mortal standards.
I scoffed.
Natasha's eyes narrowed. "What?" she asked.
"This resume is inadequate."
"It was created by an intelligence organization with access to half the world's classified databases."
"It says I graduated second in my class."
"You needed a credible history."
"I have never finished second in cooking in my life!"
"It's supposed to get you hired as a private chef, not elected Pope." Natasha said flatly.
"I'd be an excellent Pope!"
Milim nodded eagerly. "Haru would make everyone eat better," she said.
"I don't think that's the main job…" Natasha replied and rolled her eyes. Natasha stared at us both. I could practically see her reconsidering every life choice that had brought her to this sidewalk. She turned to Milim and held out another folder.
Milim released my arm long enough to accept it. "Your name is Milim Nava," Natasha said.
"That's already my name."
"...I know…"
"I'm a Demon Lord."
"Not on the paperwork…"
Milim flipped through the folder upside down. "What am I supposed to be?" she asked.
"A graduate of an international business program with experience in administrative coordination, executive scheduling, event management, and multilingual correspondence."
Milim slowly lowered the papers. "...What does any of that mean?"
"You organize things."
"I can organize things."
"You file reports."
Milim's expression darkened. "I hate reports! I don't wanna do any more paperwork! I ran away to see Haru today and "play" spy to avoid paperwork!"
Natasha let out an aggravated groan… Natasha looked at me. "...Milim is coming with me," she said. "We're applying for positions in Stark's executive office." Natasha slid her phone into the inner pocket of her charcoal-grey jacket. Her own disguise was much less dramatic than mine. She had altered her hair slightly, softened her makeup, and changed the way she carried herself. The dangerous stillness hadn't disappeared, but it had been tucked beneath the polished confidence of an ambitious professional.
The file Fury had shown me identified her cover as Natalie Rushman.
That detail had triggered one of the few clear memories I possessed from the movie.
Tony looked up pictures of her in lingerie, hired her almost immediately, and then behaved exactly as professionally as that sentence suggested.
I glanced at Natasha. "You know he's probably going to objectify you," I said.
"I'm aware."
"He may try to sleep with you."
"I'm aware."
"He might put pictures of you on a giant transparent screen."
"I'm aware."
Milim pushed her sunglasses down again. "I'll punch him if he does anything weird."
"You will not punch Tony Stark," Natasha said.
"...What if he deserves it?"
"He will almost certainly deserve it."
"So I can punch him?"
"No."
"That rule doesn't make sense!"
Natasha turned fully toward Milim. "You are not to hit, threaten, challenge, throw, blast, vaporize, intimidate, or otherwise harm Tony Stark."
Milim frowned thoughtfully. "What about flicking?"
"No."
"Headbutting?"
"No."
"Just a little kick?"
"No."
"Can I glare?"
"...Fine."
Milim nodded. "I can work with that."
"...Discreetly," Natasha added.
Milim immediately began practicing her glare at passing pedestrians!
A man carrying a coffee took one look at her and crossed the street against the light.
Natasha sighed. "We're going ahead," she said. "Give us five minutes before you enter. Stark's people should already have your application in the system." She glanced at my folder. "Do not alter the paperwork."
I gave her my most innocent smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Her eyes narrowed further. "That expression has never convinced anyone."
"It convinces Kunou."
"She's a child who thinks hobbits are real the last time I talked to her...."
"They might be real. We just haven't found that world yet."
Natasha looked as though she wanted to argue, then decided she had already suffered enough. She turned toward the crosswalk. "Come on, Milim."
Milim remained attached to my arm.
Natasha looked back.
Milim looked at me.
I kissed the top of her head. "Go be a super-secret spy," I said.
Her entire face lit up. "I'll make you proud!"
"That is exactly what I'm afraid of," Natasha muttered.
Milim finally released me and dashed after her, catching up in two steps that were just barely slow enough to pass for human. She immediately hooked herself around Natasha's arm instead.
Natasha stiffened.
Milim began whispering something to her with intense seriousness. Judging by Natasha's expression, it was either an espionage strategy or a detailed explanation of why matching code names were essential.
They crossed the street together.
Natasha moved through the crowd like water, never colliding with anyone, adjusting course before people entered her path.
Milim attempted to copy her.
She exaggerated every movement, peered suspiciously over both shoulders, ducked behind a businessman for no reason, and then tried to hide behind a streetlamp narrower than her head.
Natasha grabbed the back of Milim's jacket and hauled her toward the Stark building before she could begin crawling across the sidewalk.
I watched them go.
"This is going to be a disaster," I said.
A woman waiting beside me glanced over.
I smiled politely.
She took in my face, looked me up and down, then smiled back with considerably more enthusiasm than necessary.
I returned my attention to the folder. The resume continued to offend me.
Second in my class. Honestly…
I extended one finger and let a tiny thread of blue foxfire curl over the page.
The flame didn't burn the paper. It sank into the ink, flowing through letters and rearranging them beneath my touch. Entire paragraphs shifted. Dates changed. Credentials rewrote themselves.
I replaced one fake restaurant position with founder and executive chef of the Fox Hole in Kyoto. The restaurant genuinely existed in this world, even if its American tax status was probably a nightmare that would make several accountants seek religion.
I added expertise in: Advanced butchery. Rare and exotic proteins. Therapeutic cuisine. Nutritional support for chronic illness. High-energy dietary requirements. Crisis kitchen management. Private dining for heads of state and high-profile clientele.
That last one was technically true.
I had cooked for queens, gods, Demon Lords, alien councilors, superheroes, shinobi leaders, undead monarchs, ancient elves, dragon slayers, and at least one man who had once tried to eat a wheel of cheese larger than his torso.
I hesitated over the awards section.
Then I added:
Undefeated in formal culinary competition.
Perfectly accurate.
I considered listing Erina Nakiri's clothes exploding after eating my dragon tacos, but decided that might raise questions during the interview.
I also upgraded "competent pastry preparation" to "master-level pastry and confectionery."
Whoever wrote the original had clearly never tasted my cookies.
I inspected the finished resume and nodded with satisfaction.
Now it represented approximately four percent of my actual ability instead of one.
Across the street, Natasha and Milim disappeared through the revolving glass doors of Stark Industries headquarters.
Milim turned at the last second and waved both arms over her head. So much for discretion.
Natasha grabbed one of them and pulled her inside.
I waited until the pedestrian light changed.
Then I tucked the folder beneath my arm, adjusted the illusion hiding my ears and tails, and walked toward the building where I was apparently going to become Tony Stark's personal chef.
– Hela –
The sword they were flying on was fifty feet long, six feet across at its widest point, and black enough to swallow the sunlight that touched it.
Hela had conjured it from the same death-metal she used for her blades, though she had deliberately blunted the edges after Agent Coulson pointed out that slicing through an airliner would create an unacceptable amount of paperwork. Green lines of necromantic power pulsed beneath its surface like veins, responding to every minute adjustment of her will.
It tore northward through Midgard's sky faster than most mortal warplanes.
Hela stood near the tip with her arms folded, black hair streaming behind her despite Frigga's enchantments. The wind did not touch her skin, but she permitted it to catch her hair and cape because she liked the effect.
A queen should look suitably dramatic while riding a flying sword across a continent.
Frigga stood at her side. The woman who had once unknowingly occupied the role of Hela's stepmother, and who now shared Haru's affection and Hela's bed, had one hand raised before her. A pale golden sphere floated above her palm, threaded through with constantly shifting runes. A second ring of Vanir magic surrounded the sword, forming a transparent dome that kept out the cold, the wind, and the pressure that should have reduced their mortal passengers to screaming stains.
Frigga looked magnificent. Her golden hair had been braided to keep it from whipping around her face. She wore fitted green traveling leathers beneath a heavy blue cloak, the clothing practical enough for an expedition but tailored closely enough that Hela had already caught two of the scientists looking at her.
They had stopped after Hela smiled at them.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel clustered farther back on the sword. Three scientists stood around a collection of instruments bolted to a portable metal frame, though one kept glancing uneasily over the edge as the forests, roads, and cities of Midgard blurred beneath them.
The first few minutes had been entertaining.
The humans had expected to fall. They had crouched, grabbed one another, clung to equipment, and stared in disbelief when their boots remained firmly attached to the sword's surface. Frigga's enchantment generated a stable plane of gravity around them, allowing everyone to walk as though they were standing in a perfectly still room rather than streaking through the upper atmosphere aboard an oversized weapon of execution.
One scientist had spent the last hour kneeling and pressing various scanners against the sword.
Every device had produced a different error message.
Hela considered that an excellent sign.
Agent Phil Coulson stood closest to her and Frigga. He wore a dark suit beneath a heavy S.H.I.E.L.D. coat, his tie still neatly knotted despite their unconventional transportation. One hand remained tucked in his pocket while the other held a small electronic tablet displaying a map of the northern hemisphere.
He looked almost comfortable. "We could have taken a S.H.I.E.L.D. jet," Coulson said.
Hela glanced sideways at him. She had known warriors who could complain about transportation while marching through rivers of blood. Coulson's tone possessed the same weary quality. "This is faster," Hela said. "And easier for Frigga to enchant."
"It also doesn't have seats," Coulson said.
"You have legs."
"It doesn't have a bathroom."
"You had an opportunity to relieve yourself before we departed."
"We're still several hours away."
"Then I suggest you demonstrate the legendary discipline of Midgard's greatest intelligence organization."
Coulson looked toward Frigga.
Frigga kept her attention on the golden sphere above her hand, but the corner of her mouth had curled upward. "I could create a privacy screen near the rear of the blade if necessary," Frigga said.
"I appreciate that, Your Majesty," Coulson said.
"Hela would likely accelerate the moment you attempted to use it," Frigga added.
Coulson looked at Hela.
Hela smiled.
"...That's why I'm holding it," Coulson muttered.
Frigga's other hand moved through the air, drawing a slow spiral of pale light. The magical sphere above her palm pulsed in response, and a narrow thread extended from its northern edge like the needle of a compass.
The spell had taken Frigga most of the previous night to construct.
She had used coordinates from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s classified archives, scraps of energy readings collected over several decades, traces of spatial magic preserved in a sealed laboratory, and descriptions of the Tesseract's light provided by men who had seen it during the Second World War.
It was still an imperfect locator.
The Tesseract's energy did not behave like ordinary magic. It folded space around itself, distorted distance, and occasionally returned contradictory results as though it existed in several locations at once.
But every reading eventually pointed north.
Far north. Toward a frozen region the humans called the Arctic.
Hela could already feel it in the distance, a faint wrongness in the fabric of the world, a pressure that did not belong to Midgard's natural magic. It was not death, but it touched the same boundaries she ruled. Space folded. Distance ceased to mean what it should. The effect reminded her of the broken passages between realms that Odin once used during his conquests.
Frigga lowered her hand. "The trail remains stable," Frigga said. "Whatever we are sensing has not moved."
"That's reassuring," Coulson said.
"Unless it has moved in a direction our minds cannot perceive," Frigga added.
Coulson sighed. "That's less reassuring."
Frigga's concealment spell shimmered around them, separate from the barrier protecting the mortals. It bent sight, sound, heat, magical signatures, and even the faint spiritual imprint that powerful beings left upon a world.
More importantly, it obscured them from Heimdall.
Assuming the self-righteous gatekeeper had thawed by now…
Frigga had woven the concealment with amazing skill. Whenever Hela examined the spell, she found new layers designed specifically to exploit weaknesses in Asgardian perception magic, blind angles Odin had never realized Frigga understood, subtle inversions that made Heimdall's gaze slide around them, and old Vanir techniques that predated Asgard's current throne.
Watching Frigga rediscover the full breadth of her magic had been deeply satisfying. It had also been extremely attractive.
Hela stepped closer until her shoulder brushed Frigga's.
Frigga glanced at her, and the severity in her expression softened.
Hela looked away before any of the mortals noticed how easily that small reaction affected her.
They flew in silence for several minutes.
It became boring.
Hela had once spent months crossing hostile realms with armies large enough to blacken the horizon. She had survived sieges, ambushes, assassination attempts, and diplomatic banquets where half the guests were poisoning one another.
Yet somehow, traveling peacefully over Midgard with no one trying to murder her felt intolerably slow.
She glanced back at Coulson. "Why would your master permit Milim, of all people, to act as a spy?" Hela asked.
Coulson's eyes lifted from his tablet. "Director Fury isn't my master."
"He gives you commands. You obey them."
"That's called employment."
"It sounds like servitude with paperwork."
"Some days it feels that way…"
Hela accepted that answer. She turned enough to face him properly. "You know she will expose herself immediately," Hela said.
Frigga looked over. "Have more faith in Milim," Frigga said. "She is still a Demon Lord of tremendous power."
"Power does not make someone subtle," Hela said.
"But she is more perceptive than she appears." Frigga held her composure for three seconds before smiling. "She is also more powerful than Haru," Frigga continued. "Second only to Ranni among those presently allied with the Fox Hole. If Stark is attacked, very little on this world could reach him before Milim destroyed it."
One of the scientists looked up sharply.
Hela heard the man whisper to the woman beside him. "More powerful than the fox guy?"
"Apparently."
"He ate a god…"
"I heard."
"What the hell does the pink girl eat?"
Hela turned her head. Both scientists immediately became fascinated by their equipment.
Coulson tucked his tablet beneath one arm. "The primary objective is keeping Tony Stark alive," Coulson said. "Cover integrity is secondary."
"Then you admit she will fail as a spy," Hela said.
"I admit she's an unconventional asset…"
"That is a coward's phrase."
"It's an intelligence professional's phrase."
"It means exactly the same thing."
Coulson considered arguing, then appeared to decide he valued the remaining hours of his life. "If Milim blows her cover but prevents Stark from being killed, the mission is still a success," Coulson said. "We can deal with the consequences."
"What consequences?" Hela asked.
Coulson stared out through the transparent barrier at the landscape below. "The world is changing," he said. "It's getting harder to hide enhanced individuals." His shoulders dropped slightly. For the first time since boarding her sword, he looked genuinely tired. "Ten years ago, something like you would've been classified, buried, and denied," Coulson continued. "We'd confiscate every camera, threaten every witness, write the whole thing off as a weather balloon or mass hallucination."
"You would have tried to bury me?" Hela asked. She grinned at his audacity.
"Not literally."
Her grin dropped. "That is disappointing."
"Today, a billionaire flies around in powered armor on live television. A green giant tore apart a university campus. An Asgardian prince landed in New Mexico. A little girl picked up an alien hammer, destroyed a murder robot, and renamed the weapon."
"Sparkling Lightning-Chan," Hela said.
"I was trying to forget that."
"You failed."
"I'm aware." Coulson rubbed one hand over his face. "People carry cameras everywhere," he said. "Satellites watch half the planet. Governments leak. Corporations spy on governments. Governments spy on corporations. Teenagers post classified incidents online because they think they're trailers for viral marketing campaigns. We can't put everything back in the box."
Hela understood that better than he realized. Odin had spent ages controlling Asgard's history. He erased enemies, rewrote victories, destroyed records, reshaped memories, and turned his firstborn daughter into a forgotten rumor. Secrets only survived while the powerful controlled every mouth capable of speaking them.
Midgard now possessed billions of mouths. And far too many recording devices.
"So you intend to reveal the truth?" Frigga asked.
"Not exactly," Coulson said. "We're trying to keep the transition from becoming a panic. Let people adjust. Control what we can. Prevent every idiot with a camera from starting a war because he saw something he didn't understand."
"A losing battle," Hela said.
"Probably." Coulson gave a faint, tired smile. "But it's my losing battle."
Hela found herself respecting that answer. Only slightly.
Coulson straightened and tapped the tablet against his palm. "Let's focus on our current task," he said. "Historically, the Tesseract disappeared with Captain America."
The name meant nothing to Hela.
She looked at Frigga.
Frigga offered a small shake of her head.
Apparently, neither of them had encountered this captain during their limited time on Midgard.
"Captain of what?" Hela asked.
"America," Coulson said.
"That is a nation, not a military formation."
"It was a title."
"Did he command the nation?"
"No…"
"Then the title is misleading!"
"It made more sense at the time!"
"Was he a great warrior at least?"
Coulson's expression changed. It happened so quickly that Hela almost missed it. The fatigue receded. His posture straightened. His visible reserve cracked, and something bright appeared behind his eyes. "Yes," Coulson said. "He was…"
"What made him great?" Hela asked curiously.
Coulson lit up, more than happy to explain it all to her!
Nearly two hours later, listening to the man enthusiastically not stop talking about Captain America, Hela deeply regretted asking the question…
– Tony Stark –
Tony Stark was dying.
He had not told anyone.
That felt like the sort of information people tended to overreact to.
Pepper would start arranging specialists, interventions, emergency board meetings, and probably some kind of aggressively color-coded treatment schedule. Rhodey would look at him with that disappointed military stare and ask why Tony had waited until his blood was roughly thirty percent toxic sludge before mentioning the problem. Happy would hover. Reporters would somehow find out before the oncologists did. Congress would hold a hearing to determine whether his impending death constituted a national-security concern.
No, thank you.
Tony preferred the simpler strategy: ignore the glowing veins spreading across his chest, continue replacing the palladium core whenever the toxicity alarm became unbearable, and make increasingly irresponsible decisions until either science or momentum solved the problem.
In the meantime, dying was no excuse to get out of shape.
"Hands up," Happy said.
Tony raised his gloves.
Happy punched him in the face.
Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to snap Tony's head back and remind him that Happy Hogan had once boxed professionally and retained a deep, almost spiritual resentment toward Tony's tendency to stop listening halfway through instructions.
Tony danced backward across the private gym's padded floor. "Okay," Tony said. "That felt unnecessarily personal."
"You dropped your guard."
"I was thinking."
"You're supposed to think while keeping your hands up."
"That's a lot of multitasking. Some of us weren't raised in underground fight clubs."
Happy advanced with both gloves lifted.
Tony circled away, sweat sliding down his spine beneath his sleeveless shirt. Every breath dragged faintly against his lungs. His pulse felt too fast. The reactor in his chest burned hotter than it should have, and somewhere beneath the fresh bandages covering the palladium rash, the skin throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He ignored it.
He was getting very good at that.
Happy jabbed.
Tony slipped left.
Happy threw another.
Tony caught it on his forearm, stepped inside, and delivered a quick combination to Happy's padded stomach.
It accomplished absolutely nothing.
Happy looked down at the gloves against his body.
Then he looked at Tony. "You done?"
"Psychologically? Years ago."
Happy caught him with a hook to the shoulder.
Tony stumbled sideways and nearly collided with the heavy bag.
"Sir," JARVIS said through the gym speakers, "your heart rate is elevated beyond the recommended parameters."
"I'm exercising, JARVIS."
"You are also experiencing an irregular rhythm."
"Snitch."
"I remain obligated to monitor your health."
"Monitor quietly."
"Of course, sir."
Happy's expression sharpened. "What did he mean by… irregular?"
"Nothing."
"Tony."
"Machine error. He's very insecure about it."
"Sir," JARVIS said, "I am not insecure."
"See? He's being all defensive."
The gym doors opened before Happy could start asking questions Tony had no intention of answering.
Pepper Potts walked inside carrying a tablet, wearing a charcoal-grey skirt suit and the expression of a woman who had already solved eight corporate crises before dinner and fully expected Tony to become the ninth.
She was also his girlfriend. And the newly appointed CEO of Stark Industries. Those two facts had only increased the number of ways she could glare at him.
Two women followed her.
Tony's attention locked onto the first one with the speed and precision of an automated targeting system.
Red hair. Pale skin. Green eyes. Long legs that did not appear to end so much as continue into a separate tax jurisdiction. She wore a fitted white blouse, dark pencil skirt, and heels that made her already impressive posture look weaponized.
Smoking hot did not adequately cover it. She looked like somebody had built the perfect executive assistant and then quietly added several classified combat upgrades.
Pepper stopped walking.
Tony's gaze had lingered for perhaps one second too long. Possibly two.
Pepper looked at him. The look that said, I saw that. You know I saw that. We will be discussing what I saw…
Tony gave her an innocent smile.
Pepper's glare intensified.
The second applicant was shorter and substantially stranger.
She had bright pink hair, startling blue eyes, and the sort of youthful face that made Tony's first thought less executive assistant and more somebody's aggressively enthusiastic bring your daughter to work day? She wore a black business jacket over a pink blouse, a matching skirt, and sunglasses indoors.
The glasses did not make her look discreet. They made her look like she had learned about espionage from a cartoon. She was clinging to the redhead's arm with both hands while peering around the private gym as though everything in it was a new species.
Pepper stepped between. "Tony," she said, "this is Natalie Rushman and Milim Nava. They're here to interview for your open secretary position, since you made me CEO without arranging for anyone to take over the work I was doing for you."
Tony gestured toward himself with one boxing glove. "I thought being promoted meant you still did the old job, but with a better title."
"No. It is called replacing an employee after moving her into another position."
"You're not an employee. You're Pepper."
"I am the chief executive officer of a multinational corporation."
"You can be two things."
"Apparently you cannot," Pepper said. "The board doesn't like it…"
Happy coughed into one glove to conceal a laugh.
Pepper turned slightly toward the applicants. "Natalie has experience in legal administration, executive scheduling, and corporate compliance," she said. "Milim has—"
Milim's hand shot into the air. She did not wait to be called on. "Hi! I'm Milim," she announced. "And I am not a spy sent here on a secret mission to keep you alive from bad guys!"
The gym became silent. It was the kind of silence that arrived after someone pressed a large red button marked DO NOT PRESS and everyone waited to learn which building was about to explode.
Tony stared at Milim. Happy stared at Milim. Pepper stared at Milim. Natalie Rushman closed her eyes, raised one hand, and pressed her palm over her entire face.
Milim stood with her arm still enthusiastically extended.
Tony slowly glanced at Natalie. She did not look at him. He looked back at Milim.
She grinned.
For some completely inexplicable reason Tony could not begin to identify, he had the faintest suspicion that Milim might be a spy… Natalie too, probably. Natalie was much better at it.
Tony had spent enough time around government agents to recognize the signs. The posture that looked relaxed but left every limb perfectly positioned. The eyes that mapped a room while pretending to focus on one person. The way Natalie had already catalogued the exits, the cameras, Happy's boxing stance, Tony's reactor, and the distance between herself and the nearest improvised weapon.
Milim carried herself like a sugar-addicted missile.
Tony considered the situation.
Two possible spies had walked into his private gym under Pepper's supervision. One was spectacularly attractive. The other had announced her mission before the interview began and was visibly delighted by his glowing chest.
There were several reasonable responses available.
He could order JARVIS to lock down the room. He could alert security. He could question Pepper about whoever had vetted them. He could investigate whether S.H.I.E.L.D. had decided to put him under surveillance.
But Tony was dying. He had toxic metal poisoning, an unresolved succession crisis, a government trying to steal his armor, and nothing substantial left to lose.
Also, Milim was hilarious.
Fuck it. We ball. "You're both hired," Tony said with a grin.
Natalie's hand fell away from her face.
"...What?" Pepper asked out loud.
Milim gasped so loudly she almost inhaled her sunglasses.
"Both hired," Tony repeated. "We save time, increase administrative redundancy, and create a healthy competitive work environment."
Pepper turned toward him with deliberate slowness. "You haven't interviewed them!"
"I just did."
"No, you didn't!"
"I asked no questions and received an extraordinarily revealing answer. That's efficient interviewing."
Pepper gave him the stare. The full one this time. It asked, with astonishing clarity, Are you fucking serious right now?
Tony grinned playfully.
Pepper's eyes narrowed.
He loved her. This was probably not the best way to show it…
"Yay!" Milim shouted. She released Natalie, threw both fists into the air, and began bouncing in place. "Haru's going to be so proud of me!"
Pepper exhaled through her nose. "...Do I want to ask who Haru is?" she said.
Milim stopped bouncing but continued vibrating with enough enthusiasm to make her hair tremble. "Haru is my boyfriend," she declared. "And my bestie! And the bestest chef ever!"
Pepper's expression softened despite herself. "That's very nice."
"Oh, and he is also not a spy either!"
Tony started laughing. He couldn't help it. The laugh pulled painfully against his chest, but it was worth it. Milim looked pleased with herself. Pepper looked as though she was trying to determine whether accepting the position of CEO was good for her continued sanity.
Happy leaned toward Tony. "Are we sure she's old enough to work here?" he asked quietly.
Milim's head snapped toward him. "I'm older than your whole country!"
Happy blinked.
Tony stopped laughing.
Pepper stared at Milim.
Natalie lowered her hand.
Milim's eyes widened behind her sunglasses. "I mean…" She looked around desperately. "In spirit?"
"That save was terrible," Tony said. He filed that declaration away for later. Tony's curiosity had shifted. A mysterious boyfriend. Best chef ever. Explicitly not a spy? The pattern was becoming interesting. "JARVIS," Tony said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Pull up the kitchen security feeds."
Pepper frowned. "Why?"
"If Haru is the bestest chef ever, and our two definitely-not-spies arrived here at the same time, I'm betting he's somewhere in the building."
Natalie's expression remained neutral. Almost. There was the faintest tightening around her eyes.
"Sir," JARVIS said, "displaying the primary executive kitchen."
A rectangular holographic screen unfolded across the mirrored wall.
The kitchen appeared.
Tony blinked.
His private culinary staff consisted of some of the best chefs money could acquire without technically buying human beings. Michelin-starred veterans. Pastry specialists. Nutritionists. A Japanese chef Pepper had lured away from a hotel in Tokyo with a compensation package that included housing, stock options, and permission to verbally abuse Tony if he mishandled sushi.
Every one of them was gathered around the central preparation island.
Several were openly crying.
One man had both hands over his face and was sobbing into his palms.
Another sat on the floor holding a ceramic bowl against his chest.
The pastry chef was staring at a piece of food on her fork with the hollow, reverent expression of someone whose religion had just become scientifically verifiable.
Tony moved closer to the projection. "What the hell?"
Audio rose from the feed.
"We are not worthy," one of the chefs whispered.
"You made that from the ingredients in our refrigerator?" another asked.
A third chef dropped to his knees. "You are the head chef now, Master Haru!"
"Please teach us!"
"Anything!"
"I have wasted my life!"
"That seems a bit dramatic…" Happy shrugged.
At the center of the kitchen stood a blond man Tony had never seen before.
Tall. Broad-shouldered without looking bulky. Golden-blond hair. Striking face, irritatingly symmetrical. He wore a white chef's jacket with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and stood with his arms crossed over his chest.
He looked extremely proud of himself. And based on the condition of Tony's culinary staff, he had earned it. The blond man said something that the nearest microphone did not catch. One of the chefs immediately started crying harder.
Tony glanced at Milim. She had pressed both hands against her cheeks and was swaying with delight. "That's Haru!" she said. "See? I told you he was the best!"
XXX