I woke up alone in the dark.
My toes were numb, and the rest of me ached from the cold. 50 degrees cold (30 outside). The blankets had fallen off my bed, and the space heater next to me was quiet. No surprise, given it was from the 1960s when my grandmother first bought the house. I thought it'd be a waste to use the central heating since my parents were away, but the chill that had seeped into my mattress overnight made me rethink the money-saving tips I learned in college. I sat up, shuddering as my cold pajamas shifted across my skin.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and groaned when my bare feet touched the icy wooden floor. I staggered in the dark to the window and opened the heavy curtains, letting the winter light filter in. The view was the same as it had been for the last four months: Grey. Grey trees, grey snow, and a grey sky for miles in every direction. The only thing different was the unsettling lack of bird noises… and the random person standing in the front yard.
"Are you serious?"
It sounded more like "arrrusurrrusuuugggghh" but I was half-asleep, half-frozen, and really pissed. I leaned closer to the window to see if I recognized him or her, groggily wiping the condensation off the glass every time I breathed. Most of our neighbors are reclusive, but the ones who aren't are bored out of their minds and like to party… often ending up drunk in other people's front yards.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, trying to get a look at the person's face. His back was to me, and he was wearing a green cape and something ridiculous on his head. I felt safe assuming it was a guy since most ladies have enough class to pass out indoors. With another groan, I walked out of my room and down the hall towards the front door. Usually I'd look at the pictures hung on the wall, but it was so early I could only focus on how to get rid of the jerk dressed like the Ghost of Christmas Present. The foyer was even colder than my room, and I shivered as I pulled on my boots (I forgot about socks). Before heading out the door I glanced at one picture on a wooden chest among a dozen family photos; it was a polaroid of me and my best friend. The sun was shining on our faces, and we were both smiling like idiots; the best selfie ever. That was five years ago.
I opened the door and stepped outside. The frigid air bit my face, and I grimaced as I walked across the front porch. I was about to yell something geezer-like about throwing up in other people's yards when I realized that the man was gone, and standing in his place was a little boy.
I stopped, not understanding what I was seeing. Where was the other guy? Was the kid with him the whole time? Or was I so tired that I thought the kid was a thirty-something year old man? The boy was looking right at me with icy blue eyes and a forlorn look that broke my heart. He was no longer wearing a cape (where did it go?), nor the crazy gold headdress (where did THAT go?). Instead he was wearing a Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt, cargo pants, and cheap tennis shoes. He had the darkest hair I had ever seen, midnight black against his pale, alabaster skin. In the grey landscape around me, he was a refreshing shock of black and white. He was the most beautiful little boy I had ever seen, but an eeriness hung in the air between us. While I felt compelled to help the poor child, I also felt something else: A faint urge to run back into the house and lock the door behind me.
This was how I first met Loki, the most wanted criminal in the galaxy, and the man who murdered my best friend.