Swordfall (The Fall Trilogy, #2)

by Devaux, Olivette

  He didn’t want to sit there and think about these things. It was like rereading the same, pointless list of things to do over and over. He wanted to go home. He wanted his apartment back, and his stuff, and all that came with it. And all that work into leaving it spotless and welcoming – that, too, had gone up in smoke.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was well past midnight and fighting was still going strong. Sean was standing his ground again, this time against the Redfish guy. He saw them talk privately in the middle while Sean was looking at something on the small screen of Redfish’s phone.

  Whatever he’d seen had shocked him. Not many could tell, but Asbjorn knew how to read the tension in Sean’s shoulders, the furrowing of his brows, the barely perceptible widening of his liquid brown eyes. The tight set of his generous mouth – as much as the lip split by Nell allowed.

  Did Sean’s gaze just find him, or was that mere coincidence? Did it matter? Sean was no longer his to cherish. Not his to love. Redfish’s presence only reminded Asbjorn of the grisly reason why, and he felt a chill tremor pass through his frame.

  He’d won Sean’s safety.

  It had been worth it.

  Whatever it takes, sunshine.

  As he watched Sean and Redfish circle, learning each other’s reach, he fingered the amber sun-disc in his pocket. A fossilized drop of solar energy from a long time ago sat comfortable in the palm of his hand, and he stroked it, feeling its soothing warmth as though it was still connected to the man he no longer permitted himself to cherish.

  Redfish launched a kick to Sean’s face. A risky technique not many could pull off with impunity – his attack was fast and sleek. Sean moved in, avoiding the force.

  Now he’ll grab his thigh and shoulder and throw him.

  Sean moved in to do just that – just as Redfish had wanted him to. Longer arms grabbed Sean’s shoulders, the formerly airborne leg clamped him from behind, the tall, red-fringed forehead descended upon Sean’s nose.

  There had been no escape. The damage was intentional.

  Asbjorn heard Sean howl in pain, rivulets of crimson blood left his nose once again, yet he didn’t back down. No longer detached, Asbjorn watched with a clenched jaw and an old, warm feeling swelling in his chest as Sean grasped the short red hair and yanked his enemy’s head sideways.

  You control the head, you control the body.

  The truism held, and the taller man’s top was accelerated toward the concrete floor. Asbjorn noted how Sean kept hold of the hair all the way down. His enemy’s head cracked against the hard surface.

  That, too, had been intentional.

  The sickening sound resounded throughout the area and a murmur swept through the crowd.

  Redfish should have been down for the count, yet he merely rolled out of harm’s way and jumped to his feet with a spring.

  Sean scrambled to his feet.

  “Nice try,” Redfish said and kicked Sean in the ribs in the same breath. The impact drove the air out of Sean’s lungs with a whoosh, and he slumped forward, only to land on Redfish’s left uppercut. His already abused head rocked back.

  Asbjorn didn’t realize his own body tensed for action at the sight of Sean reeling back.

  “I got your blood flowing nicely. How’bout some tears now?” Redfish taunted.

  “Your momma,” Sean spat.

  Asbjorn watched the taller man time Sean’s movement for that perfect storm of alignment and mutual position. The fist connected. Sean fell.

  A liver shot? He downed him with a liver shot?

  Maybe they were no longer together, but that familiar protective streak propelled Asbjorn into the center of the ring.

  “You don’t do that technique in a friendly match, asshole,” he sniped at the redhead, his fist following shortly after. Asbjorn felt his bare knuckles scream in pain as they hit Redfish’s teeth.

  Redfish’s head moved back, boxer-style, to bleed some power off the punch.

  “You’re defending the little chit? After all he’s done to you?” The redhead’s voice was distorted with pain and laden with incredulity.

  “He’s done nothing.”

  “He let you go out and dumped you after.”

  “He doesn’t know!” Asbjorn’s words escaped over Sean’s prone form and there was no way to take them back.

  “You hunted Pettel down and didn’t tell him?”

  Crack. Another punch connected with the freckled chin, and this time, Redfish joined Sean on the cold concrete floor.

  THE COOL PAVEMENT SAPPED Sean’s heat as he lay there, crumpled and unable to get up. Paralysis was a scary thing – a helpless feeling of panic – but he knew he hadn’t been hit in the head. A head shot might have broken his neck, but there had been no head shot.

  Just a punch to his short ribs, and for whatever reason unknown to him, his legs just plain crumpled under him and there he was like a puddle of goo. He could hear the two men trade verbal barbs over his prone form, and he could see their feet. Something they said set his mind whirling.

  Asbjorn had gone hunting.

  With a sword.

  As the pieces of the puzzle began to form a concrete picture, a sudden sense of awe and deep gratitude washed over Sean, so much so that the pain of his injuries was temporarily washed away. He was free, no longer having to concern himself with every bit of trivia in his environment, every phone call, every journey from one building to another. The things that went “bang” in the night were, once again, ordinary. Mundane. Euphoria left him upon his next realization.

  That asshole was protecting me again.

  Like a chick.

  He never told me.

  The outrage at being sheltered, again, flooded his system with enough adrenaline to allow him a bit of movement. He felt his limbs twitch some.

  He lied to me.

  When I proposed to him, he was....

  Oh God.

  Some would call it a case of bad timing. Sean called it a tragic misunderstanding. A vision of red and white assaulted him, an unavoidable effect of having seen a disturbing, grisly image through the filter of a camera. What must it have been like, seeing that in person? Being there? Inflicting the damage in a systematic and premeditated way?

  How must it have felt, going after a dangerous felon armed only with your antique sword and your wits, feeling your blade cut into the living, pulsing flesh, biting through the clavicle and ribcage?

  How must it have felt to remember to step aside, knowing that otherwise a blood spray would paint you crimson, just as Ken had always said?

  Cleaning his sword.

  Preoccupied.

  Depressed?

  He should have known, he should have realized, he should have picked up on all the signs and clues and put all the pieces together all by himself. Instead of being dumped, he was being protected, and he didn’t even say “thank you.” His way of trying to get Asbjorn’s attention now struck him as the juvenile idiocy it had been. A feeling of remorse flooded him, and, still unable to command his body to assume a more dignified position, he felt hot tears of pain and regret stain his eyes, making cool tracks down his cheeks.

  ASBJORN LOOKED DOWN, swaying but slightly. Redfish was down for the count, but Sean –

  “Asbjorn.” Sean’s voice was a hoarse whisper in the dead-silent warehouse.

  He saw Sean’s effort to move and dropped to his knees by his side. He winced with pain as the twisted joint assumed a compressed position. “Sunshine.”

  “Can’t move,” Sean whispered.

  “You’ll be okay in a few minutes.” Asbjorn knew the nature of a liver-shock was to paralyze the body. The victim would regain his ability to move in a minute or so, seemingly unharmed and frustrated at having succumbed to a simple blow to the body. He knew many a boxing match TKO was the result of a well-placed liver shot, but Sean apparently didn’t.

  He moved his large hand, its knuckles red and swollen, above Sean’s face to stroke is forehead. “You’ll be fine, s
unshine.” The endearment made Asbjorn’s throat tighten. He missed saying it. Now he was barely able to speak.

  “Asbjorn. You should have told me,” Sean croaked.

  Asbjorn met Sean’s hand, their fingers interlacing, his quiet voice resounding, filling the cavernous space, holding their stunned audience under a spell of silence.

  “I... I didn’t know how.”

  His words were a catalyst that spurred a tidal wave of action. Unable to contain themselves, friends poured in with concern written all over their faces. All three combatants were cleaned up, iced down, and offered water or something stronger.

  Asbjorn still felt that cold emptiness, a curious absence of reason borne of shock. He’d never thought Sean would have gotten blamed for his own failure to contend with his own actions. Now Nell had given Sean an ass-whooping for “having dumped him.” Dud brutalized Don’s face to a point where the man would have to take time off, unable to appear before the court and jury in his battered state. Don retaliated by bending Dud’s elbow into an unnatural shape, making medical attention a necessity. Nell pulled a mean floor-work throw on Adrian, skinning his knees and forearms bloody in a vicious slide on the rough, concrete surface – and Adrian retaliated by giving her a black eye. With friends like these, who needed enemies?

  Minutes passed in a flurry of activity, but Asbjorn only observed. He was finally able to process the dynamics of those around him from a place of curious silence. It was as though he was watching television commercials with the sound turned off.

  Friends, enemies.

  The concept of who was on which side led him to contemplate the gangster known as Redfish. The stranger had obviously stood up for him. Red’s actions were misguided, lacking the full understanding of the situation. He beat up his sunshine, and that was not a good thing, but the intent behind the man’s effort left Asbjorn unexpectedly warm. He hoisted himself to his feet and limped over to where the tall, lanky man was sitting in a folding chair. Redfish was conscious, his face rearranged, but still sipping a cold Gatorade.

  “Hey.”

  Only the pale gray eyes lifted. Asbjorn gave him a grin, knowing it was crooked from the swelling and also knowing Redfish tried to avoid moving his head. His economy of motion went a long way to prevent more of the awful headache Asbjorn and Sean bestowed upon him.

  “You okay?”

  “A concussion,” Redfish admitted. “The one on the jaw finished me off.”

  “Why were you beating up Sean?”

  “I told you. You were one of the best before he dumped you.” Gray eyes measured him, and his expression was grave. “Remember my offer? About working for me?”

  “Yeah,” Asbjorn said.

  “It’s off the table. Yer too soft.”

  A weight lifted off Asbjorn’s chest. “You think?”

  Redfish gave him a pained look. “Look in the mirror. You got marked up by a bunch of junior gangbangers. Your nose is bleeding and your lip is split.” He sucked down more of his Gatorade and looked Asbjorn up and down once more. “Your eyebrows are swollen. And why? Just because you’re too scared you’d hurt someone. I don’t need a man who’s scared he will hurt someone.”

  Asbjorn lowered himself into a nearby camping chair.

  “You and I, I thought we were alike at first,” Redfish went on. “After what you did, I thought we were like, what is the saying? Like two peas in the same pod.” He shook his head and winced. “Shit.” He drank some more. “I liked your style, but I don’t like what I see now. I’ve no use for a hit man with a conscience. Sorry. Stick to your books instead.”

  Asbjorn bent his head down low, so low his forehead touched the blazing-red crew cut. “Thanks,” he whispered.

  “You ever want to dump the chit, look me up,” Redfish said with a knowing grin once Asbjorn stood up straight.

  “Don’t call him that. He didn’t know. It’s more complicated than just that.”

  “All the good ones are either straight or taken.” Redfish sighed, pulling on his Gatorade.

  CHAPTER 13

  Nell was directing the cleanup and Adrian was in charge of first aid. Between the two of them, empty bottles disappeared, coolers were stowed in the right cars, and guests were happy to help sort the recyclables and haul the garbage bags outside. Brooms and throwing knives and all assorted means of destruction were stowed away, and Sean realized he didn’t want to go back to Adrian and Don’s house. As things stood, he was ready to tag along with Asbjorn to the moon if necessary, if only they could have a bit of privacy. They needed to talk and reconnect and figure out what the hell was going on in their lives.

  Sean looked three chairs over. Asbjorn was sitting with his seat oriented halfway toward Sean. He kept strategically shifting his ice pack all over his face. The chair didn’t used to aim toward Sean like that – not so long ago, Asbjorn had his back almost to him but now, after all the blows were exchanged and treated, it seemed that Asbjorn was orienting toward Sean again.

  Sean shifted his own ice bag, this time from one side of his nose to the other, and hauled himself onto his feet. It was harder than he would have thought possible.

  He shuffled over to Asbjorn, kicked another folding camp chair to set it right next to his, and sat. “Hey,” he said. “How is your head?”

  “We should stop meeting like this.” Asbjorn groaned. He slowly turned to scan Sean’s face. “How’re you doing?”

  “My nose is probably broken. Stopped bleeding, though, so that’s good.”

  The silence between them got long and awkward.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They both said it at the same time, and Sean noted that both their voices were hushed, hoping for a bit of privacy.

  Asbjorn laughed quietly. “Remember Copenhagen?”

  “Yeah,” Sean said. “I’ll never forget.”

  “Remember how you said that we can take a hotel if my family turns out to be a pain in the ass?”

  “I said that?” Sean said, appalled.

  “Not in so many words, but yeah. You did. It felt really good, you know. Knowing that you had my back.”

  “Bjorn, I want to....”

  “Wait. Not here. I think we should call a taxi and get a hotel, and figure things out from there. This time it’s our adopted family that’s being a pain in the ass.”

  “Okay,” Sean said. “Just for the weekend.” He cocked his head. “Now what?”

  Ken’s booming voice drowned out everyone else, and Sean realized their pain-in-the-ass friends were conferring by the cars, presumably out of earshot.

  “They’re comin’ with me. You’d just fuck it all up again,” Ken tore into Nell and Dud, into Adrian and Don. “You’re good for nothing but fuckin’ an’ fightin’. These two need a break from your stupid jealousies. They need a vacation. An’ they need a place to live without you playing favorites and tug-of-war.”

  Sean looked at Asbjorn again. Their eyes met, and Asbjorn cracked a crooked grin.

  “Nice,” he said, before he moved his ice pack back to his split lip and turned to watch the show.

  Sean turned also. They were so close, he could feel the heat of Asbjorn’s arm through the thin sleeves of his Under Armour jersey. The heat was comforting, and so was the familiar smell of sweat and exertion and aftershave. He leaned in, and a thrill ran through him when Asbjorn pressed right back. He directed his attention to the pow-wow taking place on their behalf and without their input.

  Ken could turn on that commanding presence, just like Burrows-sensei used to in Sean’s home aikido school. Sean watched the rest of their well-meaning friends stare as though he’d suddenly gotten even taller. Ken’s thick black hair spilled loose down his shoulders as he tried to towel the sweat out of it.

  “You’re gonna bring all their shit to my place,” he continued. “An’ you’ll give them some space.”

  Asbjorn was amazed to see them all nod. Mark came close to Asbjorn and Sean and observed the ente
rtainment. Ken’s voice cut right to them, stopping Mark in his tracks.

  “Yer nosy questions can wait for later, Mark. Besides, he don’t know nothing.”

  Mark directed his gaze to Redfish, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “All right then, Ken. I’ll leave them to your tender mercies.”

  Sean looked at Asbjorn. His face was pale just then, and the implication of what could have been was clearly written across it. Asbjorn draped his arm across Sean’s shoulders, trying for innocent nonchalance.

  It would be okay. Everybody knew but nobody would blab. They both might have to do a favor or two for some people, but all in all, Sean was safe and Asbjorn wasn’t in jail, so... life was good.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Asbjorn’s arms were wrapped around George’s waist as he huddled into the back of his friend’s riding leathers, trying to protect his face from the bitter cold wind. The helmet helped, but a face mask and goggles would have been nice too. George’s motorcycle rumbled under them, and Jeff’s bike roared to their right. Sean was clinging to Jeff’s back in much the same way. They plummeted through the freezing night as neighborhoods flashed past them. Ken had the lead with is daughter, Heather, perched on a raised seat behind him.

  Asbjorn’s thoughts wandered to his quixotic sword teacher. He’d been a sight to behold just half an hour ago. He smiled into George’s cold leather jacket and tried very hard not to fall asleep.

  SEAN KNEW WHERE HE was, and he remembered how he had gotten there. The room was warm and the walls were painted a sunny yellow. He stirred at the feeling of weight behind him and rolled into the familiar dip in the mattress. The air smelled of coffee and cinnamon and shampoo, and there was also silence. No cars, no music, no television noises. They were, once again, enjoying the hospitality of Ken and his wife, Dr. Margaret Verbosa.

  Sean’s first time here had been the night after Frank Pettel assaulted him and he had nowhere else to go, but Frank Pettel was dead now. When Sean had been here for the first time, everyone knew to leave the small lamp turned on all night long, and everyone knew not to startle him needlessly. This time, the light was off, and even had there been a thump in the dark, there would have been no flashbacks.