by P. W. Child
“Bit early for a dare, wouldn’t you say? You have time for a stamp while we have business to attend to?” Sam asked, gesturing with his head toward the quiet Nina who was wrestling with her helmet strap.
“Oh, it’s not for me, pal. It’s for you two,” Gunnar said in his dead serious grunt. Sam blinked a few times before asking, “Would you repeat that? Gunnar. Gunnar!” He chased after the big biker who led a surprisingly eager Nina into the establishment, ignoring the confused mutterings of the journalist in their trail. Nina’s eyes looked more alive as she entered the cozy tattoo parlor, fascinated by the brilliant artistry displayed all over the walls. Designs of all kinds adorned the brick walls, from logos to the typical intricacy of dragon scales and Nordic bands. Two leather couches and a coffee table filled the small waiting area and Sam saw four thick albums on the table, sporting photographs of the artist’s previous works. In all his reluctance at playing Gunnar’s game, he was at least cheered to see the lift in Nina’s disposition. The small woman glared at the art works wile Gunnar roared out some coded greeting to the giant long haired brute in the back of the shop, wiping off the leather chair where he inked his paying masochists daily.
His name was Eldard. He was a bear of a man, light brown hair falling straight over his shoulders. He towered at 6’5” with ice blue eyes and he weighed the heavier part of a small bull. Aptly, his voice resonated through the Creedence Clearwater Revival on the speakers like low rumbling thunder and he immediately took a liking to the pretty little beauty scrutinizing his art.
“You available for the next hour?” Gunnar asked as the two men locked forearms in a brotherly grasp.
“Aye! I gots until 2pm, brother,” Eldard chuckled. “Who wants a bit of needlepoint, then?”
“These two,” the leader of Sleipnir rasped with authority, pointing to both Sam and Nina.
Sam looked bewildered, his face ashen in denial. Nina’s big black eyes looked innocently upon the two big men by the leather chair and she cocked her head.
“I’ll do the lassie first. The boy looks like he needs a Xanax,” the tattoo artist laughed.
Without hesitation, Nina walked toward the chair, passing a friendly glance at her best friend.
“Don’t worry, Sam. I can handle needles,” she said, almost sounding like her old snappy self again. She whispered something in Gunnar’s ear that wiped his smile from his face. What she said hit him like a Mac truck and he nodded reverently, suddenly looking saddened.
Nina had always wanted a tattoo. Never did she desire those petty little doodles most women preferred for the ‘feminine touch’. Butterflies or roses on delicate places didn’t appeal to the historian. No, she was always partial to the more meaningful artworks, especially with some of the more fascinating and beautiful symbols she had come across in her line of work. Some historical finds delivered the most striking sigils and seals, but she never knew exactly what she would have wanted to permanently imprint upon her body, until now.
“What happened here, love?” the massive tattoo artist asked caringly, his glorious eyes piercing hers as he wiped her other forearm with disinfectant to prepare her skin. He was referring to her bandaged arm.
“I don’t…really…know,” she whispered. Her soft brown eyes fell to the bandage as flashes from her corrupt memory afforded her the brief glimpses she would rather have forgotten. The pain was mild, she remembered. Her German was reasonable, yet there were words spoken too rapidly, voices too hushed in tone and of course the drug too powerful to overcome, while they placed her on that table. The last thing Nina recalled was being laid on her back, looking up at the dome above her, the awful symbol of the Order of the Black Sun lurching over her like a black hole of negative energy sucking her life from her. Then, only the darkness.
Sam paced up and down in front of the gallery of Eldard’s work, pretending to look at the myriad of designs when actually he was fighting the urge to jump on the bike and race back to the safety of home where he could be comforted by Bruich’s tail in his face. That reminded him to call Patrick. He had almost forgotten to call his best friend at the police department to do him a solid and check in on his beloved cat while he would be god knows where, risking his life once more.
“That lad looks like he is going to faint, Gunnar. Are you sure this is a good idea?” Eldard asked as he stepped on the switch of the machine, bringing to life the buzz of the tattoo gun in his hand. He latched gazes with the pretty woman in his chair. She liked Eldard. He looked like a vicious ogre but his entire aura beamed with noble protection and valor. Nina mustered a smile, knowing what he was about to draw, and she nodded for him to go ahead.
“I don’t care if he has to cry into a box of Kleenexes. He has to do this. His fucking life depends on it,” Gunnar replied, standing with his huge arms folded. He looked at Nina, impressed by both her bravery and her honor in what she was doing for them all. Nina really had no idea what they were doing at the Serpent Stone, but her elation to be alive and back amongst friends was so rich, that she did not care. In fact, she was quite enjoying her surroundings at the moment.
Another good thing was Gunnar paying the tab of her tattoo. Never had she thought she would ever find just one thing that would be good enough for her to cut into her flesh for good. It just felt right. With all the bad, with all the sickness in the pit of her stomach over all this Lita business, Nina felt like she was finally doing something important. It felt like destiny. Deep in the recesses of her mind, she knew at some point she would have to deal with what had happened to her – she would have to try and remember the barbaric treatment and above all it was of dire importance that she remembered the sordid operation they had forced on her. Lita would never let her go, knowing that she was affiliated with the enemy, not without some nefarious precaution. But that, and the mysterious wound in her left arm, would have to wait until she had acquired the marking she so zealously desired to carry with her forever.
“So what exactly is the reason for all this, then, Gunnar?” she finally dared asked. Her eyes flashed to Eldard. She was not sure if she could ask in front of him, but Gunnar’s candid response revealed the ink master’s involvement in the deeper things of The Brotherhood and their so-called foot soldiers.
“After this symbol there is one more you must get. Him too,” he said, pointing at Sam, who was speaking to DCI Patrick Smith with some urgency. “This is very important for you both to help us, Nina. You and Sam, you will be our oracles, so to speak, on this trek to find Valhalla before that Nazi bitch reaches it and opens it,” he explained.
“How do you mean that? Do you not know where it is? I thought you were its guardians,” she frowned.
“Not since the 1940’s has The Brotherhood known where it was. The only person who knew, who was in charge of stopping anyone from finding it was a Polish woman named Marie Brozek. But she was shot dead during the Second World War and since we have lost the trail to Valhalla.”
“Shit,” she whispered, ignoring the sting of the needle penetrating her skin with a constant circular motion. “What are we supposed to do to find it?”
“Not you, so much. Only your knowledge at German history might help us. But him, the lad who looks like he is about to soil himself…he has the liquid in his veins and we have only a few days at most for him to tell us where to find Valhalla. Not only will Lita find out that the vial is filled with fake elixir, but we have a limited time to learn from Sam’s visions before they disappear,” Gunnar sighed, looking utterly concerned at the nervous journalist.
“Has he had any visions?” the tattoo artist asked seriously, his eyes fixed in deep concentration on his work forming in Nina’s skin.
“One or two. He walked in Hel, but there has been nothing concrete. I hope getting him inked will help bring it on,” Gunnar said, opening a can of Cola.
Nina looked at him questioningly.
“Pain induces visions on the elixir, Nina. The needle should do the thing for us. Once Sam gets the first visi
on to lead us to Valhalla, we can start. We’ll follow the clues until we discover the location that died with Marie Brozek in World War II,” he explained. Sam heard it all and joined them.
“Wait, that is what the tattoo is for?” he asked, feeling a tad better that the pain would serve a purpose.
“Well,” the artist groaned from the thick focus of his eye on Nina’s developing mark, “in part, Sam. It is also very important that we get this mark on you.” He stood up to stretch his back and looked at Sam. With a sigh he added, “It will keep you from getting killed, hopefully.”
Sam gasped and Nina’s hair lashed from side to side as she looked at Sam, then Gunnar, then Eldard.
“Killed?” she asked.
“You are dealing with ancient evil, my dear. You are dealing with the most power-hungry tyrant since Adolf Hitler, since Julius Caesar, since any delusional maniac who ventured to destroy the freedom of mankind for his own gain. Lita Røderic will stop at nothing to end the world as we know it and to usher into it the terrible powers of the occult to help her rule it,” Eldard explained to Sam and Nina before continuing the needle work. “The problem is, as with most servants of evil, that she does not realize that evil never shares power. Evil never keeps its word. Certainly, whatever evil Odin contained inside Valhalla would never allow some mortal to command it. Odin knew this, as did his consorts. But I suppose even genius cannot deduct through the haze of greed and lust for power. She has to be stopped. The Black Sun organization has to be stopped.”
“Exactly what is your role in this whole play, Eldard?” Sam asked, his old journalistic scrutiny returning to his tone. Nina smiled.
“Eldard is an aid to The Brotherhood, Sam,” Gunnar revealed. “He is, as they would have called him in earlier ages, the Scribe.”
“Cool,” Sam nodded to himself.
“Before we undertake this journey…” Gunnar started, but Sam interrupted.
“Sleipnir and the Brotherhood?”
“No, you, Nina and I,” Gunnar answered. “Before we undertake this journey to find the Hall of the Slain, we have to ink this into your skins for protection.” He lifted his shirt and turned to show them the marking on his lower back. It was a succession of symbols, plainly drawn in lines along a common horizontal line. It was not at all remarkable or esthetically pleasing. It was obviously a mark for purpose, not prettiness.
“It is called the Lukkustafir,” he clarified, “an ancient Icelandic symbol to ward off any bad luck. The luck stave.”
“Whoever carries these signs with them…no bad luck or harm will befall them, neither on sea or land…” Eldard recited with a smile and a wink to Nina. She smiled. “There, this one is done. Now you, Sam.”
Sam felt remarkably ready for his turn, all of a sudden. Maybe he was influenced by the lore, or the importance of his role, but he lay down on the padded table to receive his mark. The buzz of the machine did not scare him now. Nina sat admiring the Tiwaz rune tattooed on her forearm, exactly like the one Val had.
When Eldard sank the sharp throbbing needle into Sam’s flesh, his eyes shut, his body jolted, and before him, a portal opened. In front of his eyes a red flag unfolded. Upon it, he saw two keys crossing.
“Two crossed keys on a red background…” Eldard said, in thought.
Nina used Sam’s phone. She jumped up.
“Regensburg, Germany!”
Chapter 28
Lita was fascinated by the impotence of the flame against her skin. So many times, she had tried to feel pain, but it eluded her. It was one side-effect of being genetically assembled by scientists in Nazi laboratories – she looked human, but she was not allowed the fallibility. Lita longed to be just slightly flawed.
She was the product of much research and trial by the brilliant maniacs of the Third Reich. Many nights she lay awake thinking of the medical structure where she was raised, tempered, and trained. Deep under the surface of the North Sea, she spent the first few years of her life. The redhead stood up, with the candle in her hand, its flame licking at the flesh of her arm.
“No pain,” she said to herself. It made her feel inadequate to be so impervious to fault. Her chest burned with unhappiness as she watched the orange glow spread out upon her skin, yet failing to do any damage. Flashbacks to the Himmler submerged laboratory off the coast of Scotland almost made her homesick. Her mother was real enough. A true descendant of a great Icelandic explorer and chieftain, she was part of a great experiment facilitated by the Order of the Black Sun after it was abandoned by the Thule Society as a project too costly, even for its aristocrats.
Lita, the little redhead girl from a secret Aryan bloodline, was the only surviving human Wunderwaffe produced by womb and science, occult and bizarre genetics housed in the compound, later hosted by the eccentric millionaire Dave Purdue as Deep Sea One. Gradually, after her ascent to glory as academic, historian, and occultist, she gained her reputation as bloodthirsty dominatrix in various clandestine organizations. What became of her mother was never revealed to her, neither did she care much after her conditioning as a 12 year old warrior-in-training. All they did to her never seemed unorthodox at all to her, for she knew little else than what she was exposed to.
Only now that she had grown older and her intelligence harnessed an impregnable will to rule, did she realize the futility of her power on a personal level. Much as she desired to bring the world to its knees, to bring order and stability with absolute rigid discipline, she felt a small spark of longing to be, dare she think, normal.
In her ability to have survived the experiments of imbuing human bodies with the properties of unified field theory and the physique accompanying such a biological stretch, she proved almost indestructible. Now she wished she knew the displeasure of pain: the privilege of screaming from the unbearable punishment thereof. Lita wondered what it would feel like to be weak, to feel fear. It was slowly becoming an obsession, but one she kept carefully wrapped in her coldness, lest the Black Sun deem her compassionate or waning in drive.
Her long, red, satin robe fell over her immaculate curvature as she put the candle down and lit a cigarillo. She could see Lockhart from her stony gaping window in the north tower of the water-logged fortress.
He was sitting in the soft afternoon light, waiting for Slokin to return with the vial. It would make him her compass to Valhalla. What was inside the sought after container had always been a source of great discussion amongst her mentors and peers alike. They did not know who had brewed the awful liquid inside or why, but they were well aware of the reason why it was kept from the world.
Inside Valhalla was a thing of unmatched power that would corrupt the very fabric of time and space, to tear a whole in the atmosphere, to bring forth chaos and destruction until the earth was once more a clean slate. Lita and her chosen would reinvent the new world with intellect, discipline, and industriousness to eradicate defective immorality, overpopulation, social regression, and intellectual inadequacy.
In the blazing halo of the dying sun, Lita dropped her robe to the floor to enjoy the cool air that permeated throughout the old stone corridors and windows. It stirred her crimson mane and made the pointy ends of her long hair caress her pale skin. She was grateful for the feeling of it, one of the few sensations her body was not deprived of through the altering. Her full lips locked around the end of the stick of strong tobacco as she sucked the smoke deep into her lungs, closing her eyes in the ecstasy of the carcinogenic influx. From just above her tailbone, a strange shape of flesh and bone grew out of her back. Elongated from her spine, wrapped in tissue and nerves and covered by the same pallid feminine skin, her tail fell to the length of her calves. Along the top of its length ran the uniform bumps of spinal bone, ever so slightly forming a jagged line down to the point she was flicking up and down in contemplation. It was a mishap on the part of the scientists who were in charge of her physical development. In order to give her the inhuman strength they needed her to have as the perfect soldier, they had to
introduce a special formula of growth hormone, which subsequently, led to the development of an atavism in the form of a tail. However, Himmler and his advisors decided that removal of the slight deformation was redundant in lieu of all the positive developments of their human Wonder Weapon.
Slokin arrived just after dark with his pilot and four other bodyguards assigned by the Order of the Black Sun. He kept to himself what he had seen, the strange reaction of the hostile journalist to the pain inflicted by the wallop he dealt Slokin. The imp knew what it could mean, but he did not feel like opening the lid to that pit of problems he knew Lita would trouble them all with if she even had an inkling that someone else had partaken of the vial.
He would pretend nothing was amiss until some problem presented itself. If all went well, Dr. Gould would succumb to the slow release poison implanted in her before any of their enemies could think of thwarting Lita’s hunt for Valhalla.
“Hello, my good man!” he called out to Herman Lockhart as he skipped over the shallow puddles the tide had abandoned when it withdrew.
‘Fuck you, Loki,’ the old man thought by himself as he lifted a hand and waved, keeping his disdain hidden deep in his eyes. His contact with The Brotherhood to reveal the location of Lita’s rock castle on Coll was successful. Lockhart had been nurturing a strong certainty that he would not make it out of this expedition alive either way. Between the brewing open war between these two factions and with Lita’s knowledge that he was a descendent of a member of the Brotherhood, he knew that the only reason he still drew breath was because she elected him her bloodhound. Of course, that purpose would expire as soon as they reached Valhalla, so the old man, in his most naïve desperation had harbored hopes that The Brotherhood would discover the Loch nan Cinneachan stronghold before his departure with Lita and her Nazi miscreants in two days.
