Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves)

by Melissa Snark

  Ráðgríðr looked down her long nose. Her pencil thin eyebrows arched. "We are here to choose who among the four warriors who fell this day are worthy of being taken to Valhalla—"

  "I am here. I will select those who are worthy and escort them to Odin's hall." Victoria pitched her voice to carry. She stood forthright in her assertion of her rights. By ancient custom, the Valkyrie first on the battlefield did the choosing.

  "Indeed, you would be correct." Ráðgríðr's piercing gaze cut straight through her. "If you were still a Valkyrie. However, you are not. Victoria, you have been stripped of your rank and your privileges."

  Aghast at the denouncement, Victoria rocked on her heels and almost staggered. Behind her, an angry exclamation and a muffled growl came from the men. Her temper ignited on a long, slow burn. Having Sawyer and Logan witness her denigration was embarrassing. But the real humiliation came from having it happen in front of her sister Valkyries. Her wolf bristled; primal instinct urged her to lunge and rip out the other woman's throat. Exhaustion, of all things, proved to her advantage, slowing her reflex to violence. It enabled her to get out ahead of her anger and cut it off.

  "On whose authority are you stripping me of my station?" Victoria demanded point-blank.

  "Our Lady of the Vanir has rescinded your status," Ráðgríðr advised her coolly.

  "Freya." Her face pulled, contorting with her mixed disgust and anger. It hurt to have muscles working against one another, and she was certain her expression was ugly. "Freya doesn't have the authority."

  "I should have you arrested for—" Ráðgríðr kept talking but her words ran together. Victoria couldn't make out a single one over the roaring in her ears.

  On the ball of her foot, Victoria pivoted to face Odin. She staggered and stopped before him. She tilted her head back to stare into his inscrutable visage. The thought foremost in her mind, echoing—So it comes to this?

  Despite her familiarity with Jake, his greater form was a total stranger to her. Odin was austere, enigmatic, and formidable. Those who won his favor often lost it, sometimes for unknown reasons. In the corridors of Valhalla, she'd heard it whispered that the All Father had gone mad. He no longer spoke to his own priests. He seldom addressed anyone but his wife and sons. He brooded for hours on end, keeping counsel with a dwarf's severed head.

  "Are you hearing this, Jake?" Victoria shouted at her god. "Are you going to stand by and allow this after all the shit I've gone through for you?"

  Dark thunderheads brooded overhead. Ráðgríðr protested, but the cacophony of the ravens swallowed her words. The birds that composed the god's body split into two pillars that flew on furious wings and vanished into the cloud bank. A man stepped from the nexus of the V and squared his shoulders, settling into a wide set stance.

  Victoria's breath caught in her throat—Jake Barrett.

  He wore his sixty-something years on his countenance, and he wore it well. His short brown hair was dappled with gray; his skin tanned and tough like old leather. At six-foot plus, Jake had a dense, muscular physique. Covered in scars and a few select tattoos, he looked more the part of a convict than an athlete. Physically, he was imposing but his true intimidation derived from his implacable magnetism. Mountains took lessons in how to be remote and rugged from him.

  The man was notorious among men and monsters. His titles varied from the prosaic to fanciful but he was most commonly called the Hunter King. Rumors abounded regarding his true nature. Some said he commanded powerful magic. Others that he'd sold his soul to the devil. All in all, the truth was much more terrifying than the wildest speculation.

  Gale-force winds beat down on her head and whipped loose hair that had escaped her braid about her face. Victoria registered her surroundings in only the remotest, most abstract way possible. The others faded from her awareness as well. Her reality was surreal. Disjointed and disconnected.

  When Victoria's gaze locked with Jake's, the most difficult thing to accept was the most trivial. The man had only had one good eye. Over the other, he wore a patch. Of course, it made sense. It stood as common knowledge that Odin had sacrificed his eye to the Well to gain the gift of prophecy. A mantra rang through her mind over and over—Not her Jake.

  Pirate Jake was a hundred times scarier than his mortal incarnation.

  "You having trouble with this, kid?" Jake stepped right up to her and bent his head, speaking at a for-your-ears-only pitch.

  "Yeah, kinda." She struggled to gather her scattered wits. To that end, she opened and closed her hands, flexing her fingers. Repetitive motion soothed her frayed nerves. She had no idea what to say to him and she was terrified. No matter what she said, it was bound to be the wrong thing. Her anger and sense of betrayal were tantamount to blasphemy. What right did she, a mere mortal, have to harbor wrath toward the king of the gods?

  And what was right didn't change how she felt at all. A tremor passed through Victoria. She strove to hide it and loathed the admission. Already, she'd lost her status as Freya's priestess and possession of Vanadium—two of the three things that made her special. When her parents and so many of her pack mates had died, she'd believed then that she'd lost everything. Now, she realized how much more she had to lose.

  "You'll have an opportunity to speak your piece but now ain't the time." He pinned her with that single, fierce eye.

  She gulped and changed her mind, now convinced. Hell yeah—her Jake. Marshalling her composure, Victoria lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye. "Are you firing me or am I your Valkyrie?"

  "You tell me, Victoria. Are you still my Valkyrie?" The One-eyed God smiled.

  "I'm your Valkyrie," Victoria declared in a voice both strong and daring. The declaration empowered her—fear fell away. This experience also fit with her Jake. Maybe the human aspect of Odin wasn't so disparate from his greater entirety as one might assume. She addressed her next words to her sister soldiers, Ráðgríðr in particular. "I arrived at this battlefield first. It is my right to choose from the slain. I determine who goes to Valhalla."

  She all but thumped her chest—my choice. Miiine.

  Not one of the six other women spoke, but they averted their gazes and yielded in posture. As a wolf, Victoria picked up on the signs of submission. Triumph rushed through her, and it was all she could do to contain her celebration. An Alpha's instinct called for her to tilt her face toward heaven and howl in victory.

  "Ráðgríðr, return to Valhalla. I want a word with you in private." Jake stepped into the moment, taking command of it and them.

  "Ooohhh, someone's in trouble!" Logan heckled from the front row. His mockery earned him a one-eyed glare from Jake.

  Shocked gazes riveted on the male werewolf but then turned toward Jake. The lot of them stared as though expecting an eruption and smiting. Ráðgríðr looked damn near fit to be tied. Victoria pressed her lips together to stop from smiling. Jake's sense of humor could handle Logan's worst. Still, she worried, but it was yet another thing beyond her control. She relaxed further, savoring Ráðgríðr's takedown. In her book, it was long past due.

  "All Father, if I may. We were acting on Freya's orders," Ráðgríðr protested. The woman strove to sound respectful but she was clearly in a quandary.

  "Ráðgríðr..." Jake cocked his head.

  The High Valkyrie faltered. "Yes, Your Highness?"

  "Why're you still here?"

  "I'm going now." Bowing and scraping, Ráðgríðr took her leave.

  Jake plowed toward the five remaining Valkyries, scattering them before him. "The rest of you, stop gawking and round up those souls. Sawyer—" He turned toward his son.

  "Yeah, Dad?" Sawyer stood with Cali. Not supporting her but hovering nearby like a broody hen. Victoria refused to look at him. She averted her gaze in time to catch Logan's double take.

  "Dad?" Logan mouthed while conducting an invisible orchestra with his hands.

  "Why are you standing here?" Jake demanded of Sawyer. "Get Cali to the damn hospital be
fore she passes out."

  Sawyer scowled. "We'd already be gone, but she refuses to leave."

  "I'm not some sissy that's gonna pass out. I'm not leaving DNR behind." Kinkaid adopted a stubborn stance. The chip on her shoulder was a dare—Go ahead! Mess with me. Yet, from her pallor and the tremor in her hand, she'd reached her upper limits.

  Victoria knew the feeling. She also was well past her second wind.

  The Hunter King stopped in front of Cali and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Kinkaid, I'll see to it that Dewey gets taken care of. Will you trust me with that?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The hunters exchanged a few more blurred words that were barely discernable thanks to the roaring in Victoria's head. The tide rushed in again, and the world swayed. She might have gone over like a felled tree except for Logan's hand on her elbow. She breathed deep and rested her forehead against Logan's side. He had on clean clothes—a floral fresh scent of laundry detergent overlay his earthy male aroma. His voice was a reassuring murmur in her ear as his hands stroked her hair.

  Time blurred. The next time she came around, Jake was standing before her and Logan. Sawyer and Cali were nowhere in sight, having presumably left for the hospital. The male werewolf and the king of gods faced off, appraising each other like little boys on a playground. Only, Logan—dumbass—was bound and determined to get his ass handed to him.

  "Logan," Victoria spoke his name in warning and tugged on his elbow.

  "So, you're Odin, huh?" Logan asked. "I thought you'd be more like that Dos Equis guy..."

  "I don't think of you at all."

  "Zing. Nice one, gramps."

  "Thanks, pup."

  Hildr approached Jake. The redhead said, "Sir, we have the souls of the slain assembled."

  Jake's heavy gaze settled on Victoria. "Are you up for this?"

  "I'm ready." Victoria summoned her strength; she pushed away and set herself apart from Logan. She had half a mind to question why and how the civilian authorities hadn't arrived on the scene yet, but the matter seemed trivial compared to other concerns. It struck her as best to simply assume the sheriff and his people would arrive when Odin allowed it...and not a moment sooner.

  With an effort, she focused her vision to peek beyond the veil into the Shadowlands. It took more out of her than expected, and a part of her was left wondering if her eyes had gone full-wolf. The posse of Valkyries ringed the four souls in question: DNR and the three members of Den Valgte, including Magdalena. It surprised Victoria that the witch's soul had been caught but she supposed death rendered them all equal in the end.

  Except Odin's handmaidens were different. Specialized reapers. As a Valkyrie, Victoria had already died and passed the trial of being judged and chosen. In turn, she arbitrated over the worth of warriors felled in combat who hoped to enter Valhalla. Valor and skill in the martial arts were prized attributes but other traits mattered more—intelligence, cunning, and loyalty.

  Verging on collapse, Victoria surveyed the four souls once, lingering on each in turn. Magdalena bristled with defiance, whereas her two male companions were more bewildered than bold. And DNR—the poor guy—was shaking in his boots. The whole time she looked, she was aware of the burden of Jake's gaze on her. Yet another test. The others watched too, but they hardly mattered. Only his esteem held any weight.

  "Him." Victoria aimed her finger at DNR, and dismissed the others with a sweep of her arm. "They are unworthy."

  Rota, who'd been silent to that point, burst out. "The woman fought well. She has skill—"

  "Odin, I beseech you. Hear my pleas," Magdalena cried out, addressing Jake. "We have only sought to serve you!"

  "This is my decision." Victoria dropped her statement as a ton of bricks. She glared at Rota, at all of them, daring any of her sister Valkyries to criticize or challenge her decision.

  No one spoke.

  Victoria swiveled to Magdalena, and bared her teeth is a feral smile. "You can rot in the Underworld for however many days we have left."

  The witch shrieked as Victoria turned away, but she was past caring. She staggered the short distance to Logan and collapsed against him. Her options were him or face plant in the dirt. He leaned over her, huffing hot, citrusy-sweet breath across her face.

  "Y'know, I like you like this—all sweet and subdued..." Logan snickered. "And handsy."

  "Logan?" She fought a yawn and lost. It spread her jaws so wide they ached.

  "Yeah, Vic?"

  "Shove it." She tried to do so but failed to stifle a second yawn. This one engulfed her. Logan's laughter echoed all around her, warm and nutty like fresh-baked brownies. She achieved weightlessness...floating. Everything was far, far away; sleep comforting.

  Jake's voice impinged on the sound of silence. "You'll see her home safe?"

  "Yeah," Logan said.

  Then, nothing until she stirred again in the car. Victoria lifted her head, found herself buckled into the passenger seat of Logan's SUV. Music played on the radio while the night rolled along. She had no idea how much time had passed.

  Logan glanced over at her. "So that was Odin, huh?"

  "Yeah." She croaked thanks to dryness in her throat. "That was Odin."

  The car stopped and he turned off the engine. For a second, she stared at him in blank confusion until he prodded her shoulder. "We're home. Can you walk or do you want me to carry you?"

  Her face heated. "I can walk."

  They climbed out of the SUV and navigated the path to the front door in silence. Victoria's sense of surrealism lingered. Everything that had happened that evening from the fight to the revelation about Sawyer had a nightmarish quality. She had a gaping hole in her heart and her soul where Freya and Vanadium belonged. In the course of one evening, two of the things that defined who and what she was had been stripped away.

  She spoke without meaning to. "I don't know who I am anymore."

  Logan glanced over at her. He frowned but then smiled. "C'mon. It was a rough evening but you're still the same short pushy blonde know-it-all you've always been."

  "Shut up." She threw a clumsy punch at his side, and he made no move to dodge. Logan pivoted; a playful turn, acting like he wanted to spar. Victoria didn't have the heart. Instead, she continued onward.

  "What's wrong, Vic. Why won't you talk to me?"

  Logan's gaze had weight, and pressed upon her back as she trudged up the front walk toward the porch. She had no answers for him even though he deserved better. She ached from head to toe, proof she'd strained her reserves to the max. Her exhaustion was so great her natural healing had hit its limits. She needed water, something to eat, and then to sleep for about twelve hours. And a shower. She craved a hot shower more than anything.

  Dear, loyal Sylvie waited in the open entrance. The older woman wore a housecoat. Deep worry lines marred the Skald's kindly face but she was there, waiting for Victoria, as always. The eye at the center of the storm. The heart of the pack.

  The two women walked straight into a hug, holding one another tight. "Oh, Victory. The ruckus you created tonight—we felt it over the pack bond. I thought you were lost."

  "I was." Lost. Maybe she still was. Victoria pulled back enough to gaze into her friend's face. "Where are the others?"

  "Asleep. Should I wake them up?"

  She placed her hands on Sylvie's shoulders and squeezed. "No, let them sleep."

  "You both come on into the kitchen and I'll make you something to eat." Sylvie included Logan in the invitation. "Then you can get some sleep. Don't worry, I'll take care of the others."

  "I don't know what I'd do without you." Verging on tears, Victoria threw her arms around Sylvie again. More than anything, Victoria longed to tell her friend everything that had happened that day. Normally, she would've. This time, she couldn't. Knowledge of Sawyer's crime was a burden she had to bear alone, as Alpha, and for the good of her pack.

  The older woman returned her hug, but her face was pinched with worry when they separated. "You'd d
o just fine. Except, I suspect, you'd eat nothing but junk food. Now, to the kitchen with you."

  "I'm starving." On cue, Victoria's stomach rumbled.

  "I'm not surprised." Chucking, Sylvie herded Victoria onward, leaving Logan to bring up the rear.

  It was so good to be home.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Phoenix, Arizona

  In the hallway outside of Michael's bedroom, Jake kept his vigil. He sat atop a solid oaken chair, balanced on its rear legs, the back propped against the wall. He cradled a double-barreled rifle with a black walnut stock in his arms. The hunter dozed fitfully, waking often to check on his youngest son.

  The first ring of his mobile phone startled Jake wide awake. He pried the device from his pocket and glanced at the screen—Sawyer. Immediate irritation coalesced in Jake's gut. He checked the time—ten minutes to one in the a.m. Blast, it would figure that Sawyer couldn't call him at a civil hour. Jake attributed his grumpiness to a lack of sleep. He hadn't gotten more than an uninterrupted hour in the last forty-eight. Weariness had worn down his nerves to a nub.

  He answered the phone. "Yeah?"

  "Dad, we've got a problem—"

  "Just one?" Jake asked in a tone edged with sarcasm. Grimacing, he tilted his chair onto all four legs and rose to his feet. He shifted his rifle's carry strap to his shoulder, freeing his hands, and moved a yard down the hallway to muffle the sound of the conversation so they didn't disturb Michael or the twins who were also asleep in their beds.

  "Okay, more than one."

  "I'm listening."

  Sawyer offered no immediate reply. From his breathing and the heavy cadence of his steps, he was pacing or maybe hiking. With conscious effort, Jake put a lid on his own frayed temperament. If he didn't watch his tongue, he'd snap out another curt demand which would inevitably make matters worse. His son handled like an unbroken horse. Once Sawyer got riled, he stopped thinking and started reacting. The boy had a hot temper and poor judgement—a lethal combination that had resulted in tragic consequences in the not-so-distant past.