Chapter Four

Curious Bedfellows

Hermione tossed and turned. The bed was too large, too soft . . . too bloody resplendent with its luxurious sheets, bejeweled posts and layers of sheer curtains draping all 'round. Certainly she'd grown accustomed to four post beds at Hogwarts, but after roughing it for a new year leading up to the Second War's final confrontations, and roughing it more precisely, still, for so long after, the luxury was a little unnerving.

She raised herself up on her elbows and peered about her room through all those gauzy layers. Flames danced and licked low in the fireplace, just enough to keep the spacious bedchamber warm and dimly illuminated.

This was a princess' room, and she'd balked the moment she'd been ushered into it. Yes, it was Thor and Loki who's ushered her into it, as it was clearly a space set for a female resident, what with its wardrobes of gowns and nightdresses—no knickers or anything because apparently Pathiosians did not believe in undergarments—boxes of jewelry and what passed for perfume on this planet, and an enormous vanity table. She could only imagine the nobleman who'd lived her prior had been under the impression that women were, across the board, vain creatures who required such baubles and extravagances simply to survive the day.

All right . . . so perhaps she was a little embittered by her situation. After all, she was wearing one of the nightdresses from said wardrobes. She justified it to herself, though, as it was either that or sleep in the dress Beilor had put her in . . . or sleep in the nude, and with her housemates, she thought perhaps it best not to be so free with herself to steer away from any misunderstandings over why.

She sat up, peeling back the covers. Just as she was about to throw her legs over the side of the bed, she paused, looking at the curtains. She knew she should've tied them back before trying to sleep, but she had actually liked the sense of protection they'd provided, even if it only existed in her imagination.

Hermione lifted a hand toward the curtain and the fabric responded, shifting back toward the post, untouched. The witch froze. Was . . . was it possible the curtains were reacting to her wishes?

Something had happened earlier, too. She hadn't paid much attention because she was tired after such a long, strained few hours, and there'd been alcohol involved.

"Here we go!"

Loki about bounced into the room ahead of her when Thor opened the door to what appeared to be a wineroom. Like the image presented of those posh 'men's clubs' on the telly, the entire room was nothing but cushy seats, bottles perfectly lined on pristine shelves, service trays of waiting glasses, and between the shelved bottles were shelves of—

"Books!" Hermione was right on Loki's heels, but whereas he dived for the bottles, she dived toward the polished-hide bound volumes.

At first, she didn't notice that as she reached for one, the spine edged out from the shelf, meeting her hand. Too many years in a library that responded to the whims of its occupants, she thought now upon reflection. Opening the book, she wasn't surprised that she didn't understand a single letter—disappointed, but not surprised. The written language was quite aesthetically pleasing. If only she had a wand, then she might be able to translate the text.

The print upon the page seemed to move, then, twitching in place. Blinking hard, she closed the book. She must be more tired than she thought, her eyes were playing tricks on her.

She pinched tiredly between her eyes as Thor took the book from her hand and set it down. Loki replaced the book with a filled glass.

"Though I'm not certain what one with a Midgardian palate expects of such drink, I find Pathiosian wine quite nice."

"Wine," Thor said with some distaste, though he took a glass of his own, anyway.

Hermione sat on the nearest of the plush seats—in this case a lovely thing that was something like a chaise lounge but not quite. "Not a fan of wine?"

He arched a brow as he took a seat across from her. "Prefer stronger stuff, myself, but it'll do, I suppose."

Loki, still all little wound up from the day, wandered. Hermione raised her glass for a sip, but something about Loki's movements made her feel uneasy. She understood that perhaps it was because he felt uneasy, and she was simply picking up on that energy.

She was halfway through her glass, Thor already pouring himself a second, before she found she couldn't take any more of the chaos-god's pacing.

"Loki?"

"Hmm?" He glanced over his shoulder at her as he sipped from his glass.

"Please sit, you're making me anxious."

He snickered. "We're in an anxious situation, dear witch. Hence the wine before finding our bedchambers, hmm?"

Not that he was wrong, but she was exhausted and now ill at ease—a justifiable feeling before this moment, but now compounded by him. Gritting her teeth, she hissed out in a lethal whisper, "Dammit, Loki! Will you please just sit down!"

The chair mere inches behind him scooted forward, knocking against the backs of his knees so he fell into it.

All three blinked around at each other in shock. After a few heartbeats, Thor peered into his glass and then the bottle, as though something inside could explain what he'd just seen. Loki breathed a sigh of relief to discover that the sudden movement had not sloshed any liquid out of his own glass, and Hermione merely gaped at the disobedient—or perhaps in this case, obedient—piece of furniture.

It couldn't be wandless magic. One had to concentrate, to completely focus to even gather the energy to make small feats possible. Perhaps her exhaustion and the alcohol had given more to her anger in that moment.

Shaking her head, she set her glass on the nearest surface and stood. "I'm sorry, I can only imagine that was my magic getting a little . . . out of hand because I'm so tired."

"Right." Thor polished off his next drink and nodded. "Well, perhaps we should do a bit more exploring, then, so we can all find a place to sleep."

She'd not thought anything more of it at the time, but now . . . . Looking to the curtains on either side, she finally moved, waving her hand side to side. The gauzy layers followed the motion, pinning themselves to the posts.

Scrambling out of bed, she moved closer to one of the posts, watching in something like awe as the ribbons adhered there tied themselves around the curtain in a neat little bow. She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor as she reconsidered that first sign. The book coming to her. The shifting text within that anyone would've dismissed as simply being bleary-eyed. She'd lamented not being able to understand the words, and that was when the text began to shift.

She would bet anything—well, not anything, she didn't want to think of how quickly Loki would jump on a line of thought like that, or what he'd want to wager, all right, she was lying, she was a little curious—that if she found her way back to the wineroom right now and picked up that book, the text would be in English.

But nothing in the castle had responded to Thor or Loki, only . . . only to her.

Her eyes shot wide. Was that the reason for all this? The castle responded to Midgardian magic and there was something in here Beilor wanted that he couldn't get himself!

She didn't bother looking for slippers or a dressing gown, tearing from her room and out into the corridor in her nightdress and bare feet. She wasn't an actual princess or even remotely a lady of leisure, and it was hardly as though her housemates were earthly gentlemen, she was certain they wouldn't care about unnecessary proprieties.

Hermione was perfectly aware she could be jumping to conclusions, but this all just seemed too coincidental. A creature like Beilor would not put a rebellious thing like her into a place that gave her power unless he had some self-serving purpose for it.

Maybe the entire 'brink of war' with Asgard was a ruse to cover for whatever he hoped to find here. She chewed furiously at her lower lip as she raced along the otherwise silent corridor, trying to recall which room was Thor's—she imagined he would be less . . . smug and presumptive than his brother would be about finding her at his bedside in the middle of the night.

"Bloody hell," she said softly, halting in her tracks. The castle responded to her, so she chanced it. "Show me Thor's room."

Behind her, she heard the faint creak of hinges as a door opened. Turning, made a beeline for the sound.

His bedchamber was nearly as large as hers and she hurried across the floor to his bedside. Unlike her, he had the forethought to tie back the curtains—though she did have any amusing few seconds of picturing him having left them down, forgetting they were there, and subsequently getting tangled up in them in the morning.

She leaned down, reaching out to shake him gently by the shoulder. "Thor? Thor! Please wake up, it's important."

He rolled onto his back, mumbling something, but otherwise not stirring much.

Her brows drew upward at the sight of his bare chest and arms as the blanket fell away from him a bit. Oh, well, sure, he'd been wearing armor, did she really think he could sleep in that? There were garments in here he could wear, of course, but . . . . Tipping her head to one side, completely distracted for a moment, she wondered if perhaps the items in his wardrobes didn't fit him. It was entirely possible given his . . . stature, yes, she'd go with that word and leave the thought there.

Although, she was suddenly wildly curious. If he hadn't given a thought to stripping out of his armor to crawl into bed, then—Her gaze shot to the blanket now covering him from the waist down.

Her fingers itched with the desire to reach out. To lift the blanket just a bit . . . just to peek and . . . and assure herself she wasn't standing in a room with a naked god.

Snapping back to her senses, she slapped at one of her hands with the other and rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Hermione. Get a hold of yourself!"

Kneeling on the edge of the bed, she tried again, resting her hands on his shoulders—wisest place, under the circumstances, she thought. "Thor! Please, please wake up. It's important," she repeated.

Thor made a soft throat clearing sound, barely cracking open one eye to look at her. "Are we being attacked?"

Her brow furrowed. "No."

"Did you catch someone sneaking in?"

"No," she said again.

The God of Thunder sighed and then scrunched up his face, rather apparently still mostly asleep. "Is it really and truly anything that can't possibly wait until morning?"

"Well, I . . . ." In return, her face fell as she considered the question. Dropping her hands from him, she sat down. He wasn't wrong; Beilor would be no closer to whatever goal he meant her to accomplish for him in another six-to-eight hours—if she was even right about his motives. "No, I . . . I suppose not."

"You haven't slept at all," he said, seeming to observe this fact from the weariness in her voice, alone. He scooted over. "C'mon, lie down."

Her gaze flicked from him to the space he'd created beside himself, and back. "You're not serious."

He shrugged, still barely showing any sign of further wakefulness. "My brother and I are accustomed to travel, odd places, people from other worlds. We can sleep anywhere. You? You've never been off Midgard, and there's a saying among your people about not being able to sleep in a strange place. Perhaps if you're not alone, you might actually shut your eyes long enough to get some rest."

She leveled a lethal glare at him—not that he could see it—certain it wasn't her eyes he had a current and vested interest in her shutting.

"Fine," she said in a huffy whisper. This time, though, she permitted herself a peek beneath the covers, which she justified with the simple fact that she was climbing into bed with the man.

Though she breathed a sigh of relief to find he was wearing . . . well, something that passed for small clothes, she wasn't at all certain if she was relieved.

"Do I even want to know how this happened?"

It couldn't have been more than an hour or two later that she was woken by what she felt sure was the voice of one mildly annoyed God of Mischief.

Cracking open one eye, as Thor had done earlier when she'd woken him—or tried to—she met Loki's sleepy, puzzled, mildly annoyed gaze. "It's not what it looks like," she murmured, even as she wondered why she was explaining herself to him.

Loki's brows drew upward and his lips pursed. Already she knew that look.

"I . . . ." Mostly asleep, she had trouble recollecting precisely what had troubled her so. Something about Beilor and her magic? She knew she'd recall perfectly once she had rested well enough, but just now it was a lost cause. "I came in to tell him something important."

"So important it couldn't wait 'til morning?"

She shrugged, despite her state she was strangely cognizant that she was responding to Loki in near the same fashion Thor had responded to her. "Tha's exactly what your brother said. When I told him no, he decided I was tired and told me to lie down and get some sleep, which is precisely what I'm doing. Now why are you here?"

"I don't know. Something woke me, a bad dream, I think. I was heading to back to the wineroom when I noticed the doors to your bedchamber and his both open." He smiled mirthlessly, though the expression was lost on her as that one eye had already drifted closed. "Call me curious."

"All right, Curious," she said around a yawn, lifting the covers aside for him. "C'mon."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm here 'cause I couldn't sleep. You can't sleep, so, c'mon."

Loki rolled his eyes, exhaling loudly. "Oh, for pity's sake. I'm not—"

"Shut up and get in the damn bed, Loki," Thor snapped, causing the witch between them to jump a bit.

"I hate you both," the frost giant groused as he slipped beneath the covers beside Hermione.

She laughed, letting herself relax again enough to start drifting back off. "I don't think he even woke up for that."

Breathing in deep through his nostrils, Loki closed his eyes. "Oh, he wouldn't need to. Yelling at me comes far too naturally for him."