by Kate Pearce
She nods like she understands, and I can actually believe it, by the look in her eyes.
“So you made your own brotherhood.” There’s so much kindness in her voice it hits me like a punch to the gut. The word yes leaks out of me like air from a Zepellin’s ballon and leaves me just as deflated. “They didn’t care—when I was Tyr the One-Handed. And then Dian and his son, Miach, crafted me the replacement, and they didn’t care about it, either. That was a big deal, because people—don’t always react well.
“Sometimes... Sometimes it’s not like I lost my hand. It’s more like it lost me.” I huff out a breath. “Like I lost myself.” My chest feels tight as I remember how I was. “I spent a lot of time looking for some magical method to get it back. Then I got this…” I lift my metal hand, my throat tightens, and I cough to clear it. “With the way things are in Europe right now, I thought they’d be desperate for people to enlist.” I give her a meaningful look. “There are reasons Odin hasn’t gone back to Valhalla since The Great War, and I think it’s because what’s happening in Europe is going to get worse before it gets better.
“Anyway, I put in my papers, but—well, as my CO said, laws and technology move at different paces.”
“What matters—” mattered, I realize quite suddenly, and the thought is so strange, so abrupt, and so mind-altering that I shove it away into a corner to examine later. “What…matters,” I try again, “Was…the feeling of uselessness. I went back to the Hunt, and I was still Father’s second, but I wasn’t really necessary. Mostly I was just a goon, and I was good at it, but I was used to making decisions by then. Life and death stuff—things that mattered. And I blamed my hand for that. If only I still had my hand, I would still be important.
“And then I came here. And I wasn’t making life and death decisions, at least not that I knew of.” I give her a smile to show her I’m not bitter that she kept her secrets. “But I felt useful. I felt important. Necessary.”
“And then I told you I didn’t need you.” Her voice almost breaks, and I can’t look her in the eye, because yeah, that hurt, and it hurt my pride, and that’s why I left without a word.
But when I got home—Allfather took one look at me and we had a heart to heart.
“I spoke to my father. We’ve agreed to confirm your charter—with a condition. You’ll be Allfather’s support club. And we’ll start a new club, here in Cogham, which will be your support club.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes. “Isn’t that going to be a conflict?”
I cough. “Well. That’s…sort of the hitch in the whole thing. The Cogham club—I’d be the president. You’d be a support club for Allfather, if and when he needs you, and the local chapter would be your support club, here. We could work mostly autonomously, but there would be a couple places our missions overlap.”
God, this was so much easier when my father and I laid it out. Explaining it to her—it’s harder than I thought. “You’re doing good work, here. And your focus is on the women. I’m guessing you have the resources to set them up somewhere new, with new names, new lives?” She nods, confirming what had only been a guess until now. I hadn’t told Father how much of the information I had was conjecture.
“What The Hunt would like to do is to focus on the men. You can continue to provide support for the women who need it, help identify the ones who need our help. And The Hunt—well, we can carry off the men, make them relocate, instead of the wives.”
“That’s utterly brilliant.”
I grin at her. The admiration in her voice is like a drug, and I feel drunk with it. “The Hunt has chapters throughout the country, so it will be easy enough for us to relocate the men. Easier for them to find jobs, to start new lives wherever they end up than it is for the women. And in the more severe cases, or if they don’t toe the line…well, I have a friend who is looking for eunuchs for his palace in a very small country in the Middle East.” I grin, knowing it’s got too much teeth, and she smiles back.
“That’s devious and I love it.”
I motion toward the chair across from me, the black leather jacket hanging on the back of it. “Your charter is granted. Love and respect, Hela, president of Hel’s Belles.”
She looks with longing at the jacket, and then her gaze swings to me. “There’s something I need to tell you before we agree to all of this. Something that might—change whether or not you want to work with me.”
I tense. I’m not sure I want to hear this. Everything I own is in the truck I bought for the purpose of moving. I figured it would come in handy, and I’ll use my bike for everyday. If she tells me she can’t work with me, if she says she can’t have me in her life— My chest hurts, but I just look at her and wait, afraid to move.
Fear and joy war on her face. “You left,” she whispers. “You became part of every aspect of my life. I never understood how women did that. How they couldn’t hold something back. But you were in my home, in my office—everywhere. And then you left, and there was just a hole where you used to be, and—I didn’t know how to fill it again.” She takes a deep breath. “What I’m saying is that I think I love you, Tyr the Two-Handed, and I couldn’t bear it if you left again.”
The knot in my chest bursts. I’m on my feet and standing in front of her before I realize I’ve moved. I take her in my arms, press a kiss to her lips, and tuck her body into mine.
“I love you, Hela Lokisdottir,” I whisper into her mouth. “I don’t want to leave. I’ve rearranged my whole world because I felt the same hole in my life. And I knew Dian couldn’t build me a replacement this time. The only thing that would fix it is you.” I tip her chin up so she has to look me in the eye. “I promise you, I’m not leaving again.”
She nods and kisses me again, and I lose myself to the feel and the taste of her. After a long time, she pulls back and looks me in the eye. “Let’s go home.”
“Are you sure?” After what she just told me, I thought she’d want me to find my own place. Take it slow. I’d have done it, too. For her.
But she smiles up at me, open and trusting and so beautiful it hurts, and says “Yes. I’m sure. I came up with some new ideas while you were gone.”
I laugh, take her hand in my metal one, and press a kiss to her forehead. “I did too,” I tell her, and she shivers against me. “And some of them even involve a bed.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dayna is afraid of big snakes, small rodents, spiders and crawly things of all sizes, and writing her own biography—especially in third person.
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BOOKS BY DAYNA HART
The Hood Series
Lessons Learned — part of the LOVE IS… anthology
The Curtain Torn Series
Go Between
Between Good and Aeval
Coming Soon:
Hood
Hel’s Belles, Book Two
THE VIKING QUEEN’S MEN
Book 1 of The Afótama Legacy
by
Holley Trent
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’d like to make a confession. The Viking Queen’s Men is a story I started long before I had the chops to write it. I’m talking nearly fifteen years ago. The story started as a space opera, changed to an alternate history urban fantasy, and now lives as a paranormal romance.
Though the world-building changed drastically over time, there was always one constant—Tess, the queen of my band of desert-dwelling Vikings. Tess is my most enduring character to date, and she set a benchmark for what all my heroines would become. I’m stoked to have finally unleashed her!
The Afótama Legacy will unfold over five books. Tess, Harvey, and Ollie will be back again in The Chieftain’s Daughter: coming t
his winter. I hope you’ll sign up for my paranormal romance newsletter so you don’t miss the news of its release!
~Holley
PROLOGUE
The Viking longship rocked perilously on the roiling North Atlantic. Its hastily mended sail, ripped during the last storm, stuttered as the wind pelted the canvas.
The thundering noise had been frightening to Muriel when it’d first started, because surely the stolen, battered ship couldn’t sustain the violent conditions for much longer. The sail would be knocked loose and blown back to Iceland. The wooden vessel would splinter and be dispersed by the currents along with the runaways trying desperately to steer it toward calm waters.
It wouldn’t sink, though. At least not during this trip. The ship had sailed more than a thousand years ago, and most of its passengers lived to see the land they sought. They got their freedom.
The storm and the unforgiving waves it stirred up were all figments of Muriel’s imagination. The ghost whom sat beside the weary queen near the mast, however, was not.
Ótama, daughter of Alfarinn, clasped her many-times great-granddaughter’s hands and leaned in so their foreheads touched. “I know you are tired. You have been a good, strong leader for so long. You have earned your rest.”
Muriel let out a shuddering breath. “Too tired. I lost hope of ever finding her. What if she’d died? Where would we be?”
“Let us not dwell on what-ifs. She has been found, and the people will have their queen and conduit, separate from their matriarch. You are not meant to be one in the same.”
Muriel had been bearing the weight of both roles since her mother died, and with her daughter dead as well, she’d held onto to the extra title for far longer than anyone had in the past. She’d been considering resorting to desperate measures. There was someone who could step in. She wouldn’t be a perfect fit, but even a bad queen would be better than no queen at all. Without the queen, they were lost.
“They’re getting restless,” Muriel said with a sigh.
“They have been patient and will continue to be. No one blames you for what happened.”
“It doesn’t feel that way to me.”
“Hindsight will certainly enlighten you.”
“Let’s hope that’s true.” Muriel ran a hand through her uncombed hair and put her back against the mast. The ship rocked like a carnival ride, and Muriel tried to sweep the turmoil from her thoughts. Maybe the weather didn’t matter to the ghosts at the oars—they weren’t really there like Ótama, and were merely echoes of the dead queen’s past—but the weather had become a psychic barometer for Muriel. When she was optimistic, the boat sailed on smooth waters, and the people she governed were calm and happy. When she was stressed, like now, Ótama’s realm became a dark place, and Muriel’s people worried. They didn’t know why they worried, but they did. And when they worried, they sometimes left the fold. That rarely turned out to be a good idea for any of them.
“What advice do the gods have for this transition? I doubt it’ll be a smooth one. She likely won’t remember anything about us. She’ll be skeptical, and rightfully so. She’s going to be asked to take on a massive responsibility in shepherding people she doesn’t even know.”
Muriel had gleefully taken on that responsibility as a younger woman, but things had been different then. She’d had her mother—the matriarch—to counsel her, and her daughter on deck ready to learn. Muriel’s granddaughter would be coming home to find a significant hole in her family tree.
“It’ll be within her rights to refuse.”
Ótama closed her eyes and canted her head as if tuning in to voices in the wind. After a few minutes, during which Muriel stared at the bleak gray horizon, Ótama straightened up. “Their advice is the same guidance they dispensed regarding your daughter forty years ago.”
Muriel rolled her eyes. At nearly seventy, it was a habit she’d yet to break. She remembered that advice all too well, and at times wondered if heeding it was the reason her only daughter was now dead. “To let her find the man worthy of ruling beside her, as he’ll give her the tools she needs to govern our people.”
Ótama nodded.
Muriel’s people—the Afótama, literally “of Ótama”—were a matrilineal community. They hadn’t had a king or chieftain since Alfarinn.
New World, new rules. In all the time since that longship had landed in Vinland, the queens had acted as governors and mediators. They saw to it that their people were provided for, and in the twenty-first century in dusty New Mexico where the thriving, though endogamous, group now lived, that job belonged to Muriel.
She wasn’t just a politician, though. She was their conduit: she had a psychic link to everyone in her charge, and because of her, they were connected to each other. Some more than others. She kept a finger on the pulse of the group, and sought out discord and wanting.
She fixed what was broken, and propped up the psychic web where it sagged so everyone was content.
Of course she was tired. She was like a network server turned on all the time. Naturally, after twenty years of acting as both queen and matriarch, she was burning out. She needed her granddaughter to step in, but that wasn’t the only reason she wanted her back.
Contessa was all Muriel had left of her daughter.
“I will try not to get in the way of the gods’ will being done,” Muriel said.
“And you will be highly favored, as always, child of mine.”
Muriel offered her smile and tried to put her heart into it, but she was just so tired. She was certain it was a weak one. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to have your calm seas and cloudless sky back.”
Ótama’s stunning grin was wide and genuine. It was no wonder her husband had given up so much to spirit her away from the land where she and those like her were persecuted. “I believe I have grown fond of the rough waves.” She placed a hand atop her swollen belly and rubbed. “It is to the baby’s liking as well.”
“It’s sure a wild ride. No surprise she was born a daredevil.”
“With her father being the warrior he was, there is no surprise at all.”
They touched foreheads once again, Muriel closed her eyes, and pulled out of Ótama’s realm.
The place had been Ótama’s gift from the gods when she’d died at sea during childbirth—a place where her daughters and granddaughters could find her and seek her guidance. She’d be there as long as she had daughters to serve, and that suited her just fine.
Muriel hoped she could be just as good a counselor to her returning granddaughter as Ótama had been for her. Contessa would have the weight of their world on her shoulders.
Gods willing, she’d have a consort strong enough to bear it with her, because she wouldn’t be able to do it alone.
1
Contessa Spry bent to fix the fishnet stockings that had begun sagging at her ankles after six hours of wear. She didn’t know why she bothered with the things at all, really. They didn’t prevent her feet from blistering in her borrowed stilettos, nor did they provide any protection for her legs from the unseasonably cold breeze off the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe it was that they provided the illusion of coverage. Men were much more likely to keep their hands off her ass when she wore them, though she still got groped far more often than she liked. She hated being touched.
A vehicle to her left honked, and she rolled her eyes. A bad habit, for sure, but she had worse ones. She hadn’t been brought up to have manners. She’d grown up fighting for security and a sliver of personal space. There’d always been someone in her face. If not her social workers, her foster “parents.” Also, cops, court-appointed lawyers, and judges.
Whatever. None of them got it. She was just another hardheaded bitch with no respect for her elders. Not that they’d ever shown her any respect. She’d never asked to be coddled or spoiled. She’d just wanted enough trust to be left alone when she needed it, because her mind was such a tangled place. She was smart, she’d swear on a stack of Bibles that she was, but no on
e believed her when tests said it wasn’t ADHD or dyslexia. But she knew better. She thought of too much at once and couldn’t organize it all when people were breathing down her neck. She needed space and quiet to decompress and process it all, but she was never given it, so she ran. A lot. She didn’t even have a hometown because she ran so much.
“Not that kind of girl, buddy,” she mumbled toward the vehicle following her. She gave up on fixing the fishnets and straightened up to tighten the sash on her trench coat.
The car honked again, and she started a brisk pace. Maybe they wouldn’t follow.
“For fuck’s sake, get lost.”
All she wanted after a long night on her feet serving drinks to men who should have been taking their money home to their wives was to soak in her tiny tub and maybe finally get that pile of laundry off her bed. It’d been out of control ever since she’d picked up the second job, and she’d had to pick up the second job because she’d gotten so far behind on her bills after coming off probation.
She felt like she’d been paying off the bail bondsman forever, but really, it’d only been a year. The entire legal system was a ridiculous racket. She’d only been in jail for a couple of days on that bullshit charge, but still, she had to pay, and pay, and pay some more. There were the fees to her probation officer every two weeks. Rent. The monthly payment for the few pieces of furniture she leased. Oh, and somehow, she had to feed herself. A girl couldn’t live on bar pretzels and wasabi peas alone.
