Guardians of the Portals

by Nya Rawlyns

Wolf paced about the U-shaped kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Idly he wondered if they should have gotten another delivery of propane for the stove and auxiliary heaters before the weather turned foul once again. He was unaccustomed to mulling over such mundane details. That was Orri's job and he knew his man would be laughing his ass off if he could see his captain struggling with matters of provisioning and preparing meals. When this assignment concluded, he would need a show of strength to reposition himself in his men's eyes. Though isolated from all but his charge and the occasional visit from Eirik or one of the scientists, rumors managed to circulate. What had seemed a temporary inconvenience now dragged into its seventh week, purgatory morphing into his version of hell.

  The kettle's shriek jolted him awake. He flipped the knob to off and removed the pot to a trivet on the counter. Gathering his thoughts, he concentrated on the ritual, slipping into a meditative state. He poured a small amount of boiling water into a ceramic teapot, swirling to coat the inside surface and dumping it out. Black tea leaves, measured by feel, feathered into the warmed pot. Carefully pouring the boiling hot water onto the leaves, he gauged the amount of liquid by practiced eye, and set the kettle aside. While the tea steeped, he arranged two mugs, the strainer, a ceramic holder with sugar and sweetener in glassine packets, along with a pitcher of skim milk, onto a tray. He added two spoons and the teapot, then reached for the bag of pastries. His Gothi had a sweet tooth though the woman seldom indulged.

  Thinking of his charge nearly derailed the sense of contentment the ritual usually infused into his troubled spirit. A Japanese-American girl had taught him the virtues of ceremony and adherence to tradition in maintaining balance, amongst other things. Gods, it seemed centuries since he'd found comfort in a woman's arms. When this was over...

  Wolf carried the heavily laden tray into the sitting area and laid it on a narrow pine table set against the wall. He'd refinished the piece, working late into the night in the basement of the log cabin, relishing the feel of the wood as it carried away his resentment and disquieting thoughts. He'd been a carver of some renown in his younger days, long before his clan directed him to more necessary tasks. He still indulged during the frequent downtimes, creating small totems for his men to carry into a conflict, for luck or as offerings to Freyja if their bloodied, spent spirits were called home.

  The woman and his Gothi chatted quietly as the hologram spun lazily over the small table. They'd adjusted it to an intimate setting, one quarter size, but still surprisingly three-dimensional. He loved technology—the gadgets and tools, the weaponry, and especially the communication devices that gave him almost instant access to a world of ideas and opportunities. Rather than disturb their absorption in the slowly rotating frames, Wolf remained at the side board and poured the tea into the mugs, adding sugar and skimmed milk to Eirik's but leaving the woman's plain. She claimed to like the bitter tang—'bitter' being a fitting description of her personality. He carried the mugs to the end tables, set them on cork coasters and backed away.

  The woman made no move to acknowledge either him or the cup sitting at her right elbow. He knew from experience the odds were good she'd never touch the cup or would take only a small sip. It was as if she knew the importance of the ceremony and sought to discount his adherence to its virtues through discourtesy and rude behavior. For what purpose he could only guess. He knew her story—everyone did. At first he'd felt compassion, but that had been replaced by something else, something far more troubling that made each day a trial to endure, a test to pass. With Eirik present, and supportive in his own way, it was not so bad. But when he co-habited with her—if that were indeed the right phrase—effectively alone and forced into invisibility, it assumed a burdensome level the likes of which he'd never suffered at any time in his long life.

  She moved about the cabin in restless agitation, yet always managing to avoid him. Like an automaton, she seemed to wear a force-field, armor-plated, and he wondered how she learned that trick and who had taught her. It could not have been Trey—the enforcer was too tightly wound, too sealed off and selfish to share his unique talents.

  Wolf murmured, "She is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." He smiled at the quote, paraphrasing something he'd read about Winston Churchill, but he could not recall the exact reference. He fancied military history, though not necessarily its political antecedents.

  He slipped an Enya CD into the player, inserted the plug for his headphones and settled on a stool. The atonal melodies sent shivers down his spine as he contemplated the rough-barked pine wood sitting on the counter. Pulling open a drawer, Wolf examined the selection of carving knives, extracted a few and laid them on the counter in precise alignment. He spread newspaper over the surface, lost in thought. The form had yet to announce itself. He knew if he kept touching the bit of wood, stroking it, coaxing it, whispering sweet nothings, she would finally yield to his hands and reveal her true spirit.

  With a shallow cut, he skimmed away a layer of bark. Today it felt right. He felt his groin tighten with almost sexual tension as the wood spoke her first word. He cradled the rough shape in his left hand, not sure he'd heard it right, but with another stroke of the blade he was certain. She'd intoned his name.

  Wolf.

  ****

  "...so you can see why my people migrated through the Portals to avoid the persecution. Back then, being 'different' carried more import, with often deadly repercussions, than it does today."

  "I doubt it's so much different, Uncle."

  "No, my dear, trust me. You have no idea how much our kind has suffered over the centuries." He pointed to the montage displayed on the small table. The flames from the stove cast reddish-gold shadows through the still figures, infusing them with a life of their own. Eirik used his cane to point out certain features. "The man to the left, can you see him from there?" Caitlin nodded yes so he continued, "That's my brother, Gunnarr. His sons are here, and here."

  "Which one is...?" Caitlin felt her throat catch. She'd almost said his name and that would never do. She'd sworn to never utter it again. Words had power, his name had power—over her heart and her soul. The bond still ached, the link seeking, always reaching out for him. If it were truly physical as he'd said, then why couldn't she control it the way she controlled so much of her body's other functions, changing, altering them at will. What good was it to be a shape-shifter if the one thing that would ease her troubled passage, plugging the void left in her chest after he'd betrayed and abandoned her, could not be used to bring a measure of peace?

  Eirik pointed to a small boy holding onto a blonde giant's hand, staring up at him with a look of adoration. "He is the youngest of Gunnarr's brood."

  "Who is the blond one?"

  "Ah, that is, uh..." Eirik hesitated, his face a mask of distaste, though for the man or something else she couldn't tell. "That's Bryn."

  "Oh, the oldest brother?"

  Eirik shrugged enigmatically and steepled his fingers, something he did when engaging in his frequent internal debates. Debates that almost always forewarned of some revelation, often calculated and designed for maximum impact. Though his culture, his time, his concerns seemed distant—academic—she had learned over the last few weeks that every detail, every nuance carried import far beyond the simple recitations and scholarly delivery.

  Eirik shifted in his seat, a decision clearly reached. "No, there are, were, four in all. Trey's the youngest, then Bryn—those two were inseparable. Bryn idolized his baby brother and was more a father to him than Gunnarr."

  "Did something happen to Bryn?" Caitlin wasn't sure she wanted an answer to that question. The elderly man's body looked suddenly older, more shrunken, as if he bore a terrible burden. She'd had enough family tragedy in her short life to recognize the raw, bleeding edge of memory. She slid closer toward him, ready to comfort if need be.

  Eirik paused before saying, "Trey killed him," his voice flat and devoid of emotion. At her involuntary moan of dismay he held u
p a hand and continued, "I don't know details. Gunnarr told me this himself. He called me to meet with him—and you are aware how unusual it is for us to meet face-to-face after all that has transpired between our peoples."

  A profile hovered in the background, someone Eirik hadn't mentioned. "Who is that one, Uncle?" She pointed to the handsome young man.

  "Ah, that is Tyr. He is a distant relation." Eirik chuckled sadly, "We are so few that you might say all of us are related in one way or another." Pausing thoughtfully, he said, "Without Trey, he must now step up to fill his shoes."

  Eirik seemed reluctant to say more so she refrained from asking about the man who supposedly would be second-in-command to the old gentleman. That could be a discussion for another day. For once she had more than enough to think about.

  Eirik sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the hologram, before clicking it off with the remote. Sadly he said, "I'm sorry, perhaps that is enough history for today. You do understand?"

  Caitlin rose and glided over to the man she'd grown to care for and drew his frail body into a hug. She whispered, "I am so very sorry. I will work harder. I promise, I won't let you down."

  She helped the old man to his feet and guided him to the stairs. He murmured, "My cane," and waited as she hurried to the chair to retrieve it. As she turned toward the stairs, she noticed a small Cheshire Cat smile on Eirik's face, smug and self-congratulatory. She was not so naïve to believe his self-styled history lessons didn't convey many layers, designed for a purpose she had yet to ferret out. She had no doubt his pain was all too real. Less clear was how she felt about the man who had stolen more than her heart, the link a seeping wound that never healed.

  Caitlin handed the Gothi his cane and said, "Let me get what's-his-name. He can help you up the steps. You look like you need rest."

  Eirik murmured, "Of course," as she scurried off, his soft chuckle a curiosity she would evaluate later.

  ****

  "He needs help."

  Wolf looked up at the woman standing in the narrow doorway. He still wore his headphones and hadn't clearly heard what she'd said.

  "I'm sorry, I couldn't catch that." Wolf removed the headphones and set them away from the pile of shavings littering the newspaper on the counter.

  Plainly annoyed, Caitlin spat out, "I said, he needs help."

  Wolf pushed away from the counter, immediately concerned. "What is it? Is he ill?" He strode across the narrow space and paused to stare into her eyes but she remained impassive, blocking his path. He muttered, "Excuse me." When she failed to move, he grasped her shoulders and slid her sideways, pinning her against the door jamb with his bulk. The sensation took his breath away. He felt a wash of heat, then ice, fingertips flash frozen to her collarbone while hot blood pooled in his groin and cascaded down his thighs.

  He fought to regain control of his senses before he did something foolish that would earn him a severe lashing at the very least. Releasing his hands, he wriggled his fingers, the tips on fire as if he'd handled dry ice. His chest still pressed hard against her small breasts. She had an almost boyish build, so thin had she gotten, but he could still feel her nipples, hardening and straining through her cotton tee shirt. He yearned to grip her hips and draw her close as his jeans filled with his thickening cock, his pulse pounding hard and drowning all sound but the lust coursing through his veins.

  Caitlin stared wide-eyed, her narrow face draining of color, as she visibly struggled against the wash of energies threatening to consume both of them. Sensations, familiar and forbidden, flooded through him like some kind of muscle memory, a renewal of hostilities on an emotional battlefield. He’d struggled against the daily barrage, managing surcease from his confusing thoughts only when she kept her distance. He’d thought her immune from the malady afflicting his psyche. Apparently he was wrong. Something had changed, but what?

  It seemed an eternity, the contact forever etched like a red hot brand on his soul, a physical throbbing that only increased as he withdrew. Backing away, never taking his eyes off her, he realized she looked as bewildered as he felt. As she eased into the kitchen, her body quaked with the effort as they slowly, reluctantly, increased their distance apart. It took a supreme effort of will to turn away from her, his duty demanding his attention, if not his resolve. The sound of his boot heels clacking on the hard floor simply punctuated the out-of-control rhythms of his heartbeats as he headed to his gothi's aid.

  Eirik stood on the stairs watching their strange tableau with interest. Wolf strode quickly to his side and asked if he needed help with a voice barely able to croak, so off-putting had been the encounter. He'd been battling his attraction to the Ice Queen since his first day as her handler. He'd put it down to simply having gone without a woman for far too long, but he knew it now to be something else, something terrifying, chaotic. He had no frame of reference for this and no one to counsel him. Face flaming, he looked at his gothi, aware that the man saw and knew everything, for that was his special gift.

  The old man extended an arm for assistance up the stairs, a rare acknowledgment of his increasing frailty. At the door to his room, Eirik paused and thoughtfully evaluated him. With his gut vibrating with anxiety and longing, he wanted nothing more than to rush back down the stairs and leave Eirik to his pensive musings.

  "Wolf, come in. Please. I need to talk to you about this situation." The words echoed hollowly in his brain.

  "Sir? Perhaps later. I..."

  "Now, Captain. You need to understand what has happened. And to keep your wits about you." Patting his arm, Eirik led him into the bedroom. As the elder muttered to himself, he could only catch a word here and there—mistake, pairing, link—forever enigmatic, trying his patience.

  Before he could release a hiss of displeasure, Eirik interrupted, "Bear with me, Wolf, you will not be disappointed."

  ****

  Caitlin took a shallow breath, her body still unwilling to overcome the effects of the transformation in the pond that had allowed her to save herself and Trey. She'd quickly adapted to that template, hard-wiring it so that the subtle alterations in her body chemistry resulted in fundamental changes at the cellular level. But in return her lungs were permanently compromised, leaving her 'unthrifty' as Eirik so quaintly termed her condition.

  She stumbled into the kitchen and sat on the stool recently vacated by the no-name man, the one she'd refused to acknowledge, keeping him and his power at a distance. But no longer. He'd swamped her, overrun her circuits with an intensity that both terrified and exhilarated her. There had been no trigger, no pain as a conduit, just unadulterated passion. She had no way to handle such unfiltered, raw emotion, not now, not after all she'd been through. If it had been one-way, stemming just from him, she might have controlled it using her limited understanding of the process. But her link, the pathway joining her and Trey, remained open and somehow her caretaker had tapped into it, hijacking her pain and loneliness and converting it into something else.

  She picked up the bit of wood the man had been working on, idly wondering, what's his name, why can't I remember it? Turning the piece over and over, she used her hands to see the contours through the rough edges. With a few deft strokes he'd defined the form and sketched a likeness. It seemed to whisper to her, faint susurrations, almost alive. She tilted her head, listening hard.

  Liuthr. Shield Wolf. Wolf.

  Like an echo the name reverberated, invading and overwhelming her thoughts. She enjoyed the resonance, wondered how it would feel on the tongue, saying his name ... Wolf.

  She sensed approval, her companion bolder now, more stalwart than the outer shell she wore, her reality forever compromised.

  How fitting that she should now have a familiar. She spoke to her confidant, seeking his counsel for he was wise beyond measure and gave her succor in the dark, cold moonrise where madness brought clarity and time did not exist.

  'Dearest friend, stalwart companion, we have a wolf at the door. Shall I let him in?'

>   The beast lounged against the doorframe, hands hooked over his belt, his face a mask of tension. Ever obedient, he'd been brought to heel, though the effort cost him. She knew that for a certainty as his eyes, doorways to his soul, gave him away. Of them all, this one would never lie to her, he was incapable of it. Caitlin wondered where his loyalties would rest once tempted beyond his endurance.

  She set the figure down and stood slowly, never taking her eyes off him. He straightened and waited, every muscle on high alert, ready to bolt, or ravage. She held out her hand and waited as he took a single stride and gathered her in his arms, crushing her against his hard chest. She sighed a heated breath as he bent to taste her mouth and quivered as trills of energy pierced her heart.

  "Say it," he demanded.

  She purred, "Wolf," as his tongue and mouth explored her neck and chin, nipping at her lower lip, drawing blood then soothing with bursts of energy.

  "Again," he demanded.

  She moaned, "Why?" and arched her neck, prepared to howl his name but her heart stopped as he plundered her eager mouth and husked the last words she ever expected to hear...

  "Because you are mine."

  Chapter Two

  Jake surveyed the communications room with interest. Reeking of controlled chaos, it formed the nerve center of Greyfalcon—now his bailiwick and home away from home. Odd how circumstances—and competing loyalties—changed.

  "Kier, come in, please." The technician to his immediate right fiddled with a bank of controls, cursing under his breath. "Kier. Pick up the damn phone. Kieran!"

  "What's up, Fletcher?"

  The tech looked up with dismay. The kid had been around long enough to know that the last thing he needed was a direct line to the Capo and nothing said you're fucked quite like having an ex-Special Forces SOB like himself breathing down his damn neck.

  "Sir. Um, nobody's reported in, sir."

  "Since...?"

  "About 15:30."

  "About. You don't know exactly, boy?"