Ray Fujimoto sprawled upside-down on the couch, the top of his head brushing the floor. His socked feet hung over the back of the couch and his eyes were focussed unwaveringly on the television screen. He and everyone else on campus had a week free from classes for the purpose of reducing stress and giving students a chance to catch up on reading and assignments. With that in mind, Thor had gone to the library to do research for some paper. Ray, however, had chosen to devote his time and energy to a newly arrived copy of Ultimate Legend VI: The Philosopher’s Curse.

One of the optional, hidden characters in Ultimate Legend VI was a ninja. You had to catch fifty golden moths as they gathered around your campfire, at night, before the fire singed their wings and devoured them, and you had to have all twelve of the other, non-ninja characters before the ninja appeared at one of thirteen random locations. Then, you had to fight the ninja using only one of your characters, chosen at random, who would be forced into battle wearing only their underwear and wielding their starter weapons (which was, in one case, a stick with a nail through it).

Ray was, despite or because of all this, madly in love with Ultimate Legend VI.

Under such circumstances it was understandable that the sudden buzzing of the phone annoyed Ray. He swore. He jammed his finger down on the START button. The game paused, he threw down the controller and rolled off the couch.

The phone buzzed again.

Kicking an empty box of Japanese takeout, Ray lifted the receiver and stabbed viciously at the button that would unlock the security doors below. He didn’t wait to hear who was locked out. He was Ray Fujimoto, and he had moths to catch. There were really only two options as to who could have been buzzing, anyway: some idiot who’d lost their keys, or Thor. If it was Thor, Ray decided as he flopped back on the couch, there would be Hell to pay. How many times, he wondered, could one guy loose his keys?

Ray had just caught his thirty-fifth moth (unless it was his twenty-ninth) when there was a knock at the door. He swore. The game was paused again. He tried to decide if it would be better to start Thor’s torture off with buckets of snow at three in the morning, or by writing detailed instructions on how one could purchase Thor’s virginity on the back of his roommate’s favourite shirt. In permanent marker.

As he opened the door, Ray was leaning toward the first option, because there was an abundance of snow outside the apartment and a distinct absence of permanent markers inside the apartment ever since the last time he had graffitied Thor in the latter’s sleep. This train of thought was interrupted by the sight of the person at the door. It was definitely not Thor and the surprise was almost enough to make Ray slam the door shut.

Tall? Yes. Slim? Check. Blond? Very. Blue-eyed? Astonishingly. An eighteen-year-old of the male persuasion? Absolutely not.

The woman, at least ten centimetres taller than Ray, was, well, a woman. Not Thor. She had thick hair so blond it was almost white, making her aggravatingly difficult to pin an age to, which Ray thought was most unfair. She smiled down at Ray with thin, smooth lips coloured a frosty pink. It was a pleasant enough smile, but there was a trace of uncertainty in her expression. Clearly a short, half-Japanese boy wasn’t who she’d been expecting to answer the door. Ray gave her a winning smile anyway. “Yes?” he asked cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’m looking for Sigurd. Is he in?” Her tone was politely inquisitive, but she also looked over Ray’s head into the apartment. Hoping to catch sight of this Sigurd guy, Ray supposed. He was tempted to say Sigurd had just stepped out to lure the woman inside. With enough distracting and brilliant conversation, she’d forget about Sigurd within minutes.

“There’s no Sigurd here,” Ray said, a combination of strict Catholic upbringing and mystical ninja powers resisting temptation reflexively and letting honesty win.

Stupid honesty.

“This isn’t King Place?” She was looking genuinely worried now, twisting a badly knit scarf in long white fingers with blunt, unattractive nails. Former nail biter, without a doubt.

“Certainly is. And yes,” Ray said, before she could ask, “this is apartment 306.” He rapped his knuckles on the faded numbers gracing the door. “These aren’t someone’s really dumb idea of a holiday joke. You probably just got the wrong address. Mumbling over the phone, bad handwriting, happens all the time. And there’s about a zillion different Places around here, too.”

“I really don’t think that’s likely,” she said with a frown. She was evidently not the kind of person who was used to making mistakes, particularly where other people could see. “Look, young man. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Sigurd around? He’s fair, about so tall?” She held her hand an impressive distance above her head, bumping the top of the doorframe.

Ray could only think of one person that absurdly tall. He grinned in sudden, evil delight as everything fell into place. “Oh, Sigurd. Of course. Just pulling your leg, you know. Trying to keep Sigurd from being pestered too much . . .” He trailed off, smiling up at her invitingly.

She didn’t bite. “I’m Sigurd’s mother. Helen Thorbiornsen.”

The finally piece fell into place, and Ray swore mentally. It figured that the only woman who’d ever come looking for Thor would be his damn mother. “I never would have guessed,” he began, and stopped as she fixed him with a cold, disbelieving stare. Eyes like chips of ice, sharp and full of cynicism. She wasn’t going to let herself be charmed or flattered by a teenage boy’s bullshit, that was clear. But Ray wasn’t going to let a little thing like someone’s powers of observation stand in his way. He’d only been twelve when he’d gotten Jim Flaherty’s grandmother practically eating out of his hand. That had only taken him a week, and she’d been over eighty with an unshakeable belief that every foreigner in Ireland was an agent of the Devil. Or a well-disguised monkey. Granny Flaherty had always been a bit strange . . .

It followed, then, that Ray’s natural charm could only have improved in the six years since. “I never would have guessed, except that he obviously takes after you.” That bit of bullshit went down better, and the glare relented.

Ray gave himself a mental pat on the back. He held his hand out, smiling. “Ray Fujimoto,” he said as she accepted the gesture and they shook hands firmly, Ray’s sturdy fingers warming Mrs Thor’s skinny, winter-chilled ones. His smile widened. “I’m Sigurd’s roommate. Sigurd’s at the library, doing a bit of research, but I’m sure he’ll be back any minute, if you don’t mind waiting . . .”