Daughter of Rage and Beauty (Berserker Academy Book 1)

by Amy Pennza

  “W-Wait!” The plea burst from me before I could stop it. My stomach sloshed, and this time it wasn’t from car sickness.

  Olaf stopped and gave me a perplexed look over his shoulder.

  I looked at Harald, all my anger and resentment draining away at the prospect of leaving my old life behind and stepping into something entirely unknown. He was my only link to the familiar. “What about the oath-taking?”

  “What about it?”

  “You . . .” I licked my lips. “Aren’t you staying for it?”

  He fiddled with the cuff of his coat, and his tone was absent when he said, “I’ve matters to attend to at the manor. Petitions and such.”

  That was more important than watching me take a blood oath? Out of the corner of my eye, Nils lowered his head.

  Stop now. Just stop. A little voice in my head urged me to shut up and walk away. But I couldn’t. I stepped closer to Harald, so he couldn’t avoid looking at me.

  “It’s my first oath.” I swung a hand toward the castle. “I’m taking a vow to die if I fail out of this place.”

  Harald put a hand on his sword hilt. A heartbeat passed . . . and another. It was like the courtyard held its breath. His handsome features remained unmoved. But his eyes glinted. “Then I suggest you don’t fail.”

  It was like a punch in the gut. I sucked in a breath. For a second, my throat burned.

  Then the burning . . . shifted.

  All at once, there was a ball of energy in my chest—a small, seething sun that built and built, destroying itself and then starting anew. Higher and higher. More and more. I gritted my teeth. My skin ached.

  Somewhere in the distance, lightning struck. The sky behind the castle flared white-hot, the clouds forked with electricity.

  My hair lifted away from my head, the platinum waves floating as if suspended underwater. My body was frozen. Thunder cracked.

  “Elin.”

  The voice came from far away. As if it, too, was underwater. But it was a kind voice. In some dim, foggy corner of my brain, I recognized it.

  The ball contracted, becoming smaller and more concentrated.

  More dangerous.

  I clenched my fists. Energy sizzled along my veins. I stared at Harald. I couldn’t have looked away if I tried. He regarded me with his usual detachment, his pale gaze almost bored.

  More lightning flashed. A second later, thunder boomed. The ground vibrated beneath my feet. The power was too much for me to hold. Like a snake flicking its tongue, it tested the air, seeking release.

  “Elin!”

  The voice again. Louder this time. I tried to turn my head.

  “ELIN!”

  Something struck my shoulder. I stumbled sideways. The spell broke. As if someone flipped a switch, the electricity shrank and dimmed. The ball imploded. The energy unraveled.

  I staggered, and my hip bumped the car. I braced a hand against the door. My heart galloped in my chest, making my pulse pound in my neck.

  Nils stepped forward, worry in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

  My ears rang. I let my eyelids flutter shut for a moment while I caught my breath.

  “Elin?”

  I opened my eyes. For a second, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself at Nils. To feel the familiar comfort of strong arms and a broad chest.

  But we weren’t in the barn at Berregaard Manor. It wasn’t a lazy summer day, and we weren’t sixteen anymore.

  “Yes.” My voice came out as a rasp, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes. Thank you, Nils.”

  His big hands twitched, like he might reach for me. But then he seemed to catch himself. He eased back and nodded.

  A stony silence drifted over the courtyard. I straightened. Harald and Olaf watched me, twin looks of disapproval on their faces.

  “I . . .” What could I say? I hadn’t attended a single class, and I already had a failing grade.

  Harald let the weight of his stare bore into me for several more seconds. Finally, he looked at Olaf. “I leave her in your hands. You have your work cut out for you. As you can see, she has few redeeming qualities.”

  Olaf inclined his head.

  “Give your father my regards.” Harald swept his coat around his body and turned toward the car. Nils sprang into action and opened the door.

  At the mention of his father, Olaf’s dour face brightened. “I will, my lord. He just celebrated his thousandth kill.”

  Harald froze, his shoulders taut. Slowly, he faced Olaf. It was a moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice held a strange undercurrent. “Is that so?”

  The light left Olaf’s eyes. He spoke in a halting voice, as if he wasn’t sure how to reply. “Ah, yes, my lord. Just last month.”

  “Well.” Harald’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A long life to him, then.”

  “Y-Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  Harald tucked his sword against his leg and climbed into the car. Nils shut the door behind him and turned to me, his eyes anxious.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  The car window lowered halfway. “Nils.” Harald’s voice was sharp. “I don’t want to delay.”

  “I’m fine,” I told Nils.

  His expression said he didn’t believe me, but he put his fist over his heart and offered me a bow. “Farewell, Elin.”

  I repeated the gesture. “Farewell, Nils.”

  Even with Harald and Olaf looking on, he dared to give me a wink. He lowered his voice. “Give ‘em hell, Eely.” He spun and hurried around the front of the car.

  I was still smiling when the feeling of being watched made my skin prickle. I turned my head.

  Harald regarded me, his eyes cold. Being seated meant he was forced to look up to meet my gaze.

  Nils started the car.

  Few redeeming qualities.

  The lower half of the window reflected my face, showing my platinum hair and ice blue eyes. I lifted my gaze to Harald’s.

  He faced forward, dismissing me.

  As the car pulled away, I put my fist over my heart and made a mocking bow.

  “Farewell, Father.”

  2

  The inside of the castle was just as impressive as the outside—and as big as I remembered. The ceilings soared overhead, and the walls were decorated with statues and gilt framed paintings. I could have spent hours looking at them.

  Unfortunately, Olaf wasn’t interested in being a tour guide.

  I lengthened my stride to keep up with him as he hurried up the steps leading to a set of massive wooden doors. The site of them jogged my memory.

  The Great Hall. Legend said it was the largest in Europe, its iron chandeliers lit with everlasting flames blown to life by ifrits. When I’d made my offering to Odin, I’d spent most of the time staring at the strange, mesmerizing light. My childhood visit to Bjørneskalle was largely a blur, but the Great Hall stuck in my mind like someone had placed a photograph there.

  Olaf reached the top of the stairs and made a sharp left, bypassing the doors.

  “Hey!” I panted as I gained the top two steps.

  He stopped and turned. “What is it?”

  I gestured to the doors. “Aren’t we going inside?”

  “In there?” He glanced at the doors, which were decorated with carved runes and rows of iron studs. “No.”

  “But the oath-taking.” Surely something as important as a blood oath had to take place in the Great Hall?

  But Olaf shook his head. “It’ll have to wait. The headmaster presides over all oaths, and he’s away right now.”

  At the mention of the headmaster, an image of an old, bearded man popped into my head. Which was most likely inaccurate. Berserkers aged slowly—and not at all once they achieved immortality.

  And the headmaster had to be immortal. How could he be in charge of the academy if he wasn’t?

  “When will he be back?” I asked. “Is he on vacation or something?”

  Olaf looked at me like I’d grown an extra h
ead. “You talk like a human.”

  I shrugged. It was either that or tell him he talked like he had a stick up his ass. Considering he was the only person I knew at the academy right now, I figured it was better to keep that to myself.

  Our exchange must have loosened him up, because he cleared his throat. “Back at the car . . . Your, um . . . Lord Harald . . .”

  “Yes?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “He seemed angry with me. At the end.”

  Ah. So Olaf wasn’t as dense as he looked. I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “It was probably because you mentioned your father getting a thousand kills. Harald’s a little”—I groped for the right word—“sensitive about his mortality.”

  That was putting it mildly. “Obsessed” might be a better way to describe it. Or maybe “maniacal.”

  Olaf frowned. “I don’t understand. Why doesn’t he just accept more quests?”

  I shrugged again. “He does, as far as I know. I think he’s somewhere in the eight hundreds now. We used to have a big celebration after each one, but that stopped when—” I snapped my mouth shut.

  “When what?”

  I shook my head. They’d stopped when Fiona died. An ache bloomed in my chest. “We just don’t have them anymore.” I forced nonchalance into my tone. “There’s a helium shortage, you know. We could never find enough balloons.”

  Olaf gave me another odd look, but his expression lost some of its sternness. And when he resumed leading me through the castle, he slowed his pace.

  The corridor leading away from the Great Hall was broad, its walls dotted with artwork and the occasional door. Every dozen steps or so, it branched off into another passageway. Most were simple arches, but some were flanked by columns or even statues.

  We’d walked for about five minutes when we came upon the fanciest one yet. An ornate archway was supported by two stone statues—tall, dour-looking men with long beards, each one clutching the hilt of broadsword in front of his chest. Instead of opening onto another hallway, however, the arch they guarded led to a set of steps.

  As we passed, the little hairs on my nape lifted. I looked up.

  The statute on the right turned its head toward me, its carved eye sockets glowing a dull blue.

  I tripped, caught myself, and stumbled to a halt. “O-Olaf.”

  He stopped, then followed my gaze. “Oh yeah. Those are the Norsemen.”

  The who? He sounded awfully unconcerned. I swallowed. “The statute moved. It’s staring at me.”

  “Well, of course. He’s just doing his job.”

  I managed to jerk my eyes from the scary statue to the clearly insane Olaf. “The statues here have jobs?”

  “Not all of them.” His tone held a mixture of tolerance and amusement, as if he was explaining a basic concept to a very young child. He gestured toward the steps beyond the arch. “The Norsemen guard the entrance to the headmaster’s tower. They only allow those with permission to enter.”

  “What happens if you try to go in without permission?”

  He frowned. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  The statue seemed to decide I wasn’t about to try it, because he turned his head back to its original position, then seemed to sigh as he settled into place. The blue glow dimmed, then died entirely.

  I released a shaky breath. “That was freakier than the Hall of Presidents at Disney World.”

  Olaf’s expression was so perplexed, I waved a hand.

  “Never mind. Let’s keep moving.”

  He shot me another confused look, but he started forward again. I hurried past the statues and fell into step beside him. I didn’t breathe easy until we rounded a corner and they disappeared from sight.

  As we climbed staircase after staircase and turned up and down corridors, I started wishing I had a loaf of bread handy. I stopped gawking at the paintings and tried to ignore the burning in my thighs.

  “How much farther?” I asked, huffing and puffing on what had to be the hundredth staircase.

  “Just up here,” Olaf said over his shoulder. Of course, he sounded fine. He even bounded up the last step and waited for me on a landing lit by a large mullioned window, its panes wavy with age.

  When I hauled myself over the threshold, he pointed down a short hallway lined with doors. “Maja thought you’d be happier away from the other trainees.”

  Away? As in isolated? Dozens of questions buzzed through my head. I settled on the one that seemed most important. “Who’s Maja?”

  “She’s a third-year. And a Proven, as I am.”

  So that’s why he’d puffed his chest out like that. He’d already made a kill. There was no blood oath involved, so it didn’t count toward his immortality. But it proved he was worthy of being called a son of Odin. From there, it was just a short jump—and a murder—to being a full-fledged berserker.

  “Um, congrats,” I said. “Is that why you get the red jerkin?”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then gave his head a little shake, as if that’s not how he expected me to respond. “Yes. It’s . . .” He plucked at the bottom. “The color is actually called dragonsblood.”

  I nodded. “Well, it’s really nice. I like the black-and-red combo. Sorry, dragonsblood combo. Is Maja the girl with the long black ponytail?” I motioned around my head. “Lots of braids up here?”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Sort of. She thought I’d be happier by myself?”

  He looked away. Two faint spots of color appeared high on his cheekbones. But when he made eye contact again, his demeanor was as rigid as ever. “Because you’re a nymph.”

  Anger rose in my chest. I shoved it down. After my little display in the courtyard, I couldn’t afford another misstep. “I’m half Fae. I didn’t think that was a disqualification for joining the academy.”

  “It’s not. Of course it’s not.”

  I leaned forward. “But?”

  “What?”

  “You were going to say but.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  His voice rose. “I was not.”

  “Were.”

  “Wasn’t.”

  “Were. You were going to say but.”

  He slashed a hand through the air. “Dammit, no, I wasn’t!” His voice echoed off the stone walls, bouncing around the narrow hallway and down the stairs.

  Through the window, lightning flashed.

  Our gazes locked. Shock glazed his eyes.

  A heartbeat later, thunder boomed.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Olaf drew himself up, then tugged his jerkin down in a crisp motion. “Your room is the second on the left.” Movements stiff, he gave me a berserker salute. Before I could react, he pushed past me and bolted down the stairs.

  “Wait!” I descended the steps and hurried after him. “What about my class schedule? Who are my instructors?” My questions bounced off the walls.

  He stopped. Barely turning his head, he muttered, “Someone will wake you in the morning. Instructors have already been assigned.” A sneer entered his tone. “We don’t really have classes here. But you’d know that already if you’d bothered to show up on time.” He swung his head around and started down the hall, his boots ringing a sharp drumbeat against the stone.

  I slumped against the wall. Great, now I’d ticked off my only friend in the place. Not that Olaf was a friend. He was barely an acquaintance. But his was the only semi-friendly face I’d seen so far. Maja of the black ponytail and stony expression certainly hadn’t rolled out the welcome mat.

  There was also the small issue of her deciding to stick me in the attic due to my mixed heritage. I should have expected it, but somehow I hadn’t. Maybe living at Berregaard Manor had made me soft. There, no one cared where my mother came from. Hell, most of the staff were Mythicals with sketchy family trees—

  That was it. I’d spent my childhood surrounded by servants. Aside from the string of berserker tutors Harald had hired over the y
ears, every other being on the estate was part of the household staff. Humans thought their societies were divisive and stratified, but they had nothing on the creatures that made up the Myth. An accident of birth could mean a lifetime of sneers and snide comments.

  And considering how long most Mythical races lived, “lifetime” took on a whole new meaning.

  Dampness from the stone at my back seeped through my sweater and reached my skin. I straightened, then climbed the steps back to the landing. Sunlight poured through the window, making bright shapes on the stone floor. I did a slow turn in the hallway, my gaze wandering. For an attic, it wasn’t so bad. The ceilings were arched like those in a cathedral, and fluted columns were built into the walls around the doors. Lanterns were spaced evenly along the ceiling. I craned my head back and squinted. Were they lit by ifrit fire, too?

  Nope. Just regular light bulbs. Apparently, not even the Rage Lords were wealthy enough to power their whole castle with never-ending flame.

  I went to the second door on the left and stopped. The wood was stained dark, but the spruce underneath was unmistakable. I put my palm flat on the surface and closed my eyes. Immediately, images flashed through my head.

  Men in bowl-shaped helmets and short red tunics. Running. Screaming. Rectangular shields discarded in the mud. Yelling. Snow swirling. Through the white haze, a golden eagle hoisted on a pole.

  I opened my eyes. The wood warmed under my hand. “The Roman Republic, huh?” I patted it. “You’ve seen a lot, old friend.”

  Friend. A smile tugged at my lips. Maybe I had allies in the castle, after all.

  I gave the door a gentle pat, then lifted the latch and walked inside.

  And . . . whoa. “Spartan” was an understatement. Aside from a beautiful window that filled the space with light, the rest of the room was as stark as a prison cell. There was a large fireplace—nearly big enough to stand in—but the grate was dark and cold. One wall held a narrow twin bed covered by a gray blanket. I walked to it and ran my fingertips over the material.

  Wool. Fabulous.

  The opposite wall was dominated by an arched nook covered with a curtain that was half pulled aside. I walked to it and peeked in. Leather pants and jerkins hung in a row, each set black as night.