Dead Radiance

by Ayer, T. G.

The last of the credits and the onset of Ms. Custer's soft snores gave me a reason to slip upstairs. The stairs creaked in the eerie, middle-of-the-night way they always do when the house settles and warmth creeps out of the wood. I passed my room and stood in Aidan's doorway. He'd left, despite knowing how much I needed him, and that nobody else could help me. I dared not risk my secret with anyone.

  I was completely alone.

  I blinked as my eyes stung. I just wanted to go back to my room and close the door on Aidan and his chapter in my life. But as I turned to leave, the light from the bare window caught and reflected on an object beneath the bed. I froze, ears straining for Ms. Custer's footsteps.

  Releasing my breath, I tiptoed into the room. I crouched, reaching splayed fingers between the wall and the bed, and retrieved a thick, leather-bound book. It shifted in my hand, fragile and ready to fall apart if I so much as breathed on it.

  Holding it with infinite care I traced the edge of the cover, lifting it slowly, unable to curb my curiosity. The floorboard on the second stair creaked and I snuck back into my room in a flash. Ms. Custer had enough to worry about. I'd only be adding to her worries if she thought I wasn't handling Aidan's departure well, if she found me moping in his empty room.

  I eased the door closed with seconds to spare. Ms. Custer paused outside, her shadow slipping in across the floorboards. Then she sighed softly and plodded to her room. Tears singed my eyes and I rested my forehead on the door, among the multitude of hanging scarves. How long I'd waited to have a mother care for me that way. Little things like these, when people cared enough to share your pain—these were moments to treasure. In our grief for Brody, in our communal, familial pain, we helped each other heal. But my ache for Aidan was my own pain, borne alone, and it would remain alone.

  I sank onto the bed and flicked the lamp on. The book and its intricately carved leather binding weaved its spell around me. I opened it, allowing the book to fall open naturally to a well-used page. To the painting of the Valkyrie called Brunhilde. This time more notes filled the margins, and one particular newly printed phrase jumped out, boldly written and circled again in red ink.

  Brunhilde - Bright Warrior = Bryn.

  Chapter 11

  My hands quivered. Shock, anger and disbelief warred within my head. The sounds of clanging metal reverberated in my ears and I attributed it to the depth of my fury.

  Crap! What had possessed Aidan to attach my name to the stunning Valkyrie? They were figures of myth for heaven's sake. Beautiful, strong women, but just figments of the imagination of an ancient race. Nobody believed such stories were true anymore.

  I breathed deep, counted to ten and hoped it would help to reduce the rapid beat of my heart to a steadier pace. I needed facts to help ease the turmoil in my head. Neither Bryn nor Brynhildr were common names. I had a crazy father who might have loved the long-dead legend. Who knew why he chose the name?

  I shook my head. Aidan was blowing the coincidence way out of proportion. I ran my finger along the sharp edge of the aged paper, traced the circular grooves Aidan's red pen had carved into the thick paper. The Valkyrie's face drew my gaze, a painted magnetic force, entrancing me.

  Uncanny.

  Shivers trailed down my spine. The majestic warrior maiden stood confident, bronze chainmail gleaming, her strong chin tilted upward as if in defiance of . . . who? Her god or her father?

  She resembled me to the finest detail, even the way my ears curved, and the proportion of my eyes. My twin stared back at me from a painting dating more than five centuries ago. More than uncanny. Downright creepy.

  What did Aidan know? And why was he studying this book at all? What kind of cosmic coincidence caused a boy researching Valkyries to pitch up on my doorstep with a painting of a Valkyrie bearing not only my name but my face?

  ***

  Sleep eluded me. The book, hidden beneath rumpled clothing in my dresser, whispered. Taunted. So I got up and read until sunrise, despite the niggling feeling that I was privy to priceless information, the feeling that I shouldn't turn another page, that I wasn't meant to have the book at all. All that, overshadowed by that face.

  That eerily familiar face.

  The temptation to cut school teased at the edges of my conscience, but sanity prevailed. We were all Ms. Custer's kids and my actions would hurt her reputation within the town. Vice Principal Warren waited with vicious eagerness for my first wrong move and I refused to give him the satisfaction.

  I hid the book deep within my closet and trudged off to school.

  Each minute of the day crawled by, a caravan of tortoise-seconds. The red second-hand on the wall clocks ticked closer and closer to three. As home time drew closer, the snide comments and knowing looks of the other students no longer penetrated my conscious thought.

  At last I escaped, racing home, my mind already rifling through the enticing pages of Aidan's book. I dashed into my room and locked myself in, spending the next few hours poring over the book in much the same way as Aidan had. I read until my head drooped and my eyelids grew too heavy to keep them open a minute longer.

  Although I'd slept in small, uncomfortable fits, judging from my strange and fantastic dreams I'd had a fair bit of shuteye. In my dreams the pages swirled to dust as I turned them, and the book glowed like the light of the iridescent living dead. The book burst into flames while the painted Bryn cackled at my despair.

  I heeded the message within the dreams. I took extra care with the fragile leather cover whose spine was so worn it threatened to fall apart each time I opened it. Now I understood why Aidan had chosen the expansive dining table for his work. My little study desk was not cooperating and I struggled to get comfortable. But I didn't take the book downstairs. Best not to advertise that I had Aidan's book in my possession.

  Many of the pages were written in the strange ancient writing Aidan had been translating. Widely spaced and in overlarge print, much of the beautiful, original writing had faded, ink stolen by the unscrupulous fingers of time. In contrast, sloppy handwritten notes desecrated a multitude of pages, made by bold and sometimes inconsiderate scholars. Brighter and more enduring writing covered the remainder of the pages. Saddened by the violation, I prayed it was just a copy.

  I massaged the stricken muscles at my neck and flipped toward the back of the book. A handful of papers shifted out of place. For one terrifying moment, I feared I'd pulled away a whole section from its binding. Then I sighed. A stack of letters, notes and other random things like newspaper articles and copies of photographs had come loose. Taking extra care, I picked through them.

  A gasp of surprise escaped my lips. I froze. The sound was way too loud. My eyes flicked to the locked door and I tensed, holding my breath as I waited. Minutes later I expelled a stale breath, at last certain that no one had heard me. I turned back to my discovery: a writing tablet filled with translations tucked in with the rest of the odd collection.

  The tablet gripped my attention and curiosity, promising unlimited help in learning the strange script. I'd never had the patience to learn languages, always scraping by with a C or D, but this language came so easily to me. The words held a magnetism not unlike the beautiful and mysterious face of the Valkyrie Brunhilde.

  The more I read, the more I understood the script. Before long, I found myself correcting Aidan's scribbled translations, uncovering the story of the Valkyries who served the All-Father Odin in Valhalla. I yawned and rubbed my eyes as the ancient words blended together in a blur. As much as I wished I could continue through the night, I had to get to bed. I barely got much sleep these days anyway and I had to admit I needed some rest.

  But the pile of papers still beckoned.

  Skimming through just one last time, I dislodged an old newspaper article, which fluttered to the table. I handled it with tender care, and when it crinkled and crackled, I ground to a halt, deathly afraid it would crumble into a pile of dust within my fingers. Searching through my desk drawer, I withdrew a plastic sleeve and
slid the article inside. Protected by the plastic, it was less fragile now, less chance that I would destroy it. I lifted it to the light and tried to read the fading type.

  Dated eighteen years previously, it stated:

  The historic town of Hovgårten, Sweden, was a hive of activity this week with what can only be described as the most incredible discovery in Norwegian and Swedish Archaeological history. On revealing its contents the graveside drew the attention of the international press as well as eminent archaeologists from around the world. Although initially suspected to be the remains of a "real" Valkyrie, it has been verified that the skeleton belonged to a warrior princess whose burial was befitting that of the ancient mythological Valkyries.

  Dr. Elisabeth Wayne, the overseeing archaeologist for the dig site was quoted as saying: "Although we are disappointed that the remains do not actually belong to a real Valkyrie, we are left with a beautiful specimen and with ancient relics which will enrich the Norwegian and Swedish Archaeological Society."

  When asked to confirm the origin of the wings which were also found within the burial site, Dr. Wayne stated that eminent genetic scientist Dr. Geoffrey Halbrook, on loan to NWAS for the duration of this dig, has confirmed the DNA tests have been unable to verify the exact avian species it belongs to. Dr. Wayne believes they most likely belong to some form of ancient and extinct condor.

  All items unearthed from the site will be sent to the British Museum for cataloging and preservation. Dr. Wayne and her team are preparing for a large public unveiling of the remains of the warrior princess once all necessary testing and cataloging has been completed.

  Blood thrummed in my ears and I forced myself to read the article again, this time slower, going over the words and the name over and over again in case I'd misunderstood it, or was hallucinating, or going crazy.

  At last, certain I'd read right, I sat back with a whole new set of questions.

  Because eminent genetic scientist Dr. Geoffrey Halbrook was my father.

  ***

  A sheaf of papers accompanied the article, fastened together with a rusted bulldog clip. The large-typed heading proclaimed the document as a "DNA Analysis Report." The pages were filled with scientific code and references, little of which I could understand except what was typed or written in plain English. These margins too were filled with writing. Notes made by three separate writers.

  The first set of notes said:

  Full DNA testing performed, partial match to human genetic code with minor anomalies. Possibility: Valkyrie DNA present. DNA is viable for further testing and ??

  A second stated:

  Genetic anomalies confirmed as Valkyrie—no match to any known registered DNA within the international database, across and within all living species. The request forms and receipt-logs confirm Halbrook requested additional samples to be provided.

  Question: What was Halbrook's intention for the use of the additional DNA?

  Then:

  Confirmation from database—Mrs. Irene Halbrook admitted for private IVF procedure. Attended by Dr Halbrook. Suspicious? Could Dr. Halbrook have used the DNA to create a clone or a mutated embryo and implanted it into his wife? Further information required:

  Mother's progress during pregnancy and birth, including all blood analysis.

  Infant's blood analysis.

  Find infant for further testing.

  The last set of writing belonged to Aidan.

  Halbrook killed in car accident. Not suspicious but unable to confirm. Daughter found through Social Services records. Remained in the United States under state care. Current foster—Custer, Town of Craven. Daughter's name = Brynhildr. Unusual? Risky for Halbrook. Signs of abnormality—none. Dementia—none, although records show regular psychiatric care provided from age 5.

  Then a break in the notes. And finally:

  Recommendation to terminate—Negative.

  ***

  My lungs struggled for air; my body for breath and sanity. I wound a scarf around my neck, grabbed a thick coat and fled down the stairs and outside into the fresh, biting air. I breathed and it hurt. Blinked and it stung. Tears singed my eyes as tepid liquid hit frigid cold air.

  My sneakers whacked the sidewalk. I moved, unsure, uncaring where my feet led me.

  A million agonizing thoughts haunted me. My head burned with treachery and betrayal and lies which had lain in my past, gathering the dust of my ignorance. I was a product of IVF? It didn't make sense. If my parents had gone to such an extent just to conceive a child, why would my mother have abandoned me so quickly? Just because I saw glowing people? I didn't think so. What mother would run from her child just because they were seeing a psychiatrist?

  Could Aidan have left the book as a warning? Had he known I'd search his room? Did it even matter right now? Nothing could make the lies easier to accept. Or make me hate him any less.

  The article swam before my eyes, though even the memory of it blurred behind the veil of tears. My father's involvement in archeology had been a surprise. Archeology unmistakably connected to the name of a certain warrior maiden turned Valkyrie.

  I might have appreciated the name more had I been aware of its origins. Aware of its true meaning. Ugh! Who was I kidding? I still disliked my name. Still wouldn't allow the general public to know it. It brought to mind images of plump women, horned helmets, and braids of bright red hair splayed across generous bosoms.

  No. I still hated my name.

  But my name was the least of my concerns right now. What had my father been up to, tampering with DNA from an ancient skeleton?

  The handwritten notes on the DNA reports, filled with vague facts and wild innuendo, raised questions. My father's notes aside, whoever had written before Aidan had fanned a fire of suspicion. Who was the person who viewed my father's activities with such mistrust?

  Aside from my father and the mysterious note-maker, it was Aidan's part in this whole fiasco which crawled deep into my heart and festered as I walked. Was his intention to come to Craven to befriend me? To find me and study me? If so, it meant he'd lied from day one with those sexy smiles and hot kisses. The hurt deepened as I recalled the startled expression in Aidan's eyes when he'd first kissed me. Why take our relationship to a personal level when I was no more than a genetic monstrosity?

  Anger blinded me. He'd had control of his emotions. He'd damn well known what he'd gotten into. I'd been the total fool, manipulated from the moment he arrived, who'd fallen for his quirky smile, his knee-melting charm and his cool biker-dude personality.

  But they were all lies. Beautiful, torturous lies.

  Who was Aidan Lee then? And why the hell would he expect to "terminate" me? I wasn't dangerous, for heaven's sake—not that I knew of anyway. Judging by my inability to help the people I knew were dying, I didn't seem much use to anyone either.

  I could have stewed all night, but the high-pitched keen of whistling broke into the depths of my thoughts. Up ahead, a bunch of jocks horsed around. One of them sneered at me and pointed, his shoulders stiff and straight. His friends turned their heads in my direction and stared. Just my luck to run into a bunch of North Wood jerks with far too much time on their hands after school. On the prowl for something to do and they'd found me.

  I recognized the park around me, where I'd sat on the swings watching the boys at play in happier days. Where I'd first seen Brody glow.

  The little green patch, dotted with kids' play equipment, nestled within a stand of russet black gums and river birches whose leaves had begun to carpet the ground at their trunks. The trees lined a paved pathway, little signboards announcing the names of each variety of tree.

  The pebbled pathway led to a small bubbling stream and was a popular walking spot. But on a grey afternoon at dusk the path was empty of laughter and barking and safety.

  The boys spread out and paced toward me, the gathering shadows hiding their eyes, hiding their intentions. A quick glance behind me confirmed I was alone with no one close, no one who could
help. Not even the failing light could hide the stark reality.

  I was surrounded.

  Chapter 12

  They circled, eyes gleaming, cruel. They didn't resemble boys. The feral expressions on their faces said it all: I was meat and they were hungry.

  I rocked on the balls of my feet, waiting, unsure what would happen if I ran. They were fast. Running track at school had blessed me with stamina, and I was strong too. But no match for these beefy linebackers who bulked up in the gym every day.

  Three to one. Those could have been good odds if I were a trained martial artist, but I was never much of a contact fighter. Too afraid I'd get hit, I'd close my eyes during sparring and get hit anyway every time.

  My luck pretty much sucked for the self-defense tricks we'd been taught too. No keys with which to jab at eyes. No heels to grind into insteps. No mace to spray.

  I retreated, a few steps at a time.

  By the time I'd figured out what they were up to it was too late. They'd forced me down the path into the shadowy cover of the trees.

  "All alone with no biker-boy to protect you? Big mistake," one of them snarled, his voice dripping revulsion.

  Pete. My memory came up empty for a surname. Who really cared, when jocks were jocks anyway?

  "Hey guys, how about some freak meat?" He grinned at his friends, short dreadlocks quivering like spitting vipers.

  The others grunted, a rabid pack of wolves, just following the leader. Man reduced to mere animal by his basest need: desire for dominance. Or perhaps it was just plain boredom, nothing deeper, from boys who always got their way because they were popular and sporty. Boys adored by all the girls at North Wood. All the girls besides the freak, that is.

  I turned my head and fear dug jagged nails into my gut. One of the boys, the red-headed, freckle-faced Chuckie, caught my eye. He smiled. Reassuring me, as if this were just a game, and they'd soon get bored and run off to clean up for dinner. Not likely.

  The third guy smashed the last bit of his Snickers bar into his mouth, flicking the paper into the trees. He wiped his mouth off, hands quivering, eyes searching the path, sweat dotting his forehead.