Frost and Flame

by Showalter, Gena

  Morning had arrived.

  Both males spoke in their native languages. Languages Bane had never learned. Because of the translator embedded in his brain, he interpreted every word. They had translators, too, and understood when he answered in Adwaewethish. “I’m sure your brother was a worthy adversary,” he said. “For others.”

  A dark scowl replaced Valor’s grin, the taunt hitting its mark. The time for words had ended. With a ragged war cry, the male lunged and swung his sword. Target: Bane’s throat.

  He dodged, and a savage dance ensued. He punched, kicked, blocked and clawed, went high, went low. The two allies worked together in a constant flow of motion. When one man attacked, the other adjusted his position, preparing to deliver the next blow.

  Bane deflected a particularly nasty blow, then slammed his palms against Malaki’s armor. The spikes embedded in his hands, as hoped. Despite the pain, he tossed the male into a tree. The trunk split, shards of bark volleying in every direction. Leaves rained down, beams of sunlight spotlighting Bane. He hissed.

  Eyes stinging, his skin blistering, he slashed, punched and kicked to herd the pair into a shadowed alcove. When Malaki’s armor grazed his gut, his intestines spilled out. A flare of pain. Dizziness. The beast protested, razing more of his control as he put himself back together.

  Valor thrust the sword at Bane, but Bane jumped up and latched on to a hanging vine. He soared overhead, landed directly behind the bastard and kicked him into Malaki’s path. The two collided, the armor doing its job, skinning one side of Valor’s chest.

  Valor wailed in agony, and Malaki staggered back, his features contorting with horror.

  In a quick one, two motion, Bane swung to Valor a second time, cupped the man’s forehead and jaw—and twisted. Valor went limp, his spine severed.

  Down but not out. Must remove the head or heart before he heals.

  “You’ll pay for that,” Malaki snarled, diving into him.

  They careened backward, those metal spikes nicking an internal organ or two. More pain, more blood. When they hit the ground, the spikes cut deeper, earning more protests from the beast.

  Careful. If the beast shredded the sword and the armor...

  But “careful” got him pinned to the ground, with Malaki’s knees digging into his shoulders. The warrior raised a gauntleted fist, ready to whale, but Bane acted fast, slamming his knees into his back, unseating him. The punch landed in the dirt.

  The other man struggled to regain his balance. Bane slid out from underneath him, turned and kicked. A mistake. Valor had healed—and snuck up behind him.

  Pain ricocheted through Bane’s shoulder, the blade going in one side and coming out the other. His vision blurred.

  Valor hopes to kill me, to deny me the right to avenge my wife. He dies today. Now!

  Rage overtook Bane. Blood screamed in his ears, his heart thudding against his ribs. Finally, the beast broke free. Bones elongated. His gums burned, his teeth lengthening and sharpening. Flesh hardened, dark green scales sprouting from his pores. Darkness eclipsed his mind.

  He heard anguished wails in the distance...

  Pleas for mercy...

  Pop. Whoosh. Thump. Then, silence.

  When next he blinked, carnage surrounded him. An ocean of blood soaked the ground, body parts scattered here, there, everywhere. Bits of skin and muscle dangled from tree limbs. Pieces of Malaki’s indestructible armor lay on the mossy grass. Damn it! The sword...where was Valor’s sword? There! The hilt had sustained some damage, but the blade itself remained intact.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Bane labored to his feet. A sharp ache drew his attention to his shoulder, near the tree of life tattoo on his chest. A tattoo every combatant possessed. The mystical ink infiltrated their blood, allowing an Enforcer to track their every move.

  The wound caused by The Blood Drinker hadn’t healed, the cut just as raw and red as before. He massaged his nape. There had to be a way to reverse the damage.

  Think! A combatant carried a sword with healing properties. Another owned a magic wand able to manipulate energy. Perhaps one of the two could mend the unmendable.

  Very well. Bane had his next targets. Once he’d completed his tasks, he would end Aveline’s tyranny at long last...

  Then, I will join you, my darling Meredith. We will be together again.

  103rd All War, Month 5

  Somewhere in the Arctic Circle

  Assembly of Combatants

  FOR THE PAST three months, Bane had kept his mind on his goals, burying his grief beneath layers of seething hatred for Aveline. Somehow, he’d held the beast at bay without the aid of a lover. He hadn’t killed anyone else, or destroyed any more weapons. Of course, that meant he hadn’t won the healing sword or magic wand, either.

  Another mistake on Bane’s part.

  Minutes ago, the Assembly of Combatants kicked off. A mandatory roll call. Soon after, an army of vikings had attacked the combatants in droves.

  Now, the remaining twenty-five combatants worked together. Immortals against humans, the immortals trapped inside an icy mountain valley, unable to leave until the conclusion of the meeting. Yet, their assailants could move in and out at will.

  Metal clashed against metal, the scent of blood permeating the frigid breeze. Grunts, groans and bellows echoed, the battle as savage as the terrain. Above, streaks of green and purple lit up the night sky.

  Ignoring the throbbing pain in his stitched shoulder, Bane swiped up a discarded sword and lopped off a mortal’s head. Since battling Valor, the wound in his shoulder had only worsened. Blood loss winded him far too easily, and slowed his reflexes.

  Footsteps. Challengers approached at a clipped pace. The beast roared, enraged, thirsty for blood and hungry for flesh. As usual.

  Calm, steady. If Bane transformed, he would slaughter the vikings, yes, but also the combatants, winning the war before he’d found the Terran princess. If that happened, he would remain bound to Aveline.

  Unacceptable! Her downfall trumped everything. Right now, the vikings were obstacles in his path. Obstacles got mowed down.

  Bane twisted and lurched. He ripped out one man’s throat with his teeth, and punched into the other man’s chest cavity, removing his heart. An action that pained his own heart, reminding him of the worst day of his existence.

  Inner shake. Blank your mind. Another viking raced toward him, an ax raised and ready. But, just before they collided, an arrow pierced the man’s eye, and he dropped.

  “Thank you,” he grumbled.

  Emberelle of Loandria nodded and pivoted to unleash a volley of arrows upon the mortals outside the circle.

  Usually she fought with a viking sword. She must have known she’d need a different method today. Possible. From home, she’d brought a metal band that fit over her forehead and allowed her to read the minds of anyone around her. Early on, she’d won a pair of wrist cuffs that might or might not grant the wearer the ability to time travel. Weapons Bane could utilize.

  He placed her at the top of his hit list. Find the princess, make my kills.

  When the skylights brightened, reflecting off the ice, his eyes burned and watered. He cursed. He’d left his goggles in his lair, knowing there would be a battle at the assembly’s conclusion; there was always a battle after an assembly. In the chaos, weapons were often lost, stolen or destroyed.

  Should have risked it.

  Another mortal approached, brandishing an ax, and the beast fought harder for release, sending a lance of pain through his temples. Bane blocked the human’s swing, spun and clawed out his trachea.

  Behind him, a war cry sounded. Again, he spun and blocked—a plunging seax this time. Bane rammed his claws through the male’s torso, ripping out his intestines.

  No time to rest. The next challenger arrived. In a (literal) snap, Bane ripped off his arms—and used them
as clubs.

  A horn erupted, blaring through the mountains. The vikings went still before rushing backward, forming a circle around the combatants, remaining outside the strike zone.

  A male wearing a horned helmet split from the group and stalked closer. Blood smeared his tanned skin, scars marred one side of his face and a thick black beard covered his jaw. He wore leather, fur and sheepskin, and held a long staff with a bulbous tip. The Rod of Clima.

  Bane stiffened. The Rod belonged to a combatant named Cannon. Had the viking killed him? If so... The viking had joined the All War.

  Immortals drew together, watching as two soldiers dragged a decapitated body forward. Someone else pitched the head. It rolled, rolled... Oh, yes. Cannon was dead.

  Hisses of fury blended with shouted threats, combatants throwing themselves against the invisible wall that trapped them inside the clearing, only to bounce back.

  “When I rip off your dick, even your future children will scream.”

  “Should I cut off your head, remove your heart or burn you to death? Who am I kidding? I’ll do all three.”

  “I’ll enjoy making you rest in pieces, you son of a bitch.”

  Bane remained in place, the beast busy tearing through his skull. Deep breath in. Out. Maintain control. In, out.

  The helmeted male lifted the Rod and announced, “You invaded our land and killed our men, because you did not fear us. I am Erik the Widow Maker, and I will teach you the error of your ways.” He slammed the tip of the Rod into the ice.

  A brutal arctic wind erupted, howling and blustering, the ground shaking. Between one blink and another, ice grew over Bane’s feet, up his calves. Higher, higher.

  Ice grew over all of the combatants.

  Horrified, Bane battled for freedom...to no avail. Trapped. Helpless. My fight over?

  No! He hadn’t used his final weapon.

  Bane stopped fighting the beast, and the transformation begun. Muscles and bones—

  Nothing. The beast remained trapped as well, the ice unbreakable as it spread. Over his waist, his shoulders. Panic decimated what remained of his calm. None of the combatants escaped. Then, the ice covered his face.

  I am...defeated?

  I failed Meredith?

  No. No! He refused to accept defeat. He would escape. He would find the Terran princess, win the All War and oversee the Blood Rite, finally severing his bond to Aveline. Aveline would come to Terra to claim the planet and then...oh, yes, then he would have his vengeance, die in peace and rejoin the love of his life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  You’ve got to tease to please!

  Present Day

  Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma

  MAGNOLIA “NOLA” LEE swallowed a cocktail of medications, readjusted the mound of covers piled atop her and settled more comfortably in bed. Well, not more comfortably. Not really. Her entire body ached, her fingers looked like sausages, fatigue rode her like she was a horse and her every nerve ending sizzled, mini-bolts of lightning zapping her again and again. And again.

  It—never—ended. Disease wrecked everything. Romantic relationships. Friendships. Goals. Fun. She’d only ever wanted to be a normal girl, with a normal life. But nooooo. Early on, she was diagnosed with lupus. After going into remission, fibromyalgia decided to come and play.

  This was day too-many of a major flare-up, the pain too much. She felt like she was being poked with a thousand acid-drenched needles. Fatigue, foggy brain and insomnia continued to worsen. Basically, the party never stopped. She wished she had a medical marijuana card, but her pain management doctor considered it “unnecessary,” leaving her at the mercy of opioids.

  Joke’s on me. Opioids had no mercy.

  She’d already taken the maximum dose, but the pills had barely dulled the pain. If not for her upcoming vacation with her foster sister, Valerina London—Vale—she would have pulled the covers over her head and sobbed in the dark. Now, at least, she had a reason to get up in the morning.

  “Which one of these dresses do you want to take on our trip?” Vale emerged from the walk-in closet, tall and willowy, with pale white skin and bicolored hair, half the color of snow, half the color of midnight. Thick dark slashes rimmed her hazel eyes; the tattooed liner gave her a perma-smoky look and the best Resting Bitch Face ever.

  In one hand, Vale held a red dress with more cutouts than material. In the other hand, she held a conservative black dress usually wore to funerals. “The one that says my body is a wonderland, and there’s a price for admission,” she said. “Or the one that says come near me, and I’ll remove your testicles with the power of my mind.”

  Nola chuckled. “You’ve met me, right? Wonderland. Obvi.” Once upon a time, she’d longed to fall in love and become someone’s wonderland. She’d had crushes, she’d flirted and she’d dated. For some reason, she’d vomited every time she’d tried to be intimate. Ultimately, she’d given up on love, relationships and romance, instead focusing on getting healthy and making money for her trip.

  Well, she’d mostly given up on love. A few years ago, she’d started dreaming about a gorgeous man with golden everything, and the muscle mass of a hulk. No other man had ever measured up.

  A breathy sigh escaped. Her golden god never called her the “Asian chick” or “the living sex doll, Korean edition.” He never lied to her, or stole money from her purse. He only ever referred to her as “princess,” and asked—demanded—she find him in Russia. The Khibiny Mountains, to be exact. His presence had become a nightly comfort, and dang if she wasn’t halfway in like with him already. Maybe because he wasn’t real, so he would never die?

  Her parents—dead. Her favorite doctor—dead. Carrie, the world’s greatest foster mom in history—dead. Other foster moms and dads, foster siblings, caseworkers, friends had died metaphorically, leaving her in their dust. So far, Vale was the only exception.

  “Excellent choice.” Vale gave her a thumbs-up. “Carrie didn’t raise a fool.”

  With a wink and a grin, Nola said, “But if she did, it’d be you.”

  Vale snorted. “You are such a meme queen. Just be sure to carry wet wipes in your purse, in case people drool on you when they see you in the dress.”

  “In case? Please,” she retorted, playing along. “It’s as good as done.”

  “Ohhh. I like this confident side of you. Sick or not, you are a prize among prizes.”

  Was she, though? What did she have to offer? A house filled of “treasures” she’d hoarded—pretty glass shards, buttons and coins she’d found in the street; junk to anyone else. A mountain of medical bills. Refusal to ever have children and pass on this terrible disease. An inability to leave her bed for long periods of time. Any man she loved would ultimately become a caregiver and have to bathe and change her in bed. No, thanks.

  But she kept her lips zipped, camouflaging her inner pain. Vale battled too many burdens already and didn’t need to worry about Nola’s mental health, too.

  “You know, a trial reveals a person’s true character,” Vale said as she strode back into the closet. After insisting Nola conserve her strength, she’d started packing for both of them. “Before you invested too much time and energy into a relationship, you discovered just how badly a potential love interest sucked. That’s priceless intel, baby.”

  Well, Vale wasn’t wrong. Whenever Nola had decided to ignore the initial onset of nausea and forge ahead with a guy, he’d either treated her like spun glass sure to break, or worse, like a hypochondriac who’d exaggerated her symptoms for sympathy. The last guy had even made her doubt herself. And she couldn’t not tell a man about her array of health problems; he had a right to know what he was getting into.

  “You think everyone sucks,” she reminded her sister.

  “Yeah. Because I’m, like, supersmart.”

  True. “Well, onward and upward for us both.” When they r
eturned from vacation, they planned to buckle down and open a gourmet donut shop as fifty-fifty partners. Vale would do the paperwork and interact with suppliers; Nola would bake and interact with customers.

  Baking wasn’t her great passion—what was?—but she had a major talent for it, thanks to Carrie. Plus, she’d happily do anything with Vale.

  —Where are you, princess? Come. Find me.—

  Nola jolted. The deep, husky voice belonged to her golden god, and doubled as a sexual caress. But how the heck had a dream man spoken inside her head while she was awake?

  Was he a delusion caused by her plethora of medications, maybe? But which one(s)? And why now? Nothing new had been added to her regime.

  She should probably call her doctor. Okay, she should definitely call, and she would. Upon her return. He’d tell her to cancel the trip—again.

  No way, no how.

  First, she and Vale planned to visit Jukkasjärvi, Sweden, to tour ice castles, go dog sledding and view the northern lights. Then, they’d travel to Russia to get their hike on.

  Nola’s heart rate spiked. She didn’t know why she felt like she had to get to Russia, just because a dream man commanded it; she only knew the need never faded, only ever grew.

  So badly, she wanted to discuss the golden god with Vale. But, whenever she tried, something odd happened. The words died on her tongue—literally!—and she experienced selective mutism.

  An internal warning? Maybe. Or maybe it was some sort of undiagnosed mental disorder. Either way, the golden god’s nocturnal existence remained a secret, a sense of urgency growing. Hurry! Must get there.

  Tomorrow, no matter how bad she felt, she would board the plane and hide her pain; Vale would never know, would never suggest they put their plans on hold until she felt better.

  Bottom line: nothing would stop Nola. She’d scrimped, scraped and saved every extra penny, forgoing college while working two jobs, even when pain and fatigue plagued her.