The Bear's Surrogate: A Paranormal Pregnancy Romance

by Angela Foxxe

  She quietly sneaked up to her bedroom to see if she could catch the housekeeping staff as they tidied her suite. She heard some female voices speaking in Norwegian as she slowly cracked open the door.

  She noticed two blonde maids laying the duvet back on her bed and a pile of crumpled sheets on the floor, the one showing had a smear of red on it. Rachel blushed furiously knowing what it was. She silently glided in. “Hey, ladies,” she greeted them.

  The two maids stopped and blushed. “Hello, miss, we weren’t expecting you back so soon,” the younger one replied.

  “Its okay, Valemon wasn’t around so I had no one to talk to while I ate. Hans isn’t much company.”

  The two women tittered nervously, looking at one another knowingly. “Ja, he is strange.”

  “How long has he been here?” Rachel probed.

  “As long as we can remember. Just like our families, his family worked here when we were children. Their parents served before them. Hans’ family though, wasn’t brought here willingly at first. They were held as prisoners for a very long time. Valemon’s family had to quell a rebellion a few centuries ago. In order to maintain the peace, they took in the firstborn son of the Duke that owned the area. Hans is the result of that agreement.” The maid looked around, fearing she had said too much.

  “Anyway, old hatreds never really die in this place. Be careful.” With that, the two young ladies scooped up the soiled linens and hustled out of the room.

  Rachel stared after them for a minute before turning and walking towards the desk. She really wanted to get to the bottom of why exactly Hans was making her so uncomfortable. She booted up her laptop and opened up her browser. She typed in the address for the Norwegian historical society and started her search there.

  She saw no record of any war the Bjornson’s participated in. Even during World War II, they remained stoically neutral in both the faces of Nazi Germany and the Norwegian Freedom Fighters, as both tried to wheedle their way into the wealthy family’s good graces. Even the Nazis were afraid of treading wrong around the Bjornson’s, so whatever battle had gone on that brought Hans’ ancestors into the Bjornson’s service must have been formidable indeed. If it was so brutal, why was it hidden?

  Rachel spent most of her day looking for any kind of reference to whatever had happened so long ago. She only got up to use the bathroom, and grab the serving tray that Hans had left for her at the door when she told him she was feeling too tired to go to the dining hall to eat, especially if Valemon wasn’t back from his trip yet. Since he hadn’t returned, she decided to eat in her chamber, continuing her fruitless search for the name of Hans’ ancestors.

  The next webpage she stumbled across was in Norwegian, but a dialect she had never seen before. Not even the translate function in her browser could translate the strange text. There were scanned black and white photos of old rune stones which were massive monuments that were left by the Vikings of yore to document their history. One had a stylized bear standing over the form of a wolf carved on the top, at least that’s what it looked like to her untrained eye with many runes scratched into the pitted surface of the granite pillar.

  As she was pulling up another tab to translate the grainy images there was a polite knock at her door. She quickly closed the browser window and powered down her laptop. “Come in,” she announced, hoping her nervousness didn’t come through in her voice.

  The door opened and the massive form of Valemon ducked in through the doorway. “Hans told me you weren’t feeling very well today.”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t much of anything, maybe the cod last night wasn’t cooked properly or something. It went away after I had a bite to eat.” She didn’t even notice the time; she looked at the large window in her room and noticed a bright full moon beaming in a black velvet sky.

  “Wow, I must have been really into what I was doing,” she said nervously.

  “At least it helped you fill the time. My apologies for being gone for these few days.”

  “Few days? I woke up this morning and...”

  “You were asleep for two days after our encounter, according to Hans,” Valemon interrupted gently. “He found it amazing that you had so little appetite after being out for so long that he was feeling concerned and contacted me. I decided to cut my trip short and come back sooner than I had anticipated to check up on you.”

  “Wow, two days? That’s...” Rachel remembered the picture of the rune stone she had found. She was completely confused as to why she would need to sleep that long after a sexual encounter. “Umm, have any of your former partners passed out for that long?”

  Valemon shook his silver haired head. “No. My former wife had no such problems with recovery after our relations,” he replied while thoughtfully stroking his closely cropped beard. “As long as you’re feeling better, though, that is all that matters,” he said as he placed an arm around her shoulders.

  Rachel nodded; she found little comfort in Valemon’s words. There was something seriously sketchy about all of this and she began to regret her decision to be this man’s surrogate. “I’d feel better if I knew the people a bit better. Everyone, including you, is so evasive.”

  “Just trust us, okay?” he rumbled.

  “I kind of trust you, but that Hans guy is pretty skeevy.”

  Valemon exhaled a huge sigh. “That one, he’s been fed generations of lies from the cradle. Even though he’s free to leave, he chooses not to, not that I mind one bit. I prefer to keep my enemies close by, so to speak. Generations of bad blood takes even longer to erase, let’s just leave it at that.”

  “If he hates you so much, why is he sticking around?”

  “The job pays well.” Valemon shrugged. “Or he might be planning on sticking a knife in my back, either way he gets the job done and my life is easier, I put up with his proclivities for the sake of efficiency.”

  Rachel sat in silence, she felt comforted that Valemon knew there was something going on with his butler. She took a deep breath and looked up at him from her desk. “Alright. I’ll trust your judgment in keeping him around, but I’d rather have someone else bring me my food when you go away.”

  “That seems reasonable,” Valemon agreed. “I’ll see if one of the housekeepers will bring it up to you. I still would like you to dine with me when I’m home, though.”

  “I’d still feel safer if you were around.” Rachel sulked.

  Valemon smiled at her. “Well, I have to go away on business at times. Sometimes I don’t even know when I’ll get called.”

  “I thought you didn’t need to work.”

  “Well sometimes businesses call on me as a consultant for things,” he eluded.

  “What kind of things?” Rachel probed, her face getting icy as Valemon dodged her question.

  “Business. Investing,” Valemon countered quickly. Maybe if he suggested two very dry subjects she wouldn’t probe any further.

  “Oh, that makes sense, then.” Rachel seemed satisfied with the answer and Valemon gave an internal sigh of relief.

  She turned around and looked at the tall, handsome man. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. The smell of his spicy cologne tickled her senses as he towered above her as she sat in her chair. She stood up and felt a surge of nausea wash over her. She pushed the massive man aside as she bolted for the bathroom and retched once again.

  A look of concern crept over Valemon’s bearded face. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” he asked.

  “I think you need to talk to your...” she continued voiding her stomach contents into the commode, “kitchen staff about how to cook properly or something.” She finished as the nausea subsided as swiftly as it had come over her.

  Valemon nodded, but concern was still etched on his bearded face. “I’ll see what I can do,” he assured her.

  Rachel stood and walked over to the sink and rinsed her mouth out with a cup of water. She decided she would brush her teeth as well since she should be getting to bed soon.

/>   Valemon loomed outside the bathroom door with his arms crossed across his barrel chest. He turned around, walked toward the bed and sat down on it. He wondered if she wouldn’t mind him spending the entire night with her. He felt his skin itch as the evening wore on. He let out a deep sigh and decided against it for now. He would really have enjoyed spending another evening buried within her depths, but he couldn’t let her witness his other side.

  Rachel stepped out of the bathroom, clothed only in her terrycloth bathrobe. “Hey, I’m about to get some shut-eye, do you want to join me?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  Valemon looked at her with mixed emotions. “I...don’t know if I can,” he replied haltingly as he began to rise from the bed. “I need to...”

  Rachel strode to the bed and straddled his lap. “Are you sure?” she teased as she ground her hips into his.

  Valemon’s manhood surged, but he pushed the desire down. “I’m sorry Rachel; I really can’t stay the night, as much as I want to.” His body hair was growing longer as he spoke. “I really need to go,” he said as he picked her up and gently placed her on the bed. He rose, straightened his smoking jacket and hastily exited. “I’m so sorry but I really can’t,” he rumbled as he closed the door.

  Valemon leaned against the door after he had closed it. He breathed deeply as he felt the change begin to take over. He took one final breath and practically bolted for the servant’s exit at the back of the manor.

  He pulled up the wooden board that hid the entrance to the tunnel below and leaped down it. He closed the door behind him and charged down the tunnel, ripping his clothes off as he went. He reached the hidden dock in the cavern below, collapsed on all fours and let out an inhuman roar as his body painfully shifted into that of a giant white bear.

  He leaped into the salty water with a resounding splash and with powerful strokes of his massive paws, he swam out of the cavern and down the fjord. That was a close call, he thought. The episodes were coming closer together now. Pretty soon, if he didn’t provide an offspring to present to the gods, he would be locked in this shape forever. He didn’t dare tell Rachel the fate that lay in store for the child.

  Valemon swam for hours towards his destination. His powerful bear form had boundless energy, but the icy cold sea water of the fjord slowly began to sap his energy after the third hour. He was certain he would be arriving at the island soon. If not, the chill of the ocean would surely take him.

  The black sky was beginning to lighten as he finally felt gravel beneath his hairy paws as he made landfall on the small isolated island. He collapsed on the gravel beach, breathing heavily from exhaustion. Next time he wouldn’t wait so long.

  Valemon felt a warm hand on his muzzle and he looked up through his bleary, ice blue eyes and saw a strange, black haired woman with unearthly features, crouching down in front of him. “Rise, Bjornson,” her dulcet voice commanded. “Your time is getting close.”

  The massive bear rumbled as he nodded his head sadly.

  “You haven’t found a mate to produce a sacrifice for us yet, have you?”

  Valemon shook his head. He hid Rachel’s existence deep in his psyche so the giantess wouldn’t be able to find out what he had done.

  “Fenrir’s children will be coming for you in three moon’s time if you do not find a suitable mate. My clan always receives what is promised to them. Your truce with my family will be ended if you do not bring the required sacrifice. The firstborn offspring between two of your clan. Blood for blood.

  “You keep one of mine, I keep one of yours. That is the deal,” the black haired woman purred. Her hot claws grasped the scruff of Valemon’s white fur and pulled at it painfully. “I have my ways of knowing what goes on in your house, remember that.”

  Valemon sighed deeply. “Whatever you wish, Angrboda. I still seek a mate. Bears are solitary creatures and my clan has been all but wiped out by yours over the centuries. You will get still get your sacrifice,” Valemon thought towards his nemesis.

  The tall, dark haired woman stood equal to the massive bear in height. “Oh, I know we will,” Angrboda purred. Her red eyes glowed in the burgeoning dawn. Her voluptuous body was clad in snug leather leggings and a chain mail shirt over a tight leather jerkin. She also sported a heavy fur cape that was crafted from the skin of an exceptionally large bear. Valemon tried to avert his eyes from the last remaining physical relic of his wife.

  Angrboda noticed his aversion. “Does it still pain you? After all these years, it still does, doesn’t it?” she purred “Well, too bad. We keep what we kill in the Ironwood Clan.” She turned on her heel and started towards the dense woods. “You may rest here until you have your strength back. Then you must leave. Only come back when you have the child.”

  Valemon trundled away from the water and towards the large rock that stood in the middle of the small, isolated island. There, he knew, was warmth and safety. The wolves couldn’t enter that cave; else the treaty would be violated. This was the Sacred Island. All shape shifters were supposed to be welcome here, but Angrboda and her family took it over centuries ago, and now hold sway over it with an iron fist. Only dire wolves had their permanent residence here. All others were either slaughtered, or driven off. Valemon waited for the day when the gods would return and make Angrboda pay for what she had done.

  After an hour of slow trudging through the dense woods, Valemon located the base of the giant granite spike that curiously jutted up from the dense canopy. He ambled around and found the triangular opening of the cave that not even Angrboda could enter. He pawed the dried grass and pine needles that found their way into the cave into a neat nest on the dirt floor, and flopped down onto it in a heap of exhaustion. His ice blue eyes were closed before the dust settled around him, and the small cave filled with the sounds of large bear’s snoring.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rachel was in a very bad way. She woke up and bolted out of bed towards the commode, barely making it before heaving into it once more. She retched so forcefully that she blacked out and hit her head on the porcelain bowl, cutting her forehead open.

  The housekeeper walked in and gasped as she found the tall, blonde woman passed out in a puddle of congealing blood on the slate tile floor, and hustled off to get Hans, since Valemon was nowhere to be found.

  Hans stoically strode into the bedchamber with a haughty expression on his lean, goateed face and peered into the bathroom. “Oh my, it looks like she might need some medical attention,” he said dryly as he reached into his back pocket for some blue surgical gloves. The maid told him about the accident so he had come prepared. He flicked them open and pulled them over his spider-like fingers as he approached the prone woman.

  “Hmm, it seems to me that she was getting sick, then fell and hit her head. Bring her to the infirmary and I shall stitch her up,” he ordered the maid who looked at him with a helpless expression, not knowing how she would lug the heavy, muscular Rachel all the way to the manor’s medical room.

  “Or do I have to do everything myself?” Hans sneered at the blonde woman. “I’ll go summon one of the groundskeepers.” He sighed as he walked towards the intercom that was positioned just outside the room. He pushed the code that patched him through to the groundskeeper’s shed. “Yes, I need the assistance of one of you oafs, the master’s...” the word came out as a sneer, “plaything has fallen in an unfortunate accident. Don’t worry, a burial will not be needed, yet.”

  Hans clapped his thin hands together as he re-entered the room. “And there we go. Help is on its way! Oh, do be a dear and clean her off and staunch that, will you, Hilda? Good girl. We don’t want it dripping all the way to the infirmary and causing you ladies any more work, now do we?”

  Hilda shot Hans a dirty look as she dampened a white washcloth under the hot water faucet. She knelt down and dabbed carefully at the nasty gash that adorned Rachel’s smooth, high forehead. Blood had gotten into her fine blonde hair, creating a nasty mat. She would need help getting that ou
t, Hilda thought.

  As the maid finished cleaning the cut, one of the groundskeepers tromped into the room in his muddy boots. “Alright, where is she?” he growled. Hans motioned towards the bathroom with a smirk on his face and watched Hilda scramble out of the way of the large man.

  The groundskeeper scooped up Rachel from the floor as if she were a toy and turned towards Hans. “You sure you don’t need her buried? The master seems to burn through his play things rather quickly.”

  “No, Igor,” Hans replied, “this one seems to have a bit of fight in her. We should keep her around. If anything it keeps the...master happy.”

  Igor nodded and shoved past the slender butler on his way to the infirmary. He didn’t care about the goings on inside the manor; he just showed up and did what he was told by either Hans, or Valemon himself. He looked down at the woman in his arms. Pretty little thing, I suppose, he thought . Would be a shame to plant this one. He sighed as he made his way through the manor. He tromped down the carpeted stairs and around the corner into the lower floors of the other wing.

  He waited in the dark hallway next to the door to the infirmary for Hans to make his appearance. The woman’s blood began to drip from the makeshift bandage that lay on her forehead. Igor sighed and leaned against the wall as he waited.

  “Oh, there you are,” Hans' slightly nasal voice announced. “Don’t just stand there, come on in,” he bossed as he unlocked the door.

  The large groundskeeper plodded into the dusty infirmary with the unconscious woman and placed her on the dust coated leather examining table.

  “Oh, I do hope that the supplies are still good. If not she’ll probably have a nasty festering wound on her head in no time,” the butler said with a droll mutter as he puttered around searching for antiseptic and suture materials. “Ah, here we go. A little bit of iodine,” he announced as he held the brown bottle to his red eye, “and some catgut sutures,” he finished as he pulled out somewhat yellowed packets of ancient suture material that had been pre-threaded in the factory.