Brimstone Kiss: Phantom Queen Book 10 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

  I opened my mouth to ask what on earth that cryptic comment was supposed to mean, but Hemingway interrupted me with a gesture and an outstretched arm.

  “There it is.”

  6

  Fólkvangr spread out before us in a flash of late afternoon light as we left the foreboding cavern and its volcanic streams behind; golden rays of sunlight washed over the chariot, bathing the sable horses in its radiant glow. The horses whinnied and fidgeted as Hemingway urged them to descend, clearly agitated to have left the darkness behind. I, on the other hand, could do little but marvel at the gorgeous spring countryside with its cragged ridges and wildflower fields, its lush forests and sprawling meadows. As I watched, we soared over trees as tall as redwoods and carved statues that stood like sentinels at either end of towering bridges fashioned by hands more deft than any mortal’s. Rivers and waterfalls swarmed the landscape, causing a fair amount of fine mist to drift across the sky, and yet there were no rainbows.

  Curious, that.

  “This reminds me of the Otherworld,” I said wistfully, reminded of that realm’s richness, its vibrant wildlife.

  “It should. Paradise, after all, is born from the human imagination,” Hemingway replied. “The fact that natural beauty is a precondition shouldn’t come as a surprise, even if mortals often fail to appreciate such beauty during their limited lifespans.”

  “Ye sound bitter,” I noted, cocking an eyebrow. “Got somethin’ against the sprawl of civilization?”

  “Not at all. I’ve got no skin in the game anymore.” Hemingway turned towards me, and again I saw a leering skull flicker behind the flesh mask that hid his true face. “But I do find it interesting how many versions of Hell are either on fire or buried beneath the ice. It seems like every mortal knows what to fear, as well as what to cherish...you’d think their world would reflect that.”

  “Aye, well, we mortals rarely act in our own best interest.” I showcased the quickly approaching valley, aware that I could have made any number of decisions and ended up not only more content with my lot in life, but also, well, alive. “Case in point. Imagine what I could have done with me life if I’d gone and become a dental assistant, instead.”

  “A dental assistant?”

  “It was me aunt’s idea. She was worried I’d end up with the wrong crowd.” I nudged the Horseman, waggling my eyebrows. “Guess I proved her right, huh?”

  “Hah hah.” Hemingway adjusted our trajectory so we leveled off not ten feet from the valley floor, the horses’ hooves still singeing the air. The Horseman shook his head, his eyes haunted with some secret knowledge I could only guess at. A memory, perhaps. Or maybe visions of a future yet to pass. “Perhaps you’re right. The problem is, I’m not sure how much longer civilization is going to be left unchecked.”

  “What d’ye mean by that?” I asked, alarmed by his fatalistic attitude. But the Horseman didn’t elaborate. Instead, he pointed to a narrow pass that ran between this valley and the next.

  “Through there you’ll find the entrance to the base of Freya’s tower. Look for the door among the trees. It will be well hidden but shouldn’t be guarded.”

  “Why the secrecy? Couldn’t ye just take me to the top and be done with it?”

  “Sorry, but no. Freya...won’t want to see me right now, and I wouldn’t want to cross blades with her Valkyries twice in one day.”

  “Wait, this is where ye went when ye left me alone with Hades?” I asked, snatching at the Horseman’s sleeve. “Why? What happened?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “But—”

  “I said drop it.”

  I flinched at his brittle tone, drawing away and releasing Hemingway’s arm. For the first time since meeting the Horseman, I felt the push of his power; the scent of black licorice dominated the air and my skin prickled as though he’d run a bony digit up my spine. Granted, his energy felt like a playful slap compared to Hades’ overwhelming presence, but that didn’t mean he’d held back.

  “Quinn, I—” Hemingway began.

  But I was already leaping from the side of the chariot, my heart pounding in my chest, my cheeks flushed at the thought of being chastised for asking a simple question. I landed, rolling with the impact, and came to my feet before Hemingway could stop me—assuming he’d even considered it. I didn’t bother looking back; whatever his expression, it wouldn’t change the fact that he’d not only snapped at me, but refused to explain why he’d acted as he had.

  No matter how many centuries—or even millennia—the Horseman had on me, I was no child to be spoken to so dismissively.

  “Say hi to Othello for me,” I called back over my shoulder as I began marching towards the breach between the two valleys, the plush grass cushioning my every step. For a second, I thought Hemingway might say something—offer a word of encouragement, perhaps, or at least a farewell. But what I heard instead was the snap of reins and the clomp of hooves signaling the Horseman’s departure. For some reason, that hurt far worse than the slap of his power had.

  It’s funny...people liked to say life is too short to be miserable.

  But then I guessed they’d never argued with Death.

  7

  True to Hemingway’s prediction, the tower door was remarkably difficult to find; I spent at least half an hour searching for it among the trees beyond the pass, forced to duck beneath the thick, looping vines that hung between the boughs, each as thick as my wrist. It took long enough, in fact, that I began to worry how much time I had before night fell and I was forced to succumb to the alien will of my inner goddess—assuming the same rules applied here in Fólkvangr as they did in the Titan Realm. And yet, when I turned to track the sun’s descent, I realized it hadn’t moved so much as an inch across the sky.

  “Perpetual golden hour,” I muttered, squinting as I slipped beneath the drooping boughs of yet another tree. “That’s nifty.”

  I sighed, creeping forward with my arms outstretched, moments away from returning to the pass and reconsidering my approach when my fingertips brushed a stone surface hidden behind a patch of dense foliage tucked away in the shadow of a larger tree. I peeled away the leafy obstruction, careful not to cut myself on any thorns or bristles, only to jerk back with a curse. My whole hand stung, my fingers throbbing to the beat of my pulse, and a dim light strobed where my fingers had been, flashing first silver, then green. Frustrated and impatient, I yanked the remaining plant life aside to find a series of symbols carved into the face of the door I’d uncovered, some of which were still shimmering.

  They were runes, I realized. Nordic runes. Archaic symbols used by the Norse to form a written alphabet. Only these were unlike any I’d ever seen before—angled and reflective, they reminded me more of complex diagrams than the runic carvings I’d seen up to this point. I reached out to trace one of the etchings with the index finger of my hale hand and felt the stone cool to the touch; whatever had zapped me before seemed to have either worn off or run its course. I bent close, eagerly searching for signs of a handle or lever, peering so intently that I didn’t notice someone was right behind me.

  “A trespasser, huh? That’s new.”

  I turned to find an armored figure studying me from the edge of the forest, a winged helm slung under one arm and a plain wooden spear clutched in her other hand. The armor I recognized, but not the Valkyrie who wore it; I’d seen Hilde in a remarkably similar getup when we’d first met, though she’d been more of a sword and shield type of maiden. This woman had finer features than Hilde: a slimmer nose, narrower cheeks, a more pointed chin. She was edgier, too; she had one blue eye and one green, and the sides of her head were shaved, leaving a single blonde braid to trail down her back. Oh, and she'd apparently gouged what looked like a child’s rendition of a lighthouse across her armored chest as some sort of hyper-aggressive fashion statement that meant absolutely nothing to me.

  “Looks like Valhalla Barbie got a makeover,” I said, moving away from the door with a groan
.

  “Funny,” the Valkyrie deadpanned before brandishing her spear. “Now, tell me what you’re doing trying to break into our tower before I turn you into a stick puppet.”

  “Easy there Joan of Bark,” I insisted, raising both hands in mock surrender. “I come in peace.”

  “Who are you?” The Valkyrie’s dual-colored eyes narrowed as I straightened and stepped out from the shadows, forcing her to squint up at me. Before I could answer, however, I found the tip of the spear hovering inches from my throat. “You aren’t one of the chosen hugr. How did you get here?”

  “D’ye not catch the ‘I come in peace’ part of what I said? Or are ye hard of hearin’?” I asked, feigning pity. “Ye should’ve just told me that from the get go. It’s nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

  “Look, I’m not in the mood to joke around. Which means I’m going to stab you unless the next four words out of your mouth give me a reason not to.”

  “Well, that’s just dumb.”

  Searing pain lanced across my wrist, and the Valkyrie’s spear came away dripping with my blood before I could say another word. I hissed and snatched at the slim cut that ran across my forearm, cursing up a veritable storm. I glared at the Valkyrie.

  “Ye actually cut me!”

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” she replied, nonplussed. “Three words this time. Make them count.”

  “Suck me dick.”

  This time when the Valkyrie struck, I was ready; I danced left, ducked the non-lethal strike I’d suspected was coming, and barreled forward, slamming into the smaller but much better protected spear maiden. We tumbled to the ground with me on top, forced to use what little leverage I had to keep her arms pinned over her head. After several seconds of squirming, the Valkyrie released the spear and helmet, bucking so hard it felt like I was riding the steel horse Bon Jovi never shut up about. I gritted my teeth but held on, aware that the instant her gauntleted hands were free enough to strike, my kidneys would pay a steep price for my gamble.

  “Get off me, dammit!” the Valkyrie yelled, sounding more inconvenienced than anything.

  “I...am so...tellin’ Hilde!” I shouted as I struggled to keep her from rolling sideways and crushing me beneath her weight.

  The Valkyrie froze, and I suddenly found myself grunting and squirming all by my lonesome—not the most attractive image, admittedly.

  “You know Hilde?”

  “If I say ‘yes’, are ye goin’ to slice me open again?”

  “Depends. When did you last see her?”

  “Not sure,” I admitted, my mind sluggish after having essentially pinned the Norse equivalent of an armored tank for a solid minute and change. “Time hasn’t exactly been linear, lately. But I’d say the airport in Boston, after we got back from Russia.”

  “She’s in Boston?”

  “Well, not anymore, she...” I hesitated. “Any chance we can finish this conversation standin’?”

  “Fine by me.”

  “D’ye promise not to stab me, this time?”

  “No, but I promise to warn you before I stab you. How’s that?”

  I muttered a curse under my breath but rolled off the Valkyrie anyway; her armor was cutting into my skin more than her spear had. Turned out that while the medieval set looked awfully stylish—albeit a bit impractical—all those metal bits made for a very uncomfortable wrestling match. Once on my feet, I raised my wounded arm above the level of my heart, waiting for my pulse to slow and the blood to stop seeping from the laceration.

  “Still can’t believe ye cut me.”

  “I can’t believe you told me to suck your dick.”

  “Did I, really?” I asked, surprised by the vulgarity of my anatomically impossible challenge. “Sorry about that. Sometimes me mouth says t’ings before me brain has time to process.”

  “I can relate,” the Valkyrie replied, grinning. Which should have been odd given the fact that a couple minutes ago I’d wanted to knock out her eyeteeth, but wasn’t; there was something about her I found myself drawn to. Something familiar, though I couldn’t be sure what it was.

  “Tell me the truth,” she continued, “do you really know Hilde?”

  “Aye. She saved me life once. Maybe more than once, dependin’ what bits ye count,” I added, recalling the time Hilde had sheltered me from the Russian firing squad back in Boston, not to mention the time she’d come crashing into a mechanic’s garage to mow down several mercenaries before they could murder us all.

  God, those had been the days.

  “I’ll have to tell Freya,” the Valkyrie said, visibly relieved as she retrieved her fallen spear and helmet.

  “Tell her what, exactly?”

  “Hilde has been missing for years, now. Freya will want to know she’s alright. She is alright, isn’t she?”

  “As good as can be expected,” I replied, unwilling to share the details of Hilde’s captivity in Russia lest the spear maiden get all stabby again. “But she wasn’t missin’. She told me Odin loaned her out to the FBI, which...”

  I drifted off, struck by the sharp look the Valkyrie gave me at the mention of Odin, AKA the Allfather, AKA the Wanderer, AKA the Raven God, AKA...well, you get the gist; basically, the one-eyed leader of the Norse gods had more handles than P. Diddy. Of course, if the Valkyrie’s disapproving scowl was any indication, I was willing to bet Odin’s next moniker was going to have something to do with being spitted alive.

  Odin, he done it, now!

  “Who sent you?” the Valkyrie asked, her suspicions returning at the mention of the god. “Was it Odin? One of the other Aesir?”

  “None of the above. And, before ye ask, it wasn’t one of the Vanir, either. Or the giants,” I added, cutting off her next reply. “Or the elves, or the dwarves, or whatever else ye all have livin’ under that World Tree of yours.”

  “Then who?”

  “Well, I hitched a ride with the Horseman of Death.”

  The Valkyrie’s face paled.

  “But,” I forged ahead, “I was actually sent here by Hades. I have a request to make of Freya.”

  “Did you say Hades?”

  “The one and only.”

  The Valkyrie fell silent, biting nervously at her lip.

  “So,” I said, feigning nonchalance as I showcased the door that allegedly led into the tower above, “any chance you’ll take me to your leader?”

  “Freya just left. She’ll be at Sessrumnir. That’s her house,” she explained, correctly deciphering my baffled expression. “Come on, it isn’t far.”

  I fell in step with the Valkyrie, probing at my torn sleeve, tsking at the stain my blood left along the shredded leather seams. But I didn’t complain. For some reason, whatever I’d said had clearly shaken the spear maiden to her core; there was no sense kicking her while she was down. No, I’d simply wait until the perfect opportunity to complain about my maltreatment at her hands—likely to Freya, herself.

  Anything to get me that blessing I needed to chase after Ryan.

  “Say, what’s your name, by the way?”

  “Kára,” the Valkyrie replied, sounding distracted. “Call me Kára.”

  8

  I couldn’t be sure how long we walked to get to Freya’s house, only that it was one of the most scenic experiences of my life. In fact, I was so invested in our surroundings that I forgot all about my injured wrist and inadvertently left a conspicuous trail of blood as we went. Until Kára casually pointed it out to me, that is, the way you might indicate a stain on someone else’s carpet during a dinner party. According to her, those noble souls who called this place home—spirits she called the hugr—suffered wounds as any ordinary mortal might, only to be swiftly healed by the power of Fólkvangr itself.

  “Guess I’m not that lucky,” I said, raising my arm for further inspection. “Odd, though. It should have closed on its own by now. Ye didn’t cut very deep.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Kára replied with a gallic shrug. Indeed, if the Valkyrie felt any guil
t for her part in wounding me in the first place, she hid it well. “But you’re right, it shouldn’t still be bleeding like that.”

  “Ye t’ink there’s somethin’ to it? Some reason I’m not healin’? Like I normally would, I mean.”

  “I can’t be sure. We don’t get many strangers here. But I’m certain Freya will have some idea what’s happening.”

  “Assumin’ I don’t bleed out before we get there,” I replied, nonplussed. Oddly enough—other than the inconvenience of my sopping sleeve and the stickiness between my fingers—I felt remarkably fine despite the considerable blood loss. If not for the slight pain whenever I balled my hand into a fist, I might as well have spilled red wine down my sleeve.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” the Valkyrie drawled. She gestured with her spear, indicating a massive inselberg that dominated the horizon to the northeast. “Besides, we aren’t far, now.”

  “Past that hill?”

  “Past? No.” Kára flashed me a grin that transformed her austere beauty into something warm and welcoming, her green eye glinting in the light, her blue nearly black in the shadows. “Look again.”

  I did as the Valkyrie suggested only to realize that what I’d mistaken for a massive hilltop was in fact the hollowed-out shell of a giant reptile—presumably the gargantuan remains of a jötunn tortoise. Not that I could blame myself for my assumption; patches of moss spread along the carapace like grass, a quarry’s worth of stacked rocks sealed off the gaping holes the creature’s extremities had once occupied, and a fine white mist obscured the rest, rising like smoke from a chimney to spiral high into the sky, forming clouds in the shape of charging cavalries and foreboding shield walls.

  “That’s her freakin’ house?” I asked, floored by the sheer size of the place.

  “One of them.” Kára sniggered, then waved for me to join her with one gauntleted hand. “Where else would you expect a goddess to live?”

  I refrained from revealing my own status—undocumented though I was—thinking it best to keep my divinity under wraps in case I needed it for leverage at some point in the not so distant future. Inwardly, however, I began seriously reconsidering my real estate investments. After all, even on a part time salary, shouldn’t a goddess be able to afford something more on brand than a loft apartment in the heart of Boston? Maybe once this was over, Freya could pass along her agent’s information. I could see it, now...me, starring in the next episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Fae-myth, swathed in a silk gown, allowing the camera crew to capture my celestial essence.