Destined (Desolation #3)

by Ali Cross

  But that name. James.

  James.

  I like the sound of it. Like how it feels in my mouth when I whisper it quietly to myself. James.

  With the name and with the face of the girl, other images flash before my eyes. Kissing the dark haired girl. Feeling . . . something. Regret? Hope? I’m not even sure what those words mean, what those feelings are, but they rise up inside me like leaves floating on a river.

  And there are other faces, other feelings.

  A pair of crystal blue eyes, brimming with tears. Those eyes feel like a stab to my heart. The first time I saw them in my mind, I gasped—my lady lashed out and dug the heel of her shoe into my calf. I learned to control my reactions after that. To let the tears fall without notice.

  The eyes, those shining diamond blue eyes, make me feel strong. Powerful. They fill me with a need to do something—what, I can’t say. To be something for the owner of those eyes. To protect her.

  Her.

  A girl with messy blonde hair, a small face, with lips that I . . .

  Another gasp, another reprimand immediately followed by a stabbing pain in my back . . .

  . . . like to kiss.

  I kissed this girl. This blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl.

  I loved her.

  I love her still.

  Her name haunts me, whispers at me from the corners of my memory but I can’t quite grasp it. All I can remember is the name on her lips.

  Her whispering my name to me.

  James.

  My name.

  This time I keep my reaction to myself to avoid my lady’s displeasure, but inwardly, my whole self shouts with joy and amazement. For I know my name: James.

  I am James.

  I’d grown weary, the leather wrapped around the hilt of my sword soaked with my sweat and blood. Yet still Loki came. The edge of my wing sliced through his cheek, a small victory. Loki thrust his hands upward. I’d stripped him of one of his terrible blades, but the other flashed before me, narrowly missing my chin as I threw myself into the air, flipping backwards and landing on my feet two yards away.

  He rushed me, left me with no time to think.

  He jumped into the air, and I watched his weapon, not his face—a deadly mistake.

  Loki fell upon me, knocking me to the ground. My right wing bent painfully beneath me until I forced him to the left, rolled onto my knees with Loki’s chest heaving below me.

  And my sword stuck through his gut.

  Everything suddenly came to a stop. I heard my breath wheezing through my throat, my blood rushing in my ears. I saw Loki’s Shadow recede, leaving him looking like a vulnerable man, blood spreading a crimson stain across his white shirt. I saw his mouth moving, saw him cough, a bubble of blood rising upward. I couldn’t hear him over the rushing of blood in my ears.

  I’d done it.

  I’d finally done it.

  Empty laughter rose out of my throat and I looked to my right, then my left in that strange way of one who has momentarily lost their mind. It took a moment for my eyes to register the scene on the dark desert floor below me. Svarts poured from the Door, Giants converged on the dwindling contingent of Gardians and Valkyrie who were pressed together, the enemy surrounding them.

  “Finish it,” Loki hissed, his hand clasping onto mine where they gripped the hilt of my sword.

  “My friends have greater need of me than I have need to put you out of your misery.” Without ceremony I pulled my sword free, wiped the blade on his white shirt. I grabbed his arm and picked him up, throwing him over my shoulder. My wings would not fly me, damaged as they were, but I jumped off the mesa anyway, landing painfully on the ground—hoping it was more painful for Loki who’s wound lay directly against my shoulder.

  I forced my way through the throng; Svarts and Giants both ignoring me as I kept my course for the Door. When I reached it, a pair of Svarts lunged at me, their blades flashing, but I sliced one in half with my good wing and knocked the other down with Loki’s feet.

  And then, as I completed my spin, I threw Loki into the Doorway. Let the Svarts deal with him.

  The sun cast long shadows across the room when I swung my legs out from under the blanket. The room was small, simple, but not as nondescript as I’d thought earlier. I dressed in my mother’s clothes—a warrior queen’s attire: a tunic and cape the color of cranberries, the gold and silver armor of a Valkyrie.

  Across from the window, a portrait of a shi’lil hung above a dresser. The animal was drawn with colored pencils, with so many swirls between air and sky, horse and wing, that it gave the image a dream-like quality. Something about it drew me nearer, so I walked the few steps from the bed across the warm tiles beneath my feet.

  I stared at the drawing for a long time before my eyes wandered downward toward the dresser top—to notice the name scrawled into the corner of the canvas. Mahria.

  I reached out and touched her name. Felt the minute dip in the paper where she’d pressed her pencil. For a moment I thought I could feel her, but as I closed my eyes I realized it wasn’t her presence I felt, but her Memory. Memory was everywhere in this room, like whispers from Mahria’s spirit called to me from every corner. If I didn’t know she was dead—gone to Vanaheim, if Fahria was right—I’d expect her to appear. Instead, I sought more Memories, more connections with my mother.

  I caught my reflection in the mirror above a small vanity. I sat down at the bench and started to pull my hair up into a ponytail, but for a moment I thought I saw Mahria there and my hands dropped to my lap.

  I looked the same as her, with only slight differences where I took after my father. My hair was black, where Mahria’s had been golden-brown, my eyes a deep brown-black where hers were more chestnut with many flecks of gold. And where she had golden skin, mine was pale and marred by the swirls of black on my left arm and ribbons of gold on my right. Yet we were built the same. The shape of my face, my nose and lips, were the same as hers.

  A flash of Memory hit me then—an image of Mahria, head thrown back while she laughed from her belly at something Fahria had said. I couldn’t remember what it was, but I remembered how beautiful Mahria had been. How full of life. I leaned closer to the mirror and slowly, afraid and feeling more than a little stupid, I tried a smile on my face, the face that was so much like Mahria’s. My friend. My mother. I remembered what it felt like to stand with my warrior sisters and listen to Mahria teach us. She was like a brilliant star from which we all drew our light.

  I smiled, and my smile looked like hers. Natural. I made a laughing sound, let it seep into my stomach, let it slowly find its way out. I closed my eyes and laughed. I laughed and laughed as memory after memory rolled in—most were of my time in Valhalla before I was sent on my quest, but some memories of my life as Desi crept in. Painting with Miri. Teasing James over his love for her. Tears squeezed out between my eyelids, but still I didn’t stop. I let the laughter come and come, wanting to lose myself in it. To just be. To be happy.

  “You were always so beautiful when you laughed,” Father said. My eyes flew open and I saw his image in the mirror before me. I watched while he brought up his hands as if he would touch me, but he dropped them again as though it wasn’t the mirror, the barrier of Asgard and Valhalla that kept him from me. “It’s been far too long since I’ve seen such happiness on your face.”

  Because I haven’t had anything to be happy about in forever.

  “What are you doing here?” I shaped my words, every part of me, to be as cold and sharp as he. I fought to control my fear, to stomp it down and give him no satisfaction. I focused on breathing, on calming the fire within, just as Akaros had taught me to do. I did learn a few useful things from him, after all.

  “I heard you’d been injured. Of course, as your father, I was concerned for your well-being. I wanted to check on you myself. Make sure you were being well taken care of.”

  “So you’ve seen me. I’m fine.” Now get the hell outta here.

  “That�
�s the welcome I get?” He leaned to the side, peering around me to examine the few possessions Mahria had collected on the dresser top. “She never was terribly sentimental, your mother. All business, all the time.”

  Not all the time, I thought, remembering the laughter.

  “I suppose that’s why she chose to be my bride—she figured she couldn’t be converted to my point of view so easily. She had so few weaknesses. So few vices.” He pinioned me with his gaze, as directly as if there were an invisible bridge between us. “But I’ve always been adept at using people’s wants and desires against them. Odin knew it was because I was able to give people what they desired that I was such a threat. But even Mahria was glad for what I could give her . . . in the end.”

  I felt his Shadow press against my mind, so I sealed myself shut against him and didn’t say a word, though it took all my concentration to keep from lashing out with every bit of ice in my veins.

  “But you asked me a question—two questions, actually.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his white silk shirt, utterly pristine, making him seem so normal, so human. “It seems the locks to my home have been changed and I am in need of some assistance.” My brain wanted to relinquish itself to him, but I fought it, digging my nails into my palms—anything keep my focus. “Naturally I thought of my dear daughter.”

  “I would never willingly help you.”

  He shrugged as he inspected the small room, ignoring my remark. “I was hoping you would be more generous, of course, but I did not come unprepared.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” I moved to put my right hand on the scabbard at my side, only to realize I hadn’t armed myself. My sword and dagger still lay on the table beside the bed.

  He smirked, no doubt inferring my thoughts even though I knew I held my mind tight against him. “Helena has mutinied against me. Even my generals have joined with her. She may have shut the door against me, but I suspect she wouldn’t refuse you.”

  I sighed. “You expect me to believe that? You’re Lucifer. Hell is your territory. All those dead bad people? They’re yours.” I crossed my arms. “When will you ever figure out that you can’t keep lying? When will you get it through your head that you lost? Give up already.”

  In an instant, his demeanor changed. His countenance lost its benign expression and his eyes, even his skin, grew darker. The whole room dimmed as his shadow-self stretched beyond the mirror.

  “You think I will be content to run away to Svartalheim like your lover expects? I will never give up. I will never stop.” He thrust his hand, like a claw, forward. Though he remained within the mirror, his fist gripped my throat. His shadow-hands were ice cold, burning against my skin, reaching into my mind like lasers, breaking past all my barriers.

  I reached for his hand, to try to pry his fingers from my throat, but I found nothing—only my own skin beneath my hands. My eyes grew wide as I tried, unsuccessfully, to demand what the hell was going on.

  Father laughed. “You forget I am a god, little daughter. Odin might have closed Asgard to me, but as my offspring I will always find you. And you will do what I ask.”

  I tried to speak, but only gurgles escaped my mouth.

  “Shh, shh. Don’t talk.” He leaned toward me, his presence suffocating. “Odin’s worthless barriers keep my physical form from entering his beloved Asgard, but nothing he can do will stop my Shadow from finding you—even here.” His face twisted into an ugly mask of hatred. “You will help me get my kingdom back.”

  I tried to shake my head, willing my countenance to match his, hatred for hatred.

  “You will help me, or I will destroy all that you love.” He filled my mind with images: Michael on the battlefield, his blood staining the desert sand a deep maroon. Miri, huddled in the corner of the school, a bottle in her hand and Shadows pressing in on all sides. James, walking into the river as soul eaters converge on him. On and on the images flashed, showing me the desperate end of each of my friends, each of the people I loved. Longinus, Cornelius, Fahria. All dead. All prey to Father’s vicious retaliation.

  Stop! I screamed in my mind. Please.

  Father laughed, his lips curled in a brutal sneer. He squeezed my throat tighter.

  I’ll do it. I’ll help you.

  Come to the Door. He gave me a glimpse of the Door at St. Mary’s, and then he let go, disappearing as if he’d never been there at all.

  I slipped from the stool and fell to my knees, clutching my neck, fighting to breathe. I pushed my fear away, pushed all thought away. Grabbed my weapons and stormed toward the wheelhouse. “Take me to St. Mary’s,” I demanded of Heimdall as I entered his domain.

  He whirled toward me, towering, ready to defy me.

  “Michael,” I choked out, my mind spinning with possible excuses. “He needs me to meet him there.”

  Heimdall’s eyes softened and he nodded. He spread his fingers wide and drew them across the beam of light that was his power. A pathway opened before me. I nodded toward the great god, then ran onto the Bridge between the worlds, hoping he would be too busy to track my progress.

  I stumbled over the rubble on the floor of the old crypt, but wasted no time reaching the Door, pressing my hand to it and willing it to open. Father stepped from the Bridge seconds before the Door opened. Before I could think, before I could hesitate, I was falling through the Door and into the Remembering.

  The Memories come fast and furious. James on his knees beneath Helena. Michael clasping me to his chest as he ran for Asgard, desperate to save me. Miri collapsing beneath the visions that tore at her mind.

  Father pushes forward and I trip and fall onto the polished granite floor of the throne room. When I realize I’ve stumbled over the dead body of a zabaniyah, I jump up, taking a step backward and smacking against Father.

  And then all hell breaks loose.

  Father Becomes and lunges toward Helena who rises from the throne, her long gown shimmering pink in the torchlight. I make to leave, not wanting to be any part of what’s happening here, hoping they wipe each other out of existence, when I catch a glimpse of a pale human form curled beside Father’s throne.

  “James?” I whisper. Of course my words are lost in the sudden explosion of sound as Hel and Father fall on one another. I take a step forward.

  Father roars and bends to dig his teeth into Hel’s neck, but then he is flying past me, smashing against the granite wall. His impact shudders the stone and he falls to the ground. Helena marches up to him, her strappy gold sandals crunching the dust on the floor.

  I inch past her, willing myself to blend into the wall, to go unnoticed. I wish with all my heart that I had my weapons. Instead I feel like a dorky Halloween cast-off in a stupid Roman centurion costume.

  I cover my ears and lean into a run as Father and Hel’s battle escalates. To my left I see Father’s generals slip out of the throne room. Cowards. But I don’t care. The fewer people I have to contend with, the better. I look forward and focus on the body curled so small you couldn’t tell who it is. But I know.

  Another blast and I cringe, waiting for the fallout to lessen, willing the throne room to stand long enough for me to get to James. Please let him be okay. He isn’t moving and it suddenly worries me that maybe he isn’t even alive. Please, please let him be okay.

  “You won’t fool me again,” Helena screams before Father flies through the air and lands with a resounding crash on the stairs to the dais. “Do you know how long it took me to get my nails fixed? Do you know how many baths I needed to take before I felt clean again? How many conditioning treatments before my hair felt silky smooth?” She stomps toward him, somehow managing to appear elegant and lovely despite the fury burning along her skin in licks of reddest flame.

  Father climbs to his feet and roars with pure hatred. He thrusts out his hand, his fingers shaped into claws, and twists. Helena stops in her tracks and reaches for her throat. She rises off the floor, her feet kicking, her eyes bugging out. Father steps down the sta
irs and slowly advances toward her.

  I dart up the steps and dive for James.

  “James. James.” I whisper his name over and over, touch his forehead, smooth his dirty, matted hair.

  “James,” he sighs, and relief rushes through me because I know he’s alive, even if his eyes are still tightly shut, even though his body is riddled with sores.

  I rip the cape from my shoulders and lay it over him. He grabs it and pulls it around his shivering body.

  “James, it’s Desi.”

  “Desi,” he repeats.

  “I’m here.”

  He finally opens his eyes, looking first at the stone floor against which his cheek is pressed, then slowly shifting his gaze until he finds mine.

  “We’ve gotta go,” I say. I want to reach for him, to pull him to his feet but he seems so much like a wounded bird, a scared little creature—I worry he might bolt or scream if I rush him, if I force him to move. The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves.

  Helena is hurled through the air this time, crashing into the throne that had once been mine. I throw myself over James, trying to protect him from the explosion of bone. A skull, half of it smashed, rolls toward us and James yells, batting it away.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I croon, not knowing if anything will ever be okay again.

  I help James sit up while Helena stands and shakes herself free of debris. She growls when she sees the strap over her right shoulder is torn. When she looks up, her face is dark with fury. Before I can react she grabs the back of my tunic and pulls me to my feet.

  “Leave, or I destroy her.” Her voice rebounds off the walls, sounding as if she’s speaking through a bull horn. I cringe against the sound of it, squeezing my eyes shut.

  “You will not harm her,” Father says. I hear him take a step forward and I open my eyes.