by Ayer, T. G.
Warm. Enticing.
Rapid.
Neither one of us moved and yet the distance disappeared and Aidan's lips grazed mine. As light as air, a whisper, sending me into a whirlpool of heated emotions. My breath vanished from my lungs, head hot and skin fiery. All this heat was undoubtedly dangerous.
His body pressed close against mine as he deepened the kiss. My traitorous knees were hot jelly and my head molten.
Skin sizzled.
More.
And then a girl's shrill laugh filtered through the low canopy from up the street. The noise, and the reminder that we were in a public place, jolted us out of our interlude. Heat dissipated as we drew apart, dazed and intoxicated with the heat and so many other things I didn't dare admit. Back on earth, I breathed again. What the hell was going on? My hands quivered and I tightened them around the canvas of my bag strap.
Aidan stared at my face.
Dazed. Confused.
Slightly angry.
Angry? Was he angry with me? Well then, why not? I wasn't the most desirable company. It didn't take a genius to figure out if we'd been caught, it would have ruined his little date on Saturday night.
I bit back the tears and turned, striding away fast. To get away. But I slowed my pace so no one watching would get curious. Too many rumors followed me around already.
I left him standing half-hidden beneath the tree and walked off without a backward glance.
***
I slammed the door to my room, dropping my bag on the floor. Faint wisps of the heat and the tingling in my body remained. But my anger hadn't dissipated. No surprise. Aidan was just another social-climbing kid. Too bad he'd lost control and made out with the school leper. I vowed never to entertain a repeat performance. But my traitorous body relived the encounter and a wave of bristling heat swam through me, mind and body.
A knock sounded against the wood panel of my door.
I froze.
I ached to rush to the door and flick the lock. Longed to dive out the window. Anything to avoid looking into Aidan's angry, embarrassed eyes.
Shadows moved at the base of the door. I remained still.
Another soft rap. "Bryn?" he whispered.
A minute went by and the shadows beneath the door hesitated, then disappeared, footsteps retreating down the hall.
I sighed, relieved.
And angry.
Angry he hadn't made more of an effort. How ridiculous. His interests lay elsewhere. Why would he waste any effort on me? Even if we were fostered in the same home, it meant nothing. No obligation, no loyalty.
I shuddered and sank onto the bed, squashing its precisely folded corners. The exhausted muscles in my legs alternated between solid and jelly. My heart hurt from the pounding and my head ached from the constant battle within the confines of my skull.
I hid in my room through dinner. Thankfully, my lack of appetite meant missing dinner was no issue. Anyone else and Ms. Custer would have screamed blue murder until they got their butts to the dinner table. But she already knew my eating patterns were off. I lay on my bed watching the sky go from pale blue, tinged with orange and reds, to inky midnight blue. At last, when it turned black as pitch, I closed my eyes.
And dreamed of fire and wings.
Chapter 7
A crazy haze of strange faces, bronze armor and angry glinting swords muddled my dreams. It didn't make much sense to dream of battles on muddy fields or blood-drenched, dying men. I woke with the pungent copper of fresh blood bathing my nostrils, permeating my lungs.
Such dreams were slow to fade. Despite my desperate morning shower, the odor of blood lingered around me for most of the day. The amber talisman provided weak warmth and bitter comfort.
That day and the next and the next crawled by and I remained as far from Aidan as possible. Leaving home early and arriving late, hiding out in a dark, musty corner of the town library, I pretended to study but all the while I seethed. The weekend drew closer, taunting me, and I seethed some more. What the hell was wrong with me? Aidan had no obligation to me; he was entitled to do his own thing.
But a twinge of guilt still picked at my conscience from time to time. I'd been way out of line, jumping down his throat. I hated his brand of instant popularity, but I'd been unreasonable to hold him responsible for dumb luck. He'd drawn the looks card and the luck card, and neither were his fault. I watched him arrive home late every afternoon, no doubt held back by an eyelash-batting, short-skirt-wearing airhead.
I could hardly blame him for my problems. My own personal bad luck magnet or good luck deflector was in perfect working order. Staying away from him was my safest bet. Besides, people died when they got too close to Bryn Halbrook.
Friday night arrived in all its lonely splendor, and I had the veranda, the swing and the pink rose bush to myself. I read by the fading daylight until the words ran off the pages into the darkness. When Aidan arrived home, I had nowhere to run. Or hide. I just sat there hoping he would head into the house and leave me to the night's silence.
Aidan parked and tipped off his helmet, staring at me through the rose bushes that walled in the porch, protecting it from the open street. He hesitated, then strode toward me, in that special Aidan way of walking, and set the swing in motion with his weight. I gritted my teeth. His thigh seeped heat and discomfort into mine and suddenly the swing, usually large enough for Brody and Simon and me to sit together and swing and sing kiddies' songs, was way too small.
No place to go. Nowhere to wriggle to. I forced my muscles to still themselves, held my breath and waited.
"Hey, stranger." He smiled, tossing his gleaming helmet from hand to hand.
"Hey." I kept my eyes on the roses.
"You got anything on this weekend?"
"Nope. No date in case that's what you're asking." The pathetic words slipped out before I could stop them. What was it about Aidan that forced me to lash out at him?
"Okay then. See you around, if you’re around." He moved and his leg shifted against mine and my heart tripped over itself to get the next beat out. In the darkness, I stared at him as he entered the house, tipping me a silent salute. Why was it the one guy who reduced me to a marshmallow mush turned out to be a hotfrickin' biker boy? Thank the stars he hadn't pitched up at school with the bike yet. The whole package was way too much of a crowd pleaser.
I waited half an hour and stole into the house. Friday night was Bingo night at Ms. Custer's friend Molly Barlow's. Brody and Simon were stuck to the Xbox in the family room and Izzy was most likely stuck in her room, her dark head bent over a book.
I sighed. An old movie may be the order of the day.
I passed the dining room with its light blazing, and went to switch it off when I noticed Mr. Popularity, head propped on his hand, eyes pasted to a book, studying hard out. He looked up and my heart tilted. He wore a pair of glasses that should have made him look nerdy but instead just made him all the more sexy.
I growled in silence, threw him a polite smile and forced myself to go in calm silence to my room despite the desperate need to stamp up the stairs and slam my door.
The hours ticked by and I didn't dare sleep, fearful of my dreams. Near midnight and Ms. Custer's low snores traveled down the passage to my room, despite the closed door. She indulged once a week at her Bingo session. I had no idea what she drank, but knowing my foster mom it would not have been much. She took her responsibility seriously and tried to ensure she set a good example. Coming home punch drunk would not be a good example.
I crept downstairs to the kitchen, hoping I wouldn't run into Aidan. It was pizza night for the kids, unless you were going out. But since I had zero interest in food, the menu had no effect on me. I longed for a soda or whatever sat in the fridge that fizzed.
I fished out a lone soda can, leaned against the sink, popped the tab and swallowed. The bubbles soothed me. I had no desire for water either, but it must have been a psychological thing 'cause I craved the sensation of the bubbles as
they coursed down my throat into my stomach.
I sighed. And almost choked when I looked straight into Aidan's eyes as I brought the can down. Damn near jumped out of my skin.
"Crap!" I shrieked then coughed, thankful that none of the fizzy bubbles went down the wrong way. Nothing like choking to death to impress a guy. Not that I was planning to impress anyone anyway.
"Sorry." His bright toothy grin didn't look very sorry at all.
"Shouldn't you be out on the town or something? As opposed to scaring the crap out of me?"
"Nope, got work to do."
"Can't be more than what I have. We're in the same classes, after all."
"I have a part-time research job and I have some collating and writing up to do. Takes tons of time. Sorry if I scared you." He leaned past me to place a mug in the sink. Way too close for comfort.
And he stayed there.
And I wouldn't have had it any other way.
***
Silence settled into the kitchen, and only the soft susurration of our breathing and the chugs and clanks of the ancient refrigerator dared to disturb it. Aidan closed what little distance remained between our bodies and placed a hand on either side of me, closing me in but not touching me. Somehow, I don't recall how, air evaporated from my lungs, and we were less than a hair's breadth apart. I wanted more and feared more and desperately ached to get away.
My eyes shifted from his mesmerizing gaze, heat filling my face. I tried to leave the haven of his arms. But he wouldn't allow me to escape. My move to leave bared my neck and he took the opportunity to place his lips at the base of my throat just above the collarbone.
Was it even possible to sigh and moan at the same time? Sure it was; I'd just done that! He ran his warm, soft lips up to my chin and further up to meet my mouth in a heated, heady frenzy. My fingers entwined within his hair, pulling him closer just as his arms encircled me.
This was crazy.
And ridiculous.
And wonderful all at the same time.
Even the knowledge that the guy had a date the next night could not dampen my hunger for more of him.
A low buzzing disturbed us, pulling at the threads of craziness, tugging us back into the real world where death and cheerleaders reigned. Aidan tugged his phone out of his pocket and scanned the message. His jaw hardened and he switched the screen off and tucked it back.
"I've got to run." He planted a quick kiss on my temple and walked to the door. "Oh, and eat something will you? I haven't seen you take a bite all week. It's possible to die without food, you know."
As he left I didn't return his parting grin. I'd seen the message before he so quickly thrust his phone back in his pocket, and I bloody well knew the sender: Cherise. I was numb, head to toe and heart in the middle. The heat in my body gave way to icy needles, which pierced my muscles one stab at a time. In my mind's eye, the backlit text message gleamed: I need to see you now. It's urgent. I'll be waiting.
This time the heat filling my head remained as far from romantic as icebergs were from pots of jasmine tea. My chest simmered, a fusion of hurt and anger and self-disgust. How could I have possibly assumed Aidan was interested in me? The freak of North Wood High. No doubt he'd been filled in on all the gory details. We'd hardly spent much time together this week anyway. Besides, one little text from Cherise and he took off running. Straight into her willing, waiting arms.
Aidan was a player, like most boys.
My fingers gripped the sink edge. I tried to shut out the grumble of his engine as it disappeared down the street.
Stupid.
How could I have been so stupid? Did I lean on him too much because I still hurt from losing Joshua? Or because my heart had twisted itself up in a stupid knot just for him? He may have been a foster kid but he certainly was no different from the rest of the guys in Craven.
I picked up the discarded can of soda, staying my need to fling it across the room. Sure, it would make me feel better, but it would wake Ms. Custer. And the last thing I needed now was company. My heart was breaking and thankfully nobody could hear it crack into a million pathetic pieces.
Moving automatically, I washed the mug he'd left in the sink and placed it on the rack to dry. Switching the light off, I left the kitchen and walked through the dining room to the hall. My fingers reached for the switch to flick the light off when Aidan's pile of books caught my eye.
Stacked neatly at the end of the table, they were old and thick and serious-looking. I inched forward. Breaching his precious privacy was the least of my worries. My heart chilled each time a picture of Cherise and Aidan flashed into my head. She always got what she wanted anyway. How could I change that?
I peered over the stack of books. All the spines followed a common theme. Norse Mythology. Norse Archeology. Thunderbolt of Thor. The Myth of the Valkyrie.
One thick volume lay open, dotted with little Post-it notes, heavily underlined and highlighted. An unusual script leapt off the pages. Incredible. And illegible. Unlike anything I'd ever laid eyes on and yet . . . an air of the familiar permeated the letters on the aged paper. I couldn't read the ancient scribble. It was as familiar to me as a bunch of Egyptian hieroglyphs, but a sense of déjà vu lingered.
I flicked the page, mesmerized by the script, fascinated by the subject. No discovery of the ancient writings of the Norse had captured the imagination of the world yet. Not to my knowledge. But then we learned only the basics of their mythology in school.
Caught within a web of curiosity and fascination I sank into the chair and turned the pages, finding more intricate ancient writings, while in the margins hastily handwritten notes were clear, legible and recent.
I gasped in silence. Aidan was in the midst of translating the writing. Granted, it could have been the work of another brilliant researcher, but he'd just so recently been bent over these very books night after night. Homework perhaps? I shook my head. Nope, this was clearly more than just a class assignment. Must be for that job he'd mentioned. A writing pad sat beside the thick book, random scribblings filling every available space. This definitely counted as serious enough to keep him home the first Friday night of his stay in Craven.
I gritted my teeth. Sure, his commitment was obvious, but dedication to one's work did not guarantee spotless morals and integrity. I studied the letters, more to get my mind off Aidan, and as soon as I began, I forgot him, entranced by the strange letters.
The translations he'd made were easy to follow and soon I strung a few words into sentences. They were just a jumble, requiring further study to guarantee the closest possible translation, but my skin tingled, as if I could sense the real meaning thrumming between the lines, just waiting for me. As if I stood at a sea shore with my toes dipping into the warm waves as they flowed up the wet sand.
A car door slammed somewhere down the street and a bucket of cold reality washed over me. Aidan could return at any moment. The grumbling bike would announce him, but I could be caught. Such was the fortune of Bryn Halbrook.
Still, I turned another page and delved deeper into the translations, holding my breath as page after beautiful page told some misty story of a time long past. Excitement and nerves bubbled within me for Aidan. How amazing would it be to have this accolade?
Another page turned and a painting sprang at me: a Valkyrie, elegant in an ankle-length white dress, draped with chainmail, a deep red cloak, a bronze helmet. At the top right corner, a small etching revealed a much more basic drawing of this creature of myth.
A Valkyrie. The beautiful maiden who rides to Midgard to collect the bodies of Warriors fit to serve in Valhalla, brave and courageous Warriors who would fight for Odin in the Great War of Ragnarok.
The artist had retained only a small part of the Valkyrie's personality though, making more of her voluptuous body than her classical features. A few more pages showed a similar theme. Ancient drawings on which the old painters had modeled their renditions. Painters who'd lived and died at least five hundred yea
rs ago.
The next page sent me into shock.
I gasped, all the breath leaving my lungs in one incredible, horrified whoosh. The picture, painted in the style of Da Vinci, all soft hues and natural touches, held my gaze.
The woman stood, spine erect, chin up, a sword extending from her hand as if it were a part of her own body. Flanked by a horse whose white pelt glowed pearlescent. Behind her, a pair of beautiful red-bronze wings rose majestically above her shoulders. The curve of the wings provided a natural frame for a face that stilled the blood in my veins.
Post-its in various colors tagged the yellowed paper; hundreds of notes framed the margins and a name written in red and circled so deeply a small rip ran among the repeated lines of ink.
Brunhilde.
And even if it were not for the coincidence of the name, my ears would have still thrummed with the thunderous beat of my heart as I stared at the painting.
If I didn't know any better I would have sworn it was me.
Chapter 8
Aidan didn't come back until the early hours of the morning. So I indulged my curiosity. I snuck back down again to get a second look, wishing I could make a copy of the picture. The best I could do was take a picture with my phone and scurry back to bed in relief.
I fell asleep looking at the screen of my phone and wondering at the mystery of it all.
On my way out of the room the next morning, my reflection stopped me in mid-stride. I leaned close, studying the contours of my face in the mirror. I turned on all the lights to be sure. Traced the lines of my nose and chin. The resemblance was eerie and scary.
I tried not to focus on the face of the Valkyrie, but that meant my mind circled on my Aidan problem.
For days I kept my silence, showing up late for breakfast each morning and sneaking away to my room whenever possible. On one such sneaking, Aidan's and Ms. Custer 's evening conversation filtered through the closed kitchen door and stopped me in my tracks. I could hear almost every word.
