Crux (3 page)

4

Jeff stares down at me from a height rivaling Mount Kilimanjaro. “What happened?” he asks in his funny accent.

I squint up at him and repeat, “Jeff?”

He lifts a brow. “Oh, yes of course,
Jeff
. That’s me. Do you live near here?”

“Not exactly.”

“I see. Would you come with me to my house?”

I screw up my eyebrows and give him my best are-you-out-of-your-freakin’-mind look.

“Never mind.” He glances left. “Are you a coffee drinker?”

“Um … Yeah.” I’ve only been addicted to the stuff since I was twelve.

“Good. There’s a coffee house a block away. Follow me.” His trench coat flaps in the breeze as he stalks off.

He’s a stranger, a man, and he’s big, all good reasons to walk away. As weird as he is, I don’t get the vibe he’s dangerous, and stuff a lot weirder than Jeff just happened in that bank. I ram the toe of my boot against a pothole, convinced Jeff knows more than he’s telling.

My eyes roll as the distance between us grows.
Aw, what the heck.
It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve followed him. I chuff out a breath as I trudge after him. Something inside me tries to trust a little—a very little—but still, this is huge for me.

My heel snags on a crack in the sidewalk. I right myself and press on. The man walks impossibly fast—like he’s going for gold in Olympic speed walking, and I’m jogging to keep up.

At the coffee house, we order, sit, and stare at each other. The place is well lit, with enough customers to flag for help should our meeting go south. I slurp the whipped cream off my cinnamon dolce latte, wipe a dollop off my nose, and try to figure out why we’re here.

It’s not long before Jeff spreads his hands, fingers splayed on the table in front of him. Big, long hands like a couple of lake trout with fingers. “I need to know … No, wait.” He frowns. “What is your name, please?”

The tabletop receives my full attention.

“Do you want answers or not?”

Yes!
“Fine. Everyone calls me Birdie.”

He purses his lips. “That is not what I asked, but it will do for now. Birdie, what happened to you tonight? You went to the bank, yes?”

I decide to play along. “Yes.”

“And something happened to frighten you.”

My spoon stops halfway between the whipped cream and my mouth.

“When you held the amulet, it burned?”

If my life is a plane, Jeff is the kamikaze pilot who keeps shooting my wings off, and sending me into tailspins. All I can do is hope my parachute opens. “You gotta stop doing this kinda stuff to me, Jeff. I don’t know how you know that, but … yeah, something scared me. And so do you.” I lower my spoon to my glass; it tinkles, bouncing off the sides.

“You know my name is not Jeff.”

“I figured.” I give a slow nod. “What is it then?”

He shrugs. “Jeff is as good a name as any other I would give you.”

Uh huh.
Guess I’m not the only one sporting a pseudo identity. “What do you want with me?”

“I need to relay some information, a story, if you will.” His fingers drum the rim of his mug. “Will you listen?”

As freaked out as I am, I want an explanation for what happened in the bank, the money, everything. I nod.

My back sinks against the cozy, burgundy, velvet bench as I wait for Jeff to enlighten me.

He straightens against his seat and squares his shoulders.

“Long ago, German monks brought the message of Salvation to the Northman.”

A theology lesson isn’t exactly the information I hoped he’d share.

“Tired of warmongering, Viking king, Thorolf Graylock, made peace with the monks. He converted from his pagan beliefs and idolatry to Christianity, but ten years later, greed overtook him again, and he declared war on the English.”

Jeff steeples his fingers and closes his eyes, releasing a breath.

“Thorolf retreated from battle with many losses. Far from home, outnumbered, and supplies depleted, his army would not survive another skirmish. The English king demanded his surrender, his queen, his lands—everything—in exchange for their lives.

“Shame, fear, especially pride overtook the Viking king. He refused to give in, and, in desperation, reverted to his pagan gods. Thorolf sought the help of Illfuss, the soothsayer, who’d been banished to the mountains for idolatry. The evil man was renowned for his knowledge of the dark arts.”

My gaze follows Jeff’s hands as he folds and refolds his napkin.

“Concerned with preserving his kingdom and family line, the king asked the magician to foretell the future and for the supernatural ability to prevail in battle. Illfuss divined, through prophetic visions, that the Viking could achieve his goals. Under the soothsayer’s supervision, an amulet was crafted by sorcerers, together with old world blacksmiths and artisans of the northern mountains. To most, the jewelry appeared a harmless ornament, but a sacred few understood it wielded great power born of black magic, and the one designated to control that power was Graylock.

I lean forward, brushing my arms against a sudden chill. “Dude. An amulet, as in, a necklace?”

Jeff holds up a hand. “That war between the Vikings and the English would later be named Gunnarr Blot—Norse for Blood War. Under a sky blackened by threatening snow and flying arrows, the battle raged. The field shook with hundreds of thundering hooves and ran red with the blood of men loyal to their kings.”

A couple enters through the shop door, halting Jeff’s words. The clanging bell announces several more, but I barely see them—my mind is too fixed on the story.

“When the Vikings’ ranks thinned to a fraction of their original size, it became clear the English had won the day. Exhaustion and guilt brought Thorolf’s fight to an end. As he stood panting, confused over an outcome that was suppose to bring victory, a sharp stab entered at the small of his back, the point of a sword emerging from his stomach.

“Haddr Bearbane, Thorolf’s son, had disguised himself as an English warrior and joined with the enemy king to overthrow his father. As the younger man pushed the blade deeper into his father’s flesh, Thorolf realized too late he’d misunderstood the prophesy. His
line
would be preserved but not his life. The king could not abide Haddr’s treachery, so he turned, drew a dagger from his belt, and drove it into the heart of his only child—leaving Thorolf’s grandson to rule instead.”

Calm through the whole story, Jeff falters. His stony gray eyes soften. His hands slide off the table and disappear into his coat pockets.

The prolonged silence gets more and more awkward, so I blurt out one of ten questions ricocheting in my head. “Is this just a story or a
true
story?”

“Let me finish … please?”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry.” I bite my lip and scoot back against my seat.

“As the pair lay dying on the field, crimson with the blood of fallen men, the son swore vengeance against his father. Haddr grabbed the amulet, clutching his father’s hand in his own.” Jeff copies the motion by grabbing my hand. I jump. He squeezes as I pull away, threatening to cut off my blood supply before releasing me again. The lines around his eyes deepen. “He evoked a terrible curse, howled to the heavens, promising to haunt his father until his victory was complete, just seconds before he died.”

I rub my hand and scowl, but Jeff doesn’t seem to notice.

“Heavy with regret, the king called one of his men, Orn Strong Wing, to his side. Thorolf’s soul was tortured with the knowledge he’d forsaken hope and faith to pursue an evil path. He tore the hated amulet from his chest and charged Orn with the task of choosing a second.”

“A what?”

“A … champion, also called a guardian, to aid him in destroying the weapon.”

“Oh, right, right.” I motion with my hand as if I understand. “Go ahead …”

Jeff lowers his voice. “The warrior swore an oath to obey his King’s last request.”

I’m already shaking my head. It sounds like some kind of hokey Hollywood blockbuster. “He failed, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” He nods. “He failed, along with all who’ve tried since. The amulet’s powers are very … seductive.”

Seriously?
“And now the amulet must be … wait, let me guess, destroyed?”

He slumps back against his seat. “Heaven help us, yes.”

Help us?
I think you mean help you, buddy.
“Well …” I reach over and dig through my belongings for the necklace in my bag. Afraid to touch it, I lift the amulet by its chain with a ball point pen and lay it on the table. The metal makes a soft, scratching sound as I scoot it toward Jeff. “Then by all means, destroy the sucker. The freakin’ thing hurts, makes me hallucinate … and, quite honestly, creeps me out.”

“Hallucinate?” His brow rises. “A vision, perhaps? They give precious information but are very rare.”

I glare at him. “I don’t care, just melt the thing.”

“The
thing
is cursed,” he says. “The task must be fulfilled by one of Orn’s blood, a descendent, if you will.”

My eyes are as dry as sand, and rubbing makes them worse. His voice has started grating on me. “So?” I don’t know why I’m so irritable. My clothes are making me too warm. I tug on my shirt, suddenly scratchy against my skin, and shift my legs under the table.

“I think that is enough for tonight.”

“Darn straight that’s enough.” Fear his story is true finally overrides any interest in hearing more. I don’t need this drama. The stranger in the snow. The memory of the pain in my hand. I’m lying to myself. Something did happen in the bank, and we both know it.

“Go home. Rest. We will talk more tomorrow,” Jeff says.

Tomorrow?
What are we now, coffee pals? Just sit around and swap history lessons? Fairy tales? “Look Jeff,” I say. “I’m grateful to you for the money. It changed my life, gave me a shot at a real one, and the truth is, I can never repay you for that. So despite the fact that I’m not sure you have both oars in the water, I came in here to listen to you. Now, I’m more convinced than ever …” I lean across the table, hoping to reflect sincerity in my expression. “Sorry, but I sincerely think you might need a doctor.”

Jeff’s face keeps the same impassive expression. “What is your name, Birdie, your full name?” He lowers his head at me, narrows his eyes over a prominent nose. He holds the stare a moment, like there’s something I’m not getting.

When I don’t answer, he says, “I cannot destroy the amulet. Only an heir of Orn Strong Wing can do that. Do you suppose the name you use is coincidence?”

No. Oh, hell no.
“You gotta be kidding me!” I clench my fists. “I am
not
Bilfro Baggins. You are not a wizard with a pointy hat, and this is not the one ring of power.” I raise my finger toward the jagged stone.

Jeff’s brows rise. “Bilbo? Bilbo Baggins?”

“Whatever!” I throw my hands in the air. Several patrons tilt up their heads in our direction. I ignore them. “It’s not as if I haven’t had a hard enough time.” I mumble to myself as I slam my bag on the table, zip it closed, and stand, prepared to leave. “I’ve paid my dues. I want to be normal. Go to school. Get a job.” My eyes flicker back toward Jeff’s. “I’m sorry for you, man. I really, really am, but I can’t handle this. You’re over my head. You don’t need a friend. You need a professional, okay?”

The corners of Jeff’s mouth lift. It’s the closest I’ve seen to emotion from him.

Pity nudges at me as his shoulders slump, overcoat puddling at his waist. “I’m sorry. I can’t be involved.”

“You’re already involved.” He scoops up the amulet, unzips my bag, and drops it in before handing me a card with a phone number printed on one side. “For when you figure things out,” he says.

My eyes roll dramatically. I just love it when he’s cryptic.

• • •

It’s my first night on the street, and I’m broke. Thin clouds pass over a banshee moon that sheds little light, reminding me of Halloween. After hours of ordering nothing but water, the waitress in the all-night coffee shop asks me to leave.

A young girl with ebony skin and bleach blond dreads, wearing a long grey jacket walks past, nodding hello. On instinct, I follow her. I don’t know what else to do, and I’m scared to death. She leads me to an abandoned loading dock at some defunct old warehouse. Other homeless gather there. I don’t have anything of value in my backpack other than clothes and toiletries, but they don’t know that, and I can’t help but wonder if anyone will hurt me. I finger the K-bar in my pocket and ponder whether I have the guts to defend myself if attacked. I talk big, but I’m completely terrified. Every sound makes me jump. A strong guy could easily take my knife away and use it on me.

Buildings block the wind, but the corner where I choose to stand reeks like vomit and urine. Maybe that’s why no one else shows an interest in me. My legs buckle from exhaustion, and I slide down the wall to sit in the filth. Cold seeps through my jeans. I can’t control my shaking. Someone lights a fire in a metal trash can. Flames burn bright above the can’s rim, and I can imagine its warmth, but I don’t dare go nearer. A familiar sense of being in over my head smothers me, and I question which fate is worse—this one, or the one I fled.

The others ignore me, so I think the stench surrounding me is worth it. The girl with the dreads sidles over. I clutch the knife in my pocket. It’s hard to breathe, and I press my lips together to keep the threatening whimper inside. Dread girl says her name’s Shondra and asks to sit. I shrug, but she plops herself down on the pavement anyway. Her ebony skin and jade eyes are so striking, I struggle not to stare.

“I ain’t seen you before. You gotta place to stay?” she asks.

My eyes narrow. I look from her to the crowd of people at the fire and back. “Oh, yeah, just forgot my key tonight.”

“Uh hmm. That’s why you be sittin’ here in someone else’s piss? Girl, you gonna have to come up with somethin’ better than that.” Shondra shakes her head. She looks younger than me, but like a hundred years old, too.

I can’t explain the quick bond between us, but I like her, and I don’t like many people.