The Branded Rose Prophecy

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “He owns the fucking bank?” Sergio asked in disbelief. A bank president was the guy who had tried to fuck him over?

  “He’s the president. It don’t work like that on Wall Street,” the guard said.

  “Too fucking bizarre,” Sergio said.

  The guard had got edgy after that, refusing to give up anything else. “They’ll know it’s me,” he said, shaking his head. Sergio took back the coke. One of his men would have to visit the prick one night soon. Explain the facts of life to him.

  The next step was an unprecedented one for Sergio, but he was sorta in the area. He climbed up the steps to the New York Central Library, staring at the freaky lions with amusement. Who’d’ve ever thought he’d find himself here?

  He could feel himself shrinking back to elementary school size as he stepped inside. Grade nine was about the last time he’d been in one of these, but the single fact he remembered about libraries from school had brought him here: librarians knew everything and if they didn’t, they knew how to look it up.

  He walked right up to the first librarian he could find and asked his question. The librarian, a grey-hair with one of those grandfather cardigans with pockets on the hips, considered for a minute then beckoned silently with his finger.

  Twenty minutes later, Sergio had his answer.

  He looked down at the address he had scribbled on scrap paper using the librarian’s pen. “Got you, you fucker. Now I know where you live.”

  * * * * *

  Since then, Sergio had been dreaming up his vengeance. The fucker, this Strand faggot, was just a guy. Even though Sergio’s cranky memory and imagination had played and replayed the few moments in the park until the fucker had taken on the proportions of a giant with super-human strength—no wonder he, Sergio, had been overwhelmed!—he was human. If he was just a guy, then Sergio could deal with him. A guy, any guy, had weaknesses. Vulnerabilities. While there wasn’t much Sergio was good at, he did have a keen animal instinct for sniffing out weaknesses in his enemies.

  He laid his plans.

  Now he sat in his favorite booth at Gold’s, waiting for someone to report back to him. Every time the bell dinged over the door, he let his gaze flicker over to the new arrival.

  Then Julio stepped in. Like a good soldier, he was wearing his colors, and his swagger told everyone he was carrying. Julio liked to brag, but that was okay. It was good to have confidence, even if he was new to the family. Sergio had been keeping an eye on him, watching to see if Julio was going to let it go to his head. He’d have to bring him back into line if it did. But that’s what a good leader had to do: purging and herding.

  Julio spotted him and bebopped over to the table. He placed both hands flat on it. “Found her, boss,” he said quietly, his grin huge.

  Chapter Eleven

  Asher was halfway across the rotunda when he heard his name being called. He sighed, vexed, and turned to see who wanted him now.

  Stefan stood on the far side, near the big double doors that led to the main hall. He had his squat little clerk with him, but the clerk was turning to leave. Stefan lifted his hand and beckoned.

  What was it, Asher wondered, about all leaders that gave them that complete confidence that their will would be done? The flicker of the fingers, the command that was to be unquestionably acted upon; they all seemed to acquire the attitude sooner or later.

  Stefan’s dark eyes flickered over him as Asher got closer.

  “Annarr,” Asher acknowledged, bowing his head shortly.

  “Asher,” Stefan returned. “You’re looking...casual.”

  Asher looked down at his jeans. They were the first thing he’d grabbed when he’d got home, stripping off his suit almost before he got in the door. Suits were constricting but necessary to complete some business. He’d found, though, that it was easier to wear comfortable clothing. It let him think better. More often than not, he grabbed jeans. The shirt was the one he’d worn with the suit, but it was black and it was half hidden, anyway. Winter still gripped Oslo, so he’d thrown his long coat on just in case Øystein and the others wanted to head out somewhere.

  “You’re wearing your hair longer,” Stefan added.

  Asher remembered loosening the thong that he had tied it back with this morning, but he’d left the thing sitting on the bathroom counter. Oh well. “Just keeping up with human fashion,” he told Stefan.

  “I don’t recall meeting a bank president that looked quite as you do,” Stefan said. “I have appreciated your input in council meetings lately.”

  It seemed like a shift in subjects, but Asher remained wary. Stefan was like a terrier, coming back time and time again to nip and wear down his victim. “Thank you,” he said. It was a neutral response.

  “I’ve also heard that you have been seen in the company of the Brennus, more and more.”

  The Brennus was the name that had seemed to evolve in the last few months, used to describe Sindri and his friends. It wasn’t until Asher had got to know most of them better that he realized how extended Sindri’s circle of friends was. “The Brennus...” Asher repeated. “It’s a silly name for a group of people who like to drink together.”

  Stefan tilted his head. “I have always thought of you as a smart man, Askr Brynjarson.”

  “You think the Brennus are political?” Asher gave a short laugh. “Since when did drinking become political?”

  “It is not the mead I refer to. It is the words spoken over it that concerns me,” Stefan replied, a finger running over his closely cropped beard, the big ring with the orange stone winking at Asher as the last of the daylight touched it. “I was not the only one who heard you speak in the last council about better integration with humans.”

  Asher blinked. In truth, he regretted saying what he did. It had been spoken in heat and without thought, something that Roar was always on his case about. But there had been no response to his bitter comments, which had surprised him. He had been braced for a lecture from Roar at least.

  Was this the lecture, now? Had Stefan decided it should come from the Annarr himself?

  Asher chose his words carefully. “The council meeting was over a week ago, my lord.”

  “I am not your lord,” Stefan shot back.

  “Freyr,” Asher amended, mentally kicking himself. So much for speaking carefully. “You seek me out now to speak about a comment I made in haste in a closed-door council meeting?”

  “You and I were not the only ones in that meeting,” Stefan replied evenly. “What you said was heard by all. You may not like it, Asher, but everything you do and say is political. For one like you, trying to ignore the influence you wield is akin to trying to shed your skin because you do not like the way it chafes.”

  “Influence?” Asher swallowed the laugh that rose once more. “I think you overestimate my value, with all due respect, Annarr.”

  Stefan just smiled. “I’m quite sure I have not,” he replied. “Nor has Sindri overlooked the influence you hold over the younger Kine. You are Roar’s brother, and the strongest stallari we have. Because of the relationships that have developed between the halls, there are others who believe you have the ear of the most powerful among us.”

  It was the closest anyone had ever come to saying out loud what had only been apparent by observation: that Eira, Stefan’s Regin, was silently in love with Roar.

  Asher swallowed, as the implications of what Stefan was not saying became clear. Because Eira favored Roar, for whatever reason, Asher was in a position to use that favor. Use it for what, though? He hated politics, and Stefan’s view that he was a political figure whether he liked it or not was almost repulsive.

  Stefan was nodding, as if he could see Asher work through the implications. “You have always been open in your contempt for laun,” he added, “and you well know my views.”

  Asher did know where Stefan stood on the matter of laun. Stefan was one of the most insistent defenders of the laws and principles of secrecy. It structured their world an
d determined most of the details of their day-to-day lives. In nearly every way, Stefan was conservative and traditional, and upholding laun was a part of that.

  He wanted the Kine to live quietly. He wanted his own rule to be a peaceful one. He had been born to rule as a human king during one of the most chaotic periods in English history and his kingship had been a period of turmoil and bloodshed. He had died on the battlefield, as had they all, but was one of the few Kine who felt their human life had been wasted. Stefan believed the slaughter and near annihilation of his people was because he had not been strong enough, even though he had been one of the last men standing, holding the final defense line against the enemy. Now he was determined to do right, to lead the Kine and maintain a peace he had failed to find as a king. He always chose the safe path, the route that guaranteed the fewest number of noses would be bent and the least number of people would protest.

  As a result, Stefan usually looked beaten-down and tired. Leading the Kine with their hero-warriors and stronger women, most of them leaders, fighters, the most courageous of the brave and fallen...it must be like riding an unbroken stallion, Asher thought. It didn’t help that he wore clothing that was not traditional but was always several decades out of date. It was as if he was clinging to the past in every way he could. At the moment he wore what one could most kindly call a robe, but that Asher recognized as something his friends had been wearing when Vietnam protesting was at its height.

  The thought slipped into Asher’s mind from left field. And Charlee thinks I am square?

  He shut down the thought and the memory/image of red hair and black eyes, barely before it registered, for that was an area of his life he had put under wraps, like so many areas and people and centuries gone by. He was usually very good at compartmentalizing his serial and parallel roles, but that one continued to break through every now and again, usually when he was not braced for it.

  He didn’t let Stefan’s old-fashioned appearance fool him, though. Stefan wanted peace at any cost, and he was a good enough leader that he had got his way for nearly three hundred years.

  Stefan dropped his hand away from his beard, which had not changed since Asher had first met him. “Those who do like their politics will have noticed that we disagree on the matter of laun. If they thought you felt strongly enough about it, they would find you a useful lightning rod for others who have grievances.”

  Asher frowned, trying to anticipate where Stefan was taking this and failing.

  Then Stefan stepped back and held his hand out to one side, as if he was waving Asher past him. “Enjoy your mead and your company, Asher. I am glad you can find good cheer in my hall.”

  “Annarr,” Asher murmured. He bowed and turned back to face the big open rotunda. He was halfway across the echoing chamber, heading for Sindri’s salon and anticipating his first mug of mead, when Stefan’s true meaning fell together with an impact that caused him to slow his walk, as his heart leapt.

  Enjoy your mead and the company, he had said. What he had not said was the real message: Enjoy the mead and the company, but don’t mess with the politics that comes with them.

  Don’t become a lightning rod. Not in my hall.

  Asher picked up his pace again, not wanting to look addled, standing in one place with his mouth open. He didn’t look back because he knew that Stefan would not be there. The man had buried his barb with more expertise than Asher had given him credit for.

  * * * * *

  Lucas took his time walking home from practice. He ached with the good pains that came from a great workout, and hunger was starting to kick in now the adrenaline from training was disappearing. He considered what was in the fridge and the pantry, recalling the items from memory as he walked. If dinner wasn’t ready when he got home, there were a few different things he could put together in about twenty minutes, which meant he wouldn’t be sick and shaking from hunger by the time it was ready. He was leaning toward fish sticks and fries, because they were fast and they filled him up better than something like scrambled eggs would. Besides, Charlee loved fish sticks.

  It was a golden day, one when spring was definitely in the air. It was still warm, despite the setting sun. Very warm after putting up with a long, cold winter. A light windbreaker was all he needed.

  Tonight the coach had given him the thumbs up after their scratch match, second string against starting lineup, and patted his shoulder. “I’ve got my eye on you, Montgomery,” was all he’d said, but it meant a lot, for Coach Sanders had more than one contact in the NFL. Now, that would be the thing. Even a contract as second string for a bottom-of-the-ladder team would take care of all his worries about what to do about things at home after he graduated in June.

  The idea had given him hope he hadn’t known he was looking for.

  But for this fine April day, even that concern was far away. The sunset, something he rarely bothered to admire, was really something, with the reds and golds bathing the high-rises as it sank down behind them.

  Then the knife pushed up against his back.

  A short Latino wearing oversized sneakers and a silk shirt stepped up alongside him. “You wanna do what we say, see. Coz we got something of yours.”

  His first immediate thought was a panic-filled one. Charlee. Hard on the heels of that was cold reason. They wouldn’t dare, not after Asher Strand dealt with them.

  But Asher had been gone for months now. Charlee hadn’t said much about it, but his disappearance had upset her in the same lonely and silent way that the dog’s death had. The only thing that had stopped her retreating all the way into her room and shutting out the world was her job at the SPCA. It made Lucas want to kick Asher’s nuts off, if he ever got the chance.

  He’d never stopped to think that Strand flaking on Charlee meant that all bets were off with the Lords.

  Oh fuck, oh shit... he whispered mentally. Sweat popped out on his temples as he kept walking just to stop the knife from sliding between his ribs, which he knew it would do if he stopped.

  The Lord next to him grinned, showing very white teeth. “Now yoo got it,” he crooned. “Just a little walk around the corner here’ya.”

  What could he do? How was he supposed to get both him and Charlee out of this? Unlike football or basketball, there were no rules and no boundaries. In sports, he could read the upcoming movements in games and take advantage of what players were about to do, but he acknowledged the bitter truth that in this game, he was completely out of his depth.

  Hot sourness filled his mouth as they turned the corner into 161st. He eyed the cars idling at the lights, three feet away from him.

  “You don’t wanta call out,” the Lord said next to him. “Your sister don’t wantcha calling out, dig?”

  Lucas swallowed and nodded.

  They led him along 161st, then across Trinity. He knew then where they were taking him. He also knew that no one was going to come to his rescue. They were risking this in broad daylight. The sun was barely touching the horizon. To be so open about it meant they had their backs covered somehow. They weren’t afraid of Asher Strand; that was for sure.

  For a long, aching moment, Lucas wished that Strand would magically appear and do whatever it was that he did when he ‘talked’ to the gang. Lucas didn’t care if he carved them up with a chain saw. He just wanted him to come now. He wanted Strand to know by divine intervention that he was desperately needed. But that wasn’t going to happen. The Lords had seen to it, somehow.

  The park they were heading for was just up ahead. It was a tiny thing, tucked in among all the apartment towers that dotted this block like sentinels, overlooking the yards and roofs of the houses across the street and far below. One of Lucas’ teammates, Greg Peterson, lived on the top floor of the southern-most tower. When he visited, Lucas had looked down at his neighborhood, fascinated by the ant-like size of the buildings he walked past every day.

  There was no hope Greg would look out and see what was going down. His tower was on the far side
of the park and his apartment on the other side of the tower, facing Manhattan. Besides, from up there, the two Lords who were escorting him and Lucas himself would be too small to make out any detail.

  Lucas was still casting about frantically, trying to dream up ideas, solutions, something, anything he could do to get out of this, when they turned into the park and pushed him around one of the big bushes that clogged up the corner and created a great shield against passers-by.

  Charlee was there, but she wasn’t alone.

  Lucas’ heart lurched in his chest, then hurried on at a pace that made his chest hurt. He felt hot, sick and angry all at once.

  They had taped her mouth with what looked like duct tape, running the stuff right around her head, layer over layer. It was way more than was necessary. They had caught hanks of her hair under it, while others hung freely, falling over her eyes. Her eyes were huge, over the top of the tape.

  She had her arms behind her, and Lucas knew with another sick, sinking sensation that they’d taped her arms back, probably with the same wild abandon as they had done with her mouth.

  There was more tape around her ankles, which had pulled indifferently at her tights, tearing great holes in them. Just beneath the hem of her pretty pleated skirt, Lucas could see that her legs were trembling. She was shaking with fear.

  The realization calmed him and blew away the sickness. The world became muffled, the way it often did when he was on the field or the court. Everything unimportant faded away from his attention, while the thing he was focusing on became crystal clear. His heart slowed down. His thoughts calmed. The movements of the gang around him slowed down, while every sound they made he heard, from the susurration of their clothes as they shifted, the quick rush of sour air through their mouths as they breathed heavily and unevenly.

  Lucas stopped on the spot of grass where one of them pointed and looked at Charlee. “It’ll be okay,” he told her. He didn’t know one way or the other how this was going to go down, but Charlee needed to hear it, so he said it.