The Fire Bringers: An I Bring the Fire Short Story (IBF Part 6.5) by C. Gockel Page B

parents, wasn’t scratched or torn. His eyes go down to his name, neatly written in black ink in the margin of the photo: Triloki. He touches the script reverently. It was written by his mother’s own hand, and it means a lot to him, even if he doesn’t remember her.
    Glancing around the hallway to make sure he’s not being watched, Bohdi concentrates and then feels the cold of the In Between on the hand holding the shards. Releasing them quickly, he yanks his hand back into the universe. Both hands free, he gently hangs the picture back on the wall.
    From the bathroom, Henry calls out. “Is the picture okay, Bohdi?”
    “It’s fine,” Bohdi says. He still goes by Bohdi, which means enlightenment, and he’d rather be enlightened than a ruler; he’s friends with Steve, and he’s seen the amount of bureaucratic BS leadership entails. Also, he stole the name Bohdi fair and square.
    Frowning at the other fallen photos, he bends down and picks up the next one. It is of him in Alfheim making out with a cute elf. He hangs it up quickly, and similar photos of him in Vanaheim, Svartheimer, and Musselpheim with native inhabitants. He picks up a picture of him, sitting on the lap of a cute curvaceous trolless. He smiles at the memory. That had been the best. He never meant to play have-carnal-relations-with-as-many-hominids-as-possible bingo with Loki; but he won anyhow.
    All the women in the pictures are Amy, of course. She can change her shape — although not in a puff of smoke like the myths. It takes days or hours depending on the form, but she prefers months or it is uncomfortable. When they’ve gone on missions in other realms, she’s shifted to be able to blend in with the populace. She can do illusions as well as Bohdi or Steve, but the magic to sustain illusions is detectable. When she finishes with a transformation, she is that species.
    The second to last picture is his and Amy’s “big fat Indian wedding”. Surrounded by all of Bohdi’s extended family, they’re both in traditional Indian attire. Amy is wearing an amazing pale peach saree embroidered with gold that hides everything and nothing. Bohdi is wearing a blue sherwani. His stitches sparkle just above the neckline—his relatives had wanted to cover them up, but he likes them. He’ll never let Amy take them out.
    He picks up the last picture. It’s a photo of Amy in mostly human form — she still has green hair and pointed ears — himself, and their one and only child, their daughter Durga. Taken four years ago, Durga is only two years old in the photo. She’s adorable with her dark brown pigtails, blue skin, velvety black bat wings, and her black, pronged prehensile tail — in the picture it’s wrapped tightly around Bohdi’s arm.
    He frowns. In the picture Durga is smiling. Lately, she hasn’t been smiling as much. She’s begun to realize that being blue, having wings, and a pronged tail isn’t “normal” for little girls. He’s trying to convince her that it’s better . It’s hard with the occasional, nosey busybody suggesting they surgically remove her wings and tail. His jaw gets hard and he hangs the picture up on the wall. Feeling a mood coming on, he shakes his head. “Amy?” He calls. Again, he gets no answer.
    He goes into Durga’s room. It’s neat and tidy — a sure sign that they’re out. Patting his back pocket, he looks for his phone and simultaneously closes his eyes. He sends projections throughout their house and to the backyard. It’s a rather nice backyard. Their home is near the lake, just north of the city — Bohdi prefers the city — but things tend to happen around Amy’s and his home that are best kept from major metropolitan areas: meteorites, spontaneous eruptions of mud monsters, that sort of thing. He doesn’t see the smoking husks of any meteorites, or any mud monsters, or leaf monsters for that matter — but no Durga or Amy, either.
    … if only he had his phone. It’s in the couch cushions?