by Brook Rogers
I drew in a fortifying breath.“Undo it.”
He whirled around with a bewildered expression.“I can’t undo it,” he said, the words edged with frustration. Then he closed his eyes as if to collect himself. “I might be able to slow it down. Listen, the most important thing is getting you back, right now. The bond isn’t complete, so you only have a limited amount of time before your tether to the physical world snaps. We’ve already wasted too much.”
A screech of rusty hinges followed by the boom of a heavy door made us both jump. In an instant, Dubhlain was in front of me, the druid tattoos on his arms glowing brightly as he engulfed me in a massive bear hug. He spoke more in that language I didn’t know, then released me so suddenly I actually stumbled back a few steps. The white flames in his eyes had overtaken his whole pupil, and his body flickered.
Shouting a final word, he struck his palm right against the spot where my bonding mark now lived. Scorching waves of pain ripped down every nerve pathway in my body, every cell melting down to be remade into something new. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Then there was only darkness.
My own screams woke me. Bolting upright, I furiously patted my hands over myself to make sure I wasn’t actually on fire. After a few minutes, my racing heart finally started to slow—I even laughed.
I’d left the TV on when I fell asleep, and the B-grade horror movie now playing must have been the reason for the ridiculous dream. Rolling out of my tangled sheets, I hit the power button and headed into the bathroom to pull off my sweat-soaked shirt.
When I turned on the light, my eyes landed on the bandage decorating my chest. Struck by sudden curiosity, I pried the corner loose and then paused, eyeing my reflection. I felt silly for even wondering, but I gave the bandage a quick jerk anyway.
The wound—red and oozing when I went to sleep—had completely healed. A delicate silver-shaded outline was all that remained, slightly raised and ropy like scar tissue. Now it seemed like an incomplete rune, but one I wasn’t familiar with. I still didn’t know what it meant or how it got there, but at least it wouldn’t give me any more trouble . . . hopefully.
When I turned to throw the used bandage in the trash, I caught something strange out of the corner of my eye. My gaze darted over my shoulder, back to the mirror, and a cold chill raced through me.
It hadn’t been a dream after all.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again, but the black-and-silver wings tattooed on my back were still there. They taunted me with my shortcomings and made one thing all too clear: my connection with that damnable druid would be harder to shake than I thought.
Chapter 7
Thankfully, the next couple of weeks passed by without much excitement. For a few nights immediately following the one starring Dubhlain, I mildly dreaded falling asleep, but my worries ended up being groundless. I actually slept better than I had in a long time.
My supervisor Ralph assured me the matter of the dark warlock would be checked into, but when I handed him the card containing Conall’s and Bran’s contact numbers, he studied it in stony silence. One of his eyes twitched, and his pudgy cheeks grew red.
“Ray, do us both a favor and keep your distance from these guys.” He ran a hand over his face. “Hopefully you slid right off their radar. They aren’t good men. Just—” He paused, changing his mind about whatever he’d been about to say. Instead, he shook his balding head. “Just watch yourself, okay?”
I told him I would, but my curiosity only grew.
As far as the damage to the bar, the men had been true to their word. A cashier’s check had arrived for Frank within a few days, and the amount more than covered the cost of repair. Frank even excitedly planned to make some improvements to the bar with the extra. How could Conall and Bran be as terrible as Ralph made them sound if they were willing to clean up their messes so generously? I wanted to find out.
Unfortunately, searches online didn’t provide much. The logo on the men’s business card was just an infinity symbol. A snippet twenty-five pages deep in my Google search mentioned security, but that turned into a dead end. How can you work somewhere that has virtually no internet presence but still inspires the kind of reaction I got from an Enforcement supervisor?
I only had a couple low-grade pickups sent my way, and they were for minor infractions. Hell, a complete rookie could have handled them. Ralph never said it, but it was as if I’d been put on some kind of probation. That rankled. I was good at my job. Having to prove I was worth keeping on? That cut deeply.
However, the lull in my work schedule gave me the chance to spend a few days with Megan. We hashed and rehashed everything that happened that night at the bar. I told her about the mark on my chest and the dream-that-wasn’t-a-dream, then finally stripped my shirt off and showed her the giant black-and-silver wings tattooed on my back.
Beginning at the tops of my shoulder blades, they extended down to the upper curve of my ass—amazingly intricate and unnervingly realistic, every feather clearly defined. When I moved, the silver highlights made them ripple. I found it some kind of cosmic horseshit that the one thing I’d yearned so desperately for my entire life was now emblazoned—mockingly—on my body. King-sized so I could never be tempted to forget I was a defective valkyrie.
The sight of the tattoo stunned Megan speechless. She gawked at it, a dreamy little smile on her lips, until I snapped my fingers to get her attention. After that, she began sending messages to her friends in the Fae realm, asking them to get back to her with anything they knew about Dubhlain, Conall, and Bran—as well as who or what Infinity was. She was due for a trip back home to Fae next week and said she would dig up what she could there too.
As I hugged her goodbye at the door to her apartment, she said, “Ray, I know that not having your wings has been a big disappointment for you, but I don’t believe this was meant to be hurtful.” She tipped her head toward the tattoo.
“It’s hard for me to take it any other way, Megan.”
“I get that. I really do. But with everything that’s happened, all you told me . . . sometimes magic has a mind of its own, you know? This man doesn’t know anything about you. How could he have done it on purpose?” She worried her bottom lip.
Megan always inspired me to use some introspection, craftily tweaking my sometimes wandering moral compass, but this time I wasn’t in the mood. I blew out a reluctant breath. “You’re playing devil’s advocate here, and I appreciate you trying to give me some perspective, but as you pointed out, neither of us really know the man. I’m choosing not to give him the benefit of the doubt. I will, however, promise to give it more thought and try not to do anything rash,” I conceded with a parting wave.
Tugging my hood over my head, I dashed to my car. Winter had settled into the Midwest with a vengeance. Blustery north winds howled continuously, and the daytime highs didn’t get above the midthirties. The trees lining the road thrust their bare, skeletal arms into the overcast sky as if beseeching their maker to put an end to this frozen nightmare.
Winter’s melancholy mood had me wishing for warm sandy beaches and a drink in each hand. Thinking of all that delicious heat suddenly reminded me—I still needed to make a trip to the Hell Plane. I owed a witch some demon fire, and this would be the perfect opportunity to check that off my to-do list. Even if it would likely be worse than letting a fairy pluck out all my body hair one strand at a time.
Stopping by the Enforcement office on my way home, I filled out the necessary paperwork to claim two vacation days. Not that I was expecting anyone to beat down my door with apprehension orders while I was gone, but this was a very off-grid trip. Nobody would be able to get in touch with me until I crossed back into this realm. Plus, since I was trying to get back into Enforcement’s good graces, I needed to follow their policies—dot all the i’s and cross every t.
A pot of real hot chocolate sounded amazing after being out in the cold, and I had a trip down south to pack
for, so I headed back to my apartment. As I drove, thoughts of Dubhlain once again poked at the edges of my mind.
It irritated me no end.
Maybe I had some warped sense of guilt over leaving him to rot in that damp, cold cell—I’d feel the same way about anyone I had to leave there—but it was ridiculous to think I was somehow responsible. I didn’t lock him up. Besides, he was big and strong. He wouldn’t need or want help from a little woman. His loss, though, because I was fucking awesome.
Turning the radio up, I pushed all thoughts of the sexy Irishman away and sang along obnoxiously loudly.
Just as I turned off the ignition, Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” began playing on my phone. Sure, it was totally cliché, but Grand-mère thought it was a riot and had insisted I make it her ringtone. I wasn’t going to argue with her about it.
“Ray, darling, how are you?” she drawled before I could even say hello. Voices and music hummed in the background.
“Gran! I’m so sorry I didn’t call you before now. I meant to, but things have been busy and—” was all I got out before she cut in.
“Don’t worry about it, sweets, I just wanted to touch base and make sure you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere. That is what the Normals say when they haven’t heard from their children for a long time . . . right?” Like all parental figures everywhere, she could serve guilt up faster than a waitress on roller skates.
I sighed heavily. “Gran, I apologize. There is absolutely no excuse for not calling you sooner.”
“You do know I have text too, right, Ray?” A few seconds of silence stretched out on both our ends, then she laughed merrily. “I’m just giving you a hard time. Last night I didn’t even know where my phone was. I finally found it this morning all twisted up in Ricardo’s G-string!” Someone laughed uproariously in the background.
Sweet baby gods, that was too much information. I wished I could scrub out my ears.
As part of the first generation of valkyries who were never called to serve in Valhalla, Grand-mère had needed to chart a different course in her life. No one had seen Odin in half a millennium, and Asgard could no longer be accessed from any of the known realms.
Adrift after realizing the purpose she’d been raised for had become moot, she’d sought out others of her kind, and together they’d hacked out a place for valkyries in the world. It had been a difficult and sometimes bloody job, but we were now free to decide our own purposes and were thriving with the independence. I wasn’t sure what would happen if Odin suddenly showed up to demand we go back to a life of servitude. It probably wouldn’t go well.
“Sounds like you and the girls are living your best lives,” I told her with a laugh. “I’ll start texting more. You have my word.”
“I’d appreciate that immensely, darling.” Then she abruptly changed the topic. “You working on anything exciting right now?” She loved hearing about my job, especially when it involved a bloody row. It didn’t matter if mine was the only blood spilled either. Grand-mère was savage like that.
I gave her a Cliffs Notes version of what happened with the werewolf, as well as my take on the unspoken “probation.” She absorbed the information and agreed I would be best served by taking the wait-and-see approach. Knowing I was leaving tomorrow, alone, for a different realm, I outlined my plans for the quick trip to the Hell Plane.
Her tone turned ominous at the mention of my destination. “About a week ago, the committee got word that parts of the Hell Plane were being inundated with Fae outcasts. They were planning to send someone down there to gather more information.”
The original Midgard-bound—or Earthbound—valkyries had established a committee that centralized a lot of the decision-making. That was also who we answered to if we stepped out of line. Although Grand-mère had retired from being head of the committee, she still liked to keep a finger on the pulse of things.
“Since you’re headed there already,” she continued, “why don’t you poke around? Anything you find, I’ll pass it on to the council.” She paused, weighting her words. “I’m sure this goes without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway: we have no idea what this might mean, so tread lightly. Don’t go in and stir things up, Raywen. Just find out what you can and report back.”
She made it sound as if I went about starting wars. That wasn’t true. I just had a real problem sitting on my hands when bad things were going down.
I agreed to call her in two days to let her know if I found anything of interest. After hearing how unsettled things were down in Hell, I was doubly glad we’d spoken before I left. If something bad happened or I disappeared, at least she would know where to start searching.
Chapter 8
The next morning I was on the road well before daylight, steaming cup of coffee in hand. I wasn’t loaded for bear but for Fae. Their ability to heal far surpassed most species of Supernaturals, including valkyries, and the legends about them having an aversion to iron were a complete myth, perpetuated by themselves to gain an advantage when dealing with Normals. Regular knives or bullets just weren’t that effective. Diamond, on the other hand, was very effective.
So, along with my usual collection of weapons, I also packed my sawed-off Remington 870 shotgun. With the magazine plug removed, it held five three-inch shells that were filled with a combination of regular shot and diamond chips—sure to turn any problematic Fae’s attitude around. I kind of hoped I wouldn’t have to use it. Because of the shortened barrel, the recoil was considerable. Even though I was substantially stronger than Normals and even a good portion of Supes, it tended to throw me around a good bit if I didn’t plant myself right. But it was better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.
Since I didn’t possess the magic to create portals, I was stuck using one of the public ones. The closest portal that would take me to the Hell Plane was just outside Little Rock, and I wanted to have as much daylight as possible once I crossed over. The Hell Plane had a sun cycle similar to ours, and I needed to capitalize on the time I had before nightfall. It was safer to be inside after that.
I made good time until I hit the morning commuters, at which point I took a break to swing through a fast food joint and grab some breakfast and a refill on coffee. I ate slowly to give the work traffic time to thin before I got back on the road. After one more stop for fuel, I made it to the outer edge of the Ouachita National Forest a little after midmorning, parked in one of the designated hikers’ lots, gathered my gear, and continued the rest of the way on foot.
For security reasons, all the public portals located on Earth’s side had clearance stations. Getting into our realm was not as easy as leaving it. A minimum of four Enforcement officers manned the domed, see-through stations at all times and worked a rotational schedule. Spells woven into the land in a ten mile radius strongly discouraged any Normals from stumbling upon the portal by accident, and containment runes embedded within the spells could also be activated in the event something came through the portal that the station guards couldn’t detain any other way.
I flashed my credentials at the guard through the wraparound windows, and he waved me through the door. Even though this wasn’t sanctioned Enforcement business, using my badge meant I didn’t have to complete any of the paperwork that usually accompanied a portal passing. Since I was essentially on a mission to smuggle an unpermitted substance back in, the less paper trail the better.
Three Supes were processing out of the Hell Plane on the left side, but I was the only one entering on the right. I itched to ask them if they’d run across any outcasts on their journey, but I really needed to get in and out as quickly as possible. Drawing attention to myself at the portal gate would be a bad idea.
Hitching up my pack, I walked through the turnstile and into what resembled dirty green lake water in a suspended vertical disc. Traveling through a portal didn’t hurt, but it wasn’t pleasant. Every molecule was loosened and then immediately tightened back up upon coming out the other si
de. It reminded me of snapping a rubber band. If I have to go to Hell, might as well do it via slingshot.
The first thing anyone noticed about the Hell Plane was the blistering heat. The second was the amazing lilac sky—then the heat again, because it was fucking brutal. After the relative cold of Arkansas, it felt as if I’d stepped into an oven. Two suns beat down directly overhead, casting diffuse light through a cloudy haze.
As soon as my feet hit the dry black dirt, I had the sawed-off in my hands and was scanning the area thoroughly. Nothing moved. Thankfully, not much could be hiding in the short, scrubby bushes scattered around the mostly flat, gently rolling landscape.
Satisfied there was no imminent threat, I took my pack off, leaned the gun against it, and stripped down to my tank top. Sweat already darkened the front. Thigh sheaths and shorts didn’t work unless you enjoyed chafing, so my leggings would have to stay on.
Cramming my shed clothing into the bag, I removed one of the water bottles and tucked it into an outside pocket for easy access. I’d ended up leaving my chest harness with its selection of spells at home. Until the revelation charms came in, I just didn’t have much confidence in using them.
After readjusting the sling that held my khopesh, I put the pack back on and set out down the winding, hard-packed road to the nearest settlement. If I couldn’t find a fire demon amid the debauchery of Cycliide, then I could at least pay a visit to Shereen.
I walked into the settlement several hot, sweaty hours later. Cycliide could have been an exact match to any Old West mining town, except for the hodgepodge of magical beings living there. Since the Hell Plane had pockets of gold, there was a constant influx of those willing to try their hand at striking it rich. Others, disheartened and bitter at their lack of luck, left to seek opportunity elsewhere.
