The Branded Rose Prophecy

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Asher picked her up off the stool, his arms large and comforting. “And children, Charlee. I can’t give you mine, but there are hundreds of babies out there looking for people to love them.”

  She looked up at him. “Did I give myself away?”

  “You didn’t have to.” He stroked her face, following the scar. “I want it all. I want all of it with you. I want children.”

  She pressed her face against his neck, closing out the light. “Me, too,” she whispered, her lips brushing his neck. Happiness spilled through her. Had she ever been this happy? She didn’t think it was possible.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Harry Jones had been delivering Her Majesty’s mail for twenty-seven years, and even though his current route was through some of the worst areas of Fulham, he also got to walk past the Fulham Football Club every weekday, and even the BBC, although he didn’t get to deliver their mail because they had their own direct truck delivery.

  Fulham wasn’t sexy like some other parts of London. Notting Hill and Soho were far more trendy, but Harry liked his route just the same. There wasn’t nearly the same number of tourists and potential trouble. So he set out on Friday morning, thinking about the dart game that night and trying to decide which of the pub’s two best dinners he could get. He was leaning toward the bangers and mash. That was another thing about his job: because of all the walking, he could pretty much eat whatever he liked. He turned into New King’s Road and started to whistle. He really liked this section of his route. The houses were just lovely.

  There was a very tall man just ahead, wearing what looked like a short dressing gown, in some silvery grey color, although it was hard to tell because he had his back toward Harry. He was standing on the footpath, his feet spread. He was wearing some sort of boots that hugged his lower legs, but they didn’t have heels or anything like that.

  Harry slowed his pace a little. He considered stepping off the footpath and onto the road to go around the chap. He generally didn’t look for trouble, and the bastard looked dodgy. He made up his mind that he was going to cross the road altogether, then cross back when he was safely past him. Parson’s Green was ahead a wee bit. He could see the trees just over the giant’s right shoulder.

  Harry spotted a break in the traffic and hurried across the busy street, heading for the pub on the south side. That was when he heard the screams from behind him. From the Green. He stepped onto the center strip and looked over his shoulder. The giant was still standing on the footpath, but now Harry could see through the trees that edged the green.

  There were more of the giants. Many more. And they were…were they doing what he thought they were doing?

  Harry bent at the knees to look underneath the fulsome foliage of the trees. He could see more through the trunks. He peered, then he clapped his hand to his mouth in horror.

  The giants were rounding up people. They were scooping them into a pen of some sort, made of solid material that Harry couldn’t begin to name. It was nearly midday, and there were usually a lot of people who took their lunch into the green and made a picnic of it. They were running in all directions, screaming and yelling warnings and as Harry watched, one of the giants stepped forward and swung a long knife—a knife so long it was almost a sword, like the little short ones the Romans had used, only edged on one side. The knife was attached to a handle that was almost as long as the knife itself. The giant swung the knife in a big underhand swing.

  Harry moaned. He didn’t see what the blade did to the back of the woman running away from the giant, but her feet stopped moving and she stopped screaming. Then she fell flat on her face onto the lawn. Harry would remember that sight for the rest of his life, which he didn’t know then would only last a few more minutes.

  Some of the people who weren’t being picked up by their arms and tossed into the pen had reached the edges of the green. They bolted through the trees, and that was when the giant who had been standing motionless on the footpath moved. Harry realized the giant, the thing—for he had already begun to wonder if the tall human-looking giants were in fact human at all—the giant he had first spotted had been a sentry. Now he was moving into action, to hold back the people streaming through the trees and spilling onto New King’s Road.

  Traffic was squealing, drivers laying on their horns. The panic moved beyond the green, and for the first time Harry thought it would be a good idea to get off the road and move to somewhere safe. He thought of the pub and turned to cross the other half of the road.

  People were jumping onto the island in the middle with him, but they weren’t even trying to find a break in the traffic. Panic was driving them. They ran right onto the road, and cars whose drivers weren’t already slowing to see what the hysteria was all about slammed into them.

  Harry winced as a man in ragged jeans and a Chelsea T-shirt was tossed into the air by the bonnet of a Vauxhall Corsa, then dodged around the car himself, his mailbag bouncing against his hip. Behind him, he heard the car behind the Vauxhall slam into the back of the little car with the odd crumpling sound that modern cars made.

  The screams seemed to be coming closer and Harry put on a burst of speed.

  He ran down the footpath toward the pub’s white door and that was when he realized his mistake. He should have kept running down Coniger Road, or dodged into one of the front gardens of the houses there and ducked out of sight. By turning and running down the footpath, he brought himself closer to the sentry giant, who was striding across the road, his knife-thing swinging in full circles, over and under, the under stroke slicing through anything and anyone.

  The giant took another stride and Harry gave out a gasping, helpless cry, reaching out toward the pub door he could see just ahead. The blade sliced into his midriff and up through his ribcage and for a moment it didn’t hurt, even though Harry knew he had been injured.

  Then his feet stopped working, even though he was desperate to keep running. He fell to his knees, then toppled over onto his side and watched the giant turn and walk along the footpath in long strides, his knife swinging. He passed the pub door and kept going.

  Harry died not knowing that he was one of the first people in human history to die at the hands of an alien species.

  * * * * *

  “Asher! Come quickly!”

  Charlee’s voice was full of something that sounded a lot like fear. There was a panicky quality he had never heard in her voice, ever. It was enough to shove him into bolting across the bedroom, and into the living room, where she stood in front of the TV, the remote in her hands. He was still holding the hand towel.

  She pointed with the remote, wordlessly, at the TV. Her face was white, her eyes enormous.

  Asher looked and his guts clamped coldly. He sank down onto the sofa, all thoughts about shaving to save her tender skin scattered to the four winds.

  The news bulletin showed one of the regular anchors and behind her, on a smaller inset screen, was an image of England: the London Eye and the Tower of London, the Thames winding between them. Superimposed over top of that was a hastily cut-out image of something that he had never thought he would see again. The tall, slender figure had dark brown skin and pitch black hair tied at one shoulder over the leather body armor. The long knife was held above his head, his normally large and elongated eyes squinting as he took the measure of whatever enemy he thought he faced.

  “…and for more, we go to Jane Edgecombe, on the ground in London. Jane?”

  The image shifted to show Piccadilly Circus, the statue of Trafalgar in the middle, but it wasn’t the usual tourist photo opportunity. Everywhere, roiling across the screen, were Myrakar and Blakar, fully armed, thousands of them, fighting London’s police, who wore full riot gear and carried batons.

  “They’re so outgunned,” he whispered, appalled, as he watched police keeling over, clutching their stomachs and throats, the stumps of lost arms and legs. Blood ran over the concrete as the Myrakar spun their long knives like giant food processor blades
, mowing down anyone in their way.

  Civilians were screaming and running down the street behind the police, who were doing their best to hold a defense line.

  A blonde woman holding a microphone was flinching and kept looking over her shoulder as she shouted at the camera. “This is Jane Edgecombe, reporting for ABC live and as you can see, war has come to London. It is a war that no one ever expected. You are seeing the first live footage of a war with an interplanetary species. Yes, this is not a movie. This is Earth’s first contact with another intelligent species, but diplomatic dialogue has already proved to be impossible. These beings appeared in London’s streets only a few short hours ago. They immediately began to round up people, herding them into what can only be described as alien vehicles of some kind. The police were called to full alert, and I have been told by a senior government representative that the British armed forces, all of them, are mobilizing.”

  “She’s trying to invent a whole new vocabulary out of thin air,” Charlee whispered. “Even as she’s describing it.”

  “No one will have the vocabulary for this,” Asher replied. He felt sick and his mind was sluggish. “The ones with the dark skin, the shorter ones. We call them Blakar. They’re Blakalfar, the workers. What humans used to call cannon fodder.” He grimaced. “The taller ones with the black hair and tanned skin, they’re the Myrakar—the Myrakalfar. They’re the officers. The ground strategists. They drive the Blakar.”

  “Drive?”

  “Inspire. Direct. Crack the whip.” He licked his lips. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

  She held out the remote and clicked the channel selector. Quickly, she rotated through all the channels. All of them were playing either the same footage as the ABC, or similar, or they were simply off the air. The picture that built up from all the feeds was scary. Most of Britain was under attack.

  Charlee paused when she reached one of the foreign language channels. “That’s Hong Kong,” she said. The frantic Chinese voiceover accompanied nighttime pictures of a city on fire, with screams, sirens, gunfire and more. The images were grainy and whoever was holding the camera was barely holding it steady, making the images slant and jump in jerky, panicky movements.

  Asher didn’t have to see details. He understood only too well what was happening. “They’re being slaughtered.”

  “Someone opened the bivrost,” Charlee said, staring at the screen.

  Asher looked at her, startled. But there wasn’t time to question her on how she knew that. Then she met his glance, her eyes wide. “That’s who they are, right? They’re from the other eight worlds.”

  It took sheer willpower to say the words out loud, to overcome the conditioning of centuries of secrecy. Slowly, he said, “They’re the Alfar. They’re from Alfheim.”

  “They look like elves, except for their skin.” She said it remotely, watching the screen again. Shock was setting in.

  “They are what humans call elves,” Asher said gruffly. “But there is nothing gentle about them. They’re arrogant, powerful and believe they are the heirs to the universe. War is their life, and conquering all that stands before them is their only mission. And these are just the fighters. The Lajosalfar…they’re the real bad guys.”

  She was clicking through the channels again, almost mindlessly, absorbing the bloody images. “China. Britain. France. Thailand. India.” She whispered the names of the countries as the corresponding images appeared on the screen. Then she switched off the TV, put the remote down on the coffee table and turned to face him. “They’re here to conquer us, aren’t they?”

  Asher nodded.

  She thrust her hands together, the fingers twining. Her eyes were huge. Bewildered. “You have to go back.”

  There was nothing he could say in response, because she was right and he wasn’t sure he could speak, anyway. He nodded again, the movement feeling like rusty chains running over unoiled gears.

  * * * * *

  Asher emerged from the bedroom twenty minutes after he had walked stiffly and slowly into it and shut the door. Charlee perched on the back of the sofa, waiting. She felt as inflexible as Asher had looked.

  Shock, she self-diagnosed. But knowing that didn’t fix it. All the classic treatments for mild shock—warmth, sleep, food and water—were useless to her right now. She could no more sleep than fly, and food was equally as uninteresting. The cold had settled into her bones.

  Once he had closed the door, the silence had grown thick and frightening, so she turned the TV back on, lowering the volume until it was a frantic murmur of doom and disaster, an accompaniment for her ricocheting thoughts.

  When Asher stepped out into the main room once more, she switched off the TV. He was carrying a duffel bag that looked heavy, and it reminded Charlee sharply of Lucas. He always left the house at the end of shore leave holding a bag that looked just as heavy.

  Why wouldn’t they look the same? Asher is heading off to war, too.

  The thought jolted her onto her feet.

  Asher put the bag down by the front door and came back to her and took her into his arms.

  Charlee let herself cling to him and kiss him in a way that expressed everything she would not say.

  He rested his head against hers. “I don’t know what will happen now. I don’t know how this ends. I could—”

  She quickly covered his mouth, silencing him. She shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

  “Who can I say it to, if not you?”

  She drew in her breath, reaching for calm, as she realized that this was as new to Asher as her. He had never left anyone behind before. “Say it, then,” she told him.

  “No, you’re right.” His thumb swept across her cheekbone. “It shouldn’t be said.”

  “Only good things, huh?”

  “I’m leaving everything good behind me.”

  She swallowed. “So am I.”

  Asher stepped back, appalled. “No! You’re staying here, in New York. Where it’s safe!”

  “I’m Amica, Asher. You’re Einherjar. We have jobs to do.”

  “They’re all over Europe! No!”

  “It’s my job,” she repeated. “This is what I am.”

  “But…” He stared at her, his mouth working.

  “You’re Einherjar. The worlds have descended upon Midgard. You must defend the Earth. That is your role, your responsibility. You knew that as soon as you saw the Alfar on TV.”

  “Ah, Christ!” He whirled away, the strength of his emotions driving him into movement. He came up against the dining table and leaned on his fists, breathing hard.

  “Once you go out that door, Asher, you stop being human forever. The world is going to know about the Kine, if not today, then very soon, because you can’t continue to hide. Not now. This time here, today, last night, that is all the time you get to be really human. To love like a human.” Charlee made herself go on. “You go back to being Einherjar and I go back to being Amica, because the world needs you more than I do.” It took sheer willpower to stop her voice from wobbling.

  Asher was staring at the tabletop, his jaw working. Then he strode back to her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her once more. Charlee inhaled the kiss, trying to hold on to it, because she knew it would be the last.

  Then he let her go and walked back to the door and picked up his pack. He fumbled with the lock, then wrenched it open and looked at her one last time. “I love you, Charlotte Rose.”

  The door shut behind him.

  WORLDS COLLIDE

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Renmar stared at the map of the upper continent of Midgard. After a year, the land masses had become familiar, but the Mannlingar insistence upon divisions within the land, what they called ‘countries’, still remained difficult to understand.

  But it was of little importance and was even of some tactical advantage. The Lajos had learned that cooperation across those artificial borders, between armies and leaders, was often slow and clumsy, which they used
to their advantage. An assault that crossed those borders would almost certainly thrust farther than one that remained within a single country. So Renmar studied the map and considered the power of the leaders of each of the little countries, compiling permutations and possible combinations. Where was the potential conflict? What could he leverage?

  Pernon entered, his shoulders stiffly square and his gaze directly ahead. Renmar dismissed the map image and turned to wait for the news Pernon must be bringing. He lightened the room to that of a sunny day.

  Pernon lifted his face to the light, a small smile touching his lips. “Ah, blessed light….” Then, his prayer sent, Pernon looked at Renmar and touched his hand to his own eyes reverently.

  “Tell me,” Renmar ordered.

  Pernon hesitated. He was an able captain, but Renmar found his constant reference to the emotions of others and the consequences of actions upon those emotions tedious. Now Pernon was trying to measure the effect of his news upon Renmar himself.

  “Delay makes me angry,” Renmar rumbled.

  Pernon touched his eyes again, quickly. “Ganxiao has been retaken, Lord.”

  Renmar surged to his feet. “Fools! We have held that hall since the day we arrived on Midgard! Who was the imbecile who let the Herleifr take it back?”

  Pernon dropped to his knees and groveled. “It was a concerted attack, Lord! Humans used their armaments upon the outer walls, while the Kine attacked from within, using the portal against us!”

  “Humans! The Kine!” Renmar fumed. “Why do you use those folksy names for them? They are not kinfolk. They are ragged leftovers of the Mannlingar species. They lost all valor generations ago.” He curled down his lips. “The Herleifr were chosen from among the fallen, not the victors. They are weak. Yet they defeat us. What does that say of your captaincy, Pernon?”

  “Lord, I am not worthy of rank.” Pernon spoke to the floor. “Strip me of all recognition, and I will return to my home and restore honor the only way left to me.”