“Yours.” Starkad pointed to the jacket and one of the holsters and guns. “If you draw on anyone who’s not a threat, remember I’m faster.”
Arrogant fucker. Brit looked between him and the weapons. You’re serious? She choked back the question, checked the magazine and chamber to count rounds and make sure one was loaded, and holstered the pistol. Her shirt hung over it, and the jacket helped hide the bulk as well, but her clothing was as much to obscure her size and shape as it was to disguise a gun.
Starkad secured his at the small of his back. Not ideal, but discreet, and with his expertise, he probably had no trouble getting to it. Gwydion’s would be under his suit coat.
The information ticked through her brain automatically, like any routine. It was familiar, and that was disturbingly comforting.
“When we meet the shop owner, let me do the talking.” Gwydion focused as much on Starkad as he did on Brit. “Offer deference and respect.”
“Be polite. Don’t make waves. Act like a reasonable human being.” Brit was made for blending in social situations.
Gwydion narrowed his gaze. “Deference and respect. This a dragon.”
“No.” Brit laughed. “Are you kidding? You’re serious. A fucking dragon? Dragons are real. No shit.” This was better than an armory in a faery castle.
Starkad’s mouth twitched. If he wasn’t careful, he might smile and crack something.
“Dead serious.” Gwydion didn’t hide his amusement.
Some days Brit loved knowing another world existed on top of the one most people lived in. “I’ll behave. Bow. Whatever’s required.”
“Polite is sufficient.” The spot in front of Gwydion fuzzed, as if a blurry filter had been applied to that door-sized portion of the room.
Starkad gestured to the gate back to the human plane. “Right behind you.”
Brit hung back. “I’d like to know the shop layout and prepare an exit strategy. See a map, a blueprint—something.”
“The shop layout is... fluid,” Gwydion said. “It adapts to its owner’s needs. I’ve never seen more than one way out, though.”
Talk about fire hazard. “I don’t like that,” Brit said.
Starkad’s frown—even deeper than normal—said he didn’t either. “It is what it is. We’ll adapt as needed.”
Not reassuring.
Brit stepped through Gwydion’s portal and to the side, letting the environment wash over her as she surveyed the landscape. They were in a narrow alley lined with old stone buildings. She’d seen enough back streets in her life that it shouldn’t be remarkable, but this time was different.
The noise from the next street over, the scents of car exhaust and fresh-baked bread, and the sunshine that barely filtered in between the buildings tasted amazing. Like careless possibility. It didn’t matter that she was still a prisoner and had no idea if that would last weeks or decades.
They headed toward a more populated street and blended with foot traffic. Gwydion walked behind her, and Starkad stayed close enough that his arm constantly brushed hers. Their positions and proximity were meant to look casual to any observers, and remind her she was being watched.
Brit was fine with that. If she did plan on running, this was a lousy place to do so. She didn’t know the layout of the city. Didn’t have resources here. Was currently safer than she ever had been with TOM.
She still had issues with the situation, but out here, the pressing loneliness evaporated.
“So, how do you know this... person?” She glanced over her shoulder at Gwydion.
“Same way anyone knows anyone. Life.” Starkad’s gruff tone was back.
So much for the polite reprieve. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t asking you.”
“No, but he’d give you an honest answer,” Starkad said.
Brit rolled her eyes. Gods forbid she learn things about the people around her. “You give me an awful lot of grief for what I did to Kirby.” Of course he did. Brit’s sins were extensive. Now that she’d started this line of conversation, though, she didn’t want to turn back.
“You’re surprised?” Starkad asked.
“No. I was stupid. I was selfish and thoughtless. I own that. But I think you’ve got demons of your own that you’re projecting on me.” Where did that come from? Not that she wanted to take the words back.
Gwydion sighed. “Do you really want to antagonize and psychoanalyze a thousand-year-old wolf?”
No. Maybe. The sunshine and not-so-fresh air might be getting to her, but Brit wanted to needle Starkad the way he did her. Just once, she wanted to get under his skin. “You let her stay in that place. You lied to her about who you were. You watched her suffer. You broke her fucking ankle in order to—”
“To teach her a life-saving lesson.”
Except it hadn’t worked. Kirby never learned the don’t let anyone know how you feel about someone lesson, and it did almost take her life. “To keep her away from me.” If only it had.
Starkad growled, and the people nearest them on the sidewalk took several steps away. “If you point is that I’ve got sins, I know it. She knows it. They don’t diminish yours.”
“True.” Brit wasn’t deterred. “But they do make me wonder why you think you deserve that high horse you look down on me from.”
Gwydion made a noise. A snort? A laugh? A cough? Nice to know he was enjoying the show.
“You won’t like my answer. He sure as fuck doesn’t.” Starkad jerked his head in Gwydion’s direction.
Brit was having too much fun poking the wolf. Maybe she should back off soon. Or not. “Does that tell you something about the nature of your justification?”
“Every decision I made, every time I kept something from her or put her in a bad situation, I thought I was doing what was best for her,” Starkad said.
Brit opened her mouth.
“I don’t know if I was or not”—Starkad shot her a dark glare—“but at the time, I thought so. That’s what makes me different. Every decision you made—every betrayal—was for you. To make your life easier. To make you more comfortable.”
This wasn’t fun after all. He was right, but that didn’t mean Brit liked the reminder.
“Two doors ahead. That’s us.” Gwydion gestured at an entrance with picture windows on either side that were filled with books. Elegant gold lettering flowed across one pane of glass, stating that the shop was The Dragon’s Hoard.
Brit tried to summon her earlier enthusiasm, but it was buried under a fresh pile of you brought this on yourself. “Not the last betrayal. That was never about me.” The retort didn’t come out with as much force as she wanted.
“That’s the only reason you’re here. To Kirby, it means maybe you can be redeemed. To me, it means you gave up, and that’s not enough of a reason for me to trust you.” Starkad reached the shop door first and held it open.
Brit passed him to step inside. “Lucky for me, you’re not the person I have to prove myself to.” She should make a mental note to steer clear of that battle in the future, but now she was irritated, and Starkad was her target. She’d find a different angle for attack.
“Welcome to The Dragon’s Hoard,” a woman—girl?—behind the counter greeted them. She was shorter than Brit, barely five feet, and her waist-length hair was white low-lighted with black and framed a face that could be twelve or twenty-five. She wore a strappy sundress and a bright smile.
Must be nice to be so carefree. She probably didn’t have any idea how true the shop’s name was.
Gwydion stepped around Brit and approached the counter, his head slightly bowed. “Artura. Thank you for making time in your schedule for me.” His tone was almost reverent.
“I always have time for you, mo chara, but you never call. Never write.”
Gwydion laughed. “I suppose the centuries have gotten away from me.”
Was this—? No. This understated woman was a dragon? Brit loved it.
“Who are your friends?” Artura asked.
&nbs
p; “Starkad and Brit.”
Artura came around the counter and stopped with her face centimeters from Brit’s. Her eyes were a vibrant violet. “You’re fascinating.”
“I’m really not.” Heat flooded Brit’s face. Part of her had always wanted to be the person who stood out, but in her line of work, making an impression in the streets could be deadly. “It’s not like I’m a dragon or anything.” Was she allowed to say that? She ducked her head.
“You’re far more interesting. I’ve meet others like me, but I’ve never seen anything like you. Dead but not.” Artura gave a clap and looked at Gwydion. “You always bring me the best gifts. You wanted to see a book?”
That didn’t sound right. “Excuse me. I’m not anyone’s present.” Brit didn’t want to offend the magnificent-beast-in-Lolita-form, but she hadn’t signed on to be handed off.
Artura’s laugh was throaty and chilling, in stark contrast to everything else about her. “Quite delightful. No, dear. Meeting you is the gift.”
“Oh. Same.” Was that the appropriate way to respond?
“This way.” Artura led them past aisles and stacks of books.
The scent, the wall-to-wall spines, and so many titles Brit had never seen before made her swallow a whimper. This place was borderline erotic. She could lose herself here for hours. Or days. If she asked nicely, would Gwydion let her stay under the watchful eye of the odd dragon lady?
Probably not, but a girl could dream.
They followed the maze of bookcases in a circle that ended with them near the front entrance again, in a round-about way. The room Artura led them to was about twenty-six meters by twenty-six meters, with a wooden table surrounded by chairs taking up about half the space. The remainder was occupied by a few more plush seats with lamps next to them. It looked like the perfect place to escape and read.
Artura snapped her fingers. A box of latex gloves appeared on the table, and a heavy book in her hands. “Be gentle with it, please. The knowledge contained in here doesn’t exist in many places. As a reminder—it’s promised to a different seller, and I won’t budge on that. It’s not about the money; it’s about promises made and transfer of information.”
Which was fine. If they bought the book, TOM would know they’d been here.
“Thank you,” Gwydion said.
As Artura left, they all donned gloves, and Gwydion carefully opened the tome. The pages were heavy with thick ink. The book was written in English—not a contemporary dialect, but still English. Probably not an original prophecy about Hel. Maybe a retelling or a more modern interpretation.
Silence settled in the room as Gwydion turned pages, and Brit and Starkad read over his shoulder.
“This is about the Anglican Church.” Brit spoke to herself as much as the men. “Hel’s teachings don’t tend to touch Christianity.”
“That you know of.” Gwydion drummed his fingers on the table, his gaze focused on the book.
“She’s right,” Starkad said.
Probably not the time for Brit to be smug that he’d admitted she knew something. “Hel also doesn’t send people on meaningless scavenger hunts. There’s something in here we’re not seeing, and I don’t know if we can uncover it with an hour or two of staring and nothing to cross-reference.”
Gwydion pulled out his phone. “We’ll photograph it. That’ll be a good starting point. And hang out here for the rest of the day, seeing if there’s something a copy won’t show.”
He turned back to the first page and snapped a photo.
This was going to take a while. Time for more needling. “Why’d you let Kirby go? Back to TOM, I mean.” Brit looked at Starkad.
“Why did you?” Starkad didn’t spare her a glance. “I’m honestly surprised you were willing to let her in your head.”
This conversation wasn’t getting turned back on Brit again. “TOM has always been in my head, so it’s not like I’ve ever been alone with my thoughts.” She hated so many of the things that lived in her mind, but. “At least now one of you will believe the things I say.”
“Is that the only reason? She’s your lie detector now?” Starkad raised an eyebrow but kept his gaze on what Gwydion was doing.
No. There was a chance Kirby would see the inner workings of Brit’s mind and decide none of her actions had been justified. Having access to Brit’s thoughts didn’t mean Kirby would view them through the same lens.
“If there’s anyone in this world I trust not to misuse that information, it’s Kirby.” Because as much as Brit sometimes hated her for how gloriously perfect she was, Kirby was genuine with her kindness. Her trust. Her heart. “And she can’t hate me more than she already does.”
“She can hate you more, because she’s never let you die.” Starkad finally gave Brit his full attention. Was that a hint of emotion in his response?
Had she struck a nerve? “You’d do the same—let her take your place if it came down to it.” Wouldn’t he? “Wouldn’t you?”
“This conversation is over.” Starkad looked at the book again.
That was telling. “I feel obligated to point out how obvious a non-answer like that is.”
Starkad gripped the back of the chair he stood next to, his hands shaking and his knuckles turning pale. The faint sound of cracking wood filled the air.
Brit clamped her mouth shut. She’d scored a hit. Why wasn’t there more satisfaction? She turned her attention to Gwydion’s photography. The thick pages made the book look longer than it was. He was about three quarters finished.
The only sounds in the room were the scuff of gloves of paper and the creak of turning pages. This was distinctly uncomfortable.
If Brit promised to behave, could she go wander the stacks, looking for related material to this book? That seemed even more unlikely now that she’d successfully poked the wolf.
“Kirby doesn’t know me anymore.” Starkad’s soft voice was jarring. “She has no idea what I’ve done over the centuries.”
How bad could it be?
Brit understood the depth of that question; people were assholes. Mark. Hel. But as much as she despised and envied Starkad, some sins seemed beyond him. “You were a killing machine in her first life. Literally the gods’ guard dog.”
Starkad had released the poor chair, but his hands were clenched into fists. “There are worse things than taking a life on the battlefield. You know that.”
“If you don’t trust her with those parts of you, what are you doing in her life?” Gwydion shut the book.
Starkad made a noise that was half-barking-laugh, half-whimper. “You’d let her in your head?”
“She’s already there.” Sadness and certainty sang in Gwydion’s response.
Brit almost choked on the sweetness of his words, and she loved sugar. The sentiment was painfully enviable. “That’s disgustingly poetic.”
“I’m serious,” Gwydion said.
“Afternoon.” A faint but familiar voice filtered into the room, and Brit’s heart stopped. Blossom. One of Hel’s Nobles. “I’m Tiff. We spoke a few times about a book you have?”
“Of course. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Artura was cheerful and polite.
“We’re going. Now,” Brit whispered. She didn’t care if Starkad had other feelings on the matter.
He nodded, and the three of them slipped out the door and back into the stacks. They followed a similar path to the one they’d taken in, but this planted them several meters away from the register when they emerged at the front of the shop.
Artura was just returning with the book in hand. “Would you like to look it over first?” She held up a pair of gloves.
“No. If you say it’s the right one, I’ll take it.”
There was no one with her. Brit’s pulse roared in her ears. Where was Fumbles? She shot Starkad a questioning glance.
His frown implied he had the same concern.
“I’ll wrap it up. Give me just a moment,” Artura said. She dragged a long sheet of br
own butcher paper from a roll near the register.
It didn’t matter where the other half of the team was. Brit headed toward the exit, confident the men would follow.
They stepped outside, and she nearly collided with Fumbles as he was pocketing his phone. “Kitten?” He stared at her in confusion.
Fuck.
“Hey.” She gave him a bright smile. Her return was a portent of things to come, right? As long as he didn’t think she should still be back on campus.
His gaze fell behind her. “Starkad?” His hand dropped to his holster.
Brit was faster, pointing the barrel of her pistol at his head.
Chapter Seventeen
Kirby was rolling her eyes through a dramatic retelling of the Battle of Brávellir, when the library door swung open.
It’s him. The words were instinct carried on years of fear, but Mark was dead.
It was Min, however. Despite his unfamiliar face, he was a welcome sight. His gaze passed over her as if she wasn’t there—appropriate—and he approached the front desk. “Commander Gary asked me to deliver this.” He handed the librarian an envelope.
She read the contents, then glanced at him. “Did he tell you what this says?”
“No. Commander asks me to do something, I do it.”
“All right.” The librarian stepped away from the desk.
Kirby glanced over her shoulder to see the woman disappear into the stacks, before turning back to her reading. Seconds turned into minutes—almost five—before the librarian returned.
She handed Min a book.
He saluted, thanked her, and was on his way.
The next day was a repeat. Min came in about an hour into Kirby’s library time, handed the librarian a note, waited about five minutes for her to return with a book, and left.
Brit had never seen Erek in the library before. Not in the many years of knowing who he was. This wasn’t just a set-up; it was a shitty one. What was Loki playing at?
After four days of the same, Kirby was as amused as she was curious. She and Min were being placed in the same spot, with just enough time to talk while they were alone. She’d like that. It would be nice to compare notes.
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