The Branded Rose Prophecy

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  What was true and what wasn’t?

  Magic was real and heroes wore suits, with their ties pulled down and the top button unfastened. Heroes came with shockingly blond hair and very blues eyes. If she had ever thought she might meet a real hero, that wasn’t what she would have expected of him.

  Heroes did come with special weapons, strange names and packed to the brim with secrets, which lined up with what she knew about heroes from the comics and the one time she had seen the Superman movie.

  A gentle knock sounded and she refocused on the door, blinking her eyes.

  “Charlee?” Lucas called.

  “‘kay!” she called back just as softly.

  The door opened, letting the light from the bare bulb in the corridor fall onto the carpet, then her bed, making her blink. Lucas slipped in and shut the door. “Hey, Einie.” He kept his voice down.

  Lucas was five years older than her. In the unspoken way that families communicated their history, through comments and pictures, and passing reference, Charlee had pieced together an understanding that Lucas had been an unplanned child, but welcomed, nevertheless. She had been created five years later, in an attempt to ‘fix things’ between her parents. She wasn’t entirely sure how she had been expected to fix anything, and that was probably why she had failed, for the relationship her parents had looked nothing like the marriages Charlee had read about and seen on TV. Their house was mostly silent except for, lately, her father’s coughing.

  Charlee adored Lucas with a pure affection that was unsullied by his big-brother attitude. She understood—and this knowledge also came to her in small fractions over time—that Lucas mostly tried to fill the gaps their parents failed to cover. But he was only fifteen, so taking care of Charlee usually meant bossing her around.

  Lucas was one of the best-looking fifteen year olds she knew. He had missed out on their father’s red hair. Instead, he had inherited their mother’s pitch black locks, which he kept fashionably long and curling around his collar. He had grey eyes that looked colorless in the right light. They were surrounded by bristly lashes. Lucas’ glance had turned more than a few of the girls at school into giggling wrecks.

  But Lucas didn’t seem to be interested in girls. He wasn’t into boys, either, or so the school gossip network assured her.

  To Charlee, Lucas always seemed to be older than he really was. He knew things that other fifteen year olds, the very few in whose company she had ever been allowed to spend any time, seemed to not even care about. The things they did care about Lucas didn’t seem to be interested in. Girls. Music. Movies. Ditching classes. Failing courses. Drinking.

  He was her big brother, different in his way from most other people Charlee knew. Just as she was different in her own way.

  Lucas crouched down next to her bed, and looked up at her. The conical sea shell he wore around his neck on a thin black leather band reflected the light of her lamp in a pearlescent, pretty way. It was very white against his tanned flesh.

  “You doin’ okay, Einie?” he asked. Einie was short for Einstein. He only called her that when no one else was listening. That was because he meant it.

  “I’m good.”

  “You’ve been awful quiet tonight.”

  She pressed her lips together, holding in her secret. She couldn’t tell anyone. No one at all, not even Lucas.

  He touched her math book. “Calculus?” he asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m only ten,” she pointed out. “It’s algebra.”

  “You’re a real smart ten. I didn’t get to algebra until I was in junior high. Is this something Mr. Baxter is teaching you?”

  Mr. Baxter was their neighbor. He lived two doors down, on the south side of the house. If anyone should be called smart, it was him. He worked at the New York library, the big one by Central Park, with the lions. He had been teaching Charlee extra courses on top of her school curriculum for the last two years, something that both Lucas and Charlee had failed to mention to their parents.

  “He gave me the book to read, if I wanted to.”

  “Pretty big book,” Lucas observed.

  “It’s interesting.”

  He rolled his eyes and stood up. His Pink Floyd T-shirt was snug over his shoulders and chest and hung loose around his waist. Lately, she had started to notice in a distant way that his body was more like a grown man’s, and less and less like the tall, skinny big brother she was used to. She had noticed and pushed the knowledge aside. The idea of Lucas changing (and not loving me anymore) was uncomfortable.

  “Amanda Gooseman said I was to say ‘hi’ to you,” Charlee said, reaching for something, anything, to shift her thoughts.

  Lucas frowned. “Gooseman?”

  “The girl with the blonde hair down to her butt.”

  “Pigtails, right? I remember her.”

  “She doesn’t wear pigtails anymore,” Charlee assured him. “She’s going to junior high next year. You’ll see her then.”

  “Maybe.”

  Charlee grinned. “She’ll make sure you do.”

  Lucas grinned back and for a moment he was just her skinny brother again, sharing a moment where they both understood each other perfectly. “Don’t stay up late,” he told her as he turned toward the door. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  “I was just gonna turn the light off.”

  “Going to,” he corrected and opened the door.

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  He rolled his eyes at her as he shut the door behind him.

  Charlee closed the unread math book and put it back on the stand, then turned out the light and settled down for sleep. She stared up at the ceiling, where light from the first floor of the neighbors directly behind them, the Clancy family, was dappled by the leaves of the big maple that grew against the fence between them. The shadows of the tri-pointed leaves moved gently.

  And perhaps they’re not shadows, but the souls of tree elves escaping for a night’s adventure.

  What was real? What wasn’t?

  He’d saved Chocolate. She remembered that and smiled into her pillow. Whatever hero he ended up being didn’t matter, after what he’d already done.

  Everything was changing. Even Lucas.

  Tomorrow, she would do what she could to figure out what else besides magic was real after all.

  Chapter Three

  Asher pushed the door to Roar’s apartment open without knocking. The music was making the door vibrate against its hinges. A knock wouldn’t be heard.

  He winced as the door opened and the music jumped in volume. It was almost a physical assault.

  Brighter light spilled out into the corridor and he stepped in and shut the door. No need to disturb anyone else still in the hall.

  Roar had been using the earl’s apartment since the hall and the offices were built in late Victorian times. The apartment took up most of the south side of the top floor. It had been laid out in an open studio style, long before studios had become chic. The windows along the south wall were monstrous double-hung openings that even in winter spilled sunlight onto the polished floorboards, warming them.

  Roar had been living alone for a long time, but he had never lost the domesticity that Meggy had imparted. The apartment was clean and tidy. At the far end, Japanese silk screens hid the bed and the ensuite.

  The middle section of the rectangular apartment was the kitchen area. A big dining table sat between the kitchen counter and the windows, but it was used more for informal meetings than eating. Roar did most of his eating sitting on the sofa, a modern habit he had picked up with ease.

  The big leather sofa and the reclining armchair were at this end, where Asher stood just inside the door. They faced the windows, for Roar had never bought himself a television. The windows were not all they faced. The big floor speakers that were attached to the powerful sound system were placed so that anyone sitting in the middle of the sofa was positioned to hear the music issuing from the speakers in ideal ratios.

&n
bsp; Music was what Roar obsessed about instead of watching television like a normal human. The hall and offices took up the rest of the two floors the Kine had commandeered, so his was the only residential apartment in the building. He could pump up the volume with impunity and the only possible neighbors he could offend were those across the street in the buildings opposite. As Roar kept the windows closed most of the time, even that danger was minimal.

  Roar wasn’t sitting on the sofa. Instead, he was standing behind the kitchen counter, adding cream to a coffee mug. There was only one mug, so it had to be for the other person in the room.

  Eira was propped on one of the broad windowsills, holding the sleeve of the record currently playing. She had been reading it, but now she was leaning back against the glass, simply listening.

  As Regin, Eira resided in the longhouse under Tryvannshøyden, in Oslo, but she was a frequent visitor to this hall. She was tall, for a woman, and had the sable black hair and olive skin that characterized those from the Appenine peninsula, for she had been born a Roman when Roman citizens and the armies that protected them were the most feared and respected in the known world.

  Eira had been a part of those armies, but she was Regin now. Her long legs were stretched out, her ankles crossed, one boot heel digging into the rug under the table, keeping her propped up. She was wearing close-fitting trousers that were tucked into the boots, and a jacket that looked vaguely military in style and cut. She wasn’t just listening to the music. She was watching Roar with her dark eyes.

  Asher moved farther into the room, not just to move out of the aim of the speakers, but also to draw their attention with movement, as calling out would be useless against the soprano currently wailing about her lost love in strained German.

  Both of them looked around, seeing him, as he headed toward them. A furrow appeared between Roar’s brows. He strode past Asher and lifted the lid on the turntable, then picked up the arm and put it back on the bracket.

  The cessation of the thundering orchestra was almost a relief. Asher let out a long, slow breath. “Mozart?” he guessed, for the very little he knew about opera he had picked up unwillingly from Roar. Mozart was a German-speaking composer.

  “Wagner,” Roar answered. His full mouth lifted in a grimace that held some amusement. “Götterdämmerung.”

  Even Eira smiled at the irony. Götterdämmerung was the German equivalent of Ragnarok.

  Roar moved back to the kitchen, picked up the coffee cup and held it out to Eira. “Would you mind very much giving me a few minutes alone with Asher?”

  She took the cup, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at Asher. She would have felt the crisis just like any one of them, but if it was discussed in front of her it became an official matter. “Should I worry?” she asked Asher.

  He shook his head. “Not in the slightest.”

  She gave him small smile, then sent a much warmer smile toward Roar. “I want to soak up some warm air while I’m here, anyway. It’s still cold in Norway.”

  “You always say it’s cold,” Asher replied.

  “That’s because it always is.”

  “Roman,” Roar said in a way that made it sound like an epithet, but he was smiling.

  “Northman,” she shot back in the same tone. She gave Asher another neutral smile. “Excuse me,” she murmured as she headed for the apartment door, still carrying her coffee cup.

  Roar waited until the door was closed once more, then cocked his head at Asher. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Asher said. “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding,” Roar repeated flatly. “It didn’t feel like a simple misunderstanding.”

  “It was a few gang members, looking for trouble. I sorted it out.”

  Roar crossed his arms. His square jaw flexed. “When they got there, there was nothing to recover. Why didn’t you stay there?”

  Caution flooded him. Asher crossed his arms, unconsciously copying Roar. “What the fuck is this third degree about?” he demanded, letting his voice rise. “I said I dealt with it. It’s done. Over. No consequences. That’s why they found nothing.”

  Roar didn’t move. His blue eyes narrowed. As Asher’s older brother, he had the same eyes, but his hair was golden, rather than white blond.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?” Asher added. “You weren’t this concerned when I had that run-in with the gang last year.”

  Roar looked surprised. “It was the same gang? Did they come looking for you?”

  “No. I told you. It was pure coincidence. Nothing to worry about.”

  “But you drew your sword,” Roar said flatly.

  Asher’s heart squeezed. “No, I didn’t,” he lied.

  “Blood was spilled,” Roar countered. He—all of them—would have sensed that the battle had escalated to blood-letting.

  “The punk had a knife,” Asher replied. He shrugged. “He regretted drawing it.”

  Roar grinned. The expression seemed to be pulled from him unwillingly. “I’m sure he did,” he said. His arms dropped. “Why the fuck you live in that god forsaken armpit beats the hell out of me.”

  “So you’ve said. More than once.” Asher relaxed. A little. “I like the Bronx.” There was more of a family and suburb feel to the Bronx that didn’t exist in lower Manhattan. “I like the people.”

  “And the gangster accents.” Roar turned back to the kitchen. His movement signaled that the cross-examination was over. He had been satisfied. He pulled two glasses out of the overhead cupboard and a bottle of Johnny Walker from another and cracked the seal. “You could have called and let us know there was nothing to worry about,” he pointed out.

  “You complain I don’t visit enough and now when I do, you complain I don’t call instead.” He took the glass Roar offered him. He wasn’t a scotch drinker, but if Roar was offering he’d take it.

  “You know what I meant,” Roar replied, swirling the half-inch of liquid in his own glass. “Battles unsettle everyone.”

  “It wasn’t a battle.”

  “It still provokes the same concern. Gods’ teeth, Asher! After so long, I still have to explain this to you?”

  So, he wasn’t going to be allowed off the hook after all. But Asher knew that now, Roar was talking to him as his older brother. He’d put aside the earl trappings when he’d turned to pour the drinks.

  Uncomfortable about the evasions and lies he was generating, Asher sought to change the subject. “So...Eira stopped by. Again.”

  Roar’s jaw flexed. Then he tossed back the scotch in one large gulp and hissed at the back-flavor. “It’s customary to check in with the big hall. They are troubled by the same crises we are.” His expression told Asher he wasn’t clear of this yet.

  “They have runners for that, same as we do. The Regin running errands...” He raised his brow.

  Roar looked away. “She gets restless,” he said flatly.

  “Don’t we all?” Asher murmured and swallowed half of the scotch. It bit the back of his throat with a peaty tang that he breathed out.

  Eira had been a soldier and mercenary, one of the highest paid warriors in the history of Rome. She had won impossible victories for employers across Europe and been described as unstoppable, until she had met her match in battle late in the first century. Even then, Rome had been crumbling and her fame had been lost among the rubble and chaos the barbarian conquerors had left behind.

  As a seasoned warrior, it was reasonable that Eira would miss the feel of her sword.

  Asher still did not properly understand why she had first sought the company of the man who had defeated her. Why she continued to do so was silently understood by everyone, except perhaps Roar himself. The collective agreement of silence on the matter meant Asher could not directly ask him.

  He drained the rest of the scotch and put the glass back on the counter. “Thanks,” he told his brother.

  “Another?”

  Asher shook his head. “I must stop in at the
restaurant. Ylva will be worried.”

  Roar’s brows came together, as they always did whenever Asher spoke Ylva’s name. It was a milder version of the same reaction any of the Kine had when her name was spoken—a mild to moderate irritation at being reminded of that bleak moment in their history.

  Roar poured himself another healthy shot and put the bottle back in the cupboard. “Business is well?” he asked.

  “Well enough,” Asher replied. He turned his wrist and looked at his watch. “The evening rush will be over by the time I get there, so....”

  “You’ve been missed at council,” Roar said.

  Tired irritation pricked at Asher. Not this again, a voice whispered in his mind. “I have to go,” he said firmly.

  “You always do have to go.” Roar swirled the scotch again. “Will you be here for the next one?”

  “You know what my life is like. I’ll see.”

  “Your human life is not the real priority.”

  “My human life? You’re talking about the only life I have. My life!”

  “You have a responsibility toward the Kine—” Roar began.

  Asher held up his hand. “Don’t start on this. Please.”

  “You continue to put us in jeopardy. There is always trouble. It surrounds you like metal filings around a magnet. We’re always cleaning up your messes.”

  “Not tonight,” Asher said with some satisfaction, although the implied lie—and all he had not said about tonight—prodded at his conscience. “If you didn’t insist on maintaining laun as tightly as you did...if we came out, then tonight would not have happened. They would have known who I was and left me alone.”

  He didn’t know for sure if tonight would have happened even if humans knew of them, but this was an old, even geriatric, subject and he could feel himself sliding into the worn channels of argument and counter-argument like a ball dropping into a chute. There was nowhere to go from here but down the familiar slope.