The Bastard

by Inez Kelley

  Vike’s hair fluttered in the sudden sucking wind then blew back in a flash of smoke as the Leech vanished. Black soul-dust rained onto the asphalt. A loud scuffle with curses ended with similar flashes behind him.

  “To me,” Vike said, his chest heaving. Both weapons vanished, repainting themselves on his arm. He dug a leather pouch from his pocket, knelt and swept the few handfuls of soul-dust into it. The wail of a siren echoed in the distance and grew steadily louder.

  “Here comes the cavalry. Better haul ass, Gen.”

  “Vike.” Blood trickled from Gen’s mouth and dripped from the jagged piece of metal protruding from his chest. He coughed. “Got a splinter.”

  Vike ran to Gen’s side, catching him before he face-planted the blacktop. The metal had pierced the Forsaken Mark on his back with a clean thrust. The improbability squeezed Vike’s belly. What were the odds? Nothing could stop a Forsaken except for decapitation or getting skewered through the palm-sized burn between their shoulder blades.

  Gen grabbed Vike’s collar, his fist tightening not in pain, but in panic. “My box.”

  His plea sent goose flesh along Vike’s skin. No matter how fearless you were, the end was always frightening. “I promise.”

  Something bitter clawed at his chest. Selfishness, he guessed. They’d been Awoken at the same time, learned this new life together. Brother wasn’t a strong enough word for their bond.

  “Rest. You deserve it.” Vike locked his jaw and stared into frantic eyes, refusing to let his friend suffer alone. “I’ll see you in Odin’s Hall.”

  A snort blew a fine mist of red from Gen’s mouth. “No, Viking, I’ll see you in Tengri’s Meadow.”

  “Fine. Save me a virgin or two, will you?”

  Vike kept the link until the light in his eyes faded and Gen disintegrated into pale gray soul-dust. A burn scalded between his shoulder blades, his Forsaken Mark weeping when his eyes didn’t have time. He fished another pouch from his pocket, reverently scooping the powdery silt into it. “Sleep well, warrior.”

  The sirens grew louder and a pale red hue flashed at the end of the street. He hurriedly packaged the two Leeches Gen had popped into more small bags. The flash of white skin turned his head toward the woman. Huddled on the ground, she gaped at him, blood streaming down her face. The sourness of death coated his tongue.

  Damn, he hated killing women. But it wasn’t right to leave her an empty shell, condemning her to a non-existent life until her body gave out. It could be decades with modern medical intervention. That, to Vike, would be hell on Earth. Killing her was a favor.

  He pocketed the pouches and strode toward her, reaching for his knife. He’d slit her throat. It was the fastest route, and in her present state she’d feel nothing. He, however, had a strange hurt inside. It took four steps before he recognized it as regret. How many centuries had it been since he felt that particular emotion? That he couldn’t recall left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Tiny gravel bit into his knee when he knelt before her. Her bloodless lips were parted and her unfocused eyes didn’t move, not even when his blade winked in the low light. Hair escaped her ponytail and hung over her bleeding face. This angle sucked. Using the dagger hilt, he tipped her head to the side exposing her jugular.

  Her gaze sharpened and focused on his face. “I know you. Chocolate chip pancakes, extra whipped cream.”

  The knife froze less than a quarter inch from her skin. She saw and remembered. The Leech hadn’t gotten a big enough bite out of her soul to leave her a vegetable. Relief was sweet on his tongue.

  “To me,” he breathed, never breaking eye contact. The dagger at her throat vanished.

  “Th-the guy you were with, where did he go? He was here. I saw him.”

  She saw Gen? Shit. She not only remembered, she was forming semi-coherent sentences. Ones that required an answer. “You saw a fist fight, that’s all. Just me and the assholes who tried to take your purse.”

  “What happened to your axe?”

  Double shit.

  “Look.” He peeled off his flannel and tugged up his tee shirt sleeve, showing her a large tattoo of an axe crossed with a sword, a shorter dagger between them. “That’s what you saw. You hit your head. You’re confused.”

  Her hand trembled as she touched her wound. Her fingers came away bloody.

  “Cover up.” He draped his shirt around her shoulders, shielding her chest. The chivalry was false. It gave him an excuse to touch her skin. But the touch nearly stalled his heart.

  A buried hum thrummed his blood as her soul sang to his.

  Far under his ribs, in that dark unfathomable region of his deepest self, his blood began to sing in answer. Electric sizzles danced along his skin. He wanted to whisk her away from all danger, cocoon her in safety. All those Awoken could sense these precious souls, but he’d never felt a soul-song as strong as hers, as pure and light. Even among the rare, she was unique.

  Great Freyja’s tits, she’s Scion.

  Responsibility weighted his shoulders. No wonder she survived. A lowly Soul-Leech couldn’t take the soul of someone with the blood of angels in their veins. It took a full-blooded Minion to do that, a Scion that had been turned by evil and now served the darkest forces.

  It was his duty as one of the Awoken to shield her, or kill her to keep her soul from falling into the wrong hands. A whisper echoed through his brain that it would be better if he did. She’d been Tasted. She might as well have a neon sign on her ass announcing free lunch to every Soul-Leech and Minion in the Western Hemisphere.

  Forty days, forty little days, was all she needed. If he could keep her safe that long, she’d never be at risk again. The Immunity that would build in her blood was like a natural vaccine that would render her Tasted soul impervious to change.

  “Thank you.”

  Her soft whisper carried heavy gratitude. Slender fingers reached toward him and brushed his cheek. Tenderness was foreign, something he’d had long ago and hadn’t touched since. For a long breath, he didn’t move, just soaked in that gentle, reverent contact.

  A more powerful urge rose, not to just protect her, but to stand guard while she slept, sweep the hair from her eyes, to lay riches at her feet. He wanted her to keep looking at him just like this, as if he were a god and all-powerful. He’d settle for hearing his name on her lips.

  He pressed her hand tighter to his face and heat brewed in a place he hadn’t known was cold. Unfamiliar words filled his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

  The sirens roared and flashing lights bathed across him. “Hands where we can see them!”

  Fuck, outta time. He couldn’t Leap out in front of witnesses. Vike laced his fingers behind his head. It was going to be a long-assed night.

  Chapter Two

  The cops questioned him for a long time, cuffing him and making him repeat the falsified story four times. It took the woman thanking him as they loaded her into the ambulance to get the police to remove the cuffs and really start listening. He handed over a counterfeit business card with his made-up name and the phony security company logo bearing a black palm print.

  Frankly, he’d long ago given up caring what anyone called him. During his lifetime, he’d been called everything from “High King” to “you damned Viking bastard.” It depended on which end of his weapon the caller was as to what title he heard spoken behind his back or as he looked them in the eye to remove their head. A smirk itched along his mouth but he licked it away. Bastard was a title with which he was long familiar.

  To the world today, he was Erik Ulfhedinn, private consultant for Black Handle Security. When his bogus driver’s license cleared the police checks, they stopped treating him like a criminal. Then it was paperwork and bullshit and pretending he wasn’t aching for his best friend while they crossed their Ts and dotted their Is.

  Dawn crested the mountains, painting brilliant orange and pink across the ridges. The peaks and valleys awoke and the air smelled fresh and moist. But he didn’t stop t
o admire the spill of color as he drove into the underground lot. He jammed the truck into park and laid his brow on the steering wheel. The aftermath of battle was something he was long accustomed to, but a new sensation troubled him.

  Her touch. A sweet heat had spread along his skin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so warm. Despite the invention of central heating, despite having stood beneath sunlight so hot it blistered his face, he’d been soul-cold for a millennium.

  It was more than her Scion bloodline. He’d saved others like her. That wasn’t what caused the thaw in his marrow. It was just her.

  You have a fucking crush.

  Gen’s memory rippled through him and he jerked his head up. Women had always been his weakness. One had led to his First Death. He could be the biggest badass out there until a woman batted her eyes and then whack! He was a sap. And if they were like her, with innocent eyes and a gentle nature, might as well call the morgue, because he was a dead man all over again.

  I’m a stupid pussy that never learns.

  Steel poured into his bones and he stiffened. Not this time. He wasn’t falling for a pretty face and a soft heart. For now, she was safe in the hospital, drugged and surrounded by people. He had a Forsaken’s duty ahead of him. He had to deliver Gen’s soul to its resting place.

  Scores of Forsaken had fallen and he’d mourned each of them, but never like this. Nearly a dozen of his natural brothers had died before him, but none struck as hard as losing Gen. This loss went deeper than blood. It went into his soul and left a gaping hole.

  You asshole. How the hell am I supposed to do this without you?

  Chest heavy, he climbed from the cab. Concrete silence echoed his footsteps back to him as he strode toward the elevator. The doors closed with a soft sound and he jammed the black button at the very bottom of the panel. Lights flickered with the elevator’s descent. One Forsaken would never make this trip again. The leather soul-bag was soft in his hand and his eyes closed in memory.

  He pulled the other pouches from his pocket before the doors slid open. In three steps, his modern clothing melted away, with only a pair of loose black silk pants replacing them. The Hall of Infamy yawned before him, shadows dancing behind the torches lining the circle. The electric lights were dimmed. Those false lights had no business in this place now.

  The floor was white marble. A huge circle rimmed in gold held a black hand with the fingers spread wide. Framed by two pillars, an empty throne sat at the base of the palm. His bare feet made no sound as he took his place, never glancing to his right, to a place that would now stand empty forever. He didn’t have to look to his left either. He knew how few Forsaken stood around the circle’s rim. Only six remained.

  Gen, I’m sorry.

  They all were dressed alike, in simple silk, hands clasped loosely behind their straightened backs. They all had the same brand burned into their skin. The handprint between their shoulder blades was meant to be a unifying mark.

  They were the Forsaken, the dark side of the Awoken.

  To Vike’s left, Rex stared directly ahead. The youngest in body, he looked twenty-five or -six. He was sculpted lean like a racehorse but was as vicious as a wolverine. With his dark blond hair cut classic and his skin unmarked, he could pass for any man on the street. He rarely did. That would be too plebeian for him. He liked attention, fast cars and faster women. He made no pretense that he’d fuck anything that moved as long as it was pretty enough. And that was negotiable if the pickings were slim. The number of notches on his bedpost was overshadowed only by the number of his kills.

  Nomad rested one hand on his dog’s head. Vike had no clue what breed Omen was, but the mutt looked like a Mastiff crossed with a Doberman with just enough Rottweiler added to make him fuck-ugly. He was a huge, black killing machine on four feet. His master was just as lethal. Wrath chiseled into Nomad’s face like a smile on a statue. His favorite phrases included words like Fuck and You and Asshole. A trim beard was clipped close, but thick brown hair threatened to fall into his face. It wouldn’t dare in the Hall of Infamy. Here, everything was pristine and controlled.

  Control described Myth to a T. Buzz-cut hair highlighted his proud brow and high cheekbones. Burnt-caramel skin shone in the firelight; the serpent tattoo wrapped around his six-and-a-half foot tall body seemed to slither and shift with the glow. The snake’s diamond-shaped head rested on his right hand, the forked tongue running down his middle finger. Myth could build a super computer blindfolded and hack into any top-security program like cracking eggs. The NSA would lick his nuts to get half his expertise. There wasn’t a document he couldn’t forge, a system he couldn’t crack or a bone he couldn’t break.

  Dray was pure heavy metal music clashed with Christian iconography. Midnight black hair hung low past his wide shoulders but couldn’t hide the crucified red dragon on his back below his handprint burn. Rock hard arms sported more twisted images of skulls and flames but an ornate gold crucifix hung around his neck, winking in opposition to the silver rings in his nipples. Thick brows permanently drawn to a scowl shaded his deep-set unflinching eyes. Those eyes had watched thousands die. A groove next to his mouth marked where he’d smiled through their pain.

  Directly across from Vike, the deadliest of them stood. Flames flickered in Zale’s pale eyes and gilded the top of his blue-black hair. Malice pulsed around him like a heartbeat. He never ate, rarely spoke, slept only when seriously injured. His too-perfect looks hinted at his unearthly birth, but for all intents and purposes, he was their general. Zale’s word, though seldom spoken, was law.

  Every last one of them was a conqueror, used to taking charge and answering to no one. It wasn’t easy corralling a bunch of alpha mutts. It took a major She-bitch to do it.

  Sela stepped from shadows, a monochromatic starburst of pink leather and sexuality. Even her long hair was pink, left loose to frame her face. A tight halter cupped her breasts, lifting them for inspection, but not one man dared to look too long. Skin-tight and shining, the micro-mini skirt sat low below her navel and hugged her ass like a drunken frat boy. Her pink thigh-high boots clicked the marble with each step.

  Vike had seen her dressed as a queen and a peasant but the command in her eyes never changed. When she’d Awoken him, she’d been clothed as an English noblewoman and his mind had been firmly entrenched in his time-period. He was a Viking, a Berserker, a king. He would not bow to her; rather she would kneel before him.

  Remembered embarrassment shook his head. He’d been a fool. Her laugh had echoed beneath the thunder that clapped. Or at least he’d thought it was thunder. It had been her fist slamming into his jaw with the full might of her Vangeli strength. His body had cemented to corded oak, unable to twitch or move while she laughed. A man had rarely bested him and to have been brought to his knees by a seeming slip of a girl shattered his pride.

  Her haughty voice dripped with disdain as she listed his sins, his disgraces, those vile acts that had brought him into her focus. Slender but powerful fingers had yanked his head back, forcing him to view those who stood as witness to his shame. He’d counted eleven men in black trousers who stared at him with commiseration and one in foreign lamellar armor with a look of awe rounding his face as Sela spoke of murder, revenge, plots steeped in devious intention, men he’d killed and children he’d orphaned.

  But then she’d helped him to his feet with uncommon grace and bid him welcome. All he had to do was serve her on her Holy mission. In return, his past life transgressions, grievous as they were, would be forgiven. He could one day find timeless sleep and a celestial reward, not have his soul cursed to Helheim. He wouldn’t even have to change his ways to do it. Evil was only evil when viewed through a specific lens.

  His acceptance and pledge of loyalty had been swift and painful. One touch of her hand on his back had seared the vow into his flesh. Now he was forever marked as one of the Creator’s immortal soldiers, albeit one of dubious moral value. They all were.

  Sela walked
the circumference, pausing to look into each man’s face. The sensual roll of her hips and overt sexuality oozing from her tightened Vike’s throat. Her given name meant The Beauty of God and she was that, but something more deadly lurked in her frame.

  She chose her weapons with care, be they fine-honed swords, poison-tipped lances or sniper-scoped high-powered rifles. Tonight, she’d chosen sex as her weapon. This frothy bit of too-tight leather exposing miles of creamy flesh was war gear of a different nature and, in that get-up, Sela was loaded for bear. It meant the threat was close up and personal.

  Tension surged a thousand degrees. Something big was working behind the scenes and it pissed Sela off to the point where she was using her body as a diversion. Sweat broke along Vike’s brow. Damn, he wished weapons were permitted in this sacred hall. He could really use the grip of wood and steel to calm his sudden nerves.

  She stopped in front of him and her smile faltered. She raised her eyes to his. Every color of the rainbow nestled with golden slivers to make her eyes the most beautiful he’d ever seen. Occasional mother figure, sometimes nursemaid, always a leader, Sela sassed with them as much as she demanded their servitude. She loved each of them and, if they were capable of love, they returned the feeling. Sela was their glue, holding them together like the shattered fragments of men they were.

  “Are you well, my warrior?” Her voice was that of angels, sweet and lilting.

  He handed her the three Leech-bags. “There were three of them and a mortal woman.”

  “That wasn’t my question. Are you okay?”

  “I’ll miss him.” His throat tightened as he handed her Gen’s bag.

  Her fingers closed over his on the leather. “As will I. Hold him tight for a while longer.”

  Sela pulled back her shoulders and crossed to her throne. She laid the Leech-bags on the nearby table as the electric lights blazed to brilliance. “We’ll lay Gen to rest, but first we have company from above.”