Embrace of the Damned

by Bast, Anya

  Feeling freakish, she directed her gaze away from the box to watch the heavy gates swing wide and allow the car through. The road curled around in a loop, with a huge nonfunctioning stone fountain in the middle. The statue in the middle was a lion, a fitting animal to represent its owner.

  A large, block-shaped building rose directly in front of her. To the left and right were archways with drives leading beneath them to other, separate structures. Scattered about were tools, scaffolding, the detritus of workers who’d clearly been doing construction recently. Broder had been mostly silent for the trip and had returned to his silently pissed-off overall demeanor. She didn’t want to ask about it.

  He stopped the car in front of the central tower, got out and opened the trunk. This had to be the famous “keep.” Jessa got out, too, inhaling the fresh air, and sighing, as the sound of the gates clinking shut met her ears. It was pretty, but it was prison all the same.

  Broder took both their suitcases like they weighed nothing—she could barely manage one—and entered the structure.

  She followed him in. “You don’t keep your door locked?”

  He set the suitcases down. “Not normally. The place is locked down with magick. You don’t have to fear here.”

  She barely heard him; she was too busy gawking. “This place is amazing.”

  The foyer was not big, but it was beautiful. Obviously remodeled, rather than restored, it reminded her more of a mansion than a cold, drafty castle. The walls and ceiling were all made of stone, but the floor was polished wood and covered with rich blue and gold rugs. Matching tapestries covered the walls, and small, polished wood accent tables dotted the circular area. Three archways led to either corridors or other rooms, all of them dark. A large chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling.

  This was nothing like how he’d made it sound. The way he’d described this place, she’d expected to be sleeping in a cold, drafty, crumbling ruin. This was a wealthy man’s home.

  He grunted, picked up the suitcases again, then walked up the stairs. She guessed she was supposed to follow and hurried after him.

  One hand on the smooth, carved stone of the railing, she mounted the stairs, her gaze still riveted on the beauty of the place. “Did you decorate this yourself?” She couldn’t see him being that kind of man, fussily choosing just the right area rug to accent the polished floors.

  “Do you think I did?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  He didn’t reply, just continued his relentlessly strong progress up the stairs. At the top was a small hallway, also dark. He flipped on a light with his elbow, revealing a long corridor lined with doors and graced with a long runner rug that matched the one in the foyer. Stomping to the first door on the left, he wrested it open and entered, then dropped her suitcase on the floor.

  He turned to find her right behind him. They stood about a breath’s space from one another. The heat of his body radiated out and warmed her, the scent of him filling her senses. For a moment she thought he might lean forward and kiss her, but instead he stared hungrily at her—seeming to put everything he’d done to her in the airplane into his eyes, plus some.

  Then, without another word, he hefted his suitcase and left the room.

  She let out a slow, careful breath. Well, okay then.

  Turning to the switch by the door, she flipped it on. The light revealed a room not unlike the one at the Brotherhood house except larger and with more furniture. There was a huge fireplace that was probably meant more for heating the room than for ambience, a big four-poster bed draped with heavy dark red velvet curtains on all sides, and an array of couches, chairs, dressers, and tables. There was a window on the far side of the room covered with drapes that matched the bed. A huge wardrobe stood sentinel in one corner of the room. The only door led to a large bathroom with a sunken tub that had an attached showerhead.

  Leaving her suitcase where it was, she collapsed on the bed, let out a long breath, and closed her eyes. If she concentrated, she could feel the hum of magick all around her. She wondered who had set the net of protection—for that was what she assumed it was—and how they’d done it.

  But even with the magickal safeguards in place, she still felt a draw to mess with the electrical systems. It was frustrating to know she could, that she had the drive and the instinct, but she had no one to tell her how to truly master the skill.

  The next morning Jessa ran her fingers over the rough, uneven stone walls of the corridor, heading down the stairs. The place was incredible, such a mixture of the ancient and the modern. Sort of like the castle’s owner. Although she was beginning to think that Broder had somehow missed out on a lot of modern things—like fun, for example.

  This was a man who was truly in the world and not of it. A part of her ached to show him what life could be like. He never smiled and a laugh coming from him, well, it would be shocking. She couldn’t see him enjoying a movie or attending a carnival or a fair.

  Even before he’d been punished by Loki for whatever mysterious deed he’d committed, she didn’t see him as having a fun and carefree type of existence. She wondered what his life had been filled with for the last thousand years—just hunting? Only death? Only demons?

  If so, her heart ached for him.

  The low hum of … whatever it was had not abated since they’d touched down, nor had it grown more powerful. She was growing accustomed to it, but she had to wonder what it was from. Was it low-level magick coursing through her, unsummoned by her? That was what it felt like. If so, where was it going?

  She was sick of mysteries.

  Broder said that when it was safe she would be connected with her people. She wanted that. Wanted her questions answered. Wanted to finally know who she was.

  Her explorations of the keep soon revealed a sizable living room with a bunch of antique furniture, including a beautiful gilded full-length mirror and lots of bookshelves, a workout room filled with equipment, a library, and a huge kitchen stocked with food. Broder was nowhere to be found, but he’d kindled a fire in every hearth and now the place was cozier. The keep during winter was probably frigid, despite all the massive fireplaces.

  She paused for a moment in the lushly decorated living room. It was all modern and comfortable, overstuffed couches, polished wood tables, bookshelves, and chairs. There were more of the first-edition books. A perusal of the collection revealed fewer American authors and more European. She supposed that made sense considering their location.

  Again she reminded herself to talk to Broder about proper storage for these treasures. It was as if Broder didn’t know what he had, and maybe he didn’t. A decade for Broder probably seemed like a month to a human. Perhaps the passage of time didn’t register with him the way it would with another person.

  She’d never seen Broder reading any of the tomes, not that they’d had a lot of leisure time. She wondered if he was more of a collector than a reader. After all, the man had to have some kind of hobby other than killing demons. He’d existed for a thousand years, after all. He needed some type of enjoyable pastime, especially since he hadn’t been allowed any women. She was still trying to get her head around that.

  The hair at the nape of her neck rose and she spun from the bookshelves toward the entryway. She hadn’t heard anything, but she sensed someone was there—a part of her ever-elusive magickal abilities, she assumed. “Broder?”

  Silence.

  Frowning, she wandered over to the bookshelves to take a closer look. A presence entered the room behind her. Whoever it was, he or she was completely silent. Jessa didn’t trust anyone trying to be sneaky.

  “Broder!” she yelled again. No response. Where was the man?

  Casting her gaze about for something she could use as a weapon, she spotted a heavy iron candlestick and edged over as nonchalantly as she could to grab it.

  In the same moment her hand closed around the candlestick and she turned to confront the interloper, a dark shape shot toward her. Jessa yelped as
the figure plowed into her midsection, sending her flying backward. The candlestick dislodged from her fingers and went rolling across the floor.

  Jessa tried to scramble away, but the figure pounced on her. She brought her knee up and jabbed an unidentified body part. Her attacker grunted and Jessa was able to push her off from beneath and scuttle away. Pushing to her feet beside the crouching person, she saw it was a woman with long red hair, dressed all in black.

  “Who the hell are you?” Jessa asked, but the woman didn’t answer.

  She backed away from her, putting furniture between them. Her attacker stood, flipping hair out of her eyes. The lady was pretty, but her eyes and smile were cold. There was death in those eyes and she was certain this woman was skilled enough to deliver it. Jessa tried to ask her if she was Blight, but she couldn’t seem to form any words at the moment.

  Whoever she was, this complete stranger wanted to harm her.

  A little puff of air escaped her lips. Finally she found her voice. “Broder!”

  “Oh, no, missy. You’ll not be calling for a man to help you,” the woman snarled and then leapt across the couch at her. “It’s just you and me. Woman to woman.”

  Jessa backed up, right into a pedestal with a carved head on it. The pedestal tilted under the impact and the statue crashed to the floor, little bits of sculpture sliding everywhere. “Broder!” she screamed again.

  The woman lunged for her. Jessa leapt out of the way and spotted the fallen candlestick on the floor. She dove for it, pretending she’d stumbled. When the woman made a second lunge at her, she rolled to her feet and brought it toward the back of her head as the woman passed by her.

  “Stop!” A man’s voice boomed out. A huge hand reached out, caught the candlestick, and wrenched it from her grip.

  Jessa stilled, watching the other woman carefully. She’d leapt to her feet, her long red hair tangled across her face. She wore a feral expression and her chest heaved with exertion.

  Jessa gave Broder an exasperated look. “It’s about time. That woman almost killed me.” She curled her lip at the redhead. Just let the woman try to hurt her now that Broder was there. The redhead looked at her like she was insane.

  Broder rolled his eyes and dropped the candlestick with a clatter to the floor. He turned to the intruder. “Halla, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Jessa frowned. “Halla?”

  The woman gestured at Jessa. “Assessing what my workload is going to be.” She gave Jessa an appraising up and down. “Apparently it’s going to be heavy, since this woman relies on a man for her defense.”

  Jessa’s jaw dropped. “Wait a minute—”

  Broder sighed. “Halla, Jessa just found out she’s a witch and is being stalked by murderous demons. Perhaps sneaking up on her in an empty house wasn’t the brightest move. Technically, she’s still a civilian.”

  Jessa snorted, feeling insulted. “Civilian? Are we fighting a war?”

  Now Halla and Broder both looked at her like she was insane. Halla crossed her leanly muscled arms across her chest. “Yes, actually, we are. Happy you finally got the e-mail notification.”

  Halla had a hell of an accent. Jessa’s mouth twitched. “Do you mean memo?”

  Broder motioned to Halla. “Jessa, meet Halla. She’s a Valkyrie and she’s come to train you.”

  “A … Valkyrie?”

  “They play counterpoint to the Brotherhood,” Broder explained. “They’re long-lived, like witches, and are blessed by the goddess Freyja.”

  Halla shifted her weight. “But we don’t have that nasty punishment gig because we never committed an original crime.”

  Jessa took deeper stock of Halla. She looked of an age with her, leanly muscled, obviously in shape. Obviously. After all, she was a Valkyrie, right? She didn’t know why she was so surprised. She’d already accepted that Loki was a real, live being and that she herself was a witch. There shouldn’t have been much more Broder could reveal that would shock her.

  “So what does a Valkyrie do besides run around scaring years off people’s lives? I mean, I’m pretty sure they don’t survey battlefields and decide who lives or dies anymore, right?” Jessa asked, channeling everything she knew about the Valkyrie of lore. She paused, fidgeted, and blinked. “Or … do they?” She couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

  Halla grinned. “Once we did. Now we are just warriors like the Brotherhood. Have to change with the times, right?” Her smile widened and actually became genuine. She stuck her hand out. “I am sorry we got … how do you say in English … off on the mistaken foot.”

  Jessa hesitated a moment, then shrugged and shook her hand. “That’s okay. And it’s wrong foot.”

  Halla withdrew her hand. “You really just found out you’re seidhr?”

  Jessa nodded. “I’m a brand spanking new witch.”

  She pressed her lips together as if in thought. “You’re young, but not a new witch. I can feel you’ve been using your power.”

  “You can?”

  She shrugged like it was nothing. “It’s a part of being Valkyrie.”

  “Couldn’t you tell I was a newbie when you entered the room?”

  “Newbie?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, she couldn’t, Jessa,” answered Broder. “She meant to take you by surprise to see what sort of combat skills you have.”

  That would be none. Halla was right; she did rely on Broder and that needed to change.

  “You did come here to train, did you not?” asked Halla.

  “I guess so.” Then she thought about it for a moment. “Not really.”

  Halla cocked her head to the side. “Then why are you here?”

  Jessa thought about that for a moment before answering. “I came here to find myself.”

  Roan slid out of his car in front of the huge gray stone mansion that was home to most of the world’s witches and shamans. He stood for a moment, gazing at the enormous structure of buildings with that familiar cold weight filling his chest.

  The place had begun to bother him so much over the years that he’d moved to a cottage at the back of the property, near the high stone wall that hid the enclave away from human eyes, well away from the bustle and commotion of the Big House, as it was called.

  Molly stepped out the front door of the mansion and into the faintly gray, misty morning. She was dressed colorfully, as usual, in a short gray gown that somewhat recalled the Victorian age, a black top hat tilted saucily on her glossy hair, and a pair of very high black platform boots. Her blond hair, dyed black on the underside, lofted free and loose around her pretty face. Her expression lit up when she saw him and she bounced down the steps to his car.

  “He’s called everyone, you know,” she told him, hooking her arm with his. She wore a pair of elbow-length black silk gloves. “They’re all in the library.”

  “Yes.” He tried not to answer in such a dead, dry voice, but it was hard.

  “He’s not in a very good mood.”

  “Is he ever?”

  She shrugged. “Some days he’s less rotten than others. Today is not one of those blessed days. Today he almost feels manic. There’s something big going on. Something important.”

  They reached the top of the stone stairs and pushed open the heavy wooden double doors. Through the marble foyer, Roan glimpsed the library, a fire flickering brightly to ward off the chill. A shadow moved in the room and low murmurs filled the air. The heaviness in his chest increased.

  He and Molly walked into the room and Thorgest Egilson whirled to face them, his long beard braided into two plaits. His rheumy eyes narrowed and his hollowed cheeks were bright pink with temper or excitement, Roan couldn’t be sure which yet. He had no idea why they’d all been called.

  He pointed a finger at Roan as Molly skirted off to the side to join the other witches and shamans already convened in the room. “Abigail an’ Michael’s child is alive. A witch, by the feel of it. She’s here in Scotland. Her presence
thrums through me blood.”

  The blood drained from Roan’s face and he rocked back a step. The mere mention of Abigail’s name nearly sent him over the edge and he didn’t like being surprised this way. He shifted on his feet and cleared his throat, trying to gain a handle on the moment. Losing your composure in front of Thorgest was a little like cutting your arm open in front of a hungry lion.

  “Abigail’s child survived?” It was a slow and stupid reaction. He could see the blood coursing from the wound he’d made right in front of Thorgest.

  Thorgest quivered with rage for a moment before exploding, “Yes, ye imbecile! I just told ye. She’s here in Scotland somewhere. The magick of her quivers through me veins. Find her!” He slammed his fist down on the long conference table that dominated the room and lowered his head. He’d roared the last sentence, making everyone in the room flinch.