Crux (22 page)

My head pounds, and the rusty, peeling walls of the elevator spin as I descend into darkness.

23

When I try to roll over, my body freezes mid-turn. My head throbs, ribs ache. One of my eyes won’t open all the way, and my vision is fuzzy. As my hands inch toward my face, I work my jaw from side to side. The action is painful but workable. I take that to mean nothing’s broken. Stiff fingers explore the skin on my face, the back of my knuckles crack with dried blood, and I discover my lip is busted, nose swollen.

Boy, I’ll bet I’m pretty.

Pushing up to sit, my head whirls and makes me nauseous. A sickly light filters from a single floor lamp. The mattress beneath me creaks, and a glance through my one good eye shows me dirty, windowless walls. A squat, red and black chair sits in the corner. All the furnishings in the room suggest a cheap hotel and sport the University of Georgia Bulldog motif. I’m still in Georgia.
Go team.

Rising from the bed produces a lot of grunting and groaning and forces me to make slow but determined progress to the door.

Locked.

Surprise, surprise.

With my bladder about to explode, I head for the bathroom. On the counter is a change of clothes, toiletries and a towel. Suspicions crawl across my brain. Do my captors intend to make me one of their slaves? My body is beaten, but my mind still processes, so I don’t think they’ve given me any drugs. If they had, I probably wouldn’t feel so lousy.

The world around me spins, and I lean on the sink. When I lift my head, I get a good first look at the new me in the mirror. I’m gross.

My nose is twice its normal size, and my right eye is shiny and purple. My lower lip is swollen and busted, but, thankfully, I have all my teeth. A gash along my hairline bled down my face and crusted dry on my skin. Spiky and brown, my hair on that side sticks out like pine needles—or a bird tried to nest there.

People would pay too much attention to me on the street in this condition. When I try to escape, I need to be ready. I just don’t know what for yet.

Under a drippy faucet, I wet a washcloth to wipe away the blood. My legs tremble, shoulder muscles burning, and I lean against the wall for support.

Once I’m clean and dry, my injuries appear slightly less fearsome. I trade my torn and bloodied clothes for the faded blue jeans, ratty, pink sweater and fleece jacket left for me. One piece at a time, I grit my teeth against the pain. The clothes are baggy but fit, more or less.

I try the door again, but it won’t budge. I don’t knock. There’s no point. I’m exhausted, hurting, and certainly not ready to deal with my enemies.

The bed beckons, and I lie down on the lumpy, red comforter, curling into a ball. Tears slip from my eyes as I think of Jeff and his goofy ways. How I let him down losing Alarr.

He’ll need a new Wielder. I hope the next one fares better than I did.

Despite my failure, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. Saving the girls in the van alone was worth every risk.

I wonder if Fenris survived, if the girls in the warehouse got away.

And Grey.

What am I without him? My heart is burnt out, void, like the cold remnant left after a supernova. What hurts most is wondering how things went down after those elevator doors closed.

Will I ever know?

Pushing every other thought from my mind, I think only about survival.

Come on, Bird, you can do this.

At some point, someone will come through that door, and you better have a plan.
Plans escape me, however, as fatigue replaces coherent thought. Within minutes, I crash.

• • •

The jiggle of the door’s handle startles me awake, but my body won’t move as fast as I order it to. Sven enters in his black trench coat and boots. He shuts the door, but before it closes, I glimpse two more of his thugs standing guard outside my room.

There’s no way I can take them on without Alarr, so I’ll have to wait for my chance.

He takes a seat in the ugly chair. Dishwater blond hair hangs in waves over his forehead, partially obscuring watery, blue eyes. Broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist. He eases back in his seat as though he hasn’t a care in the world, his expression aloof, even pleasant, but his eyes hard as slate. “So, Ms. Strongwing, we meet at last.”

Strongwing?
I remember he used that name in the warehouse. “How do you know my name?”

“I don’t. I know your heritage. We share a long history, Orn Strongwing. What name do you go by?”

The inside of my head fizzes like a soda can that’s been shaken. I’m trying to make sense of his words, but the threads of the different lives I’ve led tangle like yarn.
Rebecca, Strongwing, Orin, Orn … sheeze.
What
is
my name?
“I can’t see how it matters, but you can call me Bird. Is there any point in asking who you are or how you know about me?”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.” He shifts in his chair and crosses his legs. “I am known by many names. Some have changed through the ages, others stay the same.”

“Well, that clears it right up, thanks.”

He actually smiles. “The underbellies of Atlanta call me Sir, but I believe I’m known among the guttersnipe as ‘Snatcher’.” He takes a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lights up. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do.” I narrow my eyes at him. “They won’t call you anything, anymore, pal. We finished your nasty little escort service last night.”

His smile widens as he shakes his bangs from his eyes. “Such arrogance, I like that. You remind me of …
me
.” He raises his manicured nails toward his face. “You still don’t get it, do you? Perhaps I overestimated your intelligence. My life begins again in a few days, as it does every ten years at Gunnarr Blot when I defeat my father. Then I assume a new form—copy an image worthy of me. Do you like this one? Most women do. Allow me to introduce myself … I am King Haddr Bearbane, son of Thorolf Greylock.”

The can in my head stops shaking. The tab is pulled, and the contents spew everywhere. The man in front of me is not Sven from some make-believe movie. He is both the Snatcher
and
Haddr Bearbane.

What have I done?

I root through the foam in my brain and land on one inescapable fact. If I had waited to defeat Haddr at Gunnarr Blot, I would have destroyed him and the Snatcher in one fell swoop.

I curl my fists until my nails bite into the flesh of my palms. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I swallow.

“Thorolf wears the image of another,” Haddr says. “The same way I do. You would know him as the one who trained you.”

“Wait a minute … Jeff? Are you trying to say King Thorolf is your dad and Jeff?
My
Jeff? Aw, man.” I wince as my shoulders slump. “This can’t be happening.”

“Jeff.” Haddr ignores my question, quirks a brow.

“Jeff Branner,” I say. “A teacher I knew in school.”

His lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. “Yes, most amusing. You’re funny aren’t you? Well, I am subject to the same rules of my curse as everyone else. All must appear on the battleground on the twenty-first of December, winter solstice. We will travel together to Moorgaurd Bridge, and I will face dear old dad once again. Only this time, the Wielder—
you
—will not fight.”

“Like hell I won’t.” I don’t know where the heck Moorgaurd Bridge is, but I assume it’s the site of Gunnarr Blot. Though I know without Alarr, I’m weak—useless to Jeff.

Oh, Jeff, why didn’t you tell me who you were?

I cock my head. “It’s a little convenient isn’t it? You just show up here, now, right before the battle like—”

“Not so much as you’d think. Remember, I’ve been through this a time or two, and it’s actually my father who followed me here this time. We’re drawn together as the anniversary nears every decade. Though I like to keep a low profile, I can’t just sit around and ‘be dead’.”

He smiles and re-crosses his legs. Full lips pull another long drag off his cigarette. His exhale fills the room with the heavy scent of clove.

He stares into my eyes. “My time spent with Vlad—more commonly known as Dracula—was interesting. He got a little too much enjoyment from his work. I moved on. Max Robespierre was fun for a while, but his speeches were dry, and he never shut up. Stalin, Zedong, tiresome blowhards. I smuggled whiskey and heroin with Lucky Luciano.
Loved
that guy.” He laughs. “Good times. I practically destroyed Mexico with the help of Diaz and was a gunrunner in Kenya and Pakistan until I got bored there, too.”

Another puff of tobacco stops his speech. The type of being I’m dealing with fully penetrates my brain. He’s a demon, a devil. I’m sure the parameters of the curse are the only reason I’m still breathing. There’s nothing good in him to appeal to, so there’s nothing left to lose.

“I’ll never stop fighting.”

Haddr holds up a hand to stifle a yawn. “Sure, sure. I’ll make a deal with you. Consider very carefully what I’m about to offer, because I’ll only say this once. On the one hand, you have no choice. You
will
travel to Europe and face the destiny of your forefathers. You’ve given your word, sealing the bond with Alarr. No one can alter that path now, not even me. But your Guardian …”

My shoulders tense, I’m ready for the other shoe to drop.

“… he could survive all of this quite unscathed.” Haddr rubs his jaw. “
If
you don’t try to escape and agree to accompany me to England where I can keep tabs on you. If you go peaceably … I won’t have my men hunt your boy down and put a bullet in his brain. I’m bound by my word. Even if he appears on the battlefield, I won’t kill him.”

“Are you freaking insane? I’m supposed to just believe you, I suppose?”

“What are your options? If you run, I’ll only catch you, but what an imposition for me.” With an expression so bland, so void of emotion, he looks as though he might die of boredom. He seems weary of his own game, of the slightest inconvenience and, I hope, overconfident.

Haddr snuffs his cigarette out on his hand and lights another. “Do you believe anything would stop me from making sure your little Guardian dies for no more than spite at your defiance?”

That he will shoot Grey out of petty revenge and pride I believe one hundred percent. Haddr lifts his chin as if he already knows I’ll agree. I want to lunge at him, slap that stupid, superior smile from his face, but what good would it do?

“Your answer, Ms. Strongwing, do you agree?” He draws on his cigarette with those smug, smiling lips. The tobacco burns red.

“Fine.”
But watch your back, dude.

“Very good. Very good indeed.” He eyes me up and down as if I’m dessert. “Even with your face in such a state, I can see you are quite lovely. I’m used to certain … standards. You will look good traveling on my arm, as part of my entourage.”

His words make me want to hurl.

“You may find I am not the monster you imagine.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “I bet you’re a real prince.”

“King, actually,” he says with a slow grin.

• • •

Atlanta to Newark. Newark to Glasgow. Glasgow and we’re back in the air again. Fake passports and I.D.’s were apparently nothing for a phantom crime boss to obtain. Twenty-five hours worth of air flight and layovers, and I find myself in Leeds Bradford International Airport.

He and I travel alone. Hired goons can’t help him at Gummer Blot, and he doesn’t see me as a threat, just someone to keep an eye on. His arrogance has no limits.

Nothing happens as I’d envisioned. It’s my first time anywhere and instead of sharing the experience with Grey as I’d imagined, I’m stuck with a narcissistic madman who wants to rule or torture the whole word. I’m not sure which—maybe both. I don’t think he knows, either. I’ve never met anyone so consumed by jealousy and hate, and I pity Jeff for the son he can’t save.

Tired and hungry, I hurt both in body and spirit, but there’s no point complaining. Haddr informs me we still have a thirty-minute drive to the Town of Moorgaurd Bridge, so while he’s gone to rent a car, I sit in a chair near baggage claim and rest. Escape is a non-issue. As long as there’s a chance to save Grey, I won’t risk his life by running.

My heart aches at the possibility Haddr lied and he’s already dead, so I push the thought aside.

If Fenris and Grey had survived, would Jeff still bring them here?

My mind drifts back to the night Grey and I found the monk’s book. Working so hard, deciphering Latin words to ferret out every clue for the coming battle.

“Something interesting just occurred to me,” I’d said looking up from a stack of papers. “For our plan to really work, I think we’ll have to touch each other.”

“I like it already.” Grey gave me a wolf smile, and my heart threatened to stop.

“Hold up, that’s not what I mean. They said something about physical touch, the monks I mean. They held hands when they prayed. Jeff told me when Haddr cursed his father, he took hold of Alarr
and
his father’s hand. He screamed his curse to the skies. Out loud … get it?”

Grey scrunched his forehead. “No. Yeah, I think so … or not.”

“I’m guessing the curse has to be
undone
the same way. For good measure, you and the band, me and Alarr, Thorolf, Haddr … we all have to get cozy. Hold hands and sing some Viking Kumbaya.”
Ha.
That’ll be easy.
“Then ole ‘Hagar the Horrible’ says the magic words and … poof!”

“What words, though?” Grey scanned the book’s pages. “There’s nothing else in here, no more poetry or songs, just a short prayer.”

“Hmm.” We sat quietly, perusing the book again.

Prayer, prayer …
“Prayer?” I squeaked, all girly and excited. “The monks in my dream prayed, too. I never thought a thing about it. That’s it, oh, it has to be. Keep reading!”

He bent his head and said, “nos toti mali paenitemus. nos complectimur quod sit Sancti.”

I squeezed my hands together in my lap. “Uh, in English please?”

“We repent of all evil. We embrace what is Holy …”

The words nudged something familiar in my memory. I closed my eyes, concentrated. Alarr reacted, freezing my skin, and I knew I was on the right track. As the verses came back to me, I joined with Grey and recited the rest with him as he read. “Return to life’s natural order, find no dwelling place here. Go to your eternal rest; be at peace.”