Embrace of the Damned (15 page)

Jessa took deeper stock of Halla. She looked of an age with her, leanly muscled, obviously in shape.
Obviously.
After all, she was a
Valkyrie
, right? She didn’t know why she was so surprised. She’d already accepted that Loki was a real, live being and that she herself was a witch. There shouldn’t have been much more Broder could reveal that would shock her.

“So what does a Valkyrie do besides run around scaring years off people’s lives? I mean, I’m pretty sure they don’t survey battlefields and decide who lives or dies anymore, right?” Jessa asked, channeling everything she knew about the Valkyrie of lore. She paused, fidgeted, and blinked. “Or … do they?” She couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

Halla grinned. “Once we did. Now we are just warriors like the Brotherhood. Have to change with the times, right?” Her smile widened and actually became genuine. She stuck her hand out. “I am sorry we got … how do you say in English … off on the mistaken foot.”

Jessa hesitated a moment, then shrugged and shook her hand. “That’s okay. And it’s
wrong
foot.”

Halla withdrew her hand. “You really just found out you’re seidhr?”

Jessa nodded. “I’m a brand spanking new witch.”

She pressed her lips together as if in thought. “You’re young, but not a new witch. I can feel you’ve been using your power.”

“You can?”

She shrugged like it was nothing. “It’s a part of being Valkyrie.”

“Couldn’t you tell I was a newbie when you entered the room?”

“Newbie?”

“Never mind.”

“No, she couldn’t, Jessa,” answered Broder. “She meant to take you by surprise to see what sort of combat skills you have.”

That would be none. Halla was right; she did rely on Broder and that needed to change.

“You did come here to train, did you not?” asked Halla.

“I guess so.” Then she thought about it for a moment. “Not really.”

Halla cocked her head to the side. “Then why are you here?”

Jessa thought about that for a moment before answering. “I came here to find myself.”

Roan slid out of his car in front of the huge gray stone mansion that was home to most of the world’s witches and shamans. He stood for a moment, gazing at the enormous structure of buildings with that familiar cold weight filling his chest.

The place had begun to bother him so much over the years that he’d moved to a cottage at the back of the property, near the high stone wall that hid the enclave away from human eyes, well away from the bustle and commotion of the Big House, as it was called.

Molly stepped out the front door of the mansion and into the faintly gray, misty morning. She was dressed colorfully, as usual, in a short gray gown that somewhat recalled the Victorian age, a black top hat tilted saucily on her glossy hair, and a pair of very high black platform boots. Her blond hair, dyed black on the underside, lofted free and loose
around her pretty face. Her expression lit up when she saw him and she bounced down the steps to his car.

“He’s called everyone, you know,” she told him, hooking her arm with his. She wore a pair of elbow-length black silk gloves. “They’re all in the library.”

“Yes.” He tried not to answer in such a dead, dry voice, but it was hard.

“He’s not in a very good mood.”

“Is he ever?”

She shrugged. “Some days he’s less rotten than others. Today is not one of those blessed days. Today he almost feels manic. There’s something big going on. Something important.”

They reached the top of the stone stairs and pushed open the heavy wooden double doors. Through the marble foyer, Roan glimpsed the library, a fire flickering brightly to ward off the chill. A shadow moved in the room and low murmurs filled the air. The heaviness in his chest increased.

He and Molly walked into the room and Thorgest Egilson whirled to face them, his long beard braided into two plaits. His rheumy eyes narrowed and his hollowed cheeks were bright pink with temper or excitement, Roan couldn’t be sure which yet. He had no idea why they’d all been called.

He pointed a finger at Roan as Molly skirted off to the side to join the other witches and shamans already convened in the room. “Abigail an’ Michael’s child is alive. A witch, by the feel of it. She’s here in Scotland. Her presence thrums through me blood.”

The blood drained from Roan’s face and he rocked back a step. The mere mention of Abigail’s name nearly sent him over the edge and he didn’t like being surprised this way. He shifted on his feet and cleared his throat, trying to gain a handle on the moment. Losing your composure in front of Thorgest was a little like cutting your arm open in front of a hungry lion.

“Abigail’s child survived?” It was a slow and stupid reaction. He could see the blood coursing from the wound he’d made right in front of Thorgest.

Thorgest quivered with rage for a moment before exploding, “Yes, ye imbecile! I just told ye. She’s here in Scotland somewhere. The magick of her quivers through me veins.
Find her!
” He slammed his fist down on the long conference table that dominated the room and lowered his head. He’d roared the last sentence, making everyone in the room flinch.

“We believe you.” Roan shifted on his feet, trying not to let Thorgest’s raw emotion affect him; he had plenty of his own.

Empathy was a problem for all trained seidhr shamans and witches, but controlling it had always been a particularly hard struggle for him, especially now. Any hint of the woman he’d once loved more than his own life was enough to undo him completely. He directed his focus past the antique furniture in the fussy room to the large picture window at the end and stared as he gritted his teeth against the flow of Thorgest’s rage.

The leader of their enclave swung around and speared him with his light blue eyes. “Ye believe me? Ye know she’s here? Then find her. Bring her to me.” Roan had never seen him so upset about anything, not in the five hundred years he’d known him. That was saying a lot. He wasn’t even making sense right now and that was a rare thing.

“I need more details. You say you know she’s here, but we thought she’d perished with her parents. We don’t know the name she’s using, don’t know why she’s here. She may not even know she’s a witch. Without something of hers, material or immaterial, it’s going to be difficult to locate her.”

Abigail and Michael had disappeared thirty years ago to escape Thorgest’s displeasure over their union. Six years after they’d run away, Thorgest had discovered Abigail was pregnant and had pleaded with his granddaughter to return home to Scotland, but the controlling and manipulative things Thorgest had done had driven a permanent wedge between them. Abigail had remained estranged, putting herself and her infant at great peril from the Blight.

Thorgest’s granddaughter had been a powerful witch,
just as Michael had been a strong shaman, yet the very fact of their bloodline had made them a target. It was a testament to the strength of Abigail’s feelings about her grandfather that she’d fled the enclave and lost herself in the United States.

More than one year after Thorgest and Abigail’s fiery final conversation, one of the witches had sensed the death of Abigail and Michael, but they’d not known the fate of the child. They’d assumed the baby had perished in the car accident along with her parents.

Apparently Thorgest had begun to sense Abigail’s daughter through trace magick, leading him to believe she’d arrived in Scotland. It seemed impossible. Roan could not yet rule out the possibility of some kind of trick by the Blight, but he couldn’t reveal this suspicion to Thorgest without insulting him. Yet Roan was head of security for the enclave; it was his job to be suspicious. They were constantly on guard against demon attacks and sometimes their enemy could be insidious.

The thought of Abigail’s daughter present in Scotland was very interesting. He’d tracked every moment of this story, lived it over and over again in his heart and his mind, since Abigail hadn’t broken only Thorgest’s heart when she’d left—she’d broken his, too. Roan had been the man meant to marry her, the one Thorgest had groomed for her and had tried to push her toward. Roan had hoped for her, had loved her. Her rejection of him stung to this day.

Thorgest studied him with narrowed eyes and Roan steadied his stance. Thorgest was a strong man and ruled with iron not only in his fist, but in his backbone. When he had that look in his eye, it meant he wasn’t happy. However, there was no way Roan was going to quail under his scrutiny.

“Last I checked, we were seidhr,” said Thorgest. “That means magick, does it no’? Gather the witches, gather the shamans. Do what ye must.” He paused. “Break whatever rules ye must, take whatever risks, but
bring my great-granddaughter home.
”

•  •  •

Broder knew he should stay away, so why couldn’t he?

He moved across Jessa’s room in the pitch-black of early morning. She was a witch and he … well, he was Broder Calderson. The two should never have met.

And then they had.

He shouldn’t want her, shouldn’t even be in the room, yet there she was on the bed, covers kicked off, T-shirt tangled around her midriff, and her cotton shorts exposing the long, pale length of her legs. He wanted to kiss and lick every inch of them.

Being around her made him crazy, but not being around her gave him the shakes, like a man in need of a fix. Either way he was damned. It was the story of his life.

He hated Loki for this more than he’d ever hated him and that was saying a lot.

Crossing the room, he stood at the end of the bed. She rolled to the side, throwing her arm across her face, and let out a sigh in her sleep. The sound made every nerve in his body sing for her. Without even knowing he was moving, he crawled onto the bed with her.

Moving her hair away from her face, he jerked in surprise when she sighed and pressed her cheek into his palm with a smile on her face. “Broder,” she murmured.

Broder went still, the center of his chest warming where before there had only been cold. He rubbed his thumb over the soft porcelain of her skin.

Mine.
The thought came unbidden and it was definitely unwelcome, yet there it was anyway, beating fierce in his heart and in his head.
Mine.

He wanted her to be his for always, no matter what the gods decreed.

Lowering his head, he softly sampled her lips. “I need to touch you, Jessa,” he whispered against her mouth.

She made a purring sound of assent, though she never opened her eyes. “Yes, Broder, please touch me,” she answered breathily.
“I want you.”

His cock was already as hard as steel. If it could have, it would’ve grown even harder. It was the words he’d heard in all his fantasies since the moment he’d met her. He moved down her body.

She hardly made a sound when he eased her shorts down her legs and spread her thighs. In the moonlit room, her skin looked like milk and he wanted to take a long, deep drink. He parted her thighs and she sighed. He lowered his mouth to her and she made a small sound. She liked it—but no more than he did.

The flavor of her spread over his tongue and he groaned. She tasted so damned good. He found her clit and laved it, hearing her pleased reaction. Under his tongue, the small bud blossomed. He’d only wanted a taste of her, but now that he was here he wanted more. He wanted to make her come. He craved the sound of it, the sweet tension in her body. He fed off of her pleasure, since he couldn’t take his own. Not yet.

A new sound made him lift his head. Jessa’s eyes were open and staring at him. He smiled at her, then lowered his head again. Unexpectedly, she moved. Her foot struck him square in the chest.

With an
oof
, he fell backward. She’d used every ounce of her strength to kick him and it had taken him by surprise.

She yanked the blankets up over her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she screamed at him. “It’s the middle of the night. What do you think I am, your personal blow-up doll?”

He stared up at her from where he’d landed on his ass. “What? You told me you wanted it.”

She gaped, her jaw dropping. “I was sleeping!”

“Sleeping?” He blinked. She’d been talking in her sleep? “You seemed like you were enjoying it.”

She stared at him like he’d gone mad. “
I was unconscious.
I wasn’t given a choice.”

Broder absorbed that. “Who were you dreaming about?”

After hesitating a moment, she leapt from the bed. She looked good wearing only a T-shirt. “None of your business.”

Interesting.

He pushed to his feet. “Let’s say, hypothetically, it was me. Wouldn’t it be just as if you’d been awake?”

“Get out!” she roared, advancing on him.

He stood his ground for a moment. He loved the flash of anger in her eyes. “Tell me you didn’t like it, Jessa. Tell me there isn’t a part of you that wanted me to continue.”

She stalked up to him and stuck her finger in his chest. “That’s not the point. This is the twenty-first century, Broder, and in this century women are in full control of their bodies. You touch me when I say you can.
Now get out!
”