Between the Blade and the Heart

by Amanda Hocking

  His full lips always seemed on the edge of a smirk, one that even my stoic mother couldn’t resist. As he walked over to greet us, Marlow pushed down her cowled hood and smiled brazenly at him.

  “How is it that you always manage to look so beautiful, even this early in the morning?” Samael mused, his eyes locked on my mother.

  I rolled my eyes and sat in one of the several uncomfortable three-legged armchairs. I leaned back, propping my black moto boots up on the glass table to wait out Marlow and Samael’s flirtation.

  “You know work always brings out the best in me.” Marlow smiled demurely at Samael, then turned and sauntered away from him, toward his desk.

  He kept a crystal bowl on his desk, perpetually filled with treats like red bean paste covered in gold leaf or baby scorpions dipped in chocolate. As Samael turned his attention to me, Marlow grabbed a handful of whatever delicacy he had today, and as he spoke, she absently munched on it.

  “So, Malin, how did it go?” Samael asked me.

  I looked past him to my mother, searching her expression for clues as to how she thought it went, but she just stared down impassively at the morsels in her hand.

  “He’s dead, so I think it went about as well as it could have,” I said finally.

  “Returned,” Samael corrected me, then cast his eyes toward the ceiling, as if someone upstairs cared enough to eavesdrop on us. “He’s returned, not dead.”

  The immortals weren’t killed—they merely shed their mortal coil in a way that meant they could never walk the earth again.

  That was one of the basic tenets of the world we lived in, and one of the first things we were taught in grade school. The gods had given us dominion over the earth, where humans, animals, and supernatural beings were all supposed to live in harmony as much as we could.

  Valkyries were instated to return immortals to another realm—to an underworld called Kurnugia—and they could not come back. Mortals couldn’t return from the dead, either, but that was mostly because we had no afterworld.

  That was how things were kept “fair.” Immortals returned to Kurnugia, but mortals could not. When we died, we were left to rot in the dirt.

  The dead must stay dead. That which is dead cannot rise.

  “If you’re going to be a Valkyrie, you’ll have to get the lingo down,” Samael went on.

  “I am a Valkyrie,” I replied pointedly.

  “It may be in your blood, but it’s not your job title yet,” Samael said, sitting back down on the sofa across from me. “You know how the folks upstairs love paperwork and procedure.”

  “That they do,” Marlow snorted in agreement, but I already had plenty of experience with the bureaucracy of the Evig Riksdag.

  My training in their protocol had begun shortly after my eighteenth birthday, with classes at Ravenswood Academy, and it had still taken almost a year before I was able to start apprenticing alongside my mother. Then it had been another six months of testing and training and red tape before I had finally gotten a permit and been allowed to make kills, as long as it was under the close supervision of Marlow.

  Since then I had killed—or, rather, returned—four immortals. Eleazar Bélanger had been my fifth.

  “How are you taking to it, then?” Samael leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and something in the softness of his voice led me to believe what he was really asking was how I was coping.

  There had been an entire course at Ravenswood Academy called Guilt and How to Handle It, and we discussed how some Valkyries couldn’t deal with it. The responsibility of being an executioner was too much.

  But I’d never felt guilt. I’d never felt anything but purpose. My body was made to do this, and when there was too much time between jobs, I began to crave it. The way the electricity felt coursing through me, the buzzing around my heart, the way the pressure felt growing inside of me that wouldn’t stop until I completed my mission.

  It was all relief and release.

  “I can’t imagine doing anything else,” I admitted.

  Samael looked back over his shoulder at my mother. “You think she’s doing well enough to go on her own soon?”

  “She’s ready to go now.” Marlow absently brushed at the crumbs on her black pants. “I know the Riksdag wants her to have seven returns under her belt, so I’ll be happy to shadow for the next two, but she doesn’t need me.”

  Samael looked back at me, grinning. “Well, it sounds like you’ll be a Valkyrie very soon.”

  My mother looked up, pride flashing momentarily in her dark gray eyes. “She was born for it.”

  THREE

  The city had outgrown the land, and a century or so ago it had expanded out onto the lake. I’m sure the engineer behind the New Edgewater development had visions of romantic architecture with canal streets, like Venice or St. Petersburg, but the reality had become something much different.

  The water had become polluted, and it smelled of gasoline and dead fish, and the wealthy elites had fled. The condominiums and apartments that towered around me, scraping the clouds overhead, had become run-down and decrepit. Broken windows and rusty fire escapes, with clotheslines running from building to building.

  Vehicles sped by on the canals, splashing filthy water onto the sidewalks. It was all old yellow taxis, hovercrafts, and luftfahrrads—motorcycles that hovered a few inches above the surface of the water.

  Somewhere a baby was crying. In New Edgewater, there was always a baby crying somewhere within earshot. There was a large population of pontianaks here, and they lured victims with the sound of a crying infant.

  It was getting late, but I walked slowly down the crowded sidewalks away from my apartment. As much as I loved working as a Valkyrie, it always took something out of me, and I crashed for hours after.

  The garage would be closed by the time I got there, but the stack of silvery blue bills in my pocket would open the doors. Samael always paid me with freshly minted money, and I often wondered what became of the old worn dollars. Did the Riks shred them and constantly print their own money?

  Above me, the overcast sky rumbled ominously. The lights from the city made the clouds glow orange and red, and I quickened my pace. I had only a block left to go when the sky opened up with angry, cold raindrops.

  Galel’s Garage was right on the edge of where dry land met the lake, and I jogged over to it. The plate-glass window proudly proclaimed that Galel’s Garage had been serving the New Edgewater community for over 125 years, but that kind of thing was easier to do when you were immortal.

  “We’re closed!” a voice boomed from the garage as I stepped into the front lobby.

  “I thought you might make an exception for your favorite customer,” I said hopefully, and a few moments later Jude Locklear came in through the garage door, bowing his head slightly so his horns wouldn’t hit the frame, as he dried his hands on a frayed towel.

  His oil-stained overalls were rolled down to his hips, and his white tank top stretched taut over his chest and stood out sharply against his dark olive skin. Jude towered over me, with broad shoulders and biceps the size of tree trunks. His black hair fell in waves that landed just above his shoulders, and his dark eyebrows were always perfectly arched in a look of suggestive amusement.

  At first glance, he looked like an ordinary guy—albeit a very muscular and very tall guy—in his early twenties. It was only the two massive ram’s horns that curled out from the side of his head that revealed his true heritage as a Cambion, the son of a demon.

  His father, Galel, was an incubus, to be precise, and someday his name might show up on Samael’s orders to me. But Jude’s never would, since he was mortal like his mother. Jude had only inherited his horns and his undeniable sex appeal from his father.

  Well, that and his ability to fix nearly any vehicle in a short amount of time for a reasonable price.

  “You’re late.” Jude grinned slowly at me, and there was an irresistible sparkle in his dark brown eyes every time he smiled.


  “I overslept, and then I got caught in the rain.” I motioned to the rain pounding against the glass behind me.

  His eyes flitted over my body, at the clothes sticking wet to my skin, and I arched my back slightly, pushing out my chest. He smiled approvingly before tossing the towel at me.

  “Dry yourself off, then I’ll show you what I did with your luft.” He turned, and I followed him into the garage as I ran the towel through my hair.

  My luftfahrrad was a Frankenstein of a hoverbike, with parts from all kinds of old bikes and vehicles pieced together to somehow make a working luft, including a chrome skull between the handlebars. Jude himself had been the one to do most of the work, following my requests to get it done as cheaply as possible. It was actually a credit to his skill that the damned thing ever ran.

  “You know, I don’t mind seeing you every few weeks to duct-tape some new problem you have,” Jude said as he finished explaining all the new adjustments he’d made to keep it afloat. “But I’d be a shitty mechanic if I didn’t point out that it would be cheaper just to buy a new luft than to keep getting this one fixed up.”

  I pulled my cash out of my pocket and ignored his suggestion, the way I did every time he made it. “How much do I owe you this time?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced over at the clock hanging on the wall. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we go out and get a drink, and we can settle up later?”

  I smiled. “If that’s what you want, it sounds fun to me.”

  “Just let me change, and we’ll get out of here.”

  FOUR

  On the chipped-paint sign above the door, the name CARPE NOCTEM was barely legible. The brick façade was cracked and crumbling, and the large front window had been boarded up, with yes, we’re open spray-painted across it.

  Everything about the exterior looked ancient, except for the sign on the door, declaring that they served liliplum here. And even that had faded to lavender from bright purple, since it had been five years since liliplum was legalized.

  Barstools were held together with duct tape, and broken glass littered the sticky floor. Despite the subpar décor and angry thumping of music through the stereo, the bar was always packed.

  The clientele were mostly regulars, or at least it seemed to me that I always saw the same folks when I came here with Jude. Mostly big, burly, and male, wearing tattered leather and denim. Some were obviously craven, with horns and fangs and monstrous appendages, but others were just regular humans looking to escape the monotony of the nearby slums.

  A place like this one might expect to smell like cheap beer and body odor—and it did, but only slightly, buried deep beneath the sweet floral and clove scent of the liliplum. In the corner of the bar, behind a curtain of beads, was the hookah bar, where patrons smoked the liliplum, and its dark violet smoke filled the room.

  Jude found two open seats at the bar, and a waitress with large raven’s wings growing from her back and a septum piercing came over to glare at us. He gruffly ordered a bottle of the cheapest beer, and when she set her angry-bird eyes on me, I ordered the same.

  “How is work?” Jude asked, after the waitress had rolled her eyes and left us to retrieve our beer.

  “It’s good,” I replied carefully.

  Jude knew what I did, and he claimed he didn’t care. But many others didn’t think so highly of Valkyries, particularly immortal cravens like the kind that frequented this bar. After all, someday in the future, I might be the one to kill them.

  “That’ll be fifteen bucks,” the waitress said, sounding both bored and pissed off as she set two lukewarm bottles of Dante’s Lager in front of us. I put a twenty down on the bar, but the waitress had already sauntered off to be irritated by some other customer.

  Jude took a long drink of his beer, grimacing as he swallowed it down. I followed suit, drinking down the tepid alcohol. It tasted like old socks but with a heat at the end that made my eyes water. Jude laughed and patted me heartily on the back, his massive hand feeling warm and powerful even through my jacket.

  “Dante’s Lager is an acquired taste,” Jude admitted.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my arm. “Well, it is not a taste I wish to acquire.” He laughed again, a warm rumble that seemed to permeate everything.

  Jude motioned to the crisp twenty-dollar bill that the waitress had yet to collect. “I take it that you were working last night?”

  I nodded, and despite the burning in my throat, I ventured taking another drink, gulping it down quickly.

  “Anyone I know?” Jude asked. He was smiling, but there was a twisting at the corner of his lips and his eyes were downcast.

  When people found out I was a Valkyrie, they usually reacted in three ways: anger, disgust, or curiosity. Sometimes it started out as one, then turned into another.

  But I was already used to hearing the same questions over and over again.

  Have you killed anyone?

  What’s it like to kill?

  Don’t you feel bad about it?

  And then: Would you kill me?

  So I tried to avoid the questions as much as possible, because nobody ever liked the answer to each.

  Yes.

  Like sex, only better.

  No.

  Yes, I would. And I will, if your name shows up on my orders.

  “You know I don’t like talking about work,” I reminded Jude. We’d been friendly for a while, so this wasn’t the first time it had come up.

  Jude held his hand up in a gesture of peace. “Hey, I’m not one to judge. I don’t care how people live their lives and make their money.”

  “I don’t do it for the money,” I replied quickly, maybe too quickly.

  I was no mercenary, and I hated that people made that assumption. Yes, I got paid for my services, but it wasn’t enough to make my rent, and most Valkyries had to have a second job. The paycheck just offset some of our costs, but the truth was that we’d all do it whether we got paid or not.

  We were compelled to do it. We needed to do it the same way we needed to breathe.

  “My old man always said that if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life,” Jude said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled over us. “But then again, my dad’s also an incubus who works on the side banging women to steal their souls and valuables.”

  “It sounds like he’s got life figured out, then,” I muttered.

  Jude chugged the last of his beer, then slammed the empty bottle on the bar. “That was shite. Wanna get some liliplum?”

  He’d barely gotten the words out before I was already hopping off the barstool and chirping, “Yes, please.”

  Jude laughed and followed me back through the beaded curtains into the cloud of purple. People were sitting around on overstuffed couches, with the hookahs on tables in the center. The hookahs looked like tall, slender vases, with two hoses coming out of the glass base of each, and everyone was talking and laughing between drags on the hoses.

  There wasn’t a lot of room, and Jude took up a lot of space, so I sat on the arm of the couch beside him. He took a drag first before handing me the hose, and I inhaled deeply. It was like breathing in a campfire and a bouquet of flowers.

  And then already I was feeling it and I sank back on the couch. It was like two shots of vodka, without the burning in the throat or the hangover. It was just lightness and calm, and it wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket.

  Back here, the anger of the demonic metal band was replaced with something more melodic and velvety: the voice of a woman, sultry and slow, and the way her words went through me, softening the beating of my heart, made me wonder if she was a siren.

  “Come on, Malin, you’re not usually a lightweight.” Jude’s voice rumbled in my ear as he chuckled. His horn brushed against me, cold and hard on my temple, and I closed my eyes and leaned against him. His arm wrapped around me, steadying me. “I’ve seen you drink ogres under the table before.” />
  “The lili hits me harder,” I told him honestly. I usually only saved it for special occasions, and maybe tonight felt special because of my work this morning, or maybe I just didn’t want to talk to Jude about it anymore, or maybe I just didn’t want to talk.

  I just wanted to fall into his arms, the way he would let me, and I knew he would carry me back to his place and do the things that only he seemed to know how to do.

  I opened my eyes, preparing to yield to the temptation, to invite myself to his place, when the beaded curtains parted in front of us, and she walked in.

  FIVE

  Quinn Evelyn Devane.

  A Valkyrie with long hair dyed silver, so it shimmered and danced in the light, except where her roots grew in black. Her mouth was slightly lopsided, and on other people that might look silly or strange, but on her it just looked like she had a wonderful secret and she was daring you to find out what it was.

  She was tall, taller than me, even, with powerful legs that went on for days. Across her collarbone ran a dark red scar, and below that she revealed more than a hint of her ample cleavage.

  Around her neck she wore a silver amulet inscribed with the Vegvisir—the Norse symbol of protection.

  In the very center was a solitary red garnet that seemed to follow me everywhere I looked.

  I was hoping she wouldn’t see me, as if somehow, even though she was standing right in front of me, I would be able to disappear completely into Jude’s arms. But then her eyes landed on me—bright green eyes, like a meadow in spring—and my breath caught in my throat.

  “Malin,” Quinn said, smiling her asymmetric smile. Her voice was low and husky, but it managed to carry over the music, and she sat down on the table across from me. “I haven’t seen you since…”

  She trailed off, and my heart pounded in my chest. Inside my head I was screaming, Don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Please don’t say “since we broke up.”