Daughter of Odin

by S. K. Gregory

  Daughter of Odin

  Gods of Chaos: Fall of Valhalla

  S. K. Gregory

  Copyright © 2019 S. K. Gregory

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover courtesy of Carol Marques Cover Designs

  Prologue

  Valhalla

  A Long Time Ago

  You can’t escape your fate.

  I have heard the words so many times in the last few centuries, words to live by. But not to die by.

  I surveyed the battlefield, searching for any sign of Fenrir. Warriors from both sides lay dead around me. They fought bravely, of course they did, you don’t enter Valhalla without being brave, loyal and an undisputed bad ass. They will all be honored during tonight’s feast in the Great Hall.

  Their deaths were not in vain, I have defeated Fenrir in battle, proving to him and everyone else, that my fate at Ragnarök, that I would fall at his hands, is wrong.

  “Mighty Odin,” a voice called. I turned to find one of my warriors rushing toward me.

  “What word is there of Fenrir?” I asked.

  “Sire, he appears to have fled the battlefield. When the tide turned, he transformed and left through a portal.”

  “Coward,” I muttered. He made me ashamed to call him my grandson. For all his posturing, his sense of self-importance, he was nothing more than a cowardly snake.

  “If he returns, have him executed on sight,” I said. He wasn’t even worthy of smiting. Let the fool run.

  I returned home, weary from the battle. I wanted nothing more than to wash the bloodstains from my skin and drink until I slipped into slumber.

  While my servants prepared the feast, I changed out of my armor, leaving it on the floor for someone to collect.

  As I was leaving the bath, I noticed them. Paw prints on the floor, leading from my bloody armor to the window and out onto the balcony.

  “Come out, Fenrir. Or do you fear your king?” I said.

  Fenrir stepped into the room, his armor damaged, his face twisted in anger. “I do not fear you. How could I fear a man who would start a war in an attempt to outrun his fate?”

  “You say that word like you have the first clue what it means. Ragnarök has passed and the prophecy did not come to pass.”

  Fenrir started to laugh, the sound verging on hysterical. “That was not Ragnarök. That was a war you started. You sacrificed all of those men because you think you are better than the rest of us. The real battle is yet to come and you will die at my hands.”

  I took a step toward him. “The prophecy says that you will die too.”

  “Yes, and I have accepted that. No matter what you do, Odin, you cannot escape this. Every God will fall, as will Midgard. It is written. From the ashes of the old world, a new one will be born.”

  I was sick of listening to him talk. “Guards!” I bellowed.

  “‘Til we meet again, Grandfather,” he said, before leaping from the balcony.

  The guards rushed into the room. “He went over the balcony. Find him! I want Fenrir eliminated. And send me Loki.”

  The guards left the room and I dressed in my celebration robes. Loki entered the chamber a few minutes later.

  “Father?”

  “Fenrir was here. I gave you specific instructions to ensure that he was killed in battle, no matter what.”

  Loki bowed his head. “He escaped me. He shares my ability to shapeshift, there was nothing I could do.”

  “You are his father! And I am yours. When I give you an order, you will follow it.”

  “I will set out to find him now. I won’t rest until he is dead.”

  “Take Tyr and Angraboda with you. He will most likely head for Midgard, he seems to like it there. Bring me his head, Loki.”

  “Yes, father.”

  Loki left to fetch the others. If anyone knew Fenrir’s tricks, it was Loki. I feared that he would side with is son, but after everything Fenrir had done, he saw him for what he really was. An angry fanatic.

  I walked out to the balcony, staring out at Valhalla. My kingdom. I wasn’t just tasked with keeping Valhalla safe, but the other realms too. I had visited the human world many times, they did not need our war spilling over onto their world. They were weak creatures, fragile. Beautiful women though. Some to rival the Gods themselves.

  “Run, Fenrir. Run as fast as you can. I swear if I cannot catch you, I will do whatever it takes to save my home. Whatever it takes.”

  One

  Nebraska, 1988

  I was three when the ravens started following me. Or at least that was when I started to notice them. They would line up outside whatever home I was staying at, watching me.

  While multiple birds would appear, there were two in particular that always shadowed me. They were bigger than the rest, bolder too. Whenever anyone tried to shoo them away, they would caw loudly, fluttering their wings but they wouldn’t fly away.

  They never scared me though. Over time, I started to think of them as guardians of sorts. No one else was looking out for me growing up, so I was glad to have them.

  They followed me now as I hiked along the highway, a backpack slung over my shoulder and my thumb out in the hopes of attracting a lift.

  Hitchhiking was hardly a glamorous or safe way to travel, but I wasn’t exactly rolling in it, so I didn’t have my own car. I didn’t have my own anything really. Just a few clothes, a couple of battered paperbacks and my Walkman. All the money I had managed to save from my part time job last summer was practically gone. I did pick up some more in Denver, but it felt wrong to use it.

  At 19, I hadn’t been out of foster care long. I’d never had a real home. I was ‘Dumpster Baby’, or at least that’s what they called me in the paper of the small town I was found in. I carried the clipping with me as though it would offer me answers of who I was, but there was very little information except for the name of the town.

  I discovered it just before I turned 15. My foster dad at the time took great pleasure in telling me how little I meant to my real mother. He always was a jerk.

  Over the last few years, the moniker had haunted me. It wasn’t helped by the fact that the other kids in the foster home found the article and started calling me ‘Dumpster Baby’ every chance they got. I learned early on not to talk back, but I hated them so much.

  I was determined that when I was finally free of them, I would visit the town and find out the truth. Whatever it was.

  A blue truck appeared on the road and the driver slowed when he spotted me. When he came to a stop beside me, he quickly gave me the once over.

  I was used to guys doing that by now, but this one wasn’t lecherous. He looked concerned. He was an older man, in his late fifties with a bald head and ruddy cheeks.

  “You okay, girl?” he called through the window.

  “Yeah, I’m trying to get to Redwood Cove.”

  He frowned. “Well, it’s a fair distance. Maybe twenty miles?”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t want you to go out of your way. I’ll wait for the next one. Thanks.”

  As I turned away, I heard him sigh loudly. “Hop in.”

  Smiling, I turned back to him. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, my wife would kill me if she found out I left a young girl like you by the side of the road.”

  I climbed up into the truck. If a guilt trip got me to where I needed to go, I wasn’t complaining.

  “What’s your name, little lady?” he asked, as he drove off.

  “Kari.”

  “Pretty name. I’m Hank. So, what’s in Redwood Cove?”

  “Uh, I’m trying to find a family member.”

  “Your dad?” he guessed.

  “My mom, actually. I was given up for adoption.”

  “Sorry to hear
that. It happens though. A young girl gets herself pregnant and can’t take care of it.”

  I didn’t respond, although I thought plenty. Sure, girls magically get themselves pregnant, that’s how it works.

  I sniffed, there was a nasty odor, probably manure. Hank looked like a farmer. I tried to ignore it. He was after all, generously giving me a lift.

  “Redwood Cove is a nice enough place. Nice people,” he said, after a while. Probably to fill the silence.

  Perhaps, but it was also home to a woman who threw her child out like she was trash.

  That was if she was still there. She could have moved on long ago or died for all I knew.

  “That’s good,” I said, when I realized he was waiting for a response.

  Something black suddenly flew at the windshield. I caught a glimpse of the bird’s head, before it swooped up at the last minute.

  Hank gave an uneasy laugh. “Looks like we have kamikaze birds ‘round here.”

  “Guess so,” I murmured, but I actually recognized that bird. I was sure it was one of the larger ravens that always followed me.

  That’s stupid. Could they really keep up with a truck going 60?

  It was just a coincidence, nothing more. Even so, I had an uneasy feeling.

  The smell in the car was getting stronger. Trying to appear casual, I rolled the window down a couple of inches. The cold February air leaked in, but it was better than having my nostrils assaulted by whatever that smell was.

  “You in college?” Hank asked.

  “Uh, no. It was never really on the cards.”

  “Well, you’re still young. Time enough. What are you, eighteen?”

  “Nineteen.”

  He nodded slowly. “Nineteen. That seems right.”

  Seems right? What is he talking about?

  Another bird dive bombed the car and I was starting to worry.

  “Why do you think they’re doing that?” I asked.

  Hank shrugged. “Who knows.”

  I started chewing on my thumbnail. I wondered how much further it was or if it was worth it to just get out and walk the rest of the way.

  I glanced at Hank. He was staring at the road ahead, humming softly to himself. But…did his skin look gray all of a sudden? I blinked a few times, but I wasn’t imagining it.

  Swallowing hard, I said, “You know you don’t have to drive all the way to town. I can walk part of the way.”

  “Nonsense. It won’t be long now.” He turned and smiled at me. I tried my best not to react when I saw his rotted teeth. They were not like that a minute ago.

  Maybe I’m losing my mind.

  The smell had increased and was almost overpowering now.

  “You know, they said you’d come back. Sooner or later.”

  “I…wait, what?”

  “Bet they didn’t think it would take this long.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “They want you alive. But I bet they won’t mind if I get a couple of bites.”

  I grabbed the door handle, but it didn’t budge. I looked for the lock, but it had been removed.

  Hank brought the truck to a stop, close to a sign that read: Redwood Cove, 1 mile.

  So close and yet so far.

  Hank twisted in the seat and his face looked decayed. He didn’t look human any more.

  “Stay away from me,” I cried, backing away as far as I could.

  Two ravens landed on the hood, cawing loudly.

  “Welcome home, Daughter of Odin,” Hank said.

  He opened his mouth wide, lunging forward. I screamed, just as a there was an almighty bang from above.

  Hank’s body convulsed, then slid onto the floor of the truck, smoke pouring out of his head.

  Practically hyperventilating, I looked up to see a hole in the roof of the truck.

  “Lightning. It was a bolt of lightning,” I whispered.

  I needed to move. Crawling across the seat, I opened the driver’s side door and climbed out. My legs were shaking. What the hell was going on?

  Gripping my backpack, I staggered away, leaving Hank’s body behind.

  As I passed the sign, the ravens looked down on me from on top of it. A chill ran through me.

  They were warning me.

  Two

  I kept my head down as I walked, still reeling with what just happened, terrified I was losing my mind.

  Even if I did imagine his face like that, in my fear and panic, I didn’t imagine the lightning bolt. Or the fact that he’s lying dead back there.

  But why should I care? The guy tried to attack me and by some stroke of luck, he had been stopped. I remembered what happened in Denver. It’s not the same thing.

  This was a fluke, that’s all.

  I’ll report it when I get to town, I thought.

  The walk was long and a biting wind started to blow. I would kill for a cup of coffee, maybe some breakfast.

  Hank’s face flashed into my mind, okay, maybe food was a bad idea.

  I kept glancing back, just to make sure I wasn’t being followed. Well, other than the ravens. They made me feel protected.

  I’ll never ignore them again.

  When I arrived in town, I paused to get my bearings. I needed to find the Sheriff’s station, but the sign for the Redwood Beacon caught my eye. It was the newspaper that printed the article about me. The reporter might still work there. Randall Turner. Even if the information wasn’t included in the article, he had to have a theory.

  I hesitated. I couldn’t see the Sheriff’s station from here, so if I went inside, I could ask where it was and find out if the reporter still worked there.

  Two birds, one stone.

  That thought made me glance up and sure enough, the twin ravens were perched on a street lamp above me. They were still and silent, which I took as a good sign.

  The offices of the Redwood Beacon were on the second floor of the building. A couple of teenage girls walked up the stairs ahead of me, both dressed in jeans and blouses.

  “Are you here for the internship too?” the blonde one asked the brunette.

  “Yeah, it will be good experience. I plan on studying journalism next year.”

  I listened to their banal conversation, wishing I could just push past them, but they now walked side by side up the stairs, caught up in their chat.

  We finally reached the top. The newsroom was smaller than I thought it would be. Five desks filled the room, with two women and three men. A door on the far side of the room had a sign which read: Edward White, Editor in Chief.

  A quick scan of the room told me that only one of the men was old enough to possibly be Randall Turner.

  A man in his early forties, with dark hair, was hunched over his desk, squinting at the typewriter in front of him.

  I approached his desk and cleared my throat. It was only when he looked up at me that I realized I didn’t know what I was going to say to him. I wanted to know about my mother, but I didn’t want to reveal who I was. Not yet, anyway.

  “Are you one of the interns?” he asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” I lied. The other two girls were speaking to the woman in the corner, who I assumed was the editor’s secretary.

  “Great. Get me a coffee,” the reporter said, thrusting his mug at me.

  Slightly shocked at his rudeness, I looked around helplessly.

  “The coffee pot is that-a way,” he said, pointing his pencil to a small kitchenette, hidden by a large potted plant.

  Knowing it would give me time to think about what I would say, I headed for the kitchenette. As I was pouring fresh coffee, the other woman in the office, a pretty redhead came over and stood beside me, holding a mug of her own.

  “Is Turner making you run errands already?” she asked.

  It is him.

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  “He did the same thing to me when I started here. Just because he’s been here forever, he thinks he runs the place.”

  “I don’t mind. I’m
here to learn,” I said. I’d get him as many coffees as he liked as long as he told me what he knew.

  “To be a reporter, not a skivvy.”

  I laughed and thanked her, carrying the coffee back to Randall’s desk. I set it carefully down. Randall didn’t even glance up.

  Undeterred, I took a seat in the chair by his desk.

  He was struggling to type with two fingers, his pencil wedged between his teeth. I started tapping my foot, mostly from anxiety. It wasn’t so bad when I was walking around, but now that I was sitting down, I could feel my heart thumping in my chest.

  Randall paused in his typing, glanced up at me and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “You’re Randall Turner,” I said.

  “I know that. What’s your point?”

  I decided to stick with the journalism angle. “I’m a fan of your work actually. You’ve been here the longest. I even have an article you wrote a long time ago.” I removed the article from my pocket and unfolded it. It had seen better days. “I was impressed by it. It’s what made me want to be a journalist.”

  He stared at me, taking a sip of his coffee. Finally, he reached out a hand for the article. I passed it to him.

  Now he looked confused. “I wrote this when I was a cub reporter, probably before you were born. Why would you keep this?”

  “I just thought it was an interesting story. Did you ever figure out who the baby belonged to?”

  He frowned at the clipping and gave it back to me. “Do you live here in town? I don’t recognize you.”

  “Oh, my uncle lives here. I visit him quite often, then I decided to move here.”

  I was really just making this up as I went along.

  He wasn’t buying it though. “Who is your uncle?”

  “Um…” my mind went blank. I couldn’t even think of a name. As I scrambled, he leaned back in his chair.

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” I answered automatically, still trying to think of a name.

  He sighed heavily. “You’re her, aren’t you?”

  “Who?”

  He leaned toward me, his voice low. “Don’t play dumb. You’re Dumpster Baby.”