by C. L. Roman
Dr. Martin stepped in between the two and signaled Hadely, who hit the panic button on the wall. "I cannot let you leave yet, Miss. The police will have questions for you and —"
Gwyneth gripped his upper arms, lifted and moved him to the side. Loki walked from the room and Gwyneth followed. Motioning her to one side, Loki gripped the door handle and closed his eyes. The silver metal around the handle glowed briefly and Loki released it, smiling. "That ought to slow them down somewhat. Now, follow me."
Neither of them noticed the slender human male watching from the room across the hall. Behind them, pandemonium broke out as security rushed to the room they had just exited. Curses rose as the three officers worked to open the fused door. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Loki kept walking, his eyes darting from side to side, seeking options.
"Here," he said after a moment, and slipped in to a darkened corridor branching off to the left. The hall was lined with doorways, which Loki ignored. A few scrub-clad people traversed the area, but nothing like the crowds present in the ER proper. "Quickly now, this way." Loki darted down the hall and took the first turn marked with a red lettered sign overhead.
The new corridor was darker than the first, and even more sparsely populated. A single orderly looked up, startled, as Loki broke into a run. A pair of glass doors terminated the hallway and the two hit them simultaneously. Dusk covered the parking lot as Loki led the way to his vehicle. She eyed the car doubtfully.
"What are you waiting for? Get in." Loki said.
"What is it?" she asked him.
"It's a Vanquish, resale red and super-charged." He climbed inside, reaching across the seat to shove the passenger door open. "Get in."
Gwyneth hesitated an instant before climbing inside and in the next breath he was showing her how to buckle her seatbelt.
"What is 'super-charged,'?"
"Not as fast as flying," he replied. "But close." The engine turned over with a muted roar and he put his foot down to demonstrate.
Cole slipped down the hallway, doing his best to ignore the heat radiating from the medallion on his wrist.
You're an idiot Delaney, he thought. You have no reason to follow this woman. In fact, considering what her pal did to that exam room and those cops, you have every reason walk fast in the opposite direction.
The fading heat in his medallion pushed at him. It hadn't gotten hot until the black-haired suit had shown up. Ignoring the unease sliding through his gut, he followed the red-head and her companion down the hall.
He exited the building into the shadows as the pair hopped into an Aston Martin Vanquish and shot out of the lot. Muttering frantically he searched his pockets, cursing as the unwary movements stretched the newly stitched skin on his hand. Finally triumphant, he pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped the audio notes feature.
"New York plates FAL LEN1," he said, as the Vanquish disappeared onto the expressway.
"Mr. Delaney," the sharp words startled him. His phone flipped from his grasp and he juggled it twice before saving it, millimeters from the linoleum. He straightened and turned to find the formidable charge nurse staring him down. "You haven't signed your discharge papers. You weren't leaving were you?"
Pocketing his phone, Delaney said, "Of course not. Just — checking to see if my ride is here."
Her eyes narrowed but she fell in step with him as he headed back to reception.
Half an hour later, he was sitting in the back of a cab, talking to his phone. "Search license plates, New York City, number FAL LEN1."
The phone's vaguely amused, female voice responded, "Searching." Seconds later it gave him the basic information, including an address in Greenwich Village, and Cole let out a low whistle.
"Shouldn't have been surprised, really, considering the car," he said. The phone did not respond. "But what's a guy with a car like that, who lives in the Village, doing hanging out in a hospital? He certainly didn't look sick or injured, so what is he doing? Trolling for seven foot red-heads?"
"I do not understand your query. Would you like to restate?"
He frowned. "No thanks. End query." The screen went dark and Cole turned his attention to his surroundings. Sitting back, he worried at his medallion, sliding the cool metal between his finger-tips as he let the events of the evening scroll through his mind. He barely noticed the cabby's skill at navigating the intricate pop-and-lock dance of Manhattan traffic and was mildly surprised when they stopped in front of his Chelsea apartment building.
He waved to the doorman and slapped his palm on the elevator call button. Three floors later, he was standing outside his apartment, shaking his keys loose from his pocket, when the door flew open. A tall, well-built blond man stood in the doorway, sporting a chiffon tunic and tight black jeans. A kitchen knife dangled from his fingers.
"Xavier, what are you doing here?" Cole asked.
"Waiting for you, of course. What did you think? I'd just abandon you? I had to see if you were ok."
Cole shot his brother an irritated look. "Since you caused the injury, I'd agree that checking on me is the least you could do. But I don't recall giving you a key to the place."
Xavier made a sudden, intense, examination of the bead-work around his shirt hem. "Of course you don't," he said, "but I assure you, you did. Back in June when you had that nasty summer cold?" He stole a covert look at Cole and dropped the shirt. "See? Now you remember."
"I remember telling you to put it back behind the number plaque on the door. Where I keep it in case of emergencies. What if I'd locked myself out?"
"Well, you'd have called me, right?" Xavier turned back into the apartment and his voice floated over his shoulder. "Now, I'm cooking you dinner, no arguments. I've been very concerned about you and I want to make sure you eat."
"Not concerned enough to accompany me to the ER," Cole groused.
Xavier appeared in the kitchen archway. "What was that?" Cole gave him a sour look and Xavier put his hands on his hips. "Look, someone had to run the show. You needed stitches and though I can indeed sew a fine seam, blood makes me nauseous. You know this," he continued with a hint of tears in his voice. "I was just trying to keep the show from being ruined. And it was very stressful. But you don't think of that, do you? For a great artist, you can be so insensitive."
Sensing a fine display of histrionics coming on, Cole gave up. "I know, I know Xavier. I'm sorry it's just been...ahhgg," Cole thrust his hand through is hair, wincing as the stitches caught and pulled.
Xavier hurried forward, his face scrunched up in concern. "Oh Cole, I'm sorry. It's been a stressful day for both of us. Let me see your hand." When Cole held it out, Xavier's mouth screwed itself into a grimace of distaste. "On second thought, don't let me see it. I'll get you a glass of wine. You just relax. Supper is almost ready. We'll eat and then I'll leave you to get some rest." He sauntered back into the kitchen and then poked his head around the corner. "By the way, you didn't happen to meet any nice doctors did you? I'd love to date a doctor. They are so cute in their little white coats."
Cole rolled his eyes. "My doctor was about a hundred years old, but I'm sure his wife still thinks he's cute. As for meeting people though..." he trailed off, the memory of blue eyes and red-gold curls clouding his vision.
Xavier came further into the room, grinning. "I know that look. Who is she? Who did you meet?"
"No one. Well, definitely someone, but I didn't actually meet her."
Collapsing onto the plush red couch in the living room, Xavier clasped his hands together. "Tell!" he demanded. "Is she famous? Who was it?"
"No, no, nothing like that. But she was absolutely stunning and the tallest woman I have ever seen."
"Really?" Xavier sat back. "Taller than Welz?"
"You know I've never met her, though I would like to. But yes, taller than her too. This woman must have been over seven feet tall and perfectly proportioned. Plus, she had the most beautiful hair, the color of red gold, and these intense blue eyes that would mak
e you forget your name..." he grinned at his brother. "Well, they might not have that effect on you."
"Hey, I can appreciate beauty, whatever form it comes in. Seven foot, hmmm? That can't be right. No one is that tall unless they have some kind of gigantism or something. Did she look sick?"
Cole shrugged. "Other than being unconscious when I first saw her, no. And she walked out under her own power."
"Ok, wait. Obviously there is more to this than you are telling me. Go back to the beginning. You were at the ER waiting for stitches, I'm guessing, and then what happened?"
Cole related the events of the evening in detail, starting with the gurneys crashing through the emergency room doors and ending with watching the Vanquish shoot onto the expressway. "The thing is, I got a really bad vibe from the guy."
Xavier's eyebrows crept into his hairline. "A giant beats up the police department, sprouts wings and flies away into the night and you're worried about some normal-looking guy in a six hundred dollar suit?"
Cole debated telling him about the medallion heating up, but Xavier was still talking.
"Are you sure you didn't hit your head when you got cut?" A dull flush of color crept up his cheeks and Cole knew he was remembering just how his brother had been cut. "I really am sorry about that, Cole. It won't happen again."
"Don't worry about it. In the end, it may be the best disaster we've ever had."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it. Everyone is looking for an angle. This woman is a seven foot tall unknown. I've never seen her in the District or in any ads. We get her to model our line and we will turn Fashion Week on its ear."
A slow grin bloomed on Xavier's face and then faded abruptly. "How are you going to find her though? You said she drove off with sleek suit guy."
"Yeah, about him —"
From the kitchen came a hiss of steam escaping and the acrid smell of burning meat. Xavier's hands flew into the air and he jumped to his feet. "The chops," he shouted, and ran into the kitchen.
Cole got his own wine and considered his brother's question. Pulling out his phone, he got to work.
CHAPTER THREE
Jotun crouched in the top of a massive pine deep in a forest. Snow covered the ground and lay thick on the broad branches below him. At this height the evergreen's needles were clean of the clinging white ice, but the air bit with frozen teeth through his thin tunic.
The wounded angel barely noticed. Below him the mountains stretched for miles in all directions. A river flowed from horizon to horizon about a mile distant from his perch. In the first moments of gaining this vantage point, he spotted what he needed. A small cottage sheltered in the bend of the river. It was undoubtedly ordained.
This is not Norge, but it will suffice, he thought.
The unerring instinct of the hunted had led him here. He needed time to sort through the rampant images in his mind, to remember his mission.
A searing wave of light flashed over his brain and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. It rolled through his consciousness and an image of fire and destruction burst into visibility behind his closed eye-lids. He saw himself, wielding a flaming sword, slicing through an enemy horde as if they were no more than stalks of grass. The battle raged. It had a name, he knew, and his mind grappled for the right word until finally, it came to him. Ragnarӧk.
Warriors fell around him and blood rained from a black sky. Beside him rode his brothers, berserker's bent on returning the world to the chaos that had birthed it eons before. He raised Hamar and a surge of heat pulsed from the blade, racing to a tiny point in the distance before imploding back to its source. The resulting detonation knocked him from his steed and he was falling...
With a cry he rolled his shoulders and his wings sprang free, catching the air with a hollow whoof, like linen snapping in a high wind. He hovered for a moment, and then soared. Turning into the frigid wind, he flew toward the cottage.
Landing in the yard, he walked up onto the porch, shaking his head clear of the last of his vision. He didn't understand all of it, and what he had learned felt hollow and incomplete, but it was enough. He knew his mission now.
Shadows stretched dark fingers across the snow. The demon hunched on the roof, gargoyle-still, waiting. The crunch of her footsteps came to him clearly. She was in a hurry, heading for the shortcut through the alleyway, airy vapor popping free of her pretty lips in short, white bursts.
He crept closer to the roof-edge and his foot brushed a pebble, sending it skittering over the precipice. The tiny sound would not have been noticed in daylight.
The girl stopped in the mouth of the alley, her breath caught between her lips as she looked over her shoulder. Surt went rigid. It was late, the town was small, but sparse traffic still traveled the two lane road at the end of the street. That way was better lit, not as secret as the alley.
His prey looked toward the road, and then back a the alley.
Save time, or save your life, little girl? What shall it be? The question wound through his mind as he watched her waiver, take a step toward the road, then turn into the alley.
He dropped over the edge, tattered wings spread, the light rattle of them her only warning before he fell on her, pinning her to the snow, muffling her single cry in cold, wet crystals. He jerked her to her feet. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened to scream. He silenced her with a single punch and she crumpled, unconscious, into his arms. Surt stepped in the dark-in-between. The lights of the Shift shivered, trying to orient, but he was already stepping out again, into the single room of a hunting cabin in the winter forest.
He tossed her on the hardwood floor and riffled through her pockets, coming up with a cute pink wallet and a lip gloss, which he flipped into the corner. The wallet yielded two credit cards and forty dollars in cash. He shrugged. Young humans rarely had much money, but then, he didn't hunt them for cash. After tucking the cards and cash into his pocket, he tapped lightly at the girl's cheeks until she stirred.
"Wake, wake up, little sinner," he crooned and scooted back to enjoy the full effect.
"What...?" She pushed herself into a half sitting position, rubbing her palm along her bruised jaw. Her dazed eyes traveled the room, trying to place her surroundings. "Where..." And her horrified gaze fell on his charred skin, scarred face and ragged, bat-like wings. A leer twisted his grisly features as he enjoyed her terror.
She scrambled away from him, struggling to gain her feet and the door, but he reached it first. He sank his talons into the flesh of her upper arm and flung her onto the floor.
"I do not allow you to leave," he said, and crouched in front of her. She cowered there, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.
"What do you want?" She asked, her voice shaking.
"You are a trespasser. How old are you?" he asked.
"Please, I'm only seventeen. I'm sorry if I trespassed. I just want to go home."
He circled her trembling form. "Then why did you leave? And do not lie. I will know if you do." He used his talons to snap the silver chain around her neck, and she sobbed as the locket fell to the ground in front of her.
"I didn't leave. I was just running an errand for my dad," she said.
"Were you? Or were you sneaking off? To meet a boy, perhaps? Tell the truth. I'll know when you lie, and I hate liars." He flicked his fingers and the girl screamed as four ragged cuts appeared across her back, trickling blood from her left shoulder to her right hip. Surt licked his lips. "As you see, I do not have to touch you to punish. So, tell the truth. You are a spoiled child who decided to run off in search of adventure."
"No, no, my father asked me to —" she screamed again as four more cuts raced across her back, traversing the first in a neat, red crosshatch.
"Tell the truth," he roared and she fell on her face before him, weeping. Flick, slash, flick, slash, until her back was a wet, red morass he could have bathed in, with her screams for background music. Finally, she gave in.
He dropped down on all fours next to her shaking form and whispered in her ear, "Well then, did you get what you were looking for? Is this adventure enough for you?"
She nodded. "I just want to go home," she wept.
He strove to look properly sorrowful. "Haven't you heard, little adventurer? You can never go home again." He ripped the shirt from her back with one hand and pinned her to the floor with the other. Ignoring her wails of terror, he ran his thin black tongue over the bloody cuts on her back, flipped her over and sank his fangs into her neck.
She writhed beneath him, struggling to draw her knees up and throw him off, scrabbling at his clothes with her pitiful little clawless hands. Within moments her ability to fight faded. Inside five minutes he drained her into quiescence so that she ceased even to scream and simply lay, twitching, beneath him, allowing him to drink his fill.
Light flashed across the dirty windows and the door burst open. Cold air and armed humans shoved their way in, filling the small cabin with pistols and outrage.
He lurched upright and bolted for the window, the air behind him exploding with bullets. He felt the scream of hot metal in his shoulder and thigh. A man sprang in front of him and Surt roared. Grabbing the man's head between his palms, he twisted, snapping the human's neck.
He launched himself through the window as the barrage of gunfire continued behind him and felt bullets tear into his flesh again. The demon could feel the life-energy draining from him in red stains on the snow. He forced himself into the sky, feeling the cramp of seldom used flight muscles in his permanently damaged wings. He growled and willed the wounds to close faster.
He managed to fly a mile before he was forced to settle to Earth again. Surt limped through the snow, his crippled leg dragging behind him. He much preferred his other form, but it cost effort to maintain. And effort required blood, which he would not dare to hunt for several days now.
