“Yeah, it does,” I insisted, mostly because I didn’t want to raise her suspicion. “I’ve just been thinking, and … do you think we have free will?”
She arched an eyebrow and stared down at me over her sharp nose. “What are you going on about?”
“Did I choose to be a Valkyrie, or did it choose me?” I wondered.
“You were born into it,” Sloane reminded me. “I can’t be a Valkyrie. Ninety percent of the beings on this planet could never be a Valkyrie. So, yeah, I would say it chose you.”
“But I could’ve said no. Lots of people aren’t cut out for it,” I said.
“Then say no.” She shrugged. “Are you rethinking your career? Because I’ve never really thought you were cut out for it.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, slamming my book closed, and got to my feet. “I’m looking for help, and you kick me when I’m down. Nice.”
I started walking away, but Sloane sighed and called after me. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were actually having a genuine existential crisis.”
I stopped to look back at her. “Well, I am.”
“All the Valkyries I’ve ever known have been dumb jocks,” Sloane explained, as if that would somehow make me feel better. “I’m working on trying to get over my own prejudices, and it’s unfair of me to stereotype you like that.”
“Thank you,” I replied cautiously.
She took a deep breath, relaxing her stance slightly, and seemed to start over.
“To answer your question about free will … I used to believe in it. I still do, to some degree. Or at least, I’d like to believe that I chose to wear my hair up today.” She pulled at one of her black curls, causing it to bounce back into the ponytail when she let go.
“I know some people find comfort in the idea that gods are watching over every little detail, helping them decide everything from what color underwear to put on to who they’re going to marry,” Sloane went on. “But I’m not one of those people.”
“Neither am I,” I agreed.
“I like to believe I make my own decisions. That I’m in control of my own fate. But…” She drew in a shaky breath. “My father is a Deva. He’s inherently honest and good, because he was born that way. He has a great difficulty lying, which leads to some awkward situations sometimes.”
“That can be helpful, too,” I piped in.
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not asking for your approval on my dad,” she said in a haughty voice thick with venom, but then she apparently remembered that she was trying to be nice, and she forced a smile. “Sorry. It’s just not about my dad.”
“Okay. What is it about, then?” I asked.
“He’s good, not because he wants to be, but because he was made that way,” Sloane explained. “Sure, he still chooses how he likes his coffee or what color tie he’s going to wear, and that might seem like free will, but it isn’t.”
Her expression changed again, slackening a bit. Her mouth turned down in a frown, and sadness darkened her eyes. “And one day, you’ll kill him.”
“Sloane—” I began, but she held her hand to silence me.
“If not you, then someone like you,” she went on. “But his time will come, and that will be that. He didn’t choose to be born. He didn’t choose to be good in life. And he won’t choose his death. Where is the free will in that?”
I let her words sink in, then softly said, “There isn’t.”
“So that’s my answer,” she replied.
“But what if he could?” I asked. “What if he changed the way he lived and went rogue and started lying and being bad?”
Sloane laughed. “You show me an angel that breaks bad, and I’ll show you a devil in disguise.”
“You think we can only be bad because we were made that way?” I asked. “Then we’re all just behaving as we were made to, filling our role as good little cogs in the machine, and we can’t choose to get off the tracks.”
“Exactly. Then something else is the one in control of it all,” she said. “If I don’t believe in free will, the unfortunate logical conclusion is fate. If we’re not choosing things for ourselves, then someone must be choosing it for us. They’re the ones deciding our destiny.”
Her words hit me like a slap across the face. If Sloane was right—and her theory made sense—there were only two conclusions about what Marlow had done.
The first assumed that Marlow was supposed to kill Tamerlane, and she didn’t. That meant she somehow managed to bust free off her preordained track, and the whole thing would break down without her cog there rotating in its place.
The second assumed that this was actually Marlow’s destiny the whole time. She did exactly as she was always meant to by shirking her duties in killing Tamerlane. But if she was only running her true course, who was the one plotting her path?
SIXTEEN
Marlow sat closest to the window, amber sunlight spilling in through the wooden slats of the blinds. Hot black coffee filled the mugs before us, each rim stained with our own particular shade of lipstick. Hers was a sharper blood-red, while mine was more of a matte merlot—aptly called Velvet Vampire.
A spread of tasting food dubbed the Turkish Delight sat untouched on the table before us. Bowls of olives and Beyaz peynir cheese, a platter of cucumbers and tomatoes, a basket of katmer flat bread, and several tiny bowls of rose jam and fig marmalade. We had ordered this as a nicety and as a distraction, giving us all something to munch on.
The reason Marlow had chosen Kahvaltı to meet wasn’t the food anyway—although the food was fairly good. It was the long, slender cigarillo she held between her fingers with its pungent bouquet of smoke hovering over us. Kahvaltı was one of the only places in the city that still allowed smoking tobacco.
“If I’d known he was going to be so late, I would’ve taken the time to touch up my hair,” Marlow said.
Her bleached-blond hair had begun to grow out a bit, leaving a sliver of black roots along her scalp, but it had been styled well, hiding most of that flaw. Marlow had really done herself up today. Her makeup was a bit heavier than normal, with thicker eyeliner and false lashes, and her form-fitting black dress had long sleeves and a short hem.
Marlow exhaled smoke from the corner of her mouth and cast her scrutinizing gaze on me. She reached out, running her fingers through the thick stubble on the shaved side of my head.
“If you’re going to insist on this ridiculous haircut, you ought to keep up with the shaving,” she chastised. I leaned away from her touch, so she let her hand fall away. “It’s getting long.”
I dug through my messenger bag, searching for my phone so I could text Asher and find out what the holdup was. He was already twenty minutes late.
We were poised at a table right by the front entrance, and when the door opened, I looked up to see Asher. He’d cleaned up some since I’d seen him last, appearing a little less grizzled and a bit more rested.
I smiled and waved toward him, then realized that might not be the appropriate response for this meeting. His eyes met mine—as hard and dark as the ocean during a storm—and he nodded once, so I let my hand fall awkwardly back to my lap.
He turned, speaking quietly to a woman who had followed him in. Her jumpsuit was perfectly tailored for her tall frame, and a sarong was draped elegantly over her shoulders. With her glacial white hair meticulously styled and oversized black sunglasses covering most of her face, she looked stunningly regal.
Pursing her lips, she lowered her sunglasses to look at Marlow and me, and I could almost feel the daggers she was shooting piercing into me.
“Who is that woman?” Marlow leaned over and asked me.
“I don’t know,” I whispered, but they were already on the way toward us, and I suddenly felt so nervous that I wasn’t sure I could do this.
Marlow set her cigarillo in the ashtray and stood up as they reached our table. “Hello,” she said, flashing her most winning smile. “I’m Marlow Krigare.”
I realized bela
tedly that I should’ve stood, but now my mother was leaning over to shake Asher’s hand, and it felt too forced.
“I’m Asher Värja,” he said, casting an uneasy glance down at me as he shook Marlow’s hand. “This is my grandmother, Teodora Värja.”
Marlow extended her hand to Teodora, but she just sniffed and sat down, ignoring Marlow’s offering. My mother cleared her throat uncomfortably and took her seat across from Teodora.
“So, my daughter told me that you were looking for me,” Marlow said, her eyes bouncing between Asher and his grandmother.
“You could say that,” Teodora said with a weary sigh. She took off her sunglasses, and they clacked loudly when she set them on the table. “You really sodded things up, didn’t you?”
“Beg pardon?” Marlow asked, and her plaster smile began to waver.
“Amma,” Asher said, using the old Norse word for grandmother. “They invited us here. We should hear them out.”
“He’s right,” I said, desperate to diffuse the growing tension between Teodora and Marlow. “We thought maybe if we could meet and exchange ideas, we might be able to track down Tamerlane.”
“We did just want to be of help,” Marlow replied, but her words came out stiff and robotic. She held her head and shoulders so high and straight, it looked painful.
“Oh, please.” Teodora leaned back in her chair and gave a dry laugh. “How old are you?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Marlow replied tightly.
Teodora rolled her eyes. “Fine, play that game. I turned seventy-five last May. I worked as a Valkyrie for almost fifty years before I retired.” She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table and staring directly at my mother. “And do you know how many of my assignments I failed to return?”
I looked helplessly over to Asher, and his panic-stricken expression nearly mirrored my own. We were powerless to get our matriarchs to behave.
Marlow’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “You think I asked you here to listen to this shit? I thought I could help you.”
“Yes, you’re a real saint, aren’t you?” Teodora continued with a nasty smile. “Inviting the family of your victim here to commiserate.”
“My victim? I never even met your daughter.”
“She wouldn’t be dead if it weren’t for your failed actions,” Teodora countered.
“You don’t know that,” Marlow insisted coolly. “Maybe she was always meant to die. Only the gods know the true plan.”
I actually winced when she said that.
“So that’s why you called us here?” Teodora asked. “So you could convince yourself that you did nothing wrong?”
“I wanted to try to make things right. I wanted to help you. But now I see that you don’t want my help. You just want to spew all your anger and hate out at me, and I won’t let you.” Marlow pushed her chair back and stood up. “I am not your punching bag.”
“We’re all emotional,” Asher said, his voice taking on the same pained tone as it had when he was in my apartment. “Let’s all just calm down for a second.”
My mother shook her head as she grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. “No. You had your chance. Good luck getting justice for your mother.”
“Marlow, please.” I reached out, meaning to grasp her hand, but she pulled away from me. “They just—”
“I’m out of here, Malin,” she said and slid around me on her way to the door.
“Marlow—” I repeated and started to get up, but Teodora held out her hand to me.
“No, stay. I’ll go after her.” She sighed as she slowly rose to her feet and grabbed her sunglasses from the table. “I can make nice if it means that I can avenge my Adela.”
Asher turned to watch Teodora follow after my mother. Through the window blinds, I could see Marlow standing on the sidewalk, smoking a new cigarillo. When Teodora reached her, she didn’t immediately punch her, so that was a good sign.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said to Asher once it seemed like Marlow and Teodora were talking.
“No, I’m sorry. My grandmother said she just wanted to come for support.…”
“It’s a very complicated situation,” I said.
I spread jam on the flatbread, mostly so I’d have something to do, and Asher reached for the small butter knife at the same time I was putting it back, so our hands bumped against each other. His skin felt rough brushing against mine.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” he said gently, his dark eyes meeting mine, before he roughly spread the marmalade on his own bread, but like me, he never actually took a bite of it.
After a stretch of silence, Asher cleared his throat and asked, “So, you call your mom by her name?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Marlow told me that most Valkyries call their moms by their first names.”
“Well, it’s starting to sound like Marlow has a bit of a skewed view on what it means to be a Valkyrie,” Asher said, and the truth of his words stung hard—harder than he’d intended them to, based on the apologetic expression on his face.
“It seems that way,” I agreed with a heavy sigh.
“Did she tell you why she didn’t kill Tamerlane Fayette?” Asher asked directly.
“She did.” I paused, trying to figure out how exactly to word it, but the hopeful look in Asher’s eyes underneath his gathered eyebrows compelled me to just tell the truth. He deserved to know. “She said that he was good, and she thought the world would be better with him in it.”
He laughed darkly. “Yeah, the world is real great with him in it.”
“She knows she made a mistake,” I hurried to say, defending my mother even though I really knew there was no defense for her actions. “She wants to make it right.”
“How?” Asher asked skeptically.
“She wants to kill Tamerlane,” I lied, because I wanted it to be true.
Marlow hadn’t shared any of her intentions with me or even why she’d wanted to meet with Asher. I had no idea how she planned to try to make this right, or what she even thought the right thing would be anymore.
“Do you think she really will?” Asher asked honestly.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “A few days ago I would’ve said yes, definitely.” I took a deep breath. “But it doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t kill him, then I will.”
He smiled then, crookedly because of a scar he had on the left side of his top lip. It was a small gash, like a comma dropping down from the smooth skin of his face to his full lips. But his smile softened his whole face. Even his eyes seemed lighter.
It wasn’t until that moment that I fully appreciated how handsome he was. He had this ruggedness about him—unshaven, with slightly disheveled hair, thick eyebrows, leathery hands—and it clashed wonderfully with the beauty of his other features—high cheekbones, full lips that were almost pouty, eyes that were a disarming shade of blue.
He wasn’t much older than me, but he had a world-weariness that made him seem older, like he’d been through things I couldn’t even imagine. It was in the rumbling tenor of his voice, and he still somehow managed to be soft-spoken.
Everything about him seemed to be a contradiction—weathered but youthful, gruff but gentle, angry but forgiving. Yet it all seemed to work for him.
“I do appreciate you meeting with us,” Asher said finally. “I know this all must be very hard for you. The position that you’re in.”
“Nobody’s in a good position. I mean, I can’t imagine what this all has been like for you and your grandmother.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” he admitted.
He looked out the window, at the animated conversation between Teodora and Marlow. Both of them were waving their arms and shouting at one another.
“But I do really want to thank you.” Asher turned back to me and reached across the table.
He took my hand in his—strong and rough and warm—and I noticed the paracord bracelet around his wrist. It had
a small metal plaque imprinted with the three horns of Odin on an eagle. That was the insignia for the Vörðr—the Evig Riksdag police.
Competition to get into the Vörðr was harsh, and the job itself was renowned for being grueling. Recruits had died going through the relentless boot camp, but the Vörðr had to be the best of the best to protect the Riks from vengeful immortals or rogue Valkyries.
I lifted my gaze, letting his eyes meet mine, and I felt heat flush through me as he smiled at me.
Then Teodora came in like a blizzard, her sarong billowing around her, and Asher pulled his hand back from mine. She walked over and sat down heavily in her seat beside Asher.
“We managed to come to an agreement.” Teodora motioned vaguely out the window, where Marlow was still standing on the sidewalk. “She’s out there waiting for you when you’re ready.”
“What’s the agreement?” Asher asked.
“She’s going to work with you to find Tamerlane Fayette,” Teodora explained as she poured herself a cup of black coffee. “And then she’s going to kill him.”
Asher raised an eyebrow and glanced over at me, before asking her, “That’s your agreement?”
“Yes.” Teodora sipped her coffee. “Well, that and if she doesn’t kill Tamerlane, then I’m going to kill her.”
SEVENTEEN
Marlow was waiting outside for me, just as Teodora had said. But as soon as she saw me, she turned and started walking back toward her brownstone, and I had to jog to catch up with her. I was actually half an inch taller than my mother, but she’d always had these long strides that I had to struggle to match.
“Teodora said you reached an agreement,” I said as I caught up with her.
“If you can call it that,” Marlow snorted.
We stopped at a crosswalk, and a woman with a small child at her side glared up at Marlow—more specifically, she was glaring at the cigarillo in her hand.
“That’s disgusting, and you’re polluting the air for everyone around you that has to breathe in that noxious smoke,” the woman reprimanded my mother.
Marlow turned to face her, putting her hand on her hip, and leaned forward, reminding the woman of her size and strength. “Look around, honey. This whole city is nothing but pollution.”
Between the Blade and the Heart Page 8