by Evie Byrne
A third naked figure, not as tall as the second, strolled around the corner to stand over the wrestlers. This one had a nice broad chest—and light hair and a red beard. Wat. Eva put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Damn! If only her eyesight was a little bit better.
A hand reached out from the wrestling pair, caught Wat by the leg, and pulled him into the fray.
“Fine view, isn’t it?”
Eva jumped, cracked her head on the portal, and whirled around on the rickety stool. A tall, old woman was standing in the doorway, wearing a long, white apron and a wry expression. To Eva’s horror, she felt herself blush. As if it were wrong to look out the porthole and see whatever happened to be going on out there. A very naked whatever.
Who was this woman? Besides his brother and now Gunnar, Wat hadn’t said anything about other people living in the house. Taking in the apron, the woman’s work-roughened hands, and an odd tool-belt contraption hanging around her waist, bristling with items, Eva guessed she must be the cleaning woman.
“Can I help you?”
The woman flashed a wintery smile, showing a bit of fang. Her eyes were brilliant blue, her hair short and white. “Might be you can, little bird.”
Eva raised her brows. “Little bird?”
“Little bird all dark and bright up on her perch. I’d take you for a blackbird if I didn’t know better.”
Eva hopped off her “perch” and took a step toward the woman, annoyed to realize the old lady had a head of height on her and maybe forty pounds, none of which was fat. They bred them hearty up here.
“I’m sorry, do you need this room?”
“I’m all done with this room, thank you. I’ve come to see you.”
“Oh, why?” Eva wondered if she were merely a tourist attraction or if this woman had information for her.
“Where do you hail from, chickling?”
“Los Angeles.” Hello? Alya Adad’s Hand? Surely there’d been a memo about the conquest…
“No, where do your people come from?”
“Both of my parents were born in San Diego.”
“And where did their folk come from?”
Eva stifled an eye roll. What a nosy old biddy. “My father’s father came from Mexico City—”
“No, way back. Your kynkvísl. Your blood, já?”
“Well, if it’s any of your business, which it is not, my father’s side originates in Spain, but not to the old families, if that’s what you’re asking—”
The old woman waved her hand impatiently. “Spain? No good. And your mother?”
Eva sighed in resignation. “Her people go way, way back. They can be traced to the native vamps who lived in Tawantinsuyu. That means they fed on Incas."
“They were Indians? Forest people?” Her face lit up. “This is good. You’re of the blood.”
Whatever. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m an Incan princess, actually, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret. Any more questions?”
“You like that little knife there?” The woman nodded toward the vanity drawer, which was still open. The curved blade gleamed there in the shadows. Eva’s cut finger throbbed at the question. Not waiting for an answer, the woman said, “It’s yours if you want to take it.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll ask Wat before I start stealing his stuff.”
The old woman grinned. It was downright scary. “You do that. He’ll like that, oh yes, he will.”
With that, she limped away, leaving the door open. Eva shut it behind her and slid the bolt. She’d thought she’d locked it the night before and frowned that she’d forgotten. Locked doors were important when you were living in an asylum—or with the enemy.
As far as she knew, the nude male wrestling was still going on outside, so she lingered in her room and repacked her bags, giving the men time to come inside and settle down. She really didn’t want to run into a troop of deranged naked men. Not in this context, at least. Before going to sleep, she’d logged all the events of the night on her laptop and outlined her working strategies, so there was none of that to do. Alya or Dominick would review those documents when she returned home.
If she had Wi-Fi, she could check her email, update her Facebook, go on online, and buy some better boots…but she doubted Zappos delivered to Brunnrheim. She did have a satellite phone, which she’d use to check in with Dominick every day just before dawn, as agreed.
Everyone is L.A. was still asleep. They were pretty relaxed down there these days: Alya and Mikhail Faustin were in L-O-V-E, scary as that was, and no one dared to bother them. They were bonding. Dominick held the reins of Alya’s empire, which stretched over four states, but with the honeymoon holiday, he was probably taking it easy, too. She imagined him sprawled in his big bed with a handsome feeder. Or two. Or three. The fortunate son of a bitch.
Finally, she heard the thunder of heavy feet and the opening and closing of bedroom doors. When she figured they were all safely dressed, she went to the great room. There she found the three perps, rosy and damp, drinking coffee around a bright, crackling fire. Their easy conversation stopped when she came in. She focused on the one she did not know, the tall one with dark hair she had seen rolling around with Gunnar. His eyes were just like Wat’s, same color, same shape.
“You must be Ivar,” she said.
His pale eyes flashed at her through a screen of thick, dark hair. He was so very Heathcliff—all cheekbones and dick and attitude. Once she’d have gone crazy over a guy like that. Now she just backed away slowly, thinking, no, thank you.
Wat whacked him on the back of the head. “Ivar’s pleased to meet you.”
Ivar scowled at Wat and rubbed his head. Meanwhile, Gunnar found something fascinating in the bottom of his cup. His long bangs hid his face. He’d traded his “I Love L.A.” sweatshirt for a billowing woolen shirt, embroidered across the yoke with a cross-stitched pattern of green leaves. Cranky Ivar wore a snug buckskin shirt with fringe on the sleeves, some sort of feathered amulet around his neck, and equally snug leather pants gone shiny in the knees. Wat wore a long, olive-green sweater belted at the hips. A knife hilt poked out of a wide, patterned sash that rode his hip. He wore the same leather pants and soft boots he’d worn the night before.
Taken together, they looked like a 70s folk-rock band—like the stacks of old vinyl records her parents still listened to, albums with dopey white guys in peasant blouses on the covers. Wat and his band would be called “The Troubadours” or “The Merry Rovers” or something like that.
“Coffee?” said Wat, handing her a cup. She took it gratefully. “How did you sleep? Warm enough?”
She laughed. “I thought I would freeze in the night, but I was so warm, I ended up sleeping naked. That bear skin is amazing.”
Wat’s stiffened, his pupils going huge. He looked angry. Maybe he was worried about the fur. She changed the subject. “I just met your cleaning lady. She’s a real character.”
“Our cleaning lady?” Wat repeated slowly. Ivar straightened out of his slouch. Gunnar raised his eyes from his cup. “In your room?” Wat said, suddenly tense.
She nodded.
Wat dragged his hand across his mouth. “An…uh…elderly woman?”
“White apron, very inquisitive—she is your cleaning lady, isn’t she?” Seeing the looks on the brothers’ faces, Eva realized that she might have mistaken a relative for hired help. “I’m sorry if—”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Wat said. “You’re right. She’s our…she helps us out here.” He sucked in a deep breath and put down his coffee. “As a matter of fact, I need to have a word with her. Excuse me.”
Ivar watched him go, his face serious, less sullen than a few moments before. Gunnar just looked confused.
“What’s going on?” she asked Ivar.
Ivar slid back down into his trademark slouch and drawled. “You know how it is. Good help is hard to find.”
Wat shut the door between the great room and the bedrooms, and then moved quietly
up to Eva’s room, as if stalking game.
“Amma?” he whispered through the door. “Amma?” He eased the door open and slid into the room, his eyes flicking to all corners, the bed, the ceiling. He saw nothing but Eva’s things, her little bags packed and standing by the door, as if she wanted to be ready to run. Her bed was made, the hearth swept. He opened his nostrils and breathed in. What he caught was mostly Eva’s scent--unfamiliar, intriguing--but layered with it were just the faintest hints of sage and mint and rue, scents his grandmother carried on her hands, her apron, her breath.
“What brings you back?” His question fell flat in the still air. “What do you want with Eva?” He waited for a reply or sign, but none came. “Please tell me what you want with her.”
A hand fell on his shoulder. He jumped out of his skin.
It was just Ivar. “Thrice damned! Don’t do that.”
“Er Amma hér?”
“Já.”
Ivar made the sign of protection and quoted an ancient verse in the old tongue. “Are they only illusions which I seem to see? / Or is it the end of the world?”
Wat completed the verse, “Ríða menn dauðir!” There are dead men riding.
He scanned Eva’s room one more time. “I believe that about sums it up.”
Wat and Ivar returned to the fire with their mouths tight and their eyes narrow. Both walked as if they expected to be jumped at any moment.
“Everything settled?” Eva asked cheerily.
“She had to leave,” Wat said. “If you meet her again, her name is Hetta.”
Leave? How? Hetta hadn’t gone out the front door. Was there an exit under the hill? What in the hell was going on, anyway?
Wat picked up the coffee pot and offered it around again. “One thing I hope to show you today is how we live self-sufficiently. We make most everything we use. Our clothes, our gear…”
She could tell he was recovering his equilibrium because he was launching into a lecture. Or maybe he was launching into a lecture to recover his equilibrium. At any rate, she already recognized the signs.
“For instance, that quilt you slept in last night was made by our amma—our grandmother. She did all the sewing by hand. We saved the down from all the geese we took, until she had enough to fill it and a few pillows. She bought the cloth, though. That’s where we intersect with the human world—when we need basics. Coffee. Some cloth. Tools. The trucks. Though we have our own blacksmith, and he’s good for repairs and simple tools. Our biggest expenses are our trucks and fuel—”
“Wat,” Ivar said, very low.
Wat ignored him, or didn’t hear. “We need cash for these things, and that’s where it gets interesting. You need to get a handle on what I call our meat economy—”
“Wat, are we going to jaw all night or are we hunting?”
“Yeah,” said Gunnar. “I’m starving.”
Wat turned to him, “I’m sorry, Gun. I should have asked if you were hungry. When did you last feed?”
“Yesterday. Sort of.” He shot Eva a poisonous look. “They made me drink human blood the whole time I was gone. Bagged blood. It was disgusting. I begged to go hunting, but they wouldn’t let me. Not even rats.”
Eva didn’t engage with the child. There was no point. Of course they hadn’t let him scurry around dark alleyways hunting for rats, like a complete degenerate. Bagged blood was disgusting, but at least it came from humans, not vermin.
Meanwhile, Ivar was up and stalking around, pulling stuff from the hooks on the walls and out of the wooden chests that bordered the room. “Time’s wasting. I picked up a buck’s sign late last night. Think I know where he’ll be.”
“All right. A hunt is as good a place to start as any.” Wat went through another door, opposite the one that lead to the bedrooms, and brought back a mixed bundle of clothing.
“Gunnar, Eva, I’ve got some things for you.” He tossed half the pile to Gunnar. Then he unrolled a greasy, bulky, knee-length, hooded Nanook coat and held it up to her.
She took a step backward. “Thanks, but I’m plenty warm.”
Wat pushed the jacket at her. “You won’t last an hour outside—not in that, you won’t.”
“Oh, no. I’m not going with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Hiking around in arctic cold for hours, killing animals? Pass.
He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you stayed to find out more about how we live.”
“I’m learning plenty, right here.” Right here by this big toasty fire.
“Hunting is the heart of our culture.”
Ivar rattled off something in another language. What language, she couldn’t guess, but assumed it would be spelled with lots of umlauts and crazy consonant combinations. A language not at all as melodic and sensible as la lengua española. “What’s that language?”
“Ours,” Wat said shortly. She’d let it go for now. “English please, Ivar.” He shot a stern look at his brother.
“I said leave her behind.” Ivar looked her in the eye. “I said she’ll just fuck things up.”
Eva bristled. “You think I can’t stalk?”
He folded his arms and sniffed. “I know you can’t.”
Okay, so she hadn’t ever stalked an animal, but she knew how to move soundlessly, knew how to stay off human radar. It couldn’t be that different. She grabbed the coat Wat had offered her, sliding it over her own jacket. The parka was lined with thick, white fur. Suddenly it looked a lot more appealing. “Let’s go kill Bambi.”
Gunnar muttered something under his breath and put on his own Nanook coat. Ivar handed him a pair of wooden tennis rackets—no, snow shoes. Oh, great.
“And these.” Wat held up a pair of soft, squishy moccasin boots. “Take off those atrocities you call boots. Let’s see if these fit.”
“Really, it’s not nec—”
He showed her the inside of one of the boots; it, too, was completely lined with thick fur.
“Gimme.” She snatched them and stripped off her boots. “Do I need socks?”
“Not really.”
She stripped off her socks and plunged her feet into the soft fur. Her toes had an orgasm. “Oh. Oh my god. This is really good.” She stopped moaning when she realized Wat was staring at her. He looked really annoyed.
“Let me see if they fit.” He knelt in front of her and probed around her heels and toes. “Not bad. These belonged to… a friend's daughter. I remembered you were of a size.”
By his tone, something bad had happened to the girl. She didn’t know how to ask. Nor did he seem to want her to. Most likely she’d died in the bloodbath immediately following Alya’s kidnapping. Now the fur felt a little less comforting.
“This is how you wear them.” Using a long cord, he wrapped her calves up and down with the laces and tugged them tight. Backwoods bondage. “You’ll remember how to do that?”
“Sure.” She stood and took a few steps, feeling as though she were walking in fluffy bunny slippers.
Next he handed her a woolen watch cap. “Pull this over your ears.”
Ivar stood by the door, pack on his back, with snowshoes strapped to the outside. Gunnar, outfitted identically, had joined him. “If we’re done dressing, Barbie…”
He knew who Barbie was. Wat said they kept to themselves, but they weren’t entirely ignorant of the outside world. Not Ivar, and Gunnar least of all. He liked video games. He’d been dressed normally when captured. On the trip here, he’d seemed perfectly comfortable in the real world.
Wat handed her one more item: a pair of big, thick, fur-lined mittens. She put them on and resisted the impulse to flap her flippers like a seal. As long as she didn’t need her hands for anything, they would be peachy.
He put on his coat, grabbed a pack from a hook, and strapped two pairs of snowshoes to it. “Time to hunt.”
Chapter Four
Outside, the air was crisp—like machetes were crisp. The sky had reached full blackness, and above them hung layers and layers of stars, larger
and brighter than she’d ever seen. It was if someone had taken all the lights of Los Angeles and upended them into the sky. She spun in a slow circle, looking up, and tripped when she bumbled into a snow bank. Wat caught her arm and pulled her back on the packed path that served as their walkway.
“Stay close to me. Do what I do. Listen to what I say.”
She saluted and pulled up her hood.
Ivar, in the lead, began jogging. Gunnar followed. Wat gestured for her to go ahead of him. If this were some kind of test, she wasn’t going to fail—even though their legs were twice as long as hers. She started off at a slow jog, getting used to the strangeness of her boots. It was like running barefoot. She had to change her stride, put her weight on the balls of her feet instead of her heels. Just like running on the beach.
Not.
They jogged through the village, past the other houses. Some of the residents were out and about. One man chopping wood waved as they passed. The whole area was crisscrossed with shoveled or beaten paths, which they followed until they left the houses behind and picked up a single artery of a path that wound through the woods.
Jogging had one advantage: It beat off the cold. Like the others, she soon tossed back her hood. She kept pace with Gunnar and heard Wat’s even breathing close behind. No one spoke, and Ivar never paused or even seemed to look around, so she assumed they weren’t really hunting yet, just commuting. After they’d run about three miles, she realized it was a long-distance commute and steeled herself for some kind of backwoods endurance fest. She could run about ten miles without strain, but the strange boots and uneven terrain made the going more difficult.
After another mile or two, they ascended a hill, following the path up a series of switchbacks, until they reached a treeless ridge. There the path ended. Ivar and Wat took up positions on a pile of snow-dusted rocks and scanned the valley below, their eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. Gunnar did the same from a lower rock, looking like a puppy imitating the big dogs. She tried to appear as if she weren’t winded. Not that they were paying any attention to her. An empty, white expanse lay in the valley below, ringed by bare, pokey scrub and dark forest. A frozen lake.
