Still, Sabastin could spare a few minutes to help them deal with Vidar and his wolf. If he couldn’t, she wasn’t sure who could.
Caden 02:01
The walls of Caden’s almost exceptionally small room were bare except for two objects. The first was a relatively reserved picture of John Calvin above his simple, neatly made bed. The second was a black-framed, red-worsted embroidery of the saying, “Feed My Lambs.” It hung on the wall above the only other piece of furniture in the room, a plain wooden desk that had belonged to his grandfather prior to the man’s death a few years ago.
Caden stood in the middle of his gray carpet, trying to decide what to do. He still had ideas rattling around in his head from his workout in the gym’s pool. He needed to let those ideas out before he forgot them, but for some reason, he couldn’t quite muster the energy.
Still, he’d been told real writers treated writing like it was their job. They didn’t write just when the muse struck them. Real writers had bills, after all. And, just like with his swimming, there was no way he was going to get better without practice.
He sighed, trying to muster up the will to work on another draft of his book and opened his closet door. Just like every time he opened it, he found his closet still very well organized. The left half of it was all but consumed by a large solid oak bookcase. The bottom two shelves were devoted to an extensive set of encyclopedias, he’d admittedly never opened. These, along with the bookshelf, were also a gift from his late grandfather. The newest one was from nineteen seventy three.
The rest of the shelves contained various novels, many of which were classics and nonfiction books. He’d read almost all of them at least a dozen times and filled many of them with his notes. Those notes corresponded to a stack of spiral bound notebooks on the top shelf where he’d deconstructed the stories in the vain hope of learning what made each book tick. After all, how was he supposed to become a writer if he didn’t understand the craft?
Along the opposite wall, hung several shirts organized by color from dark to light. It always reminded him of a rainbow that stretched from black to white.
The only other object in the closet was a battered, wooden chair, which Caden removed before quickly shutting the door. He placed it in front of his desk and sat down. He pulled a small blue notebook and a nubby wooden pencil from the top drawer. He had a variety of mechanical pencils, and if he was being honest, he actually preferred them, but there was something about using an old wooden pencil that made him feel more like a real writer. Judging by his latest foray into writing, he needed all the help he could get.
He’d been trying to recapture the events surrounding his friends’ transition from mild mannered seniors into horsemen of the apocalypse, but try as he might, every word he wrote was horrible. It was a little weird because the words in his head sounded good right up until the moment they were imposed upon the page. Still, he worked on it daily, doing his best to jot down as much as possible by hand. Today was no exception.
After he had written about a page, he threw down his pencil in disgust.
“This is never going to work,” he grumbled, tossing the notebook back into his drawer and slamming it shut. “It’s impossible to make it seem realistic. Who is going to believe my friends from high school are really the four horsemen of the apocalypse, and they fought off a Norse god? Those are two completely different mythologies.”
Caden took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Part of him didn’t know why he was bothering with this at all. At first, he’d tried to ignore what happened, but he just couldn’t, and the more he tried, the more difficult it became. The world was open before him now, and he knew his place in it. He was a mere mortal among supermen. It was horrifying. The only thing he could do to make himself feel better, to make himself feel relevant, was to write it all down.
“This was probably why Jimmy Olsen always followed Superman around, snapping his pictures,” Caden mused as he leaned back for a moment in his chair and stretched. “Documenting the Man of Steel must have been a way to make himself feel like part of something important even though all he wound up doing was getting in the way.”
There was a knock at the door followed by the tough but kind voice of his father. “Hey champ, are you going to church tonight?”
“Yeah dad, I’ll come. Just let me finish something,” he called back, sitting up so all four legs of his chair sat firmly on the ground. He didn’t know why he did it, but he never liked his father to see him leaning back in a chair that had belonged to his grandfather. It was the main reason he kept it. Well, that and he didn’t like to buy stuff. Every time he purchased something, a horrible feeling would well up in his gut and apprehension would creep down his spine. Then he’d wonder if he would need that money later for something else. No, it was just easier to use what he already had.
His dad stepped inside the room and grinned. He was a mountain of a man, with a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard and a military style buzz cut. He wore a faux-gold watch on his left hand he’d gotten for twenty-five years of service at his job just below a somewhat faded tattoo of a cross with the words, “Jesus Saves” scrawled across it in green ink.
“You better hurry up. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” he said, walking over and putting his hand on Caden’s shoulder. He squeezed once.
“Okay, I’ll try to hurry, I’m almost done.” Caden smiled at him.
“I’m glad you’re coming. Oski will be happy to see you.” His dad ruffled his hair and walked out of the room without another word.
Caden glanced back at his notebook and sighed. Before the events with the horsemen, he’d attended church much more regularly, but ever since then, well, he hadn’t felt welcome inside his church’s hallowed walls. He wasn’t quite sure why because, if anything, it should have reaffirmed his faith, and to some extent it had. Still, there was something off about the whole thing, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He let out a sigh and grabbed a worn, leather-bound black book out of his desk drawer and headed downstairs. He wasn’t going to get anymore writing done now anyway.
“Is mom coming tonight?” Caden called as he opened the door to their garage. His voice had been a little more hopeful than he’d meant it to be.
“No. She’s at the hospital. I guess one of the other nurses had to go home early. Your mother picked up her shift.” His dad shrugged as if to say, “You know how your mom is.” And Caden did know how she was. Helpful and self-sacrificing to a T. Still, he’d liked to have seen her. As it was, between her job and her volunteering, she wasn’t the most present figure in his life.
He shrugged back. What else could he do? His dad grunted in response and turned back around, fiddling with something on his stainless steel workbench. It was basically the only surface not covered with bits and pieces of machinery in various stages of repair.
The rest of the garage was a cluttered mess. Various racks half-filled with boxes lined all the walls except for the one where the workbench sat. A plywood board with outlines where tools were supposed to go was hung up above said workbench. Unfortunately, most of them were strewn about the garage, leaving the board to look like a skeleton picked completely clean.
Several florescent lights hung from the ceiling between carefully painted model airplanes. They were meticulously arranged in an interdimensional battle where tie fighters chased after stealth bombers. Caden knew from experience that with the flip of a switch, the planes would light up and flash as though firing on one another. It was just one of many projects he and his dad had worked on together.
He still didn’t really have the heart to tell his father that he wasn’t actually fond of planes, space age or not. He’d thought about it a couple of times before, especially when his father had come home with three different versions of the Starship Enterprise to add to the diorama, but so far, he hadn’t been able to work up the nerve. Besides, it seemed to make his dad happy. If all Caden had to do was pretend he enjoyed th
e activity too, was that really too much to ask? Not likely. Someone had once told him that caring for your family meant doing things to make them happy, even when you didn’t want to do them.
“Ready?” his dad asked, hitting a switch above the workbench to raise the garage door before glancing up at his son. “I figured we’d take the bike tonight. Is that okay?”
“Sure. It’ll be fun,” Caden replied, keeping his grumbling inward as his dad flopped down on the old Harley. It wasn’t that Caden disliked the bike. It was more that he hated riding on the back of it. Doing so always made him feel a little childish.
Still, it wasn’t like his father had many opportunities to ride it. Before Caden had been born, his father had been a biker, but had long since sold his motorcycle. Two years ago, Caden and his mother had decided to rectify this. For Christmas, they bought his dad a Harley that had been ridden hard and put away wet a few too many times. His father had spent several months restoring the bike while pretending Caden was helping him and simultaneously regaling him with tales of the open road.
Caden had barely sat down behind his father when the machine roared to life. A moment later, they were flying down the street on the bike. Trees and other cars blurred around them, but Caden held on tightly, half-worried he’d fly off even though he never had.
Kim 02:02
Kim’s phone buzzed on the seat next to her as she rounded the corner and turned onto the street leading toward her future college. It wouldn’t be in session now, since it was still summer, but the library would be open. If she was quiet, she could sit there all day and no one would bother her. After waking up in a strange bed, she could use some alone time to sit and think, and try to decide if she could ignore how everything inside her wanted to go back and check on Malcom’s body.
She pushed the thought out of her mind before it could take hold and glanced at her cell phone vibrating across her passenger seat. A restricted number flashed on the screen. Only, she didn’t know anyone who had a restricted number when they called.
“Pass,” she muttered, swinging her eyes back to the road in time to see a huge giant of a man standing in the middle of the road with a queer smile on his bearded face. He was nearly ten feet tall and built like a brick house. His biceps were so large, it seemed like he was smuggling bowling balls beneath his flesh.
Kim slammed on the brakes, twisting the wheel hard to the right as a shriek of terror exploded from her lips. She was going to hit him and there was nothing she could do. She braced for impact.
The man drove his open palm downward, hammering the hood of her car and shattering her driver’s side headlight. The blow stopped her with a jerk. Her seat belt cut across her chest, bruising her in an instant before the airbag went off. Her head snapped backward as the front end of her car hit the pavement with a shriek of breaking plastic and splintering fiberglass.
She sat there stunned, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but it felt like her brain had been wrapped in cotton. The taste of blood filled her mouth as she tried to suck in a breath. A fist plunged through her driver’s side window, smashing a hole in the safety glass before reaching down and jiggling the handle. The door didn’t budge. It was stuck fast.
“What are you doing?” Kim cried as the man gripped the door and ripped it off the car like it was made of paper. He flung it behind him. It hit the sidewalk with a clang.
“Rescuing you,” the man boomed as one large gunmetal boot stepped on the bottom portion of the frame while the other gripped the end of her seatbelt. The muscles beneath his tanned skin bulged as he tore the seatbelt free of the car before wrapping his other arm around her waist and pulling her kicking and screaming from the vehicle.
“Put me down,” Kim screamed as rage boiled up inside her. Flashes of powers rippled across the back of her brain, rising like a tidal wave that could crash down and destroy her enemy. “Or I’ll make you put me down. I don’t care how strong you are. You won’t like that.”
“Stop struggling,” the man said, pressing his bearded face close to her ear as he spoke in low measured tones. “We don’t have a lot of time!” He pointed into the distance.
Kim followed the direction of his gesture and saw what could only be described as a man the size of a skyscraper with skin the color of soot at midnight. Instead of hair, orange flames danced on his head and flowed down his back like a mane.
“What the hell is that?” Kim screamed, panic filling her to the core of her being as the giant raised his chin and sniffed the air, his huge nostrils flaring. Even from several miles away, Kim felt gale force wind whip past her. The creature narrowed his glowing orange eyes and stared down at her. A shiver crawled over her skin. He was looking at her. She didn’t know how she knew, but she was certain.
“That is Surt,” the bearded man who had once seemed so huge said. “In the final days, he will cover the earth in fire, burning everything to cinders.” The man spun on his heel and began carrying her off into the distance. The giant bellowed loud enough to shake the buildings and shatter the windows all around them. Broken glass peppered them, but the big man shielded her with his body.
“I’m going to just believe you. What does he want, and how do we stop him?” Kim asked, trying her best to keep from shrieking like a loon. She knew if she started, she wouldn’t stop.
“We cannot stop him until the middle lord falls in battle. In that moment, Surt will raise his sword high and douse the world in flame. That will be your chance to keep the world from ending in flame,” the big man replied as he shouldered aside a parked dump truck like it was made of feathers and not thousands of pounds of steel.
“My chance to do what?” Kim asked as the black giant reared back, one hand filled with flames that seemed to stretch all the way into the heavens.
“To conquer fire itself,” the man replied, pulling her into a brick alleyway as fire hot enough to singe her hair roared through the street they’d just been on. Tires popped and melted into puddles. The asphalt liquefied, and the bellow of a thousand raging forest fires filled her ears.
“Okay,” Kim replied, swallowing hard as she turned to stare at her brawny savior. “How the hell do I do that?”
“You will need to find the sword Surt is destined to wield in battle. You must bend the weapon to your will, so after the middle lord falls, the sword will come to your hand. With it, you will be able to conquer fire itself.” The man smiled, and his image seemed to flicker as he held out one hand to her.
“That sounds impossible,” Kim cried, shaking her head as another blast of fire ripped through the streets, reducing what remained of the vehicles to pools of molten metal.
“I can teach you. With my help, you can conquer fire itself.” His smile grew even wider, revealing a mouthful of teeth that seemed sharp and menacing. “Unless you want to stay here with tall, dark, and flaming.”
Truth be told, she didn’t really want to stay here with a fire giant, but did that mean she was ready to rejoin the world she’d tried so hard to avoid? Could she really use her mantle again? What if using it caused more of her friends to die? The thought chilled her, but not as much as the one that followed. What if she refused to use her power and both Ian and Amy were killed? Even now she could feel them somewhere out there, and just knowing that brought her a certain sense of piece. She couldn’t imagine not being able to feel them.
Besides, what if learning to use her mantle had unexpected benefits? She was Victoria, the horseman of conquest, after all. What if by learning to embrace her powers, she learned to conquer not just fire, but death? What if that power let her bring Malcom back? It seemed impossible, but then again everything seemed impossible. As much as she didn’t want to rejoin the world of the impossible, she owed it to Malcom to try.
“You make an excellent point,” Kim said, shaking her head as she stared at a melting light pole. The entire thing had bent into a pathetic U-shape. “Let’s go.”
“You’re going to trust me? Just like that?” t
he man asked, amusement filling his amber eyes.
“Just like that,” Kim replied, turning her eyes upon him. “If I find out you’re up to no good, I’ll kill you where you stand.”
“I can live with that,” the man replied, offering her his hand. “Shake on it?”
The moment she took his hand, everything turned to ice and sleet. They stood upon a snowy mountain top. Wind howled around them, chilling her to her bones. Foot deep snow covered the landscape, nearly obscuring a cave along the face of the mountain.
“What is this place?” Kim asked as cold inched up her spine. A t-shirt and blue jeans was definitely not designed for this sort of weather.
“Jotunheim. The frost giants home world.” The man regarded her carefully, his amber eyes full of mischief.
“Jotunheim? Frost giants? What the hell do you mean by that?” Kim glared at him. “How the hell did we just magically transport ourselves to a different planet just like that? You need to explain yourself right now.”
“As I said before, this is Jotunheim. It is one of the nine worlds that springs forth from the branches of the world tree, Yggdrasil.” He gestured around them. “This world is home to the Jotun hence Jotunheim since heim is Norse for home. Do you follow?”
Kim took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she stared at the barren snowy landscape. “I sort of recall the world tree from school. In Norse Mythology it was a giant ash tree that stood at the center of the universe. Its branches reached into different worlds and such.” Kim shook her head. “Are you saying that is real?”
“Yes. It is all real. To a point.” He bent down and picked up and handful of snow, letting it fall through his fingers. “You can feel the chill in the surrounding air, can you not?”
Kim nodded because she was absolutely frozen. “Are the other worlds real too? You said there were nine worlds.”
“Yes. They are all real in their own way. Your world, the world of humans, is called Midgard.” He grinned. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that your own world is real.”
War and Famine: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Revelations Book 2) Page 3
