by Renee Jordan
“Hey, Boss, they're here,” Big Hoss growled.
I blinked out of my thoughts and slipped the name tag back into my jeans pocket. Motorcycle engines roared and dust billowed as they raced down the gravel road to the open field for the meeting. I patted the handgun I had concealed beneath my vest. Just in case.
“There's four of 'em,” Jim said. He racked his shotgun. “They said they was only bringin' three, right, Boss?”
“Yep,” I nodded. I didn't show the fear building inside me. Fear was poison. It was important, kept a man sharp, but you couldn't let it consume you. You couldn't let it hold you back and keep you from doing what you had to.
“Fucking birdies,” laughed Big Hoss. “They know it's not a fair fight if it's even numbers. But they should've brought more, then I'd be worried.”
Jim chuckled. “We goin' on the hunt, Boss? I'm hungry for chicken.”
“Not yet,” I answered. “Let's find out if they're here to shit all over us.”
“Fucking birdies,” Big Hoss laughed again.
The Blood Eagles reached the field. Griff was at the front, his waxed head gleaming in the sunlight. He kept himself shaved to hide his thinning hairline. His beard was a thick gray bristling before him as he stopped his Harley thirty feet away. Talon was at his side, his eye still black and swollen from my punch and his cheeks red from Raven's scratches. What a woman.
I smiled and nodded at Talon.
He spat.
“I see you forgot how to count, Griff,” I grinned, climbing off my Harley and walking forward to meet him.
Griff followed, his chest bare beneath his blue-jean vest. A thick, white scar ran across his stomach. The story went that he had been gutted in a bar fight and still managed to beat his attacker to death. I could almost respect that man, but his club was full of assholes, posers, and pieces of shit like Talon.
Griff's eyes flicked, studying my club. “You started this fight, Magnus, I just wanted to make sure I could finish it.”
“So we're fighting, huh?” I asked, glancing at Talon and then his two other bikers. Both were big men, one with a sawed-off shotgun slung over his shoulder.
“Maybe,” Griff said. “If you give us a reason not to make this into a war.”
“A war?” I snorted. “Over what?”
“You fucking walked into our bar and decked me in the face,” Talon snarled, climbing off his bike and taking two steps towards me. I eyed the man, not showing the fear that was telling me to run. Wolves didn't run. We went straight for the throat.
I laughed instead. “You want to spill blood over this?” I asked Griff. “Your man was mistreating a lady. He was 'bout to take her upstairs, unwillingly, and bring all kinds of heat down on your club.”
Griff glanced back at Talon. “What the fuck is he talking 'bout?”
Talon shrugged. “Just some skank that was lookin' to get taken hard. Then that fucker walked right into our bar and pissed all over us. He punched me in the face and ran off with her.”
“Yeah, she looked real eager to get taken hard,” I snorted. “That's why she clawed your face up. Pretty White woman's car breaks down, she walks into your bar to call for a tow, and your fucking vice president decides he can just take her. You would have had the sheriffs all over your bar and club. The way I see it, you owe me for saving your fucking asses.”
Griff ground his teeth. “You still walked into our bar.”
“And?” I asked. “It's not my fault if your vice president has so little control over your territory he couldn't keep me out.”
“I'll fuckin' rip your guts out,” Talon snarled, pulling out a knife. It was long and sharp, the type of blade designed for a fight.
Things grew tense. Jim came up alongside me, shotgun pointed, while Big Hoss produced the long-barreled .50 revolver he loved. Griff's men pointed their weapons back. I faced them down. No fear. No weakness.
“You want to go to war over this?” I demanded of Griff. “You want blood spilled because Talon can only think with his tiny dick?”
“It's fuckin' bigger than yours,” roared Talon, taking a step forward.
“Shut the fuck up,” Griff roared. “And put those fucking weapons away. This is a goddamn meeting not a fuckin' battle.”
“But—” Talon began.
“Now!”
Griff's words echoed through the field. Two of the Blood Eagles put away their weapons. I motioned to my guys, and they, reluctantly, holstered their guns. Griff rounded on Talon and the biker grimaced and sheathed his knife.
“Why don't we just settle up right now,” I said. “I punched your man and he dropped like a sack of shit. I'll give him first crack right now.”
“Yeah,” Talon grinned. “Let me break his pretty face.”
Griff arched his eyebrows. “He gets the first punch?”
“Yep.”
“I'll fuckin' crack your head open,” Talon grinned.
“Lot of talk,” I answered, pulling off my vest and tossing it to Big Hoss. Then I unstrapped the shoulder harness for my pistol and handed over my gun. I flexed my muscular arms and loosened my neck as Talon strolled forward. “You ready?”
A grin split Talon's lips, showing rotten teeth. “Yep.”
Talon hit me. Hard.
I stumbled back. My head rang. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, and spat out blood. I probed my teeth with my tongue. None were loose. My jaw ached, but I forced myself to grin. “You call that a punch? I'd say you're a woman, but I've been hit harder by a woman than that.”
Talon's face went red and his thick beard bristled. He roared forward and threw a wild punch. Too wild. He shifted his weight all the way back before punching, telegraphing his swing. I ducked it and jabbed. He grunted as my fist hit his stomach.
Talon's swings were hard, brutal. I ducked and weaved. He growled as he attacked. I moved back, watching him. He was a boxer. He wanted to hit hard and finish me. A powerful haymaker came at my face. I twisted and grabbed his wrist. Talon grunted as I flipped him over my hip. He landed with a wheezing grunt. I kicked him in the face.
“Fucker!” Talon snarled, blood streaming from a cut on his cheek. He rose and drew his knife.
My stomach went cold. The blade gleamed as he advanced.
“What the fuck?” Big Hoss shouted. “Pull your fucking ape back.”
“Talon, you fucking asshole,” Griff snarled. “Put that fucking knife away.”
Talon lunged. I jumped back. The knife whistled through the air. The blade skimmed my stomach. Pain burned. A red scratch scored my flesh. Talon pivoted and swung in again. I kept retreating. I had to wait for my opening. Fighting a man with a knife was dangerous. He formed a circle inscribed by the reach of his blade, a zone where he could hurt you. You had to stay out of it until your opponent made a mistake. Even if you were lucky, you could get cut up. You had to wait for the right moment to get in there and disarm him.
Only problem, a man could swing a knife fast.
“Fuckin' blow his head off, Hoss,” Jim shouted.
“I don't want to hit Magnus.”
“That woman was mine,” growled Talon. “She was panting to be fucked. She was eager to spread her legs and let me take her hard. That whore wanted the entire club to fuck her. She was eager to have a train run on her.”
Anger boiled through me as he swung his knife again. If I entered his circle, I would be cut. I didn't care. Raven was no whore.
I lunged in at Talon. The asshole flinched in surprise at my sudden change. His knife slashed, but not in time. I seized his wrist and brought it down to my knee. Bone snapped. The knife flew from his hand. I followed up with a hard jab to his throat. Talon fell back coughing and wheezing, clutching his broken wrist.
“Nice knife,” I grinned, grabbing the blade. “Thanks, Talon.”
Pain flared across my stomach as the adrenaline faded. Lines of blood oozed down my abs to the tops of my jeans. It was a shallow cut. An easy patch. I was lucky.
“Mother fucker!”
I looked up at Griff. “We cool?”
Griff nodded. “Fuckin' pick him up,” he snarled. “And take his ass to the doctor.”
The two other Blood Eagles grabbed the cursing Talon.
Griff stepped closer to me. “You are fuckin' crazy, Magnus.”
I grinned at him, “Nothing's crazier than a wolf on the hunt.”
He laughed for a moment, then quieted down. “Keep your boys out of Covington for a few days. I'll keep mine out of Maple Valley. Just in case.”
“Yeah,” I said. We shook hands and Griff walked back to his Harley.
“Fuckin' A, Boss,” laughed Big Hoss. “Broke his arm. Damn.”
“Here,” Jim said, tossing me a first aid kit he pulled off his bike. “Before you bleed all over your hog.”
I slapped a bandage and taped it in place. The cut ached every time I turned my torso while my jaw throbbed. Talon had a hard fist. Patched up, I tossed Jim back the first aid kit and climbed onto my hog. “I'm off.”
“Tracking down that girl?” Big Hoss asked.
I nodded my head and quoted Brennan, “We're spirits freed from mortal flesh, and love not bound in hearts of flesh.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“For I must love because I live,” I answered.
“Jesus, Boss, you say the must cryptic shit sometimes.”
Jim snorted. “She must be some lady to be worth all this trouble. You almost got gutted for her.”
“Oh, she's worth it,” I nodded, revving my Harley. The engine howled like a lonely wolf. “Keep the boys out of Covington for a few days. Let's let things die down.”
“Sure, Boss,” Big Hoss nodded as I roared past him.
The wind whipped at my hair, blowing it behind me. I grinned, savoring the freedom of the ride. Few in these modern days ever knew the freedom of riding a mount. Gravel sprayed behind me, the scent of dust thick in my nose.
I hated Seattle, but that's where Raven had fled. She was scared. I knew that feeling. I was terrified of the passion beating inside me. I had never felt such powerful desire in my life. I had never felt like I needed anyone. I was strong, independent, an outlaw.
And then one woman's smiling face changed everything.
Chapter Four
Raven
Did Owen know my mother?
I kept glancing at the veteran as he sat at his table and drank coffee after coffee like he usually did. He didn't say, sounds like your mother was a smart woman, the first time. He said, your mother was a smart woman.
But how could he know her? How could a guy that had been coming to this coffee shop probably as long as I lived know my mother? We didn't live in Seattle. My parents hated the city. They liked living out in the boonies of Eatonville on the slopes of Mount Rainier. And even in the unlikely event that Owen knew my parents, how could he have connected me as her young daughter? I was five when the bear killed my parents.
I furrowed my brow. I didn't like thinking about that day. It was hazy. The authorities told me I was there when it happened and it was lucky the bear didn't kill me. I remember watching my parents practice with their weapons—they were medieval re-enactors, I think. They were always sparing when I was a child, my mom with her sword and dad with his big ax. And then...
Haze.
Nothing.
“Hellooo,” a woman said.
I blinked, shaking my head, and realized a plump woman stood at the counter. “Sorry. I was lost in the clouds. What can I get for you?”
I bustled through my job, trying to keep my thoughts from drifting. As noon approached, the cafe grew busier. I was relieved to have distractions from my questions, and from dwelling on Magnus and those brawny muscles, passionate kisses, and poetic words.
Stop that, Raven. Focus. You have a job to do.
I worked back and forth, switching off with Gerdie behind the counter while Freddy walked through the store talking with the customers. The patrons always laughed and smiled around him, responding to his friendly words. Seattle could be a cold town, infamous for the Seattle Freeze, but Freddy's easy manner melted through the guarded security the average Seattlite possessed around strangers.
It was an average day. Messes had to be wiped up. Children cried while their harassed parents stared at the menu. My feet grew sore and my back ached. Nothing unusual. I pushed through the discomfort, keeping my smile friendly. It was easy. Many were regulars, and we shared small chitchat, staying on the harmless subject of weather—a major topic in Seattle—the upcoming Seahawks season, the Mariners poor start to the season, and traffic. Nothing controversial, things every Seattlite could agree on.
When there were lulls in the customers—they came in waves, surging in like the rising and falling tides—I would poke Owen for information, trying to lead him on to talk about his life. “So, what were you up to in the late nineties?”
Owen's one good eye studied me. “Nothing much. Resting my bones. Drinking Freddy's adequate coffee.”
“If it's only adequate, then why are you in here every day swilling it down?” Freddy asked as he bustled by the counter.
“Better than the shit you get across the street,” Owen grumbled, pointing at the busy Starbucks. “You don't burn your damn beans.”
“So, nineties?” I asked.
“Raven, I need you to clean the bathroom while there's a lull,” Gerdie called.
“Nothing to tell,” Owen shrugged. “I'm past all the excitement in my life. I just want to relax and enjoy what's left. I paid dearly for that bit of wisdom.” He touched his eye patch.
I assaulted the bathroom with a fury. I hated this part of the job, so I attacked it, furiously besieging the toilet with my brush and scrubbing it clean. I wanted to get in and get out fast. Lemon cleaner scented the air, hiding the powdery bleach of toilet cleanser. When I finished, I wouldn't say it was clean enough to eat in because that's gross, but it was as clean as any bathroom could get.
I strode back into the cafe, ready to try to pry more information out of Owen. His words stuck with me. I racked my brain for any one-eyed man that had visited my parents. They didn't have many friends, at least none I could remember.
“Raven, can you handle the customers?” Gerdie smiled as I walked to Owen's table.
There were no customers needing help. A few sat at their tables, one working on his laptop. He was a handsome guy, narrow face, goatee, skinny jeans and hipster glasses. I think his name was Ben. He came in a few times a week, always trying to tempt me to ask about the novel he was writing.
He was sweet. Maybe I should let him talk to me about his novel. Ben wasn't wild or dangerous. He was safe. He was what I needed.
I moved behind the counter. I leaned on it, studying Ben. Was he too skinny? He was tall, like a bean stalk. I think I had wider hips than him. I glanced down at my jeans. I wasn't fat? No. No. I was in great shape. Maybe my hips were a tad wide, but that was my pelvis. My mom was curvy and tall, and she wasn't fat.
I frowned and my eyes drifted over to Owen. His one good eye was closed. There was something about that face that seemed familiar. When I lost consciousness during the incident the night I met Magnus, I had a strange dream. I think it was about my parents? I think they were fighting.
Words rose out of the haze: It is not the time for you to remember this, Valkyrie's daughter.
I flinched at the rising memory. A wolf howled in my mind. Fear beat in my breast. My entire body trembled as my blood turned to ice. Never before had I been this terrified. Not even when that asshole biker tried to haul me upstairs to assault me. I wanted to crouch and whimper behind the bar, to hide from the wolf's terrible howls.
Wolf? What wolf? What was wrong with me?
“Raven?”
Owen stood before me. His hand touched mine. It was rough, calloused. His breath smelled of sour coffee. His hand tightened. The fear dwindled. The haze returned to swallow up my nervousness.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“H-how did you know?”
“I've seen it before,” he answered.
“PTSD?”
His head nodded.
“How can I have PTSD. Nothing bad's ever...” My parents' death. I couldn't remember what happened. Why did Owen's face trigger this? “Did you know my parents?”
Owen sighed. “It seems you're starting to remember. Time moves on, even if I don't want it to. Yes, Ragnar and Sigrid were...friends of mine. Their deaths were a painful blow.”
A powerful hope surged through me. “You can tell me about them. I have so many questions.”
“Soon,” he answered. “But you have a customer to help.”
“Customer?” I blinked. No one had walked into the store.
Owen walked back to his table. Despite his age, he moved with nimble alacrity, dodging around a mother and her two children as they headed for the door. He took his post and glanced out the window to watch the passersby.
I had known Owen for a year, and he never let me know he knew my parents. Had he only pieced it together that Raven Stendahl, his barista, was the daughter of Ragnar and Sigrid Stendahl? What twist of fate even brought us together? Growing up in the foster care system, I had always wondered if there was some relative or friend of my parents that would swoop in and save me.
I learned there weren't any. I guess I was wrong.
The door opened, chiming the bell. Instinctively, I put a smile on my face and turned to greet the customer. My breath caught. Magnus strode into the bar. He was just as tall, just as broad-shouldered, and just as handsome as that night. His leather chaps creaked as he walked forward. A musky, manly scent of leather and sweat filled my nose, the wild passion of a biker. A bandage covered his stomach, and his jaw was swollen.
“How did you find me?” I demanded, fighting the surge of desire that flooded through me. “What are you even doing here?”
