The Descendants of Thor Trilogy Boxset: Forged in Blood and Lightning; Norns of Fate; Wrath of Aten

by S. A. Ashdown

  I shut the book with care and tucked it under my pillow, turning to the encyclopaedia. What about Ava? I scanned the contents, trying to figure out what she was. My magic stayed silent, and I’d stopped fidgeting. Have you gone to sleep in there? I listened to nothing but the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. I’d been concentrating hard, and maybe it was content with me doing my own research. Maybe it didn’t even care if I failed as a Gatekeeper. One too many maybes.

  When I close my eyes, I see more clearly – Ava’s opening lyrics. My fingers paused on a page with the corner turned down. If you know anything about my father, it’s that books are sacred to him and he’d never mark a page without a proper bookmark. Only I used this book apart from him, when I needed to look up something for an essay or a sudden exam Father had set.

  That meant I had folded the corner down, on the entry marked Clairvoyant. I raked over the weeded bed of my memory, toiling for a seed that would fruit. Nothing helpful sprouted from my subconscious, but whenever I’d done it, it was important; I’d committed absolute sacrilege and underlined the paragraph in pencil.

  Clairvoyant translated as clear seeing and it resonated with Ava’s song. Not enough to go on, but a start, and I planned to download her album. Despite the stirring in my loins, her category within the world of Pneuma wasn’t top priority. I rifled through the leather-bound history of local vampire varmint, only to discover that no vampires had been sighted in Hellingstead since the 1980s, not long before my father and mother emigrated to England.

  The clock struck five times, and a sliver of dawn crept in through the window, lighting my Eye of Horus nicely. I peeked out, half-expecting my father to pounce on me and demand the key, but the room was empty and quiet. I strained to listen. No rain. At last, a break in the weather. That made me feel less guilty. The coming day might be normal and all those normal people could go about their normal lives.

  In silence, I lay back on the bed, shoving the psychic protection manual to one side, a tsunami of exhaustion threatening to drown me in dreams. I sank into my pillows, nearly unconscious, and sure that building noise was merely the taps and twangs of old pipes heating up, not howling wind. No, the bed wasn’t shaking. I shivered because of the cold. That twitching in my muscles, just my body switching off ready to sleep. Everything was fine.

  4

  All Roads Lead to Hel

  ‘Can we trust Julian?’ Penny stiffened in the pew just thinking about it. Of course, they had worked with people on the inside before, but Julian was hard to read. He could betray them. And who would the magistrates believe, her and Malachi or an Overseer? No contest.

  Malachi chewed his fingernails from the other side of the aisle. ‘We’ve been over this. It was always going to be messy.’

  Penny smiled; she liked that part. ‘I suppose Lorenzo was a good choice. If he hadn’t insisted on stopping at the Red Hawk for a quick bite with the barmaid, we would’ve missed Theo. Our Lady is looking out for us. We’re making the right choices – finally.’

  It had been a long slog, gathering information on all the powerful families in Europe. They had to hunt faster, lay the traps and snap them shut before the Praefecti caught up. Always just one step ahead. She loved feeling the breath of danger on her neck, relying on her wits to survive. This was a fight she intended to savour. Lorenzo was just another useful weapon for her to wield.

  ‘You have sway over our little acquisition, Malachi.’ She drummed her nails against the back of the pew. A dark flutter caught her eye. She looked into the rafters of the church. What news did the little fairy have for her? She rubbed her earlobe, and the silvery half-shadow flew down and sat on her shoulder. Malachi cocked his head to one side, but she knew he could see nothing, even if he could sense the… disturbance.

  ‘What do you propose, witch?’

  ‘Hecate won’t share her secrets easily,’ she said, listening to the whisperings in her ear. ‘But she has paved the road we must walk. Theo is the one she wanted us to find. Lorenzo is important. He can lead Theo to us.’ Excitement built from the pit of her stomach. ‘Where else have we felt the magic but here?’

  ‘All roads lead back to Hellingstead,’ Malachi said. He jumped to his feet. ‘Something is going on out there. Listen.’

  They left the church together. The sky was sucking into itself, only to tear apart again. The noise was awful, like ripping skin. ‘Is this normal in England?’ Penny said.

  Malachi scoffed. ‘It’s certainly not normal. Not normal at all. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it.’ He laughed, and Penny relished that familiar mania of his that outpaced the thunder and the rain. The passion she knew all too well. Generations wronged, the balance of magic tilting into the hands of that stinking Egyptian who called himself the Keeper of Peace. She’d die before she’d bow before him. They all would. So close now, she could taste it in the air. Penny’s little fairy flew from her shoulder and wheeled into the centre of the storm.

  It won’t be long, Penny thought, and I can be the destruction.

  5

  Harbinger Of Storms

  ‘Wake up, Theo!’

  I twisted away from the nails digging into my arm, unwilling to leave dreamless bliss, that place where nothing breaks through the suspension of thought and no anxieties exist. The shouting became frantic. ‘Theo, wake up now! You’re sucking Hellingstead into oblivion!’

  Right, oblivion. Such a nice place to be… so easy, so…

  ‘Theo!’ Uncle Nikolaj slapped a giant hand, calloused from toiling in the gardens, across my cheek. I snapped awake, brain still foggy and confused. Nikolaj shook me as violently as the glass rattling in the window frames.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I winced, as his grasp drew blood. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘What’s going on? Look out the window – what’s left of it!’

  He dragged me by my T-shirt and pushed my face up against the glass. Yes, the rain had stopped, but the silver birch trees lining the outer perimeter of the estate looked decidedly battered, shredded bark and leaves swirling in a cyclone, littering the meadow and the driveway. I clamped my ears, protecting them from the screeching wind. How had I slept through this? The building was still standing – no doubt a reprieve thanks to Father’s wards – but I wasn’t so sure about the rest of Hellingstead. My fears for the townsfolk spiralled as the floor rumbled as if we stood in some beast’s gut.

  ‘Who’s murdering a million cats?’

  Uncle Nikolaj flung his lean, Elvish arms above his head. ‘You are! So stop it!’

  My mind-fog cleared like a retreating cloud-bank. For a few moments, I’d forgotten what I was now, that I affected the weather. This proof of my power was both awesome and absolutely terrifying. ‘How? Nik, I have no idea how to deal with this!’

  ‘What was the last thing you thought about before you went to sleep?’

  ‘What are you prattling about? Hellingstead is falling apart out there!’

  ‘Answer the damn question before Espen’s wards crumble!’

  I hated thinking under pressure, I’ve hated it since Father decided my education needed random tests with a hundred percent pass marks required – unless I fancied reciting all the basic elemental incantations in Latin. ‘Err…’

  ‘Think!’

  I groaned and turned away from the window. Thank the gods for climate change; the poor sapiens had no chance explaining this weather otherwise. ‘Just brooding. I don’t see—’

  ‘About?’

  ‘My old life is being swept away, okay? I don’t recognise myself anymore. Who the hell am I? My foundations are crumbling!’ As I shouted, the wind picked up ferocity, the house creaked, the timbers popping like old bones, and the floorboards cracked across the centre of my bedroom.

  Nikolaj grabbed me, nearly suffocating me in a bear hug. ‘We all felt like that once. Nothing has changed, Theo. You know your destiny that’s all. It’s built on a solid foundation going back generations. We’re here for you. We’ll anchor you.’ />
  ‘To be an anchor for the Anchor?’ I breathed in his scent, warmed by his Elvish blood. It grated that the comforting pep talk came from him, not my father. Goodness knows his whereabouts or what he was doing. Preventing the entire collapse of Hellingstead Hall probably.

  ‘Like a child who holds on tight to his kite. We won’t let you go; we won’t let you fly away. I promise.’ Uncle Nik often acted flighty and mysterious, disappearing for weeks or months with no warning, only to return with suitcases empty of explanation but full of trinkets. But one thing I could affirm in a court of law, Uncle Nik never broke an oath.

  ‘Okay,’ I sighed, ‘okay.’ A little chunk of ice fell away from the glacier of my heart. After all my whining about my relatives, I’d been craving their reassurance and protection from the beginning.

  The magic surging through my veins remained mute. Did I have to wait for it, or could I tell it what to do? I must try, I thought, remembering our horses who were probably freaking out like equine demons in their stables. I’m okay. I’ll figure it out. My life hasn’t changed all that much, not really. I’m still me. I still have my family. It became a mantra, calling out in the darkness at the edge of an internal cave, on guard in case that reptile of mine came roaring out like a fire-breathing dragon.

  We both held our breath. Nik let me go, and we cautiously stuck our heads out of the window. ‘I think it worked,’ I said, and Nikolaj nodded, rubbing my shoulder absent-mindedly.

  The house stilled, unnaturally quiet.

  Father arrived red-faced and glowering. He set his lips in a hard line, his knuckles white with fury. I prepared myself for a fireball of derisive raging and threats, but none came. He swallowed each furious comment, one by one, as they raced across his face. Nobody spoke. Nik had ostensibly lost his sense of humour. He must have been thinking the same as me: Shit just got real.

  ‘You’re bloody lucky.’ I waited for Father to elaborate. ‘The storm centred on us. Seems like your issues lie within the walls of the estate. No one died this time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father.’ I clasped my hands and tried to look meek and mousy, not easy when you’re over six feet tall.

  He huffed. ‘Theodore…’

  ‘Perhaps some solutions instead of chiding, Nevø?’

  I silently thanked Uncle Nikolaj for his defence.

  ‘I will concede to you, Onkel. Theodore, I suggest you change into sweats and come for a run with me. We need to inspect the damage.’ He flicked his icy blue eyes in a jagged circle over my body, as if he were looking around me as well as at me. ‘And you need to discharge some energy.’

  ‘Funny, I’m not feeling particularly energetic.’ I yawned, gazing at my bed. Last night’s reading material remained obscured behind the Horus drapes. If Nikolaj had seen them when he woke me up, he didn’t let on.

  They stood stock-still waiting for me to comply. I groaned and meandered over to the chest of drawers on the other side of my bed, pulling out a pair of jogging bottoms and an old sweatshirt. The first pair of socks I located had holes but I was beyond caring.

  I followed Father to the ground floor and through the kitchen and drawing room, stopping by the curved stairs that led to Nikolaj’s private apartment in the east-wing. The muted décor in the hallway hinted at my uncle’s passions, the grey outline of birds and flora swarming the wallpaper. A set of three vintage suitcases were propped by the back door, as if he might take off again at a moment’s notice. I opened the shoe-rack, pulled on my daps, and on the way out, gave the suitcases a swift kick. They’re heavy. So much for his promise to stick around.

  We passed under the balcony that jutted above the library’s windows, sheltering a little herb garden enclosed by a wall of tattered box. On summer mornings, we often had breakfast outside, on one of the ornate iron tables currently upturned at an alarming tilt. I righted them before they crashed into the mullions.

  We sped up the grand path, flanked by elm trees, passing the fountain of Neptune and his nymphs as we headed up the walkway usually shaded with magic-infused wisteria. Not today; purple petals sank to the ground, a bright spot of colour under the blanket of gloomy clouds.

  ‘So, these vampires you’re worried about? When were they last in Hellingstead?’

  Father absorbed the view back to the house, pretending to assess it for damage, but I knew he was avoiding the question. While he ignored me I found some apples – which grew year round thanks to Nik’s Elvish magic – in the orchard, flayed from the trees. ‘Think the horses will like these,’ I said, as we jogged past the pond and Mum’s walled lavender garden. He tried to stay ahead but I caught up with him. ‘You said they’d recognise you? How come?’

  ‘Who?’ he asked, opening the stable hatches. Our chestnut-haired horses, Hrimfaxi ‘frosted mane’ and Skinfaxi ‘shining mane’ seemed unharmed, their long faces sticking out of the barn door. The apples piqued their interest more than we did, and they nudged me until I fed them. ‘The vampires, Father.’

  I let the horses out to roam the field of cherry trees while we rested under the single, immense redwood in the middle, on a thick branch that had snapped off in the storm.

  ‘Nikolaj will sort it out.’

  ‘The vampires?’

  ‘No, the branch. Elves are obsessed with the darn things,’ he scoffed, ‘chopping wood alone merits a miniature funeral.’ He rubbed his hands together for warmth. My arms and legs hummed with heat, supercharged blood spreading effervescence through my organs and tissues. The knot in my solar plexus unwound like a ball of string and gave me the space to breathe. The sensation was once the preserve of my father, although I never knew about it. I wondered if he missed it.

  He stood and walked downhill towards the narrow carp pond inspired by an ancient pool discovered in Villa Poppaea, once owned by the mad Emperor Nero. Weathered statues thronged each side, seated on plinths of marble. I chased after him, losing patience. ‘Stop avoiding the question!’

  ‘I presume you met the De Laurentis clan last night,’ he said, checking for cracks in the statues; unlike those at the Villa Poppaea, our statues of the Greek gods had a purpose other than aesthetics. They acted as tombs for mischievous land-sprites attracted by the magic bubbling in Hellingstead Hall since a family of Gatekeepers moved in. Locked in chiselled, marble bodies, their eyes would glow blue-fury upon detecting an intruder, their true voices released on the unsuspecting victim. A formidable obstacle that protected the otherwise exposed east boundary.

  And totally immoral, let alone forbidden. Father’s argument? The land-sprites were too dangerous to release, and could be used to spy on us. Land-sprites are immortal so he couldn’t kill them, and as they bound themselves to local soil, he couldn’t banish them into another realm either.

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘They are headed by Michele,’ he said, pronouncing it Mi-kel-ay, which sounded Italian for Michael.

  We have a St. Michael’s church nearby. I guess vampires like graveyards after all.

  ‘He’s stalked this neck of the woods for a few centuries but left Hellingstead in the eighties. His son, Malachi, lived with him too.’

  ‘Why did they leave?’

  Father shrugged. ‘The Praetoriani didn’t like them hanging around. Besides, they own most of Tuscany.’

  He paused, satisfied that the statues stood undamaged. At least I haven’t released any vengeful land-sprites to torment us – and Hellingstead – further.

  ‘So that’s it, there were only two?’

  ‘Some came and went,’ Father said, ‘but only two in the family. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ So Lorenzo must be a recent addition.

  He stared at me. Hard. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel like the Gatekeeper of any cosmic life-spring, that’s all. So far, I’ve done nothing but threaten the locals.’ I trotted back to the main path, Father giving me space. My cheek twitched so bad my face ached.

  He caught up and led me to the
secret garden, an abandoned cottage huddled inside its confines. With a matching wishing well, buried under weeds, it was like stepping inside a fairy ring, and the world outside felt less real. This had been my mother’s retreat, her art studio.

  Beyond the stone wall, our heathen temple stood proudly on a knoll. Behind it, the ground degenerated into cliff face, plummeting to beach. On that beach, a piece of up-cycled driftwood where my mother had once painted the shifting view of the seasons, capturing the volatile essence of the waves as they smashed against the shore.

  She’d died farther along.

  Mummy went for a walk in the woods, sweetheart. Yes, the ones by the house. She didn’t see the cliff edge. I’d been too young to understand the tears in Father’s eyes.

  Two minutes later, I’d asked when she was coming back.

  Father’s nose twitched, as if that delicate blend of spice and homespun she’d exuded could infuse the wind, seeping out of the cracks around the windows.

  The temple we couldn’t avoid – thanks to the many rituals, called blots, spread across the year – though it hurt to look up at those cliffs every time we crossed the heath, and even from here, we could see the marble columns gleaming proudly on the brow of the cliff. Mother’s ashes, enshrined inside, strengthened our invocations to the ancestors, and knowing my mother was present straightened my spine that little bit more during often tedious, and non-negotiable, ceremonies. We prayed in the old tongue, harnessing our hamingja – family luck that was passed down through the ages, – as we worshipped Thor, Odin, and Freyr, and Thor’s mother, Earth.

  She is called Jörð – pronounced Yord, – and it was to her that I made a silent prayer on my mother’s behalf as we cut over the coarse grasses and gorse. Early butterflies and dragonflies danced in the warm light as the sun smashed through clouds of slate, shedding its fire upon us as if seeking revenge for its suppression.