by Kate Pearce
“Bryn.” Ivar’s tone was scolding.
She sighed. “It’s all water under the bridge. Leave it alone.”
Because once upon a time, that fate would have sounded absolutely perfect to her. Erik, her, an eternity of togetherness, and their beautiful babies to hold in her arms. But that was a long time ago.
“Is it really water under the bridge? Somehow, I don’t think so. I think—” He cut himself off, and she heard him drum his fingers on the face of his ereader. “Look, I have no idea what it’s like to be handed the kind of destiny you have. I have no idea what it’s like to be a myth in my own time. Sure, people were justifiably terrified of me when I was leading my armies during invasions, because I was a damn good strategist, but…that’s not the same as what you and Erik have had thrust upon you. No one tried to box me into a fate I didn’t ask for.”
She’d bet he hadn’t asked to end up on four wheels instead of two legs, but she didn’t say that aloud. He’d clearly adapted to his disability long ago, which couldn’t have been easy. She took another bite of the apple, chewing it slowly.
When she made no response, he sighed. “You know, they say the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale is based on you. That has to be weird.”
“I’ve heard that.” She focused on the toe of her boot, bouncing her heel against the floor. “They also say the Arthurian legend is based on Erik. The once and future king.”
“And the treacherous, backstabbing wife. Though would that be you or Gudrun?”
“Gudrun.” Her grip tightened on the apple so hard, a chunk broke off and fell to the floor.
“She didn’t plot to kill him,” he mused. Ah, salt on the wound, how it burned.
Bile coated her tongue, and she tossed the remainder of her apple in the trashcan. “She and her mother Grimhild set the wheels in motion that led to his death. And mine.”
“Or we could blame it all on the ring and the treasure. They say Andvaranaut was cursed, and anyone who possessed it would suffer with strife and bad luck.”
“The ring was cursed, but Grimhild’s greed and her family’s scheming played a big-ass role in what happened. Curses can be broken, but you can’t fix evil.” She’d sacrificed her life to break that curse, though the myths rarely spoke of that, did they? Instead they painted her as a petty, vengeful woman scorned. Boohoo for her, right? She was hardly the only person to ever be unjustly vilified, so she didn’t complain, especially when she was somewhat less than innocent anyway. She scooped the fallen bit of fruit off the ground and tossed it too. Then she grabbed a sponge and wiped up the mess on the floor.
“My mother said you somehow broke Andvaranaut’s curse, and that she and Erik’s other daughter Svanhild were able to live their lives without that curse hanging over them because of you.”
That one sentence made something deep inside Bryn crack, and she wiped shaking hands down her thighs. “Who…who told her that?”
“Gudrun.” His chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “Something about your death affected her deeply, and she would never hear an unkind word said about you.”
The irony of that burned through her, since the woman had never had anything but filthy, vicious things to say about her when they’d been living in the same castle.
But it wasn’t Gudrun that interested her. She licked her lips. “Did Aslaug…was my daughter happy? Did she have a good life?”
Freya had kept Bryn busy in Asgard for the first century or two after her death. But, like Odin, Freya preferred those who served her to spend some time amongst the mortals every now and then. During that first sojourn on Earth, Bryn had convinced Freya to leave her with the humans instead of making her live in Valhalla, where she might have to see Erik. But all those years in Asgard meant Bryn had never known what had become of her daughter. She could probably look it up on the internet, but she found it was easier to sleep at night if you didn’t ask questions you didn’t really want the answers to. So why was she asking it now? Apparently, she’d turned into a masochist in the last twenty-four hours.
“She looked exactly like you,” Ivar said.
“Yes.” Aslaug had had the same pale hair and midnight gaze, and Bryn remembered so clearly the way her heart had clenched like a great fist the moment those solemn, dark eyes had blinked up at her. Gods, she had loved that child, known that she would do anything to protect her.
“She acted a bit like you too. Not a shieldmaiden, but definitely no bullshit, no pity, no standing around wringing her hands like a helpless half-wit.” He popped a wheelie with his chair. “My father dismissed me as worthless when he found I couldn’t walk, but Aslaug? Ha! Mother told me that I could be every inch the warrior dear old dad was, and told me that whining about my problems would get me nowhere. She was the one who shoved a bow and arrow into my hands the first time and insisted I learn how to use it. She was the one who sent me off on my first raid and demanded I not only come back alive but that I bring her great treasure.”
“Did you?” Bryn scrubbed her hand across her eyes, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. Her daughter had inherited more of her personality than she’d realized, considering she’d only been part of her life for the first three years.
“Of course.” He chuckled softly. “Disappointing Mother was something my brothers and I never did. We’d sooner cross our father than her, and Ragnar’s reputation for ruthlessness was well earned.”
“Was he good to her?” Bryn knew better than most that in days gone by an unhappy husband had the right to unleash his wrath on his wife in any way he saw fit.
“Yes, he was. They had their arguments, but he never beat or raped her, if that’s what you’re asking. They had a good marriage.” Ivar’s tone was matter-of-fact, and Bryn felt his gaze on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. Too many emotions might come exploding out if she saw even a hint of empathy in his expression. He continued, “To answer your first question, I believe she was happy. I was too young and self-involved to think much about it at the time but, except for the few times she and Father were at cross-purposes, she always seemed content with her lot in life.”
“Good.” She swallowed hard, trying to tuck those unwanted, unwieldy feelings away. “Okay, I need to grab a quick shower. Excuse me.”
She tried to beat a hasty retreat out of the room but almost collided with Holm. He grinned and sniffed the air a bit, no doubt smelling exactly what she’d been up to with Erik earlier. “You know, you don’t have to shower on our behalf. Actually, I rather like—”
“You’ll only finish that sentence if you want to die slowly and painfully,” she snapped, glad to have someone to vent her spleen on, to let out some of the emotion that was threatening to strangle her. If looks could kill, the one she gave him would have ended him. “Also, don’t for a second presume I do anything on your behalf. Now, move.”
He blinked, stepped aside, and bowed gallantly. “Of course. My mistake.”
And then she got the hell out of there. Though not before she heard Holm remark to Ivar, “I can see why Siegfried likes her. She’s got sharp edges.”
Gods, wasn’t that the truth?
But those sharp edges had protected her through a lot of years where women were men’s property, viewed as mindless twits, and used as little more than brood mares.
She was glad that fate hadn’t befallen her daughter, that someone who’d known Aslaug could separate fact from fiction. When Bryn had sacrificed her mortal existence, all she could do was pray her baby girl would have a good life, knowing she’d never be able to protect her again, but also knowing that ending the curse would be the very best thing she could do to ensure Aslaug had the kind of future Bryn wanted for her.
She hadn’t failed entirely. Thank all the gods.
In that one thing, she hadn’t failed.
* * *
Sweat poured down Erik’s skin, stinging his eyes and streaking in rivulets down his limbs. He ignored the discomfort, keeping his gaze locked on his opponent.
At the moment, it was Holm, but he’d already gone two rounds with Val. They were practicing with the new weapons Ivar had given them.
They each carried the modified Viking chain-sword in one hand, but preferred different weapons for the other. Val liked the deadly elegance of a wicked knife, Holm preferred the brute force of a battle axe, and Erik had opted for a second chain-sword—one in serrated chain form, the other as a sword, but he switched up which was which to throw the other berserkers off. So far, the tactic was working.
Ivar whipped himself around to keep track of the fights, serving as a wisecracking coach and obnoxious referee all in one. “Keep your axe up, Holm, or your sorry ass is gonna—”
Erik slashed out with the chain before Ivar could finish, leaving a neat slice across Holm’s shoulder. The other man grunted, cursed lividly, and danced backward, but not before Erik whipped out with his sword and slapped the other man’s buttocks with the flat of his blade.
“Oh!” Ivar hooted. “And a little bitch slap to keep it interesting.”
“Can I kill him? Please?” Holm begged as they stopped fighting for a moment, his gaze beseeching Erik. “Put him out of all our misery. You know you’re thinking it too.”
Val smothered a laugh. “So much for being a southern gentleman.”
“Only since the 1700s, y’all,” Holm drawled, swiping a forearm across his sweaty brow. “Remember, I’m a Viking. A very good Viking—meaning a very bad man.”
A horse snorted loudly, and Erik glanced to the right. Bryn was riding in a ring nearby, exercising that big gray stallion. They seemed to be doing some sort of fancy training maneuvers—dressage, he thought it was called—but he didn’t think he was imagining it that every time she went past the fence closest to the fight, she slowed down. Maybe that was part of her dressage routine, but he sensed her attention focus on them. It should be unsettling how in sync he was with her, but he found he liked it. Not that he’d tell her or anyone else, but in his own head, he couldn’t deny he liked the way his senses sharpened whenever she was around. He liked the way she kept him on his toes, though he doubted there was much about him she enjoyed except what he did to her in bed.
Ah, well. He enjoyed the hell out of that too.
“Kick his ass, Erik.” Ivar’s demand yanked Erik back to the skirmish. “He threatened your family, Grandad.”
“Easy on the Grandad crap.” Erik fended off a swing of Holm’s battle axe, but the hit vibrated up his arm with bone-rattling intensity.
“Come on, that was pathetic, Erik.” Ivar stabbed a finger at him. “Defend your bloodline, man. You should be wiping the ground with his face. He can’t fight for shit. I’d say he fought like a girl, but we all know Bryn could beat both your asses. Maybe she should be defending my bloodline.”
Holm opened his mouth to retort, but Val beat him to the punch. “You don’t want to challenge Ivar the Boneless. He will kill you. I’ve seen him in battle.”
Ivar bared his teeth in a terrifying grin. “Let’s go, gentlemen. You need to keep your skills up for what’s coming.”
Spitting on the dirt, Holm eyed Erik. They began circling each other, trying to find an opening for attack. The slight pause in the fighting had given Erik’s body time to remind him of all the bruises, the aching muscles, the little nicks and cuts he’d earned during these bouts. Fatigue dragged at him, but Ivar was right, they needed to be sharp if they wanted to have a hope in hell of beating giants.
Erik clenched his jaw, shoved the pain away, and brought an overhand swing down on Holm’s sword. Sparks flew through the air as their blades clashed, and Holm’s eyebrow lowered in intense concentration. His axe came within a hairsbreadth of ending Erik’s favorite body part, and the wolf within him snarled as he whipped out of the way.
Holm smiled, fangs flashing. “Careful, Twinkletoes. I’m gonna have you singing at a higher pitch.”
In answer, Erik flicked his wrist up, wrapping the chain around the axe’s handle. Throwing his weight back, he ripped the weapon out of Holm’s hand and sent it flying across the yard. Then Erik slammed his foot into Holm’s wrist, and the sword went the way of the battle axe.
Erik made an exaggerated kissy face at his opponent.
“Fuck you.” Holm laughed, dropped low and swept his leg out, catching Erik below the knees, and they both went down. Holm ended up on top, wrapping a beefy hand around Erik’s wrist and slamming it against the ground. His fingers went slack for just long enough to lose his grip on the sword hilt.
Shit.
Holm’s knee hit his ribs, and the breath whooshed out of his lungs. Black spots swam in front of his eyes, but he managed to keep hold of the other chain-sword. They wrestled for the final weapon, fists and elbows jabbing. Pain exploded through him at each hit, but Erik brought his heel down on the back of Holm’s knee, and that leg buckled. He used the leverage to throw Holm over onto his back. In the space between heartbeats, Erik pinned the other man. A snap of his wrist and the chain solidified into a blade, which he had at Holm’s throat, digging in just enough to leave a thin cut. Holm froze under him, growled, and slapped a palm to the ground, ending the match.
“All right, good work.” Ivar clapped twice. “I think we’re done for the day.”
Erik rolled to the side and collapsed beside Holm, both of them panting for breath. “You okay?”
Holm slung an arm over his eyes. “Fine, you?”
Using the sleeve of his shirt, Erik swiped the sweat from his face. “I could use a stiff drink.”
Holm grunted an agreement. “I need a change of clothes and a shower first, but then I’m in. I have a flask in my bag. Moonshine.”
Amusement trickled through Erik. “Homemade?”
“Is there any other? That bottled, commercial shit that says moonshine on the label is pansy-ass. My moonshine puts hair on your chest.” Holm thumped his sternum for emphasis. “So good it’ll knock you on your ass and bring tears to your eyes.”
“A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.” Val offered them both an arm and hauled them to their feet.
Bryn strode toward the house, offering a curt nod as she passed. She didn’t stop to chat, barely looked at them. He thought her gaze lingered longingly on the chain-swords, then she met his eyes, and for a second he’d swear her expression softened, and something deep in his chest warmed. He winked at her, and a little smile curved her mouth, but then she went through the screen door without a backward glance. And what did that mean? Was that a fuck-off-and-die or a come-find-me-later? He had no clue. It was two steps forward and three steps back with her. The only problem was, he wasn’t sure where the steps forward were leading anyway. If he didn’t know what direction he wanted them to go, he doubted they’d ever get there.
“I can smell baking bread.” He took a deep breath. “I think food is calling my name first.”
Ivar snorted. “I doubt it’s the bread calling your name.”
Erik set a hand on Ivar’s shoulder and leaned down to speak in the man’s ear. “That’s none of your business, is it? Also, no matter how hot she is, she’ll always be your grandmother. Think about that.”
“You’re gonna give me nightmares, man.”
“You’re welcome.” He scrubbed a palm over Ivar’s hair.
Ivar propped an elbow on the arm of his chair. “So you’re getting the one who got away, huh? You figure there’s no reason not to start repopulating the planet together a little early? Should we send out wedding invitations?”
“It’s not like that.” Or was it? Was that what he wanted from her? A second chance with the one who got away? He froze for a moment, and then slowly bent over and picked up his two weapons, retracting the chains into the hilts.
“It’s exactly like that, Erik. I see how you look at her when you think no one notices, and I see how she looks back.”
“Stay out of it, Ivar.” Because what else could he say? He knew he craved Bryn like an addict after a fix, that being around her made him feel alive the
way nothing and no one else ever could. He knew prophecy dictated that they’d be together, but the past shaped the future, and there were still too many unanswered questions between them. There was still too much suspicion and distrust to make a real relationship. Could that be changed? Did he want it to be changed? He wasn’t sure. He only knew he’d take any chance he had to get his hands on her. Whether he could open his heart again, he didn’t know yet. Whether he wanted her to open her heart again…even the thought sent a kind of pained longing through him.
Yes. No. Maybe.
Fuck it. So much of their history was tied up in unforgiveable acts. Some that were beyond their control, but even understanding that didn’t remove the sting of betrayal. He blew out a breath, though his stomach churned with an onslaught of memories.
He walked toward the house, leaving the other men to their own devices. He’d barely made it into the kitchen when Nauma started talking. Then again, a few minutes in her presence showed that she was rarely at a loss for words. He far preferred Bryn’s more reserved personality.
“She went upstairs. Says she’s not hungry and skipping dinner.” Nauma’s voice grew stiff. “I’m not a bad cook, you know.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” He tried to keep his tone as soothing as possible.
Her lips twisted. “Not all völva are like your late mother-in-law.”
“Thank the gods.” The fewer people in the world like Grimhild, the better. Though her abuse of power had ended with Andvaranaut’s curse raining hell down on her family, so he hoped she’d choked to death on her regrets.
Nauma’s smile was a thin slash, her brown eyes troubled. “I should hope Bryn starves, but mostly I feel bad about her going hungry because of me.”
He sighed, not sure how to word this in a way that didn’t offend. “Nauma, it’s not about you. Or not just you. It’s me too. It’s Ivar. It’s all of us invading her space. It’s Ragnarök. Try not to take it so personally. We all have our coping mechanisms. Hers include isolating herself from anyone.”
Sudden sympathy filled her gaze. “Makes it easier when people die, if you didn’t care about them too much to begin with.”
