by Ayer, T. G.
"Nice girls don't take walks in the park alone, do they, freak?" asked Pete, a predatory glint in his eye. "Hey boys, the freak's not a nice girl. What say we have a little fun with her?"
Laughter rang out, cruel laughter, dangerous laughter. My heart thudded in my chest as fear flooded my veins; my muscles threatened to tighten up on me.
The blow came out of nowhere; granite knuckles slammed into my cheek, bone glancing off bone in the breath of a moment. Distracted by Snickers, I'd missed when Pete closed the distance enough to land the punch. I hit dirt, too shocked to do much else besides throw my hands out to soften my landing. I moaned; lightning streaks of pain forked through my arms and side.
The encounter with the ground also jarred my cheek. My eyes watered and for a few seconds Pete was a smudgy yellow and red blur. I blinked rapidly to clear them of the watery haze, to clear my head of the fury. Anger wouldn't help me at all. Consciousness, awareness were my tools.
I struggled to rise but Pete landed a kick to my gut that crushed the breath out of my lungs. Had I eaten lunch like a normal person, the meal would have been spewed across the leaves by now. My breath rasped and twisted, anticipating smashed ribs, or diabolical internal pain. But the mild ache of Pete's sucker punch was all that remained.
I was aware of Pete's teeth, impossibly white; he could have been in a toothpaste commercial.
Laughter echoed around me. These were regular guys who would someday have families and respectable jobs. Yet they assaulted innocent girls. Beat them up like they were sacks of grain. From their confidence, this wasn't their first attack. Were they seasoned bullies who beat their victims to a pulp? Or seasoned rapists?
Officially livid, I forgot about Aidan's betrayal and my father's secrets and concentrated on my fury, figuring I'd use it rather than try to squelch it. I boosted myself off the path again, this time standing firm, planting my feet into the ground, solid as the rooted trunks of the river birches leaning in overhead. My amulet bounced, smacking my collarbone with a spiking blast of pain.
This was sure as hell the best time ever for my namesake to lend me some of her prowess.
Pete led his team, rushing at me, filled with confidence that the freak would fall again. He raised a muscle-bound arm and swung it at my jaw. The blow never landed.
At the last second, I rammed my fist into his abdomen, knocking the air out of him, hoping I damaged his precious six-pack. Pete fell flat onto his back. Breath left his lungs in a whoosh and he seemed oblivious to the snickering from his buddies. The stunned colors of surprise mottled his face, steadily reddening with violent, visceral anger.
Pete, the linebacker, had just been trounced by a girl.
He growled as he rose and although I was tempted to punch him out in mid-rise it was risky. His buddies, though amused at their leader's predicament, weren't regarding me with approval either. The odds were still against me.
I'd just obliterated my luck by making Pete look like a chump. But surely somewhere within his pounding anger and hot desire for vengeance lay a little niggle of doubt. The tiniest question of whether he'd kicked a rattler in its head.
On his feet again, he hitched up his trousers and circled me. I shifted my feet, whipped my head, eyes darting from left to right and back again. Fear seared my blood every time I had to turn my back to one of the boys. Pete lunged and I scrambled back, straight into Chuckie's arms. He held me down so Pete the hero could punch a girl. What a guy.
Pete landed a solid punch in my belly.
I bent over, feigning breathlessness, allowing him to get closer. Within my reach.
Then I kicked.
The vicious smile on his face turned into a dark twist of purest agony. I may have destroyed his ability to father children, and to pee.
I had absolutely no qualms with that. If it meant reducing the chance of Pete attempting to rape some other innocent girl, I was happy with that.
Around me, Chuckie's arms loosened. Pete writhed on the ground, weeping like a girl. I turned and punched Chuckie straight in the gut. This time I did hear an ominous snap. He crumpled to the ground, mewling in pain, joining Pete. Two down, one to go.
Snickers stared at his friends. Incredulity flushed his face, which was still creased with nervous concern. I shared his disbelief, stunned that I'd wiped the floor with them. I should have been exhausted from the beatings, from fighting back. Instead, adrenalin pulsed through me. Liquid lightning returned energy to my trembling limbs.
If only I could have used one of those fabulous roundhouse kicks to floor him. Instead, I bided my time, waiting for him to get closer. I dodged the first blow and punched him in the face. My knuckles came away stained with blood and chocolate.
He held his face, staring in confused surprise. Then turned and fled.
Violent spasms pulsed through my hands, forcing me to squeeze them together to ease the shaking. I surveyed the scene, then glanced at Snickers' fast disappearing back. Time to get outta here, Bryn. I jumped over Pete as he sprawled on the ground, hands cupping his crotch as if the action would somehow soothe his savage agony.
"Next time, take a second before you decide to pick on innocent girls. These days you never know which one of your victims will turn around and beat you to a pulp," I said. "Oh, and I won't tell anyone you and your friends got beat up by a girl. I won't tell if you don't. Okay, Pete?"
I waited, then prodded his thigh with my sneaker.
He yelped, though I'd barely touched him. "Yes, yes! I won't tell anyone, okay!"
Then I turned and ran as if the hounds of hell were breathing down my neck. Somewhere behind me, a single word squawked like a half-strangled bird from the darkness of the trees.
"Bitch!"
Ah well. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion.
From this day forward, I'd need eyes in the back of my head. They might keep silent in school but they'd soon want payback. Pete would want vengeance for himself and for his manhood.
***
Safe in my room again, I seized the thick volume; the need to erase Pete's assault possessed me with demonic force. I attacked the translations, scribbling word after word, filling pages with the ancient script.
A motorcycle roared along the street and jerked me out of my frenetic trance. I tensed, listening, wondering if it would turn into our drive. I relaxed only when it passed the house and rumbled into the distance. From the dark sky outside the window it was clear that the whole evening had gone by.
I turned to the painting of the Valkyrie Brunhilde, searching for something to translate. The first paragraph told the myth of how Valkyries appeared as swans and how the men who loved them hid their swan-skins to keep them in their human form. Strange story. I smiled, having never felt in the least bit swan-like.
The second paragraph had the hairs on my head standing to attention. The script mentioned the Glow of Courage, sometimes call the Glow of Bravery: the golden aura that identifies a Warrior to a Valkyrie.
My heart thumped a wild tattoo. So that was why Aidan hadn't been surprised when I mentioned the glow! Why couldn't he have just told me about it and put me out of my misery? Granted, knowing I was a Valkyrie probably wouldn't have solved my problems, but at least I would have had something to identify with.
I sighed and studied the book again, hoping to find clues left behind by my father or Aidan or the other mysterious note-maker. Everywhere I hit dead ends. The crumbling article, now safe in its plastic sleeve, would have helped had the newspaper not shut down eight years ago. The leather-bound volume contained no markings to confirm its origins or its author. The internet had no mysterious volumes of books, lost, discovered or missing.
I rubbed dry eyes, prodded my sore neck, scraped my fingers through my hair and repeated those actions all through the night. Before long, I was familiar with every website containing information on Valkyries.
So far, I had avoided the inevitable. A strange reluctance held me back from typing in my father's name. It felt blasphemou
s, as if the very act was an acceptance of his guilt. As if Aidan and the mystery accuser were justified in their belief.
I gritted my teeth. I knew nothing would come of it, but I had to try. I typed.
The screen filled with multiple links. Geoffrey Halbrook was a prizewinning angler from Maine, an excited winner of a Dolly Parton lookalike contest, a birdwatcher from the Bayou whose latest book featured a CD filled with bird-call imitations in crystal clarity, and an old wheelchair-bound jazz musician with a toothless grin, ice-white hair and sooty skin.
I tapped in the word geneticist, and waited.
Bingo.
The screen filled again with newspaper articles and other sites directing to articles in medical and genetic science journals. I pulled up the medical sites and found that most required registration before providing access. For those that asked for annual fees paid by credit card or PayPal I drew a resounding blank.
Working the sites I managed to access, I trolled through article after article written by eminent genetic scientist and researcher Dr. Geoffrey Halbrook. He sounded like a smart guy. Granted, I couldn't understand half the medical-speak though I did manage to get the gist of most of them.
My eyes complained that it was late; the clock agreed, blinking 3:23 a.m. I promised myself just one more article before I crashed. The last one was co-written and I blearily brought it up, yawning widely through cupped fingers.
I choked and spluttered on the second yawn.
The article proclaimed a collaboration between Dr. Geoffrey Halbrook and Dr. Stephen Lee.
***
Blood thrummed through my eardrums, drowning out the world.
Stephen Lee.
Aidan Lee.
As assumptions went it was a short, easy leap. Was Aidan related to this geneticist? A colleague of my father? From the contents of the book it seemed they were far more than just colleagues.
They were rivals.
I read every page again in case I'd missed something. Dr. Lee disapproved of my father's experiments and research, and his alleged use of DNA belonging to an ancient skeleton. For good reason, given my uncanny resemblance to the Valkyrie Brunhilde, the glow of soon-to-be-dead people and my unusual strength of late. Dr. Lee's suspicions may not have been far off the mark.
The only thing was I didn't want any of it to be true—especially the part where Aidan was probably the son of my father's rival, sent here to investigate me and estimate whether I needed "termination."
I hurt, deeper than I'd ever experienced grief or pain before. In this huge game, I was a pawn.
Manipulated. Used. Dispensable.
In black despair, I shut the computer down, no longer able to keep my eyes open, but sleep didn't come. I lay in the bed in darkness, eyes shut but body and mind on overdrive. Aidan's betrayal and desertion cut deep.
I quaked with anger at him. Our entire "relationship" was one multifaceted sham. To think I'd allowed him to get so close, closer than I'd ever allowed anyone else to get. The only reason I would ever want to see him again would be to tell him exactly how despicable I thought he was.
I rolled over and curled the blanket tight around me. Bigger issues brewed here than the minuscule problem of my shattered heart. Finding out the truth about who and what I was loomed at the top of my list of things to do. Well before piecing my heart back together.
But what could I do? Where did I start? I didn't have friends to turn to and I didn't want to burden Ms. Custer with problems that were never hers to begin with.
I fell asleep when the dark night sky bled into a dusky grey, only for my sleep to be riddled with dreams of Aidan surrounded by a golden glow that predicted his death.
Chapter 13
Days stretched into weeks, and the end of November blew in on a frigid wind. I took to using Izzy's bike to get to school, preferring to get there and back with as much speed as possible.
Hiding from Pete and his henchmen had taken a toll on me. I was grateful that Ms Custer had taken my revelation so well. I'd begged her not to go to the police, and watched as she laughed when I told her how I'd trounced my attackers. I prayed the day would come when those thugs forgot the pain I'd put them through. But I was in for a long wait. Pride healed slower than wounds. In the meantime I chose the safest, quickest route home.
When school let out for Thanksgiving break I sped home, weaving through the smaller back streets and skidding to a stop at our back door. I hoped to escape upstairs unseen, choosing to sneak into the house through the back way. Food was still a sore topic with poor Ms. Custer, a subject I avoided like a vampire did garlic. I didn't want to be responsible for hurting her.
I waited a few seconds in the kitchen, listening. The coast was clear. But just as the door to the dining room shifted beneath my fingers, ready to swing open, the sound of Ms. Custer's voice skittered down the hall. The nervous tremor and icy disdain in her words broadcast an unmistakable warning. Ms. Custer didn't have the constitution to be nervous. Something was wrong.
"I told you twice already, she ran away," she said, her voice edgy, as if hovering between frustration and tears.
"Why would she run away?" said a deeper voice, more authoritative, more official. "Is there something about your care that made her unhappy?"
I didn't appreciate the insinuation. Seemed he was going for intimidation. I didn't plan on allowing it. I gritted my teeth and took a step forward.
"My Bryn had her poor heart broken." An uncharacteristic chill in Ms. Custer's voice stopped me from barging right into the living room. She spoke with a harshness and an undertone of accusation, as if she had aimed the statement at another person in the room. "Then, to make matters worse, she was attacked by a group of boys from the school."
A third person spoke. "What? What happened? Is she okay?" The familiar voice rang in my ears. An unwelcome dizziness accosted my head. My hip nudged the pine table in the middle of the kitchen as I backed into it.
The last voice I thought I'd ever hear again.
Aidan.
Ms. Custer answered him curtly. "Young man, that's simply none of your business." The heat of pure anger blazed in my foster mom's voice and I gave a silent cheer for her. Not only because she was backing me up, but because she had the guts to tell Aidan off in front of those threatening, official-sounding people.
The first man spoke again. "Miss Custer, I would appreciate it if you could answer Mr. Lee's question. This is an official investigation, and if Miss Halbrook is in any danger or has been injured in any way it would be best for us to know the extent of her injuries."
"She's fine. She kicked their butts and sent them packing."
"Sounds like Bryn." I stiffened as Aidan's voice echoed again, only this time a trail of rage ripped at my gut.
How dare you sound pleased or proud of me? How dare you come back here looking for me, and bringing your government goon, too?
"I've answered enough of your questions. What more do you want from me, then?" asked Ms. Custer. Behind the impatience in her voice lay an inch of steel. "You've already turned my place upside down for that book when it simply isn't here. You've seen for yourselves Bryn isn't here. So why are you still here?"
"Because I simply do not believe you. You see, I think you will cover for her given the chance. I think you could very well be lying to us. You say she ran. Why does her room not look like she's taken off for a long time, or for good? All her stuff is still there, isn't it?"
"Oh, so when you decide to run away, I take it you stop to pack your hairdryer and your high heel pumps. No, Mr. Worthington. Bryn ran because her heart was broken. She ran because she was hurt and alone and probably in shock too. I'm sorry she wasn't here for you to arrest her for stealing a book, which I'm sure she wouldn't have taken in the first place." Bitterness laced her words, along with a hefty dose of anger. "If you're done I need my tea. You've wasted enough of my time."
Panic flitted through me. I couldn't run out the back door. It would close too loudly and then
Ms. Custer would be in tons of trouble. Slipping into the broom closet at the far end of the kitchen, I pulled the door, leaving it slightly ajar. I couldn’t risk the click of the latch giving me away. Already they were filing into the kitchen after her, as if Ms. Custer meant to abscond with the teabags.
She gave my hiding place a quick stare, then went straight to the kettle and filled it at the sink. With the kettle starting its boil, she pulled out a cup and a little plate and prepared her tea.
"Please excuse me if I don't offer you my hospitality, Mr. Worthington." She threw him a tepid smile.
He smiled back, baring his teeth. He seemed unfamiliar with the human act of smiling. Tall, stocky, FBI issue. Aidan stood on the other side of the kitchen table, facing the broom closet head on. Damn.
Ms. Custer fished a teabag out of the plastic container and discreetly dug her fingernail into it as she dropped it into her cup. In a blink the surface of the table was strewn with fine tea leaves.
"Now see what you made me do!" she cried.
Worthington smirked, unaffected. Aidan frowned, his gaze flicking to Ms. Custer's harried face.
She stalked to the broom closet, bent in and grabbed the little dust pan and brush. She shut the door firmly. Darkness wove bands of shadows around me, blinding me. I listened as my foster mom's hand scraped spilled leaves into the dustpan. The pedal bin clanged as she tipped the contents of the pan into it.
Footsteps drew closer and I pressed myself against the wall, hugging my bag tight against me. Inside the bag, the very book these louts were after poked me in the ribs. The door opened and Ms. Custer returned the dustpan to its place, never once glancing in my direction.
When she shut the door again, the darkness of the closet wasn't as bad. My eyes adjusted slowly. I strained my ears, catching the running of water as she washed her hands, the tinkling of the spoon against the cup as she mixed her tea. I knew she would head out to the living room to enjoy her cup. Surely Worthington and Aidan would follow. I reached for the doorknob. Then Aidan spoke. My hand tightened on the knob, strained until my knuckles shone white even inside the shadowed closet.
