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Sif blinked herself awake.
She was surrounded by darkness. Only the faintest touch of light seeped in through the cracks, marking the setting of the winter sun.
Pushing back the lid of her coffin, Sif sat up and stretched. She loved the long winter nights; it meant more hours of wakefulness. Summer nights were so short, it almost wasn’t worth walking, and then the heat was nigh unbearable. But not winter, when the nights were long and the air delightfully crisp.
Reaching for her phone, Sif found a series of texts from her dear friend Loki.
Loki: Meet me at the British museum when you wake.
Loki: Someone found my Egyptian lair and appropriated my belongings.
Loki: I need to do reconnaissance before the heist.
Sif: Be there in ten.
She smiled.
Being long-lived vampires had many perks, one of which was breaking and entering into museums to re-acquire their possessions when some hapless mortal stumbled across a cache of old, seemingly abandoned artifacts. Sure, she supposed they could enact better security to protect their lairs, but museum heists were half the fun of never-ending living. And it was fun to see which items the mortals considered worthy of display.
It had only been two years since Loki helped her break into l’Orangerie in Paris to reclaim her stolen art, mistaken for that of a famous impressionist. She’d studied with Monet, and was flattered someone found her hobby art worthy of hanging with the masters.
But it was still hers, and no museum was worthy of displaying her art unless she gifted it to them.
As she dressed, Sif idly wondered what a heist would be like if they worked on a level playing field with the mortals. Between her superior strength, speed, and inability to be recorded on camera, it was child’s play to retrieve her stolen possessions. It was still fun, especially when the museums still employed human security guards. Toying with mortals was always amusing, and sometimes led to a delicious snack.
Smiling at her nonexistent reflection, Sif patted down her scarlet silk top, smoothing it over the waistband of her silver trousers. Mostly grey, a slight sheen gave them just enough shine to remind her of the silver armour she once wore in battle. Times like these she wished she could see her reflection to admire herself, but perhaps it was best that she could not. She hadn’t cared much for her appearance in life, but throughout the endless eternal night in which she now lived, she had acquired a taste for pretty things. She liked to think she qualified as one, given Loki’s many assurances that her beauty was stunning, but his silvered tongue left her questioning his sincerity.
It mattered not. She had an appointment, and if she did not leave now she would be late. Silver half boots and a fur-lined crimson coat completed the look, and Sif left her attic flat.
Loki met her at the entrance to the British museum, looking resplendent in emerald green and black. For someone who could not see his own reflection, he always managed to look impeccable. “Loki,” Sif greeted, pressing air kisses to each of his cheeks.
“Sif,” he greeted in turn, eyeing her ensemble. “I see we are dressing to stand out today.”
She quirked a brow at his clothing. “I like to match my accomplice,” she said.
He tucked her hand in his arm, his long, delicate fingers lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary, and led her into the museum. He tsked. “Tonight you are the accomplice,” he said. “This is my heist.”
“Is this why we relocated to London?” she asked. His lips twitched upward. “You know you don’t have to lie to me about moving to a new city,” she chided. “I always enjoy a good heist.”
“I was working on misinformation and half truths,” he said. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up unnecessarily.”
She doubted that. Loki did nothing without assurances and guarantees. By the time he decided it was appropriate to move to London, he would have been certain his things were here. She jabbed him in the side to let him know of her displeasure; he didn’t so much as grunt, but she saw the spark in his eyes.
Collecting a map to maintain their guise as tourists, Sif pretended to deliberate over which section they wished to visit first before settling on the Greek display. As they wandered through the stolen Greek artifacts they made a show of gasping and exclaiming, reading inscriptions and discussing the merits of each work. They even rudely butted in on an American couple’s argument over whether the British had any right to the stolen pieces. Personally, Sif didn’t care. If the Greeks wanted their bits of history back, they should show up and take it. It’s what she was there to do, after all. That, and she hated Greece. It was far too warm and sunny there. She much preferred viewing their country’s artifacts anywhere else.
Drifting towards the Egyptian rooms, Loki and Sif split up to cover more ground. He didn’t know precisely where his belongings were located, and thought it best he cover the ground floor while Sif scouted the upper floor. They’d known each other well enough and long enough that they were both confident she could spot anything of his on her own, so she disentangled herself from his side and took the stairs up.
Egypt was another too warm, too sunny country that she avoided, but Loki had taken up residence there centuries ago when she was gallivanting about the world with Haldor. He had stayed for decades, and was surprisingly fond of such a sunny place. He claimed the long sleeps were rejuvenating. Sif thought they increased the risk of someone finding your sleeping corpse and snuffing out your undead life while you blissfully slumbered.
Wandering the glass cases, Sif wondered what the fasciation with mummies was about. Being dead and rolled in linen strips was far less interesting than being undead and sleeping in a coffin. There should be a display about vampires—which there currently was in this museum, she thought with an amused smile. It wasn’t marketed as such, but that’s exactly what Loki’s belongings were. Perhaps she should find an ebony marker and retitle his display. Oh, how the curators would love that. She could snap a picture and post it on the internet; perhaps it would go viral and attract more visitors, adding to the confusion for when she and Loki stole the entirety of the vampire display.
It was in the third room where she found the first of his things, a giant iridescent cube that almost seemed to glow when properly lit. It was one of the few possessions Loki still had from his mortal life, acquired from a father he could not quite remember but knew instinctively that he did not like. Sif hadn’t seen the cube in centuries. She took a moment to appreciate the fractured light emanating from the rigid shape. Whatever painful memories it held for Loki, she found it entrancingly beautiful. Perhaps she should try and convince him to gift it to her. He didn’t like it much anyway, and she thought it was pretty.
Shifting her eyes to the right, Sif found a collection of Loki’s papers. There was the deed to his Egyptian home, a missive to his brother Thor, and a detailed map of the bank of the Nile, drawn by his beautiful, artistic hands. She smiled fondly, remembering his cartography phase, made extra impressive as he only ever saw the landscape in the dark. Loki had a remarkable memory for geography.
Behind that, on a pedestal holding the papyrus above the other artifacts, was a letter addressed to her.
My cherished Lady of the Night,
I have been cursed to an eternity of darkness, doomed to stumble along blindly, meant to wallow in my eternal solitude. And wallow I did, lapping freely at the well of misery I crafted for myself, determined to find no joy in my condemned existence. For two centuries I plodded along, convinced I was meant for naught but to dwell in the inescapable cage of murder and darkness that plagued my everlasting life.
Then glorious, brilliant, effervescent light coalesced into a form most desirable and pierced through my personal hell of endless night. The moment I met you and you tried to run me through, my heart no longer failed to beat for me. Now it yearned to beat for you.
Every word that drops from your lips, every gaze you so grandly condescend to send my way, fills my veins and slakes my thirst as no blood ever could.
When we are together, my hand trembles with the effort of not caressing you. My feet grow roots in your presence, and I could not leave if an angry, stake-wielding mob approached unless you first led the way. When you leave my side, my nonexistent soul withers and weeps.
I waken every evening to the thought that I have one more blessed night to linger by your side, one more night to bathe in the light of your presence.
Were I able, I’d pluck my undead heart out of my chest and gift it to you on a bed of diamonds, for it is yours, for now, for ever, for always.
Beloved Sif, you make me warm.
Yours til we again see the light of the sun,
Loki
Sif couldn’t breathe. It was good that she did not need to, for she stood there in shock for six minutes, mouth gaping, eyes continually consuming the beautiful love letter penned by her most dear companion.
A small child jostled her, breaking the connection. Her hand brushed against the child’s face, and it scampered away from the ice of her skin. Sif hardly noticed, her mind racing with thoughts of Loki. Had he always felt this way? Had he stopped? Was he aware this letter was here? Had he sent her to find it on purpose, a coward’s way to confess for fear of rejection?
He should know better. She longed for him as strongly as he once longed for her.
But did he know better?
Pivoting around, Sif hurried back down the stairs and to the lower ancient Egypt exhibit. Weaving among the many tourists, it only took her one minute to locate Loki. He was staring at a mummy, his brow pinched.
He didn’t turn his head at her approach, but of course he heard her. Superior vampire senses guaranteed that. “I do think they raided more than my lair,” he said. “I know I buried this fellow kilometers away from civilization.”
“Did you know?” Sif demanded, curling her hands into fists.
“Him? Yes. Unpleasant man. Tasted like it, too. Wanted to try my hand at mummification, and he seemed like the perfect option. No one missed him.”
Sif reached out, her cold hand grasping Loki’s equally cold chin. Gently, so gently, she turned his face to look at her. “Did you know?” she repeated.
“I know a great many things, Sif. You must be more specific.”
Her hand slid down his neck, devoid of life-giving blood, across his shoulder, deceptively broad, and down his arm, twining her fingers with his. She tugged him along upstairs with her, and he followed willingly, his fingers curling around hers.
She knew the moment he saw the letter, for it was no longer her leading him. He tried to drop her hand, but Sif wouldn’t let him go.
There was a long silence in which Sif tried to read Loki’s face, but it remained closed and impassive. She longed to run her fingers across his cheek, to press her love against his lips, but she waited an agonizingly long four minutes for him to look at her.
“I wondered where that went,” he said.
“It’s so beautiful,” Sif whispered. “Why didn’t you post it?”
His lips twisted with some emotion she could not name. “The very week I penned it, you ran off with Haldor,” he said.
Ah. Not her finest period. It had been fun until he left her for a beautiful vampire hunter. That affair ended exactly as one would expect.
“And after?” Sif asked softly.
“Your on-again-off-again affair with Thor rather put a damper on my desire to try,” he said wryly.
Her other not-finest period. Thor had been a wonderful rebound. Worlds of fun with no commitment, he took the sting out of Haldor leaving her for their worst enemy. But it had never been anything more than surface level, though she supposed it wouldn’t look like that from the outside. “I came back to you,” Sif said. “We’ve travelled together for 247 years. Not once, in all that time, did it occur to you to say something?”
His delicious eyes peered at her, filling her with a warmth she could not usually feel. “Even now, with this line of questioning, I cannot discern how you want me to respond,” he said. “Have you warmed to the idea of my love, or are you repulsed and trying to let me down gently?”
She was warmed, all right. The feeling coursing through her was as wonderful as filling her veins with the blood of the innocent. Grabbing his lapel, she tugged him closer. “Are you saying your love remains intact, even after all this time?” she murmured, standing on her toes so she was a breath away from kissing him.
“What is left of my dead heart is, and always has been, yours,” he murmured against her lips, then shifted the centimeter needed to seal the kiss.
She pulled back just enough to place her hand over his heart and say, “Mine. Try and give it to anyone else, and I will make what Lorelei did to Haldor look a mercy.”
He responded with another kiss.
In the end, they decided against the heist. Loki claimed he wasn’t particularly attached to this set of belongings, but really it was because Sif declared that a love confession this grand needed to be on display for the whole world to see.
And they could always heist another day. After all, they had eternity to change their minds.