Death’s Gift
Norse Blessed – Book One
B. Livingstone
Copyright © 2021 B. Livingstone
Published by B. Livingstone
In USA
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced/transmitted/distributed in any form. No part of this publication shall be shared by any means including photocopying, recording, or any electronic/mechanical method, or the Internet, without prior written consent of the author. Cases of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law are the exception. The unauthorized reproduction/transmitting of this work is illegal. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Cover Art by: Kismet New Moon Graphics and Design
Edited by: Raven Quill Editing, LLC.
Formatted by: Purrfectly Haunting Formatting
“I don’t regret what I had to go through, Pax.
Every heart aching moment has brought me so much more joy.”
~ Grace
Description
Since when is death not the end of life but rather only just the beginning?
When an age-old prophecy dictates so, that's when.
Since the age of thirteen, I've seen all the ways my life would end.
Sickness. Murder. Accident.
There was no escaping, the end was coming for me, and nothing I did would change that.
Too Early.
Too Short.
But I never could have predicted what would come next.
My life after death.
Will I be able to prepare those I love for the coming war or will I burn again?
Follow Grace and her men as she navigates through this new thing she calls life.
Norse Blessed series is a spin-off of the Shadowcrest Pack series.
This series is a medium/fast burn reverse harem paranormal romance featuring one female with five males: containing M/F/M/M/M/M sexual themes suitable for +18 audience. Trigger Warnings: This book includes scenes related to substance abuse, sexual assault, physical abuse and violence, swearing, and PTSD.
Glossary
Irish
Maggot- Fool
Eejit- Complete Fool
Kip- Dump of a place or a nap
Knackered- Exhausted
Thick- Extremely Stupid
Hey ann- Hey there
Feck- Fuck
Yer- Your
Mo chroí- my heart
Mo Stor- my dear
Grá- love
Mo grá- my love
British/English
Bollocks- Shit
Kip- Sleep or Nap
Plonker- Idiot
Sod- Bastard
Mate- Friend
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
About the Author
Stalk Me
Also by B. Livingstone
Prologue
Grace
The silence around me is unnerving. By now, Mom would be standing at the stove working on dinner, and Dad would be yelling from the other room about how the pack drove him nuts and how his Beta made him want to lock the man in a cell again. Not tonight though. No, tonight the silence and stillness of the air are utterly deafening.
Sitting at the kitchen table inside our humble pack home, my mind keeps replaying the nightmare I had last night over and over again on an endless, terrifying loop.
Two bloody, broken bodies lying in a shallow grave as a faceless man shovels mounds of moist dirt on top of them. In the distance, a car is a blazing inferno, small sparks of flame dancing in the air as bits of fabric and paper dance to a haunting melody into the starlit sky.
Turning away from the bodies, I run. Faster and faster, my bare feet kick up twigs and stones as I fly through the forest, quicker than I had ever moved before. Back towards home. Back towards safety.
I wish I hadn’t seen them. Why did I have to see? More than that, I wish I hadn’t seen him.
A tear escapes me as I hear the front door open, and Riley comes stampeding through the house. I quickly wipe it away and straighten my spine. Our home is only a small pack cottage in the Tongass National Forest in Southeast Alaska. So when you drop a pin, it sounds as though you’ve dropped a sixteen-pound bowling ball. Riley has always walked with the air of an Alpha; tall and proud, with a don’t fuck-with-me strength that radiates through her and shows in her every step and movement. Though no one would ever say she held the grace of a ballerina. Finding her way to the kitchen, she glances my way. I try to avoid eye contact with her, I don’t want her to know I’m afraid.
“Hey Gracey, where’s Mom and Dad? Did they leave you here alone?” She knows they wouldn’t. At only ten years old, Mom always said I had an old soul, holding a maturity and wisdom far beyond my years. Yet they still think I need a babysitter. To find me here alone is cause for alarm, and I can see it written all over her face when I glance at her.
Swallowing the lump in my throat I answer, “I don’t know. They weren’t here when I got home from school.” Against all my efforts, my voice still breaks as my fears get the better of me. Riley has me in her arms before I can utter a protest.
“Gracey, hey, what is it?” I couldn’t answer her. If I spoke, I knew I’d break. “Grace, what is it?”
I need to tell her, but I am too scared that if I speak the words out loud that it will make them true. Wrapped tight in her safe embrace, my walls crack just enough to tell her something was wrong. “Something is wrong, Riles. I can feel it. I-I-h-had a d-dream last n-night.” Shaking my head, the tears begin to flow faster, despite how much I try to hold them back. With every word and touch from Riley, the fear digs its claws in a little deeper. How can I tell her I saw them lying dead in a shallow grave while some faceless man buried them? Or about what I saw coming next. I can’t. I don’t want to believe it myself.
Just as I begin to pull myself together, a knock sounds at the front door. “I’ll get that, Sweetie. Why don’t you go get cleaned up and then we’ll go ask Alastair about Mom and Dad, okay?” I nod as I head towards the bathroom, knowing it really doesn’t even matter in the end. None of this really matters.
I know what the dream meant. I know who is here now and worse, why. I saw this too. I know what’s about to happen and there’s not a thing I can do.
After five minutes of waiting in the bathroom for Alastair to leave, I exit to find Riley sitting on the old worn leather couch with a look of shock, horror, and grief all mixed in one solemn look on her face. “Riley?” I whisper.
Coming back to herself, she schools her expression to show the calming air only an Alpha has, attempting to hide her pain, and pats the cushion next to her. “Grace, come sit, please.” Her voice holds that unwavering strength, the one I wish I possessed right now.
Though I really don’t want to, I do as she asks. “Don’t tell me,” I beg as I sit down. I don’t want her to confirm what I already know. “It’s not true. Tell me my dream was a lie and they’re okay.” Agains
t my shaky will, tears begin to leak from my eyes again, as I tremble with rattling nerves, trying to suck desperately needed oxygen into my burning lungs.
Riley doesn’t say a word as she shakes her head, her eyes beginning to shine with unshed tears. My resolve breaks, along with my soul as Riley wraps her arms around me, and I sink into her. My head comes to rest in her lap, her fingers running through my long golden hair in a soothing rhythm, much like Mom used to do after a bad dream. Snot and tears pool on her lap as I cry myself into a fitful sleep.
Nothing greeted me then. Nothing but a pit of blackness.
1
Grace
I wake with a gasp, my heart pounding behind my rib cage, threatening to break free. My vision swims, images blurring beyond my nose, and I’m momentarily unaware of where I am. As the scene around me slowly comes into focus, I take in my surroundings. The walls are a bright blinding white. A large opening to the right, framed in sheer golden curtains flowing in the breeze, leads to an overhanging balcony. A gold and cream chaise lounge sits in front of a large fireplace that takes up most of the far wall. The monstrosity must be at least six feet tall. A plush, soft white carpet runs wall to wall. I sit positioned in the middle of a bed larger than any I’ve seen in my twenty years. It must be custom made, being twice the size of a king. My hand caresses the soft down comforter that covers my sweat-soaked body.
Breathe. One. Two. Three.
Everything comes rushing back in, like a dam breaking inside my mind. Pain, death, falling, pain… Valhalla.
Valhalla, the land of the fallen warriors. The chosen few, picked up by the Valkyries, Odin’s warrior goddesses.
Only, I wasn’t brought to Valhalla on the wings of a beautiful Valkyrie. No, my journey was excruciating and desolate. A nightmare of lonesome nothingness, unable to feel, hear or see for what felt like an eternity, only to wish for the nothing to swallow me whole when everything began to seep back in. Skin blistering and splitting, charring before melting from my bones. The smell of burning flesh and hair filling my every sense. I can still feel the flames licking over every inch of my body, tickling my nerves like razor-sharp edges, and smell the burning of hair. Nothing smells worse than burning hair.
I shouldn’t have been able to feel or smell any of it. I was dead. My soul lost to the void. So why did I? Because of what came next.
Long after the burning had stopped, and I was nothing but ash threatening to blow away in the breeze, I was reborn through those very same flames in the land of Valhalla. Which, by the way, was just as agonizing. Bit by slow agonizing bit, my body was knit back together until my soul came crashing back by none other than Odin himself. Odin Allfather, King of Asgard, Protector of the Nine Realms, and Necromancer.
Closing my eyes, I flash back to the moment I took my first breath, weak and on the tail end of a silent scream.
My eyes open and immediately squeeze shut due to the onslaught of bright lights. Reflexively, my body curls in tight; my knees to my chest and my arms tucked close, as my hands fly to cover my ears in an attempt to muffle the screaming sounds bouncing around me.
A hand comes to rest on my head, causing me to unconsciously flinch away. Though not far, as I’m lying on my side in a fetal position. The hand is not deterred by my reaction as it returns, and fingers gently brush through my hair, sending tendrils of warm energy racing through my body from my head to my toes.
A deep voice calls to me, pulling me slowly to the surface of my mind and pushing all the other assaulting noises to the background.
Something heavy and warm is gently placed over my shaking body, and another set of hands comes to rest on my hip and shoulder. Not in an intrusive way, but in a way that is meant to bring comfort and a sense of security.
That voice continues to lull me to the forefront of my mind as my body slowly begins to relax into the cool floor under me. My hands gradually release my ears, and my eyes relax into a resting position.
“We have you, Grace. You are going to be okay,” that deep voice says, breaking through the sound barrier in my head.
Another masculine voice, this one from behind me, is making low cooing noises, like a parent trying to soothe their wailing baby. My body, drawn to his presence, instinctively reacts to his voice and touch. I know the hands on my hip and shoulder belong to this man, though I’m unsure how I know this, I just do. I press back into his touch; his knees connecting with my back, causing every muscle in my body to unlock. I let out a relieved sigh as I feel lighter than air in that moment.
I hadn’t realized I was whimpering until the vibrations in my throat and ears quieted as I rested against the presence behind me. His hand on my shoulder drifts down behind my neck, as the thumb on his other hand begins to massage slow circles over my hip. The movement drawing another sigh from deep in my soul.
“Rest, Grace.”
Taking a breath to collect my thoughts and steel myself for another day, I reach over and grab the robe hanging off the vanity next to my bed. The calling of the outdoors draws me to the open archway leading to the balcony of my third-floor suite. The smell of morning dew and fresh spring grass fills my senses. For a moment, I’m back in Tongass Forest. Running through the tall grass and climbing Sitka trees with Riley. Not a care in the world. No death, no rebirth. Just the trees and open fields. I close my eyes as I lean my head back, soaking in the rays of the rising sun and the comforting scents of the morning air.
A small table sits off to my right with a plate of pastries and a carafe of fresh brewed coffee. I have yet to see anyone deliver my breakfast and coffee every morning, but I sure would like to thank them. The coffee in this place is freaking amazing.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, along with a pastry, and walk over to the banister to look out over the open field. I try not to think too hard on the dream that had me waking in a cold sweat.
As I sip my coffee and finish off my morning pastry, two ravens fly up and land on the banister lining the balcony, an arm’s length away. One squawks at me, a command from his Lord. I nod my understanding to him in return. “Tell him I’ll be right there.” He bows his head to me in return, and I head back into my room to prepare for another day of training.
I stop off in my closet to grab a pair of skintight leather breeches and a loose long sleeve white tunic before heading to my en suite bathroom for a quick shower. Placing my clothes on the white granite counter between the his and hers sinks, I turn the water to hot in the open shower. Once steam begins to fill the room, the tiled walls wet with condensation, I step into the water and let the hot water run over my body. The heat penetrates the chill that still lives in my bones from the memories of the day my parents were murdered. I wish it were the only nightmare I’d have to relive today. But my luck is not that great.
Showered and dressed, with the now familiar weight of my sword strapped to my hip, I head to the great meeting hall on the main level of this grand palace I now call home. I’ve been here for what I believe is two months now, though it feels as if I’ve been here for years. Time is not relevant here though, therefore, there are no calendars or clocks to keep track of such things.
Walking down the white stone corridors lit by old-style gas lanterns, I study the pictures of ancient warriors. I have no clue who they are, and they hang every yard, spaced evenly and at the same heights along the stone walls. I have this overwhelming desire to move one a fraction of an inch, just to see how long it would take them to notice. Sounds like a fun game to play. Much like changing the direction of the toilet paper roll in the bathroom of someone with OCD. Not that I’ve ever done it. Honest.
I snicker to myself as I recall how I used to move the remotes’ basket just out of arms reach, so every time Alastair would come home and drop his lazy drunk ass in his chair, he’d have to get up again to get the remotes. He would bark and holler every damn time with threats of punishment, but that didn’t stop me from trying to make his life miserable. I knew about the kinds of things he was doing to my siste
r, and any small payback was a win in my book. Besides, at the age of eleven, what else could I do.
Making it to the meeting hall, I stand outside the large and imposing golden French style doors. They are decorated with intricate carvings that tell the tale of a great battle. The King stands in the middle, atop his mighty steed, with a long staff in one hand and a sword in the other. He’s dressed in what I assume is heavy solid metal armor covering his chest. It’s adorned with carvings of circles and triangles, placed symmetrically to create a beautiful geometric design. Small shields with the same designs cover his shoulders but are half hidden by a long cape that drapes from his shoulders. The cape falls in a wave down his back and over the haunches of his horse. On his left, stands a massive wolf displaying his fearsome sharp teeth. On his right, another man wearing the same relative armor as the King. He wields what looks like a formidable hammer. The two armies collide in the image, dead bodies litter the bottom half of the door, and those victorious hold up their weapons in triumph. The whole scene shows the heartache of war, of lives lost on both sides, and of the camaraderie of those left behind.
Acting as though I own the place, I push open the large heavy doors, and saunter into the meeting hall, heading straight to the front where two men stand talking with none other than the King himself. When he sees me enter, his one good eye meets mine, and I know he sees the remnants of my nightmare.
Death's Gift: Norse Blessed Book One Page 1
