Between the Blade and the Heart

by Amanda Hocking

  “Just with Jude,” I replied, and I didn’t need to look up to know that her eyebrows were arched suggestively.

  Instead, I pretended to be focused on the bag of Ēostre’s Lagomorph Chow, which was alleged to be perfectly formulated for the health needs of jackalopes, wolpertingers, rabbits, pikas, and colugos, before dropping it into my basket.

  “That makes it twice in a month, doesn’t it?” Oona asked.

  “I only see him when my luft breaks down, and it just so happens that my luft kinda sucks.” I grabbed a couple packets of ramen noodles and an energy drink that claimed to be infused with the elixir of the sun, whatever the hell that meant.

  “I just don’t see what the big deal is, Mal,” Oona said as I made my way toward the counter. “If you like this guy, what’s so bad about making him your boyfriend?”

  “It’s just not like that.” I held up the energy drink. “What do you know about this?”

  “I know there’s this Nephilim chick in my class, and she swears by it, but I think it’s mostly mango juice.” Oona shrugged. “Don’t change the subject, though. I just don’t know why you’re so opposed to officially dating someone. I mean, Quinn was your girlfriend before.”

  “Yeah, and you know how that worked out,” I muttered. “Valkyries—”

  “—don’t fall in love,” Oona finished for me with a dramatic eye roll and began ringing up my purchases. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. The great Malin is impervious to the desires of us mere mortals. You may have the libido of a teenage boy.…”

  I scowled at her, which only made her laugh. “Thanks.”

  “You know, I’ve heard you say that thing about Valkyries and love at least a hundred times, but I was reading in a textbook about Valkyries the other day, and it didn’t say anything about that,” Oona commented.

  “Did it say anything about Valkyries’ personal lives at all?” I asked.

  She frowned. “Well, no. Not really.”

  The subject wasn’t something I’d really encountered in books, either. There was usually a line or two about Valkyries being loners and isolated, since our job didn’t exactly make us popular with the supernatural beings. If it was a real in-depth book, it might offer a tip or two on how to handle those that were prejudiced against us, but that was about it.

  Because of the nature of our jobs—which involved occasionally killing our neighbors—we tended to be a lonely people and rather nomadic, with few connections and relationships in this world. Not being able to love made it easier on us, and we were more likely to complete our assignments if there wasn’t a risk of us getting attached to them.

  Or at least that’s what my mom had taught me. Over and over again, since I was very young, usually when I was upset about one thing or another, Marlow would lecture me about how I needed to toughen up, and remind me that we were made of something stronger, so we didn’t need love. We didn’t need anything.

  “I think our inability to really love is one of those things that’s common knowledge for Valkyries, but it isn’t really talked about outside of the circle,” I told Oona with a resigned shrug of my shoulders.

  As I paid for my stuff and loaded it up into my messenger bag, Oona informed me that she’d be working for another few hours, so I’d have the place to myself, which gave me time to catch up on my schoolwork.

  Oona worked at the market because it was only a couple blocks from our place, and I made it to our apartment complex in record time, parking my luft in the narrow gated alleyway. As I was locking up the luft, the dumpster beside me started shaking and snarling.

  I waited a beat, reaching for the asp baton I always carried in my bag, and a Dobhar-chú climbed out, with a mouthful of rotten eggs and lettuce. The Dobhar-chú looked like a cross between an otter and salamander, except with patches of scales mixed in with its slick fur and a row of angry-looking fangs in its mouth.

  It stared at me with its small round ears lying flat back against its head, and its gills fanned out as it growled, as if I wanted to steal the garbage from it.

  “Go on. I won’t bother you,” I tried to assure the water hound, but it turned tail and ran out to the canal, where it dove in and disappeared.

  The Dobhar-chú and other water creatures like it were part of the reason why complexes like mine—once billed as luxury—had fallen into disrepair. The canals brought along too many pests, smells, and corrosion.

  The sign across the building that read TANNHAUSER TOWERS had once been shiny gold and lit up, but all the lights had burned out and the metal began to oxidize and rust. When a strong wind blew by, the letters would groan and shake, and it really was only a matter of time before one of them fell off.

  The apartment I shared with Oona was on the sixty-seventh floor, and it had once been a penthouse suite before being cut up and converted into six microscopic apartments. Ours was a dingy two-bedroom, with my room being just barely large enough for a bed and a dresser.

  The front door opened into the small living room/kitchen combo, with concrete floors covered in a few worn rugs and cold metal walls that we’d attempted to warm up with a couple posters and a wall tapestry. The only really nice thing about the flat was the rather large window that took up an entire wall and overlooked the canal below.

  When I came in, I expected Bowie to greet me, the way he usually did when I got home, but instead of him excitedly hopping across the floor toward me, I was met with silence. Eerie and palpable, and my body instinctively tensed.

  I hadn’t yet turned the light on, but thanks to all the light pollution from advertising and vehicles, the room was fairly well lit, changing from neon blue to red and back again with the billboard across the canal.

  “Bowie?” I called, setting down my messenger bag on the small pile of jackets and shoes Oona and I left by the door.

  Then finally I spotted him, huddled underneath the kitchen table in the corner. He stomped his foot loudly on the floor, warning me of danger, but really, I hadn’t needed it. I stepped toward Bowie, wanting to get to him and protect him from whatever threat was making the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  But by then it was already too late. I saw a flash of movement in the corner of my eye, and then arms were around me, with a hand over my mouth, blocking my screams.

  EIGHT

  I bucked against my attacker, kicking back and sending him flying across the room. He slammed hard into the metal door of my bedroom, but he was up quickly. When he charged at me, I swung at him, but he grabbed my fist.

  I faltered for a moment, caught off guard, and he took that opportunity to pin me to the floor. He held my hands out to either side, his large hands enveloping my wrists, and he straddled me, using his weight to hold me in place.

  I could’ve fought back, but at the moment I was too stunned, trying to figure out how in the hell someone had gotten me on my back so quickly.

  Thanks to my Valkyrie blood, I was almost six feet tall and endowed with a preternatural strength. That meant I could best any human I tangled with, be they man or woman, and supernatural beings stood even less of a chance against me.

  Not only was I unnaturally strong, but I made immortals weaker. My blood was immortal kryptonite.

  But this guy, he had stopped my fist like it was no big thing. I could have pushed through, but it would’ve taken all my strength, and that was alarming.

  “What are you?” I asked, staring up at him in the shifting glow from the billboard.

  He looked human, at least—black hair cropped short, dark blue eyes, a shadow of beard, a distressed jacket clinging to his broad shoulders.

  His eyes narrowed, and his dark eyebrows pinched together. “How old are you?”

  “How old am I?” I gaped up at him. “You pinned me to the floor to ask me how old I am?”

  “You don’t look a day past eighteen,” he said, sounding annoyed, as if I had misled him somehow.

  “Nineteen,” I corrected him. “And what are you? Twenty-one? Why so judgy?” I shot back
. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  He tilted his head, looking toward the window, and blinked. I’d grown sick of this game, so I lifted my leg and kneed him in the tailbone. He let out a pained groan, but loosened his grip enough that I could easily push him off.

  I turned my back to him so I could rush toward the kitchen counter. His footsteps scrambled on the floor behind me, and I kicked back at him. My foot collided firmly with his chest, slamming him back against the wall, just as I grabbed a butcher knife from the counter.

  I whirled on him, holding him against the wall and pressing the knife to his throat. Standing like this, I realized I had underestimated him a bit. He may have been human, but he was a few inches taller than me and muscular, with a T-shirt pulled taut over his barrel chest. He could pack a punch.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” I demanded.

  He pursed his lips before letting out an irritated breath. “I’m looking for the Krigare Valkyrie.”

  I pushed the knife harder against his throat, as a warning. “That’s me.”

  “No, it’s not,” he replied, with so much certainty that for a moment I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Why don’t you believe me?” I asked.

  “You’re too young,” he said, but there seemed to be a confused sadness dampening his insistence, and already I felt his body relaxing against me.

  “I know my own name,” I assured him. “What I don’t know is who you are or what the hell you’re doing in my apartment.”

  Finally his shoulders slackened as he relented, and his eyes met mine. The neon lights outside made the blue in his eyes glow, then darkened them red, as he spoke. “My name is Asher Värja. My mother was a Valkyrie.”

  I relaxed slightly—but only slightly—since I now had an explanation for his strength. He might not have the same kind of abilities I had, but sons of Valkyries had their own strength unique to them.

  “Okay,” I said finally. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  He licked his lips and lowered his eyes, looking embarrassed. “Can you lower your knife so we can talk?”

  “You’re the one that ambushed me, remember?”

  “I know. I made a mistake,” he said in a voice thick with apology. “I’m sorry. I was just afraid you wouldn’t talk to me if I knocked on your door.”

  “Well, maybe you should try knocking first, and only move on to assault as a last resort.”

  “I’ve just been looking for a long time, and I was overzealous,” he admitted wearily.

  “Fine.” I took a step back from him, giving him some space, but I kept the knife in my hand. “You said I was too young, and your mom is a Valkyrie. What does that have to do with me?”

  The light outside abruptly changed, as the billboards switched over to brand-new advertisements that glowed blinding white, and the apartment was suddenly flooded with light. In the brightness, I was able to get a better look at this Asher Värja, and I realized that my original assessment of his age may have been off.

  He looked around my age, maybe a couple years older, but there was something about him that made him seem so much older. A world-weariness in his face, pulling all the lines down into tired angles.

  But mostly it was his dark eyes that seemed to contradict his youthful appearance. He had the eyes of someone who had seen a great deal.

  “Your sword came up on a search because it was recently registered,” he explained, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. “I thought you were an older, experienced Valkyrie who was just relicensing it. You’re the only M. Krigare I’ve been able to find, so I just assumed you were who I’d been searching for.”

  That did explain his confusion over my age, since both my mother and I were listed as M. Krigare in our records. We were assigned numbers that helped differentiate us in our personal files, but for someone just gathering info, it would be easy to mistake Malin for Marlow without more context.

  He cleared his throat, looking at me with a desperately hopeful look in his eyes. “Is there any chance that your mother is named M. Krigare?”

  “What do you want with her?” I asked carefully, rubbing my thumb absently on the handle of the knife in my hand. “Is she an old friend of your mom’s?”

  “Not exactly.” He glanced out the window, and hoarsely he replied, “I’m looking for Krigare Valkyrie.” Then he turned back to look at me. “Because she killed my mother.”

  NINE

  Vengeance was an occupational hazard of being a Valkyrie.

  Most immortals didn’t like the idea of being returned (although a few did welcome it with open arms). Those who resisted us were known for performing preemptive attacks on Valkyries, as if killing one of us would stop another from coming in our place.

  And there were reports of loved ones retaliating after a Valkyrie had taken someone out. Just like everyone else, immortals had friends and families that didn’t like being left behind.

  While unfortunate and problematic, this reaction was normal. It was something we’d been taught to deal with. But vengeance from another Valkyrie? That didn’t make any sense.

  “You must be mistaken,” I said after a long silence while I tried to absorb what Asher was saying. He stood in the center of the room, his arms hanging at his sides and his eyes locked on me with an odd expression of defeated determination.

  “I’m not mistaken,” he replied. His words were soft but blunt, and the deep rumbling of his voice conveyed absolute conviction.

  “A Valkyrie cannot kill another Valkyrie,” I insisted, but my words sounded weak, even to me.

  Because that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t impossible—just incredibly difficult, thanks to how evenly matched we were.

  “I may have been oversimplifying,” Asher admitted, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Your mother didn’t kill my mother herself, but her actions led directly to her death.”

  A wave of relief washed over me, and I let out a shaky breath. “So you’re blaming my mom for some kind of accident?”

  I hadn’t wanted to believe that Marlow had done what Asher accused her of, but the brutal truth was that I wouldn’t have been able to put it past her, either. She was strong-willed and stubborn, and my mother did hold the rather unfortunate belief that violence was the solution to most problems.

  “Three years ago my mother Adela was killed. She was left burnt beyond recognition.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if the words were getting caught in his throat and he had to force them out.

  “I’m sorry,” I said simply.

  Asher shook his head, brushing off my apology. He reached for the front of pocket of his moto jacket, then stopped himself. “Is it all right if I show you something?”

  “As long it’s not a weapon,” I allowed.

  “Of course.” He gave me a brief, grateful smile before pulling out a small electronic tablet. “Here’s an article about it—the only article, actually.”

  He held the screen out toward me, and I stepped closer to get a better look. It opened with a rather disturbing black-and-white photograph of an ashen skeleton. Below followed three quick sentences.

  An unidentified woman was found dead in the alley behind a Huitaca-owned discothèque in Ou’helstad, Panama. Coroners say the woman died from smoke inhalation. Investigators are still looking into the incident, and Huitaca’s representatives could not be reached for comment.

  “So?” I asked, looking up at Asher, since there didn’t seem to be even the slightest connection to me or Marlow.

  “This was the only thing that was ever said about it.” Asher tapped the screen, and I was about to repeat the word so when he added, “When was the last time you remember a Valkyrie getting killed?”

  “Ten years ago?” I shrugged, but it suddenly came back to me.

  Shortly after my eighth birthday, a Valkyrie was murdered by an angry widower. For weeks after, I was worried something like that would happen to my own mother. I remember begging Marlow
not to leave, not to go out on jobs, and I’d thrown such a tantrum once, crying and fighting to get her to stay, that she’d finally locked me in my bedroom to keep me from chasing after her.

  “Eleven years ago,” I corrected myself.

  “It was all over the news,” Asher said. “The billboards downtown replayed endless interviews with witnesses and crime scene footage.”

  Valkyries were notoriously hard to kill, earning us the nickname of “cockroaches” by some of the more colorful immortals. We also provided a sense of order and safety to the world—at least from humankind’s perspective. So whenever one was killed, it was a huge story.

  “So why wasn’t this all over the place?” Asher asked, pointing to the article on his tablet.

  “It didn’t say anything about her being a Valkyrie,” I said. “That’s probably why no one picked up on it.”

  “Exactly!” he said, sounding triumphant that I seemed to be catching on to what he was laying down. “They suppressed it.”

  “Who’s they?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. The Evig Riksdag, maybe?” He shook his head. “After my mother was killed, my grandma and I started looking—”

  Startled, I couldn’t help but interrupt him to ask, “You know your grandmother?”

  “Yeah, of course I do,” Asher replied, giving me an odd look.

  I’d never met mine, and Marlow told me that she’d never met hers, either. The only other Valkyrie I knew well in terms of a personal relationship was Quinn Devane, and she all but refused to talk about her family. As far as I knew, no Valkyries had relationships with their extended family.

  “Never mind.” I brushed it off. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, my grandma and I went to Ou’helstad and started looking into it, and no one would give us any answers about what happened to my mother,” Asher explained. “It didn’t seem like any kind of investigation had been done.”

  “You’re telling me that a Valkyrie was killed and no one cared?” I asked.

  “No. I’m telling you that a Valkyrie was killed and someone covered it up,” Asher corrected me.