by Wood, Vivian
Aeric glanced up at the night sky, wishing the moon was a bit brighter tonight. Then again, he had better night vision than they did. All of his kind saw fairly well in the dark, as would he if his blood pressure wasn’t dropping like a pebble down a cliff. The lack of blood was also the only thing that was keeping him from shifting and truly taking off, outrunning and outgunning the humans a thousand fold.
He checked the constellations, and knew that he was close to a series of deep cave tunnels that he’d taken shelter in many times before. This area was far north of his home, but within the boundaries of what he considered his territory, so he visited this cave several times per year as he traveled and patrolled.
He heard a faint rustle behind him, maybe a quarter of a mile back, and used the last reserves of his energy to push himself into a trot. Soon the familiar formation of rocks appeared, looking like nothing so much as a scattering of boulders. Aeric had originally found the caves by complete accident, literally falling into one as he explored the boulders.
He almost recreated the scene when he stumbled over the cave’s entrance, which was camouflaged by a thin covering of leaves and debris. He carefully toed away enough of the covering to make room for his bulky form, then bit his lip and maneuvered himself down and into the shaft that led into the caves. Not a moment too soon, either, because the second he finished covering the entrance and retreating down a few meters, he heard the humans approaching, smelled the smoke from their torches.
“—don’t see his trail. It ends here, Lars,” came a man’s voice.
Aeric grit his teeth, wishing to Valhalla that he was well enough to emerge from his hiding place and annihilate Lars Dorssen. No one attacked one as old and powerful as Aeric without retribution, but at the present moment Aeric was too busy holding his own guts in to move, much less mete out what Dorssen deserved.
“Keep looking. We cannot let the monster roam free, attacking women.”
Aeric repressed a snarl at the last. This whole situation could have been prevented if he’d only let Dorssen’s very beautiful young sister Ana be harmed. Aeric was merely passing through their small village, a regular stop on the circuit he took to surveil his domain. He left the tavern he favored, intent on finding a warm bed for the night, preferably with a lovely and willing maiden in it; instead he’d found Ana, roughly pinned to the wall by a malicious townsman while three others watched her assault.
Aeric was many things, some of them dark and ugly, but rape was not allowable in his world. In a flash of foolishness, he’d shifted into his bear form and driven the men off. He’d thought himself safe since only Ana saw him shift, saw his human form and face, but alas. She’d run straight to her idiot brother Lars, telling stories not of her near-rape, but instead of monstrous bear-men who’d tried to rip out her tender throat.
He wouldn’t wish that kind of assault on any woman, but knowing what he did now, he should have left her to her own devices. Peeling his sticky fingers away, Aeric checked out his wound once more. To be fair, pretty blonde Ana couldn’t have known that her beastly brother possessed a very special dagger, spelled with a particularly nasty curse that kept the wounds inflicted from healing. Any other knife wound would have long since healed, leaving Aeric to his vengeance.
The voices overhead moved away, and Aeric scrambled down into the tunnel, paying mind to take the right turns. His efforts were repaid when he came into a large, flat cavern with several small chests on the far side. He dragged himself over to the trunks and knelt to open two of them, producing several flasks of water, some preserved meat and bread, and a soft feather pallet. Sadly, he had nothing to counteract the cursed wound, but at least he could be comfortable while he bled to death rather than being chased down like a rabid dog.
He stretched out on the pallet and drank some of the water, trying to stay awake. His attempts must have failed, because he started from a light doze at a peculiar sound. Footsteps?
Prying his eyes open, he stared up at a figure that seemed more mythological than he himself. The whole world faded around him, leaving a wash of white and a solitary figure.
The figure was a woman with skin like he’d never seen in all his days, shiny and smooth and brown as a bear’s pelt. Her hair was darker than the night sky, gleaming and neatly coiled around her head. Her eyes were the color of the sunset, an orange tinged with red, fiery as metal in a forge. She was swathed in a beautiful but white gown. Her garment, her regal bearing, and her fierce expression all put Aeric in mind of depictions of Athena. An image of the brazen goddess flashed in Aeric’s mind, a snippet of memory from long before he’d come to settle in Norway. A different time, a different people…
“Do we go to Olympus, then?” he asked, amused.
The woman put her hands on her hips and gave him a hard stare. Perhaps she was more Hera than Athena, then.
“You’re not making sense,” she told him matter-of-factly.
“I assumed I would go to Valhalla, but judging by your mode of dress,” Aeric said, flapping a hand at her, “I am, instead, in Olympus.”
She tsked and shook her head, looking downright annoyed. Aeric thought her annoyance rather rude, as she’d come in and interrupted his dying moments, after all.
“You’re not dying,” she told him, her voice ripe with disdain.
Aeric turned his head to the side and eyed the not-unimpressive pool of blood escaping Aeric’s body.
“I beg to differ.”
“No, that’s not—” The woman paused, growing flustered. “You’re not going to die. You’re coming with me instead.”
“Am I?” Aeric asked, resting his head on the ground once more and straining to keep his eyes open.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the woman muttered.
She moved to his side and knelt, which made Aeric’s lips curve upward.
“Are you going to carry me, my lady?”
“No, but in order to save you, I need you to swear fealty to me. And for that, I require a signature,” she said, watching him closely. When Aeric didn’t react, she seemed perplexed.
“As you wish…” he stopped, not knowing her name.
“Mistress,” she supplied.
Aeric meant to shrug, but he was simply too tired.
“Do you care what the terms are?” she asked.
“Will it take my ability to shift?” he asked. “Or my immortality?”
“No,” she said.
“Then I care not, my lady.”
“Let us hasten,” she said, sounding concerned.
Aeric’s eyes drifted closed, and he felt her hand on his. She put a piece of metal between his fingers, shaped his hand to hold it. He heard the rustle of paper, felt a fresh surge of pain, this time centered in his chest rather than his side.
“I’ll dictate,” the goddess said, her voice sounding faraway.
Aeric nodded and followed her directions, scribbling his true name with a grunt before letting the metal fall from his fingers the moment he finished.
“All will be well, Drekkon,” said the voice.
Aeric ’s consciousness fled before he could find out whether or not that was the truth.
5
Chapter Five
And So It Begins…
New Orleans, LA — 2015
Rhys sucked in a breath and opened his eyes, his heart thrumming in his chest. He was sprawled out over a thick mattress covered with incredibly fine white linens, the quality finer than anything he’d ever slept on, even in his brief time at the King’s court. He sat up slowly, a frown creasing his mouth when he found that his plaid, shirt, and boots were gone. He wore instead a thin, tight shirt with odd sleeves that ended well above his elbows and equally thin linen pants with a drawstring at the waist. His shirt and breeches were both light grey in color and incredibly soft to the touch. Again, they were so finely made that Rhys couldn’t help but wonder where in the world he’d woken up.
He sat up and looked around as he tried to think, taking in the handsome
dark wood furnishings and polished wood of the room. The valley… he’d been in a valley with his clan…
“Shite,” Rhys said, ripping away the bedclothes as he scrambled for the door. He’d left his people. He’d signed away his life to a strange, powerful witch. He’d closed his eyes, felt her magic, and now…
Flinging the door open, Rhys skidded to a halt. His eyes went wide as full moons as he tried to take in the grandeur of his surroundings. He was on an upper floor, judging by the polished wood railing a few feet in front of him. The floor beneath his feet was the same beautiful, glossy dark wood. He’d never seen such a floor, couldn’t calculate the number of trees it took to make the long balcony on which he stood. All around, perfectly smooth white walls rose, twenty feet high from the level of his bare feet and perhaps thrice that from the floor below. Broad glass windows were placed high on the wall to let in fading afternoon light, but despite the bright sun the house was cool as a spring evening. High above, just where the broad ceiling pooled into a circle, hung an immense ornament or sorts. It was made of hundreds of tiny glass orbs, all radiating a light brighter and pure as the sun.
Rhys moved forward, stretching out a curious hand. He couldn’t get close to the thing, not really, but even from here he could feel no heat coming from the light. Not fire, then. Some kind of witch light, perhaps… but he didn’t feel magic coming from it, either.
Dropping his hand, he looked down into the room below. More of those cold lights hung on the wall here and there, though the glass sconces that held them were much smaller and simpler. A curved staircase wound from the end of his landing downward, stopping on two more floors below before continuing down to terminate in a narrow, empty entrance hall. A glance to the left confirmed that another gleaming wooden staircase descended from the other side of the house, mirroring the other. Rhys studied the massive dark wood door at the center of the front hall, and imagined that the staircases looked quite impressive from the vantage of an entering visitor.
That thought reminded him that he had no idea where he was or how he’d come to be here. Clearing his throat, he turned and padded down the hall, his bare feet soundless on the slick wood floor. How wealthy must the owner of this home be to use such a rare, expensive material for the floor? Rhys had never seen a floor made of anything but stone or brick, not even in the finer houses he’d visited in Edinburgh.
He went down the stairs, bypassing the second floor but stopping on the first. Like the third floor, the first showcased a long gallery with a number of unmarked dark wood doors. Cocking his head, he listened for a moment. He thought he heard a rustle, some movement behind one of the doors. He moved toward the sound, coming to a halt when one of the doors opened with a slam.
A massive man with dark blond hair, eyes dark as night, and a surly expression stepped out. Everything about him dripped with menace, and Rhys actually took a step backward and raised his hands.
The man hissed a string of guttural words, raising his hand to point a thick finger at Rhys.
“Hey, now,” Rhys said. He wasn’t sure why, but he had the distinct impression that this man could snuff him out without much effort. It was an odd feeling, since they were well matched physically. But there was some kind of magic on him, some unfamiliar but potent type that put Rhys on edge.
The other man stared at him for a long moment.
“Breton?” the man said at last. “Breitagne?”
Rhys recognized the words, German and French words used to describe those from England or Scotland.
“Aye,” Rhys said, nodding and letting his hands drop. “Briton.”
The man gave him a thoughtful look.
“Je n’ai pas anglais,” the man told him. I have no English. “Français?”
Thankfully Rhys had a little bit of French, which was required for those who attended court for any length of time. His mother had insisted on it when Rhys was a child. Though he’d fought her tooth and nail back then, just now he was glad for her persistence.
“Je parle,” he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. I speak a little. “Je suis Rhys.”
After telling the man his name, Rhys thrust out a hand toward him. The stranger stared him down for several long seconds, then stepped up and gave his hand an awkward, fierce shake, as if he’d never encountered the gesture before.
“Aeric. Ah, ay, aire, ee, ceh,” he said, spelling his name out. “Je suis de la Norvège.”
Rhys puzzled out that Aeric was Norwegian. At least he thought so.
“Aire, asch, oo, ess,” Rhys spelled back.
Aeric gave a slow nod, then changed the subject.
“Où sommes-nous?” he asked. Where are we?
“Je ne sais pas,” Rhys said. “Allons-y?”
I don’t know. Shall we go?
Rhys gestured to the stairs, and used his fingers to mimic walking down. Aeric arched a brow and shrugged, waving a hand at Rhys, indicating that he should lead the way. Rhys gave him a last glance, measuring him once again, before turning away and heading down the stairs.
“Cette maison est… incroyable,” Aeric marveled. This house is amazing.
“Aye,” Rhys agreed. “Plus que la maison d’un roi, n’est pas?” Greater than the home of a king, isn’t it?
“Certainement.” Certainly.
When they hit the entrance hall, Rhys and Aeric simultaneously gestured to each other for silence. Rhys’s lips twitched, but he just nodded. There was a set of double doors before them, nearly identical to the ones that seemed to lead outside. Rhys took a deep breath and grasped a heavy wrought iron handle on one door, pulling it open.
For a few seconds, Rhys and Aeric stood stock still, unable to move as they stared into the vast chamber that lay beyond. The room was at least a a thousand paces wide, all done in the same dark wood and gleaming white walls. One corner was a scullery of some kind, a place to prepare food. One area seemed to be for resting, as it boasted leather-covered, stuffed furniture — there was already a dark-haired man perched on one reclining piece, sitting bolt upright to stare at Rhys and Aeric. Another area had a table with long benches, clearly meant for communal meals. The last area was what had perplexed Rhys and Aeric so — a wall of flashing black and white boxes and many other items, all of which were completely alien in style.
Sitting before one of the boxes was Mere Marie, touching a flat black box, manipulating it to create strange sounds. She glanced at the dark-haired man, then turned to see Rhys and Aeric. She rose, and Rhys noticed that she wore another very fine gown, although this one was the color of ripe berries. It was also much more tightly fitted than when he’d last saw her, showing that despite her age, she was still shapely. He wondered at her true age again, for though she appeared perhaps sixty, her eyes spoke of much more advanced age.
“I see you found one another,” Mere Marie said, eyeing them both with a calculating glance. She said the same to Aeric in perfect, rapid French. He fired back a long string of questions, stabbing his index finger into his palm as he spoke. Mere Marie arched a brow and picked up a thin book, the same that she’d had Rhys sign. She said something more to him and he fell silent, but their words were too quick for Rhys to get more than a general impression.
It seemed that, in both her level of power and her temperament, Mere Marie was not one to be goaded. She gave Rhys and the stranger both a quick once-over.
“Do either of you want to argue terms with me?” she asked, her voice humorless.
They both shook their heads.
“Good. Come in and sit,” she said, waving Rhys and Aeric over. They approached, Aeric stiff as a board, his expression dark as a storm cloud. They sat on pieces of furniture near the third man, and Rhys sunk into the soft fabric just as he had the mattress upon which he’d awoken. He ran his hand over it, and noticed Aeric doing the same.
“This is Gabriel,” Mere Marie said, indicating the dark-haired man. He was a couple years younger than Rhys, maybe thirty years. From this dista
nce, Rhys couldn’t help but sense the magic that poured off him, unchecked. It was unusual, as witches were generally very secretive about their powers, just as Rhys was secretive about his ability to shift.
“Aeric says you speak a little French,” Mere Marie said to Rhys.
“Aye,” he said with a shrug.
“Translate as best you can while I speak,” she said. An order, not a request.
Narrowing his eyes, Rhys gave her a single nod.
“You are in New Orleans, in America. The new world,” she said. “None of this will make sense to you now, Aeric and Rhys, but you’ll learn soon enough.”
She paused to let Rhys translate before she continued.
“You’re three very powerful men, all with the ability to shift forms. You all shift into bears,” she said. For some reason, she gave Aeric a particular glance, not satisfied until he nodded his assent. “You are here to protect my city, as part of your service to me. I own you until I release you. There is no argument to be had.”
She hesitated, then said, “You are in the year 2015.”
Rhys’s heart faltered. His mouth opened, but there were no words. She was clearly insane.
“That,” Mere Marie said, pointing at one of the black boxes, “is a computer. This is a smart phone.”
She held up a small silver square, waving it at them.
“We have cars and trains and buses, not horses. The world you left behind is gone, and you can’t get back to it. You will need to adjust, and quickly.”
She stopped and let them all soak in her words.
“Why are we here?” Gabriel asked. His accent was English, and very polished. “You said we’re protecting the city.”
“New Orleans, Nouvelle Orleans,” she supplied.
“What are we protecting it from?” Gabriel asked with a frown.
Mere Marie’s lips thinned as she seemed to consider how to answer.
“The complex version is that a struggle has been brewing for many years, centering here in New Orleans and rippling out further and further,” she said. “I am on one side of the struggle, trying to protect the Kith, the shifters and vampires and witches. And the humans, as well.”
