by Inez Kelley
No sea chests lined the deck. Instead, modern padded benches invited him to sit, to rest, to soak in the ocean’s grace. Heartache prevented that but he was lured by the sea, drawn to her. Only Gen had ever been invited on board and only once. He’d puked over the side and swore to stick to firmer ground.
God, he missed Gen.
Shoving the loss away, his eyes dropped automatically to the radar screen, watching a green blip moving southward. The cargo liner was close enough he should probably turn on his lights and rev up the engine in case it barreled toward him, but frankly he couldn’t muster the energy. Today’s marine officials got their nuts in a knot whenever he tried to dock under sail alone so he had to keep the motor working, but didn’t have to use it out here on the wide stretch of endless black. He knew how to use the wind and the water to save his ass.
Too bad he never could figure out how to save his heart.
Abandoning the wheelhouse, he leaned both hands on the railing and gazed into the inky waters. His ring banged against the metal railing and he squeezed, driving the gold into his skin. He’d dug the gold ring from below deck. Other than his weapons, it was the only remnant of his former life he had. The money he’d carried he’d exchanged, invested and banked over the years until a small purse of coins had increased into a modern day fortune, supplemented in the early years with some spoils of Holy War.
His clothing had long since dry-rotted and he’d shaved the beard sometime in the 12th century. It had grown back numerous times but never to the length it was when he was Awoken. His hair had gone from long to short and back again, depending on the era. His vocabulary grew and changed, morphing with the times. But this circle of gold hadn’t changed at all.
It was thick and bulky with a raised claw gripping a sun. The design left impressive cuts on anything he struck. He’d worn this piece almost daily the last ten or so years of his life. He slid the ring off and on his finger, the weight uncomfortable after all these centuries but the fit still right.
Irony crawled across his scalp. He hadn’t changed that much at all, had he? He was still as weak-willed and brittle-spined as ever when it came to a woman he loved.
Was Lacy dead yet? Had Sela killed her to keep their secrets? He’d been stupid enough to hope she could accept them, accept him for who he was, but she couldn’t. Not that he blamed her. It was too much for any mortal to understand unless they had died and been Awoken. But the fear on her face before those elevator doors had slid shut had torn something inside him, something that left him hollow. He hadn’t been strong enough to stay, to watch Sela dust her. The minute he’d woken from his healing sleep, he’d Leaped straight to the Sunstone.
The hair along his neck stood and he closed his eyes. He wasn’t alone any longer. His throat tightened, the salty air trapped in his lungs. Although he knew logically he could hide nothing from her, Sela had never come here before. The Sunstone was his haven.
Gritting his teeth, he prepared for the announcement Lacy was soul-sleeping.
“Whoa. That was really freaky and cool at the same time.”
Jerking around, he gaped in astonishment. Lacy stood with her hands stretched out as if finding her balance. Wind played with Sela’s long peachy-colored hair. She sent him a jaunty wink and Leaped out.
Lacy jumped. “Geez, don’t say good-bye or give a girl some warning or anything.”
“Lacy, what are you doing here?”
“Fighting the urge to throw up. Give me a minute.” Wiping her hands down her face, she gingerly lowered to a bench. “How can you do that all the time? It was like a roller coaster with no safety bar. My stomach’s all twitchy.”
“It gets easier.” He shook his head. What was he saying? Sela had just Leaped in with Lacy? What sense did that make? Oh, fuck Loki, no. Did Sela expect him to dust her? Was this more punishment? “Why did Sela bring you here?”
“Because you left your damned phone in your apartment.” Her voice carried a scold but it was light, almost teasing. “We need to talk.”
He was brain numb and simply nodded.
“I’ve been talking to the guys, trying to understand.” Determination wedged her jaw forward. “I need to hear your story, from you. Will you tell me?”
Sure, he’d love to flay the skin off his entire body and dive into the salty-ocean. Her rejection couldn’t possibly hurt that much. He fixed his eyes starboard, to the invisible horizon. “Why? You’ve already made up your mind.”
That delicate jaw jutted forward even harder. “I hate to burst your ego bubble, but I’ve never heard of Eric Bloodaxe before all this.”
“You don’t watch the History Channel much, do you? Vikings are all rage this season according to Hulu.”
“What? No, look, I’m a blank slate, Erik. Talk to me.”
A blank slate? He only wished that were true. Even if she didn’t realize it, her perceptions had been shaped by her time. The modern world’s opinion of his countrymen was skewed to say the least. The ring he still wore caught in his hair as he raked both hands through it.
“Your schooling tells you what? That all Vikings were thieves, invading villages and slaughtering everyone, raping the women and then carrying the valuables back to our homes?” His scowl actually hurt, pulling his muscles tight against the bone. “Yeah, I invaded, conquered and gloried in the spoils, but I never raped anyone. Quite frankly, I didn’t have to. To spare their gold, most women were eager to spread their legs.”
“So I was just another piece of ass?”
She was a piece of his heart, of his soul. “I never planned on fucking you.”
“But you did.” The sadness in her whisper forced him to turn away, unable to bear the hurt he’d put there.
“I told you I wasn’t good. You fell for a hero, not me. You had no idea who I am. I’m a Viking. Vikings to you are nothing but a bunch of big hairy men wearing horned hats demolishing quiet little Christian cities like animals in heat. You laugh at names like Skullsplitter and Forkbeard. We’re cartoon characters to you.”
“Wow, reality check. I didn’t realize you thought I was that shallow.”
His head snapped around, his gaze narrowing hard but she didn’t flinch. That look was one that had made grown men whimper in fear. But not Lacy, not his valkyrja. She merely stared, wide-eyed and letting her hurt sear down to his bones.
Moonlight caught the glistening sheen across her eyes, like stardust on the black waters. Something inside him softened. Not tears. He could fight any sword, any firearm, any weapon she chose, but never tears.
She shifted on the bench, facing the water and inhaling slowly. The tears never fell. For a soft-skinned sweetheart, she had a backbone of steel and a pride of iron. The warrior in him couldn’t help but admire her strength. The man simply fell deeper in impossible love.
No matter what Sela had said, what permission she had given, he could never ask Lacy to stay with him. It would steal what short future she had as a mortal. It was better for her if he spilled all his ugly truths out and let her shy from him, turn away in horror. She’d be alive and go on to find some other man to live her normal human life with. He already hated that nameless, faceless bastard who would claim her.
He lowered to the bench across from her, elbows braced on his knees, face trained on the deck. “What do you want to hear, Lace? That I didn’t kill my brothers? I can lie if you want.”
“I want to hear the truth, no matter how ugly.”
She didn’t know ugly. He didn’t want her to learn it. He wanted yesterday back, when she looked at him as if he were her knight in shining armor, her hero. Someone else might claim her, but he couldn’t watch her fall out of love with the image she’d created, that he’d helped create in her mind. That was beyond his strength.
“I love you.”
He flinched at her words. She loved a man who didn’t exist.
“Please, Erik, tell me.”
There were two choices. He could lie and be that man again for one more night or he could tell her the
truth and kill anything she felt. So was he a selfish bastard or did he owe her the unvarnished truth?
“I was born in the year 885, a son of King Harald the Fairhair. He liked to use a band of Berserkers as the first wave in battle, the Úlfhéðnar, Odin’s special warriors. There was no drugged wine or hallucinogenic mushrooms or anything like that. They were just fearless and bloodthirsty.”
“Ulfhedin? Your name?”
“Berserker, singular. I’ve used a lot of names over the centuries.” He sighed. “My father sent me to live with them as a child, to learn their ways. And I did, maybe too well. I was known as Eiríkr blóðøx, Eric Bloodaxe, because… I didn’t have twenty brothers. I had sixteen. I killed eleven of them.”
“Why?”
A shrug spiraled pain through his Mark. “Power, land, jealousy. Does it really matter?”
“They were your brothers.”
“In blood maybe, but not in the way you think of family.”
Her love for Annie swelled in his mind and jealousy nibbled along his bones. Had he ever been loved that much by someone he shared blood with? He doubted it. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist. He looked up and caught her eyes. There was no condemnation, only confusion and yearning. That expression dug the words from his throat.
“The first was an accident. I mean, we were fighting, both drawing blood and angry. He tried to kill me and I fought back. But when my sword sank into his chest, time slowed. There was all this blood, the same blood that was inside me.”
A buried memory, one so tinged with time it was faded and soft, rose from the depths of his chest. Björn had gripped his shoulder. Their eyes met and locked. Bloody lips moved, a soundless whisper that imprinted deep inside Vike. He’d whispered Brother.
“I think I regretted it for a minute. I wanted him back. But we were at war over titles and land and inheritance. To mourn, even for a moment, would have opened my back to the rest of my brothers who wanted my throne. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“It was a different time,” she murmured, pulling him from memory.
“Yeah, it was. If I’d hesitated even once because we were family in name, I’d have been gutted like a deer by any of them. I was the favored son, but I didn’t know most of them well. I’d been sent away at seven to begin my training. By the time I was twelve, I’d been sent to sea to make my name. I didn’t return until I was in my early twenties.”
“Twelve?” The wind nearly covered her surprised gasp. “You were sent to sea alone at twelve?”
“I wasn’t alone. I had charge of five longships and over fifty men. I bloodied my sword within a week of sailing and earned the right to be called a man.”
Her tongue flicked out. “You were a king?”
“I sucked as a king.” He snorted. “I was a warrior, a Viking with Berserker training, taught from childhood that there was no mercy to be given. Then my father fucking named me as High King over my brothers. They hated me when he was still alive and when he died, it just painted a bull’s eye on my back.”
A harsh exhale ripped from him, the memory of all that venom surging in his blood. “I hated politics then and still do. My education was all how to kill, how to fight, how to win in battle. Those things don’t create harmony. I walked away from the throne twice, but had to return and claim a crown I didn’t want.”
The air was cool but she shivered as it if were arctic. She burrowed her hands in her sweatshirt sleeves. “If you hated it, why come back?”
“Political reasons but mostly my wife.” Her face snapped up but he kept his gaze level. “She liked being queen.”
“You were married?” Palming her forehead, she sighed. “Of course you were. You told me that. I thought you were divorced.”
“No. I married Gunnhild when she was fifteen. I was almost thirty-four.”
He’d braced for her loathing, but she simply stared at the rippling waves. “I guess in your time she was considered a woman, right?”
“Yes. We had eight children together that survived infancy. History calls her the Mother of Kings. They just don’t broadcast who fathered those children very loud.”
“You had eight children?”
A spark enlivened her eyes and he cringed, knowing he was going to extinguish that light. “No, I had seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” Lacy gasped.
“There was no birth control, Lacy. Sex led to children and I never denied myself sex. The more sons a man had, the more masculine he was. I was sixty-nine when I died and had fathered fifteen sons and two daughters. I had three kids with women before I married, four with my consort, Alfhilda, and one with a house slave. I had nine with Hildy, but one was stillborn. I outlived five.”
“I can’t imagine losing a child.” Her sympathy accompanied a look that melted his bones. They froze solid when her eyes tapered. “You cheated on your wife?”
“By your definition, I suppose. There were no vows of faithfulness given at my wedding except by Gunnhild. None were expected from me, as a man. I could have taken a second wife if I wanted. No, I never hid my women from Hildy, and she raised four of their children as her own. It’s just how life worked.”
Lacy picked at some invisible spot on her sleeve. “Did you love any of them? The women?”
“Alfhilda was a good woman. I cared for her and took care of her until she died. But I loved my wife with every drop of my blood. It got me killed.”
He turned the ring on his finger, remembering his joy when Hildy had given it to him. The urge to throw the damn thing in the ocean hit and he fisted his hands to prevent it.
“What do you mean? Your wife killed you?”
“Her hand wasn’t on the sword but it was behind it.”
Hildy’s disloyalty sliced deep, even after so many centuries, and he stood, staring into the night’s sea. She’d never minded his seeking other women, but she would not tolerate his ignoring her. Some called her a witch, a sorceress. They’d laugh together at rumors of her shifting to animal form or casting spells beneath the moon.
There was no magic in her curses, only the vicious will of a Viking woman well suited as the Bride of Bloodaxe. She had liked to dabble in herbs and tonics, had poisoned at least one of his brothers and a few of his court. Whether the herbs she laced in his mead had helped bend his will to hers, he couldn’t say.
A small part of him wanted to claim that she was a witch to absolve him of all guilt, but deep inside, he knew different. There had been no potions when she’d whisper into his ear while making love or stroking his hair. The only drug she used on him was his love for her. Her tears and her kisses were more lethal to him than any herb ever grown. His violent nature combined with her treachery was a deadly combination.
“She didn’t love you.”
Lacy’s declaration made him smile in wry amusement. She had, she’d loved him. But she loved their children even more, and power the most. He might have lived out his life in hen-pecked peace had he bowed to her wishes, but he hadn’t.
“Our son Rögnvald was killed in battle by a man I’d considered a friend for years, and she wanted revenge. I loved my son, but he was like me, a hothead who never thought before he acted. He died for it. Maybe I was getting old, I don’t know. I imprisoned Egil, our son’s killer. Other Vikings stepped forward in his name and pleaded for his life, vowed to avenge him. In his own defense, Egil wrote an epic tale of our long friendship.”
A playful wind pulled at his hair as he turned, leaned his back on the railing and shrugged. Pain shot through his Mark, a reminder how powerful the bond was between warriors and how painful a woman’s betrayal could be.
“I couldn’t forgive him. He’d killed my son. But I spared his life, banishing him instead. Hildy swore that night I’d regret that mercy. It took her a few years, but she made good on the threat. The last words I heard as my blood poured out were from my enemy telling me how she’d handed me over as payment for letting Egil live.”
“She didn’t love you,” Lacy rep
eated with granite in her tone.
“Yeah, Lace, she did. And I loved her. For every man I’ve killed, every drop of blood I’ve spilled, I had absolutely no strength to fight her. She used my weakness to get everything she wanted, including revenge…on me.”
Lacy stood, her fists balled. “No. Love doesn’t do that. It doesn’t hurt people.”
She was so young. Long life, too long by many standards, had shown him what her innocent heart could never grasp. “Yes, it does. It’s the deadliest weapon out there.”
The word ‘weapon’ pulled her gaze to his arm, his tattoo half-covered by his shirt sleeve. The wind was brisk but something colder festered in his chest when she looked up. She lunged in front of him. “Bring one of those out.”
“What?”
“Myth showed me. Your tattoos become real, right? Show me one.”
For no reason other than she asked, he palmed his biceps, thinking of his axe. It solidified in his grasp. A swallow bobbed her slender throat as she studied it, fingers shaking as they rose to stroke the satin-smooth handle. She trailed her fingertip along the blade head.
“Kill me.”
Heart booming in her chest, Lacy refused to blink. Erik’s face went stony, but she would not back down from this. He might kill her but she didn’t think so. He’d risked everything to save her. But she had to know for sure. And the only way to do that was to face him, head on. “What are you waiting for?”
He swung the axe wide, not in preparation for a blow, but to wrench it from her hands. “I took a hell of a whipping to save your life. I’m not going to kill you.”
A blast of heat surged from her belly as she stepped closer until the tips of her breasts brushed his chest. “Do it. Swing that axe and put me to sleep. That’s what you call it, right? Soul-sleep? Life doesn’t end because my body isn’t here. A box of dust is a lot easier to protect than a real woman. Do it, Erik. Kill me.”
It took three ungraceful sidesteps for him to slide away from her on the cramped deck. The axe vanished from his hand as he scowled. “Sela forbade it.”
Her laughed skipped off the choppy water like a stone on a still pond. “Oh please. Sela does what’s best for her mission. I’m not stupid. She’ll kill me herself if she has to and won’t waste a second thinking about it. So just get it over with. I’d rather you do it than her.”
