by J. J. Keller
Harrison slowly moved his head farther to the side. His arms and legs, heavy and weighted, still couldn’t be lifted. A clear tube went from his left arm into a bag hanging on a pole. He’d been in perfect fit condition and now he had no control over his muscles. Returning his gaze to the burnished silver, he studied the scar marking his forehead and along his scalp. “Yes. Looks weird. What do you think it resembles?”
“Hum, not sure. Odd though.” Basil set the jug beside the glass. “You could probably get a lot of sympathy sex due to the large part in your hair.”
“As if I’ve ever needed a prop to attract women.” His stomach muscles clenched, the scar was the size of his KA-BAR desert mule knife. Would his hair grow and cover the patch? Harrison’s glance swept along his lower body, noting he’d lost weight. “Am I paralyzed?”
“Don’t think so.” Basil pointed to the bed. “I know you’ve got a plastic tube in your Johnson and it drips into a bag on the side. That’s gotta hurt.”
Harrison shot his friend a dark look. “I hope to hell you know this because you’re dating my nurse.”
“TMI, eh? All right, no reason to get your tube in a bind. I’ll get the doctor. He can tell you if all of the parts are working.” Basil touched the button on the call box for a nurse. “Christ, Harry, I didn’t think you’d ever wake up. The quacks thought the coma would be short term, but it’s been awhile.”
“Missed you too, buddy.” Harrison twisted, straining the sore neck muscles, to see directly into Basil’s face before he asked the question plaguing his mind for the past several minutes. “Three years ago when the landmine blast made you unconscious.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you see an angel?” Harrison whispered.
Basil grinned. “Angel?”
Harrison licked his lips again, this time slicking them. “Yeah, messenger from God.”
“Don’t recall that.” Basil bit his bottom lip, the two overlapping crooked teeth in front a sharp contrast to his otherwise perfect features. He tugged his beret from under the epaulette and smoothed a finger over the insignia crest outlining the spearhead, the world and the eagle. A long time habit Basil used when he was uncomfortable with a discussion. He had too much class to leave or make a dramatic change in conversation. The clap-clap-clap of shoes hitting the cold sterile floor sounded loud in the room.
Basil squeezed his friend’s wrist and spoke fast. “Harry, don’t mention the angel thing or you’ll be holed up in the psych ward, and I need you to protect my back.”
“Got it.” Harrison nodded and closed his eyes, clearly remembering a sexy blonde broad sitting on top of his cock. Bumps, similar to braille, formed on his arms just by thinking of her. Instead of sweet consoling words, she’d pressed a knife to his chest and held him on the ground. Why would an angel of death do that?
Chapter 3
Over the rise of the mountain, under brilliant blue cloudless skies, was Valhalla. Kiara loved her homeland. Born and raised in the lowlands of Asgard, on the opposite side of Odin’s castle, her parents and younger brother continued to raise sheep. She exhaled. More than the thousands of times before, she appreciated the deep green grass, flowing wheat and the freezing cold as they passed over the pale brown and white mountain tops. A few more miles and the residents in the palace would welcome them home. They’d gleefully accept the new recruits into the Einherjar quarters.
Within days the soldiers would swear their allegiance to Odin and thereafter be transformed into fully healed non-human soldiers of the highest renown. Then a great celebration in the main hall would allow old and new warriors to mingle and feast. Food and wine would flow until lights went out and the dawn of a fresh day appeared.
Seeing the round turret towers created a surge of trepidation. She loved being a Valkyrie and honored the position in Odin’s house. Today, however, sizzles of fear battled with the rush of adrenalin. Would he welcome her and the alternate Einherjar warrior or would she be shut out because she failed to follow protocol?
At the end of the portal, Heimdallr welcomed them and even winked at her as she passed. The new recruit was delivered at the hall and accepted by the other Einherjars. Later, in her suite of rooms, she silently celebrated. She must have done it—let her dream lover live and successfully delivered a substitute.
“Kiara what are you doing?” Skogul’s low growl came from behind the six-foot high wood-encased dressing mirror.
Kiara didn’t take her gaze off the gorgeous carvings of historical Valkyries. Their flying horses carried warriors away from battles. If she broke her stare from the mirror frame, she’d see a disappointed expression on her friend’s narrow face. “What do you think the word ‘fuck’ means?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess. Did one of the Americans say ‘fuck’?” Skogul came around to the side of the looking glass. She smiled, with one corner of her mouth lifting. Her vivid turquoise eyes glimmered with mirth. The meaning must be a bad one or Skogul wouldn’t have that intense expression of lets-find-out.
“Harrison.”
Skogul touched the camouflage underskirt hugging Kiara’s hips. “The guy you left on the battlefield with a healing feather stuck to his crown?”
“Yes.” Kiara nodded. “Harrison Valentine Lombard.”
“How did he use ‘fuck’?” Skogul rolled the word around as if she enjoyed saying the idiom.
“Instead of accepting his fate he said he wanted to fuck. What does that mean?” Kiara rotated to the left a few inches to see her hip in the looking glass.
“I’m not sure, but the word rolls off the tongue very nicely. Get the outfit off before Göndul sees you and says something to Odin. Besides, we’re supposed to be serving drinks to the troops.”
“We need to talk about my decision to leave him behind?”
“Not now. Tonight is a time of celebration.” Skogul winked. “I’ll help you cover it up. We’ll discuss a strategy while hiking up the mountain tomorrow.”
Kiara smoothed the silk corset and glanced at the painted chest plate ready to be placed on top. “I like the colors green, dark beige and black swirled together. It’s an excellent choice of apparel to hide, er, take cover in the trees.”
Skogul’s smile disappeared and her eyes narrowed before she turned. She marched toward the closet, long sturdy legs eating the distance in seconds.
“Hilda also frowned when I commissioned her to create the camisole and chest plate.”
Skogul stopped sorting through the clothing. Her finger tapped the rod holding the outfits. “You told the seamstress about your tree- and dirt-colored garments?”
“Yes. I gave her a sketch.”
Skogul all but snarled. “Did you tell anyone else?”
Kiara shook her head and prepared for whatever her friend, mentor, planned to say. She’d take the dressing down and stand by her desire to save her sisters through whatever means possible.
Skogul snorted and continued to sort through the wardrobe, tossing rejects out. The woman could read everyone’s mind. Kiara concentrated on blocking her thoughts as each fluffy piece of silk fluttered to the floor. Her friend’s dark blonde hair had been fashioned into a braid with silver threads entwined. Part of the elaborate hair fashion lost some of its twist and the long knot fell between her shoulder blades. The sparkling tail swished as she moved. “If you are found pining over the warrior you left in North Korea, well I can only imagine what your punishment will be. Odin sees all. He already knows you left your selected Einherjar and took a substitute. Do you want to make him angry by parading around in an American costume? He’ll exile or hang you.”
“No. My Silent Warrior—something happened—I couldn’t,” she stammered, trying to find the right words to voice the emotion she felt toward Harrison. She’d never abandoned her chosen Einherjar or warrior on a field of battle before and for some reason, despite the quick beat of her heart and hungry womb, she couldn’t fathom the logic of doing so this time.
Even more frightening, she
didn’t have remorse and couldn’t care less if Odin knew. Heart skittering to a stop, she tried to take the thought back. Odin was the most honored of all in Valhalla; she must abide by his edict, to serve and protect. What had she done? The thought was treasonous. She tried to swallow, but her dry throat wouldn’t allow the lump to pass. Her job as a Valkyrie was to provide members ready to fight during the great battle of Ragnarok, and she’d done just that. What consequences could there possibly be?
“Why do you call him a Silent Warrior?” Skogul tossed a pink camisole into the room.
“All of the Americans that day were special force soldiers. They are Marines with advanced training to get intel or facts and news about the opposing troops or warring countries. They are called Silent Warriors.”
“Where do you get this stuff? It’s none of your concern. Anyway, they weren’t so silent to be ambushed by the other soldiers, were they?”
Silver threads of a ceremonial corset glimmered in the light of the waning moon. Skogul would select her favorite color and of course, the very garment she’d gifted to Kiara when she’d been admitted to the rank of Valkyrie, First Squad. In a flash the camouflage silk camisole was kicked to the side and the shimmering starched material put into place. “Where’s your overskirt?”
“Why are you in here?” Göndul’s husky voice bellowed through the changing room.
Skogul slid to Kiara’s side, scooting the green corset under her long pewter-tinted gown. A pirouette and Kiara faced the leader of all the shield-bearing squads. Göndul was Amazon-large in size and fear factor. Her platter-sized head, covered in tightly woven blonde curls, tilted to the right as if evaluating what was happening.
“Having trouble deciding what to wear, but we’re almost done. Right, Kiara?” Skogul nudged Kiara’s side; stepping backward, she picked up her skirt and kicked her foot. The slipper gleamed in the glow from beside lamps.
Kiara slid her glance from the camisole sliding on the floor to Göndul. She rushed forward and bowed her head to the leader of all Valkyries. “Right. My apologies, Your Excellency. We’ll be serving mead in a flicker of Thor’s bolt of lightning.”
Göndul’s pewter blue gaze pierced Kiara’s soul. At a young age, Kiara had learned how to block her thoughts, but would she be successful when the second in command under Odin pried apart her deepest anguish?
She couldn’t reveal her true desires or all hell would break lose. A Valkyrie was one of the highest honors. Kiara would not willingly forfeit her position in the first squad. The image of her Valentine quickly flashed in her mind’s eye. Get out.
Göndul strutted forward. Her gold gown sparking as she moved.
Oh no. Apparently her mind was a kaleidoscope of information.
A beefy hand grabbed the camouflage camisole from its hiding place. She held the garment in front of Kiara. “Yours?”
Skogul took a respectful step backward. The scent of stirred hay cleaved the air as Tweet, Kiara’s raven, flew from her cage. Metal clanked against metal as the door hit the steel side of the crate.
Tweet’s path led straight for Göndul. Kiara was conflicted between hoping her bird flew into the leader’s thick knot of hair or the raven circumventing her.
Apparently Kiara hid her thoughts deeper than before as Tweet flew to the side. Göndul didn’t waver; the question remained firm in her eyes.
Kiara forced strength into her voice. “Yes. The camisole is mine. I think it’s an excellent device to help us blend into the—”
“Did you approve the garment to be made, Skogul?” Göndul’s nostrils flared as Bright’s did when he was excited about going home.
Skogul’s inhale sounded as loud as the whoosh of air when their squad of horses wafted through the sky. A low warning squawk came from Tweet, who had perched on the dark wood mirror frame. Was her bird afraid she’d become on-the-spot carnage?
Not receiving an immediate answer brightened Göndul’s cheeks. She stuck her wand in the air with a crack. “Valkyries do not blend. We command. We control. Using the wisdom Odin granted us, we wield justice!” Her frown deepened as she wrapped the soft multicolored corset around her fist and pointed to the double doors. “To the common room.”
Tweet’s black feathers sprinkled a path as she flew around Göndul, finally landing on Kiara’s shoulder. She lifted a finger and stroked the raven’s breast. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”
Her talons bore into Kiara’s bare shoulder. Because of the warning shriek, she ignored the razor-sharp pain.
With a halt, Göndul turned to Kiara and stomped her foot. “The bird stays.”
Kiara’s throat clamped shut as she attempted to find a valid reason to keep her message bearer with her. Serious business would be conducted if her constant companion had to stay in the room. “But when I’m in Valhalla, she’s always by my side.”
Göndul’s eyes glowed. A half-circle of her wand and Tweet slammed into her cage and the door shut. Göndul, rife with petulance and anger, pivoted, and on winged feet fled.
“To use one of your fantasy man’s words, fuck.” Skogul flung a forest-green lamb’s wool cloak over Kiara’s shoulders. “This is going to be bad, very bad.”
Chapter 4
Of the eighteen soldiers, only one, his friend Basil, remained in the barracks as Harrison packed his gear to return home. No, not home. His destination was to his parents’ house in Indiana. Not his preference, but he needed recovery time and it would be nice to be pampered. He could plan his next move: leave the military or take a desk job. Neither made him jump with glee. There wasn’t any way he’d leave the botched mission uninvestigated. As each squad member visited him in the hospital he ferreted their actions prior to the ambush, except for one. Wilson.
The scents of sterile bed linens and stringent lye soap made him want to gag. Thank goodness he declined lunch or his friend would be mopping puke instead of lounging.
“Nearly recovered, lucky you get to go home. Wish I could join you.” Basil picked up a ratty, dirt smudged baseball and tossed it over his head.
“You hate Indiana in February. If I remember correctly, you said it’s ‘bitchin’ cold.’” Harrison shoved a cotton shirt into his satchel. “I’d rather stay. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and you know how much I enjoy that.”
“Hum, sarcasm. You’re back to normal.” Baseball caught in his robust fist, Basil plopped onto the regulation army cot. The springs squealed in rebellion. Being in a Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command didn’t mean they were treated as dignitaries, so they slept on cots and ate regular fare. Basil would prepare for the next mission and Harrison would be released from active duty. “You’re welcome to go to Wilmington and stay at my house to avoid all that messy family business.”
Harrison shook his head, causing it to ache and a patch of overgrown hair to fall forward. “Sure. Why don’t you take a leave of absence, mental stress, and we’ll spend time at the beach.” He finger-combed his hair to one side; during a medical leave he could have a shag which, short term, would cover the scar. The blemish would become a badge of honor, an emblem of his survival, and not an ugly slice through his head as it would appear.
“Can’t get away with it.” The ball went into the air and Basil winked. “Already tried. The brass said your skull was cracked and shouldn’t affect mine.”
White, hard leather smacked against plastic at the top of Harrison’s neatly packed stuff. Basil shot up and peered inside the bag. He grabbed the twelve-inch display case. “Why are you keeping this?”
Harrison shrugged as his heart jetted to Shadow UAV takeoff speed. “The doctors seemed to think it saved my life.”
“What’s the likelihood a black feather plugged the hole in your head and stopped the bleeding?” A snort came from between his teeth. “Should have been a white feather if you believe your angel put it there. You just have fantastic clotting ability. I said it before when you got a bloody nose during CQB.” Basil snapped his fingers. “Stopped bleeding ins
tantly.”
“My scar is a perfect match to the feather.” Harrison took the clear box and shoved it in the corner of his bag, hoping Basil would drop the subject. “I’m keeping the memento.”
Basil winced and fluffed the bed pillows, placing his hands behind his head. The stiff cotton popped and crackled. He muttered, “We’re alone, right?”
Harrison gave a complementary look around. “Yes.”
“Have you seen the angel again?” Basil’s stubborn jaw tilted and skin tightened around his mouth.
“No. She wasn’t an angel,” he replied, keeping his gaze on his luggage so his lifelong friend wouldn’t detect his true thoughts. They could read each other’s thoughts from facial and body expression. This skill kept them alive for the past decade. Harrison held firm to the knowledge Kiara wasn’t an angel, because he’d used a computer and discovered who or what had sat on him—what gave him life instead of taking it.
Basil’s face relaxed. He shut his eyes. “Good. Glad that bit of nonsense is over.”
“I don’t think it is,” Harrison said the words, trepidation ringing through each utterance. He thought he’d go mad keeping the ID of the woman inside. If he couldn’t tell his best friend, then who could he unload on?
Basil shot upward and grabbed the sleeve of Harrison’s dress shirt. “What are you talking about?”
Harrison shook free and with less than stable hands zipped the satchel. “I think I’m connected to her. It might be a result of the feather or destiny, but I remember everything about her as if it happened a moment ago instead of months. However, I don’t recall the bloody nose during CQB.”
“I told you I was sorry about the butt of the rifle hitting your ugly mug.” His eyes glowed with fear or wonder, Harrison didn’t know which. Basil fell onto the mattress and his fingers curled and tapped the headboard. “No one else saw a girl near you. There aren’t any females in Special Forces of any branch.”
