With my sword raised, I inched toward the darkness, watching for the slightest movement.
Life was different than how things played out in fiction. My heart reacted to the tension, pulled tighter than a guitar string ready to be plucked.
But this isn’t what I’d always been, a creature now of the night.
Vampire or not, this battle was one I’d have to fight.
1 month ago, New York City
“Are you breaking up with me?” I whispered.
Sitting across from my literary agent, I couldn’t help the feeling of dread that began to climb up my legs into my hands until they tingled. Not like a heart attack, or even a stroke, but more like my life was soon to flash before my eyes.
My thick manuscript of five-hundred pages still sat on his desk, in the copy store’s logo-marked brown box—not a page read or touched.
It had taken me years to find an agent. I’d created a manuscript that I loved, pitched at writers’ conferences, sessions, and cold-queried. Let’s not forget the contests, ranging from stalking agents on social media for a chance to even thrust a few chapters to one in an elevator, or under the bathroom stall door.
Desperation. It stank to high heaven, even I knew that, but if I failed at this dream, I’d have nothing to land on.
“You really need to think about your career.” Maurice Abernathy leaned back in his leather chair behind his overly large and neat desk. No manuscripts piled high, not a speck of dust to cloud that polished shine. Instead, he steepled his fingers and ogled me. “Vampires are some of the oldest of legends, and here you go trying to improve on something that people don’t want changed. We know they have super strength and speed, but what is it that you think they should have, but don’t?”
“Magic?” I croaked.
“With magic, you need a magical system. It doesn’t just appear out of nowhere.”
I’d been method writing for years—learning all that it took to make my Viking characters come to life. Let’s not even mention the rituals. I bit back the tears that threatened to spill. I could feel it in the air. Change was coming and this one wasn’t going to be good.
“It’s not as bad as it seems, but the publishing house doesn’t want to renew your contract.”
“But time traveling Vikings are hot right now,” I said, clenching my hands on either side of the plush leather chair.
“No, the market’s cooled. I tried to warn you that readers just weren’t grabbing the Viking things as much as the Scots. You wouldn’t heed my advice.” He leaned forward, and for a moment I saw the pity that drifted across them… but then again, maybe I just saw what I reflected.
“What am I supposed to do now? I have this conference you booked me o— this Woo-Cruise.”
The Woo-Cruise was an annual cruise where romance authors, readers, photographers and cover models mingled for seven days and six nights along the British Isles and Iceland. There would be sessions on writing, as well as more pitching, and of course, alcohol with half-naked models to bring the cover art to life.
“I’ve already paid for that out of my planned advance. You promised me—”
“I misspoke. I took Jim out for lunch and he assured me that the House was truly considering your potential, but the stats are the stats. You haven’t moved out of the— no top rankings, no awards since your debut novel. Maybe you’ve just lost some of that passion. Some of the reason why you’re writing.”
Writing served as my personal therapy. I just shared it with the world. It healed my pain, but right now, I was at rock bottom. Without something coming in soon to change things, this dream would pop, and my livelihood would be gone way before anyone could even request a sequel. Yet, instead of asking my questions, I remained mum. The words whipped around in my mind, creating a toxic and fearsome cocktail of desperation and the bitter taste of fear.
Maurice was already getting his fifteen percent from my efforts. He had all the contacts, and all I had to do was write. At least that’s what he’d promised me what felt like years ago, but it had only been three years. Enough time for him to let me drop.
Instead of comforting words, he buzzed his assistant. “Molly here will see you out, and make sure you make it home okay, but on your way out, don’t forget to take a package of my business cards to share with your author friends. When do you plan on picking Stacy up for the departure?”
“Stacy?” I sputtered.
“Don’t you remember? You asked for an assistant.”
I pulled back my shoulders. “Well, if I need an assistant it will not be from here. I might be downtrodden, and have to make it through these next seven days, but I will do it without your help.”
“I understand. It is never easy to have to start over.”
“But will I really be starting over? I am—”
“Writing is often like wearing a placard while naked, and asking people to tell you how you look,” Maurice began. “In this sense, unfortunately you were found lacking.” Molly entered the room. “Please see Ms. Cutlass out.” He’d kindly reminded me of my government name, instead of the penname I’d been using, Leslie Love.”
“Leslie,” Molly said. “please, come with me.”
I tried to pull my shoulders back and keep tears from streaming down my face in humiliation.
When I’d signed a contract to become a published author with Maurice’s firm, here in prestigious New York City, I thought I’d made it. Isn’t that what every author wanted? On kitten heels, I silently followed Molly out of the office. Away from the Fifth Avenue décor, away from the scented air that tasted like fresh oxygen being pumped into the rooms; away from the crystal vases, and original Tiffany glass—my heart sank in my chest. The overly plush carpet that practically swallowed my steps, and the floor to ceiling glass that partitioned the office space—all things that I’d helped to pay for on my mid-list earnings.
“Don’t worry, Leslie. You’ll bounce back. Maurice can be a jerk sometimes, but he didn’t mean it like that. Go, enjoy your cruise, and refill your creative well—find that story your heart needs to tell.” She signaled the elevator for me and waited until it arrived.
“Plus, who doesn’t love cruises?” The elevator pinged, and I entered into its steel tomb.
“Me,” I croaked. “I get sea sick.”
2
Alistair
Alistair MacLeod, upward from the breeze, waited for the buck to pause. His ancient navy and green kilt fluttered slightly. He kissed the bone-made good luck’s piece, Odin’s Amulet, which hung around his neck.
“May his spirit be received into your hands,” he prayed, and cast his eyes towards heaven, then tucked the amulet back under his shirt.
All was silent. He could hear the beast’s heartbeat, smell its sweat, and sense its warmth. He licked his lips, readied his arrow, then pulled back the bowstring. Inhaling a cleansing and calming breath, he took aim.
A loud ruckus from the forest’s underbrush pulled at his attention. He watched the buck’s ears perk up as a swinish snort grew louder, coming his way. The buck bolted for Gillianbusti, Alistair’s trusty black wild boar, who then loudly snorted and nudged Alistair further away from his hiding spot.
“What did you do that for?” Alistair asked. They'd been out in the rain and wind waiting for a buck to come their way, and now that it did, those hours lost were not to be recaptured.
“Yeah, well, you're saving its life isn't going to distract from the fact that we need something to eat.”
Gillianbusti snorted again.
“Yes, I know that isn't true, but what else am I supposed to do? The Bifrost bridge isn't working, and that means I get to stay here in the Highlands until either the bridge is repaired or—well, I'd rather not think of the other options. The dragons have to be able to make it back to Asgard sometime, and not just stay put here on earth.”
The large black boar double snorted.
“That's not an answer.”
Over the centuries of them being
together, they'd taken to creating their own way of communicating. A snort wasn't just a snort, but it presented with it a chance to communicate that otherwise wasn't possible—a code of sorts. Gillianbusti wasn't a shifter, a god, or even a magical creature. No, he was simply dwarf-made, created in the forges by great dwarves—the sons of Ivaldi—which gifted the gods with all of their grandest of tools, and gifted to Alistair by his great uncle Frey.
“Yes, I know. Oma Freyja was to send word, but she's been rather quiet. Time in Asgard doesn't run like it does here. She and Odin are probably still trying to gain peace, or whatever one does all day in Asgard. As long as I am not forced to visit the Dragon Queen, and stay off of her radar, well, we’ll be fine.”
“Snort.”
“No, they are not taking pity on me,” Alistair said, and packed his bow back in place. Just like those bowstrings, he was wired too tightly.
The responding high-pitched snort sounded like a guffaw.
As they were about to make their way back to the castle's keep, a sprig of wheat sprouted before them, and an envelope took shape.
“Mail from Asgard,” he muttered, then picked it up. Yet, instead of the usual parchment, when he opened it, a hologram took form and there he saw his grandmother, Freyja. Her golden hair fluttering around her as a slight wind blew. She probably planned it that way for aesthetic.
“Dearest grandson,” she began with a smile. “There is much you must know, but Odin has decreed that you remain on Midgard in the Highlands until such a time as boredom is the least of your worries. As the head of the guard, your expertise in making sure the gate is not penetrated is more important than your extended vacation here in Asgard.”
“What? He wants me to sow some wild oats? Those days are over. What can mankind give me that I don't already have? And what of the door? Nothing ever happens here.”
“This is not a one-way telegram. I can hear you,” Freyja said, and furrowed her brow. “You see, your playboy ways have gotten you in enough trouble over the years, all of those broken hearts and all, but Odin thinks you must learn that of love, honor and valor.”
Alistair rolled his eyes. “Love is so... human.”
“To be a god to humans, you must also understand them.”
“My responsibility is to the Order. You get too involved in their lives. I live here off-grid, as they say, with the occasional dalliance. My home is a beacon for the supernatural and I rule this providence with an iron fist. There have been no reports of any supernatural avoiding the treaty, and thereby we remain secret.”
“That is very good, you have been able to guard the gate to help keep Midgard safe. However, you are to head away from the castle some, as there is one that requires the Order’s protection.”
Alistair frowned. Occasionally, his grandmother found it in her meddling ways to suggest that he leave the castle grounds to go out in search of a supernatural being. Usually, he could find a way to get out of it.
“You want me to deal with the living?” His words littered with disgust, as they usually didn’t adjust to their ways. He’d tried it once.
And still regretted it.
Freyja nodded. “Even more, I want you to find the völva.”
He felt his stomach rumble, his thoughts of hunting forgotten. For years, they’d been looking for the supposed Norse seer.
“I’d truly rather not have to deal with that right now. You see—”
“You don't have a choice.”
“Why do I think the bridge is fine and this was more of your doing than that bastard husband of yours? If you can send me this message, surely you can also locate the prophesied one.”
“You know he can hear you too. And your profaning his name will not make it all better, even if you do follow it up with a blessed kiss on your amulet. Your reproach is uncalled for. Do you really wish to rile Odin up in hopes of getting him so upset that he calls you to appear before him?”
“I've been in the Highlands since the whole Jacobite debacle. Trying to stay out of the way of those shenanigans almost cost me my head.”
“Treason? Really?”
“People get suspicious when the lord of a castle never ages, leaves or does anything else normal. How many times was I charged with being a warlock? How many times was I told that if I didn't comply there would be hell to pay?”
“Really, dear grandson, I don't want to hear your complaints. You are much braver than all of this. Where is that alpha-heroism that the Highlands are known for?”
“I can kill someone without a problem. Slice and dice with the best, but do I really want to?”
“We're not commanding that you go to war.”
“No, what you are commanding is that I find this woman, and that is like going to war, now isn't it? Next thing you know I will have to worry about the color of the curtains and putting something on under this kilt, not even to think about if I want to take vacation.”
“You're doing it again.”
“What?”
“Whining. No, that will not do.” She clapped her hands and he caught a whiff of magic on the horizon. “It will appear now that guests shall be arriving, those who have been looking for you. You need friendship too.”
He ignored her words. “Then since you know so much, why don't you come down here and find the lass to befriend? And while you’re taking orders, can you make sure that she—”
“This is not fast food,” Freyja interrupted.
“You are telling me that I must seek out the völva, and we know what happens then. For her to live under my roof, she must become my mate, and I have no need. You just want to play matchmaker, like always. What I want is to be left alone, free from this place, and an inherited duty that I did not request.”
“Do what is asked of you. There is a ship nearby. Why don't you go have a look?” Freyja asked. “And that is an order.”
Alistair bent his knee. “Yes, my queen.” The goddess’s order he could not deny.
“I don't deal nicely with regular people. They tend to bore me, and let's be honest, I've yet to make the acquaintance of one that does anything more than stare. After living so long, I'd like someone to talk to, truly communicate with and not just an empty vessel—and such does not exist. If I wanted that I would have taken the genie's lamp offered to me in the Near East.”
“Dearest Alistair, you talk too much. You don't take time to listen.”
“Maybe you simply have nothing of importance to say.”
“They have that Kobe beef you've been wanting to try, that you can't get there.”
“When does the ship leave?”
“See, all you needed was motivation.”
With a simple flicker of light the transmission ended and he still stood there with his boar, staring at his quandary.
He'd been alone for a long time, except those in his possession, the McLeod’s near Loch Ness. They'd taken care of his castle, and he'd let them remain on this side of eternity instead of making their way to their final destination. It was the Viking way of things that he sought to disrupt. No pyre, no relinquishing of the soul to the afterlife. He had the powers of peace and an abundance of pleasure. What good was war in all of that?
Besides, what good was a woman if she only brought with her more war?
A loud knock sounded on the thick oak door, which echoed throughout the hall. The noise traveled to the library where Alistair sat waist deep in books.
“You summoned me?” Killian asked. Killian stalked in like the alpha he was, but his pack was comprised of other supernaturals—that was the strange way of the castle. The supernaturals lived harmoniously together, all working alongside one another to guard the gate from the pending attack by those who’d wish ill upon Midgard.
“Welcome back, dear brother. I trust that your trip abroad was fruitful?”
“I was able to see how the other half lives.”
“Have a care; they are indeed a part of the Order. When did you return?”
“Well, I
did the job well enough, as they have agreed to the treaty, but it is expected that the next Wielder is not set to arrive at the academy until next year.”
The Wielders, or those who could invoke the magic of the gods, were rare, like unicorns, four-leaf clovers, and honest women.
“That is at least some consolation.” Alistair closed his book. “Of course, that is not enough. The time is almost upon us, as the prophecy has determined.”
“Well, we’re trapped until we find a solution. If we are able to bring the chosen into the Order, then we will be able to protect the gods.
“The only problem is that a woman hasn’t crossed this threshold with any of those qualities.”
“At least none that have fulfilled the list, but the research is surely enough fun on its own,” Killian said.
“You might be finding Asgard between silken thighs, but if we don’t find her, well, it will be the end.”
“I take it that you have a plan?” Killian raised a brow, crossing his arms.
“I have feelers out. If the gods wish for serendipity to fall into my lap, I shall not be one to complain.”
“Be careful what you ask for, dear brother, as the gods enjoy their mischief.”
Alistair leaned back in his chair, “And I the chase.”
3
Leslie
What started off as a bad day could only turn out better, I hoped, and attempted to shake it all off as I popped my old suitcase open. Dust sprinkled the air from disuse.
“What is it Myrtle?” I called out.
“Oh, you must be having a bad day if I’m Myrtle and not called, Gran,” she chastised. She floated over to my side, as ghosts do, and leaned against the wall without falling through.
“Are you going to go to the different ports, maybe even bathe in the North Sea?”
“No, and catch a chill? The water in July averages fifty-five degrees. I’m not looking forward to hypothermia.” I placed in a stack of items I thought I’d need, and then turned to grab another sweater.
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