Valkyrie Reborn
Valkyrie’s Legacy Book 1
Allyson Lindt
This book is a work of fiction.
While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Allyson Lindt
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 9781949986211
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Acelette Press
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Valkyrie Reborn (Valkyrie's Legacy, #1)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For my eternal dragon
Prologue
12 Years Ago - Starkad
Starkad studied the photo on his desk. The girl who stared back was young, but it was Kirby. The reincarnation of the Valkyrie he’d loved nearly two thousand years ago. He’d lost track of how many times she’d been reborn. They’d never found her before she hit her twenties. Why this time?
He had two calls to make. He dialed Min, and was both disappointed and relieved to hear, “Where is she?”
“Hang on. Getting Gwydion on the line.” Starkad didn’t agree with a lot of technology, but a three-way conference call was far more convenient than carrier pigeon or Pony Express. He dialed Gwydion next.
“It’s only been fifteen years,” Gwydion answered.
Starkad smiled dryly at his empty office. It was the only reason he’d call. “She’s here. She’s part of the program. And she’s thirteen.”
Here was a school and training facility for The Order of Mistletoe. A series of prophecies had been written thousands of years ago, about the destruction of several gods, and the birth of new gods who would replace them. TOM had been created by a number of the gods whose names sat under the To Be Terminated column. Starkad taught at a campus where they trained assassins to eliminate the threats—people who had the potential to become new gods, and replace the old.
Starkad didn’t support their cause. He was here as a double agent, sharing his knowledge with the Followers of Urd, and he’d been in for a long time.
“Great. Where can I meet you? How soon until you can pull her?” Gwydion asked.
Starkad loathed the program here. He’d never expected this part of his past to be enrolled in it. Then again, she was drawn to war in every life. As a Valkyrie, the impulse was embedded so deeply in her, it came as naturally as breathing. And in this modern world, wars were comprised of subterfuge and terrorism.
And Kirby would be safer here than on any battlefield. “You misunderstand. She’s not going anywhere.”
“Bullshit.” Gwydion snapped the word off. “They’ll turn her into a killer baby. And then a baby killer.”
“They’ll teach her to defend herself. In these walls, she stays alive.” Starkad could keep an eye on her from a close distance. She’d learn the skills she needed to survive.
Gwydion’s low growl was expected. “Send her to Switzerland. Or Australia. Put guards on her. Give her a real education, not a brainwashing.”
Starkad scrubbed his face. “Last time you found her, she had her memory and wings for more than a year before she was killed. We don’t know what will keep her safe. But at least in this place, she’ll learn to defend herself. Besides”—he hated to play this card, because it felt manipulative. It was also true—“you take her now, and that’s grooming a child to love you. That’s fucked up. It doesn’t matter who she becomes; it’s not who she is yet.”
“And how is TOM going to be any different?” Gwydion asked.
“I’m not preparing her to fall in love before she even understands the concept.”
“No. You’re letting them train her to kill before she solidifies her own moral existence.”
For Starkad, his entire life had followed a trail of death. He was a berserker. He’d fought side by side with Odin’s other fiercest warriors. Even as civilizations moved away from blatant brutality, it still ran through humanity’s veins. He’d witnessed it over and over.
So had Kirby. And she would continue to do so for eternity. However, Starkad understood that the world no longer liked to admit people thought that way. Showing Kirby that truth from the start of life would change her perspective.
Decisions had to be made though. “Death is part of our world. She’s a Valkyrie. Taking lives is literally what she does.”
“No.” Gwydion had always struggled with Kirby’s origins. “She’s not a Valkyrie yet, any more than she’s your Ruby.”
The name sliced through Starkad like a rusty blade. “Do you have a better idea? How are you going to keep her safe if you take her? How will you teach her to defend herself from the world? Not the mortal one. One filled with gods who want her and others dead.”
“I don’t know.” Defeat rang heavy in Gwydion’s reply.
“Having no plan is worse than having a shitty plan.”
“Not in this case.”
“Min. Break the tie,” Starkad said. A cruel request, but one that would ensure Starkad got his way.
Gwydion sighed. “Don’t—”
“I vote with the berserker.” Min was a god of passion. He loathed death. He’d also seen Kirby die too many times to allow things to continue as they always had.
Starkad was both smug and disappointed to get his way. “It’s settled. She stays with TOM. She trains. She’ll be hidden in plain sight, and she’ll learn to protect herself.”
“She can’t defend herself from a bullet fired from a thousand meters, regardless of how much training you give her.” Gwydion sounded defeated.
No. But she’d learn how to be the one firing that bullet, and that would teach her a lot about avoiding the same thing. “If you find us, you can have her.” Starkad disconnected.
Things would be different this time. He’d loved Kirby in every life he’d known her, but this girl... She was just a child. And he’d do whatever it took, to keep her alive. He’d do the one thing none of them had tried yet.
He’d refuse to love her, even after she became an adult.
Chapter One
Now - Kirby
There were too many places for a sniper to hide here. Too many empty offices, corners, and short buildings with accessible and unguarded rooftops.
And while there weren't nearly as many people as someplace like New York City, Salt Lake was still far too populated for Kirby’s comfort.
Just once, she wished The Order of Mistletoe—or TOM—had picked a target who lived by themselves on fifty acres of isolated land. There were too ma
ny options for casualties here.
“Do you really think they’ll do this in the morning? During peak traffic?” Kirby sipped her coffee, her attention never wavering from their surroundings.
Starkad sat next to her on the bench, arm pressed to hers. He’d be watching the same things she did, through mirrored shades. To everyone else, they looked like one of those star-struck couples who just had to sit next to each other.
The reality was so far removed from that, it wasn’t funny. Neither of them would sit with their backs to the door or the windows, especially on a mission.
And Starkad had made it painfully clear—he could have written it in neon in the middle of Times Square, and it wouldn’t be clearer—that Kirby was a weapon and a tool for him. Nothing more.
“That’s what I hear.” Starkad broke off a piece of his muffin and popped it in her mouth.
His sources were never wrong. Her ties with TOM had been severed, but he still knew people on the inside.
She used to ask more questions. Do we know which team they’re sending? Which prophecy is about this target? Who's your source? Why are you such a stoically sexy, unyielding prick?
He never gave her answers, so she stopped trying.
Fortunately, he knew people on the other side, too. The organization funding and supporting Kirby and Starkad’s trips was The Followers of Urd—they believed Fate would see her will carried out. Kirby thought that was a lot of bullshit, but they got her closer to accomplishing her goal.
She downed the rest of her coffee and slid him the cup. “Sweetheart, would you get me more?” She poured as much sugar into her request as she’d dumped into her drink. The couple illusion helped them blend in. The more boring and status quo they appeared, the better.
“Of course, kitten.” He kissed her on the cheek, before heading to the drink station.
This was where the target got coffee every morning before work. Her schedule was as clockwork and reliable as most peoples—as in, ninety-nine percent predictable. She took the train downtown. She stopped at this place, where she got a wholegrain bagel, toasted, with cheddar cheese and tomato, plus decaf coffee. And then she walked across the street to the office building she worked in. The target was on a TOM hit list because she had the potential to ascend to godhood.
Kirby wasn’t surprised this individual lived a flavor of the same humdrum life as most people. She wished she could argue that gods were more interesting than the standard mortal. Considering the few who had been involved in her training and upbringing, she knew better. Crueler lives maybe, but not any more fascinating.
She’d already checked the angles from every part of the coffee-shop interior. There were no clear lines of sight into the building from anyplace outside, except the TRAX station in the middle of the street. TOM wouldn’t attack from there. There were too many people in the way, to ensure a clear shot.
Kirby would use Starkad’s opinion to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Not that she ever did.
As Starkad walked away, she took the opportunity to appreciate the view. He was an asshole, but he made for some good scenery. At almost six-foot-three, he towered over most people. His shoulders were so broad, sometimes it was tempting to hang off those arms.
Her ass knew firsthand what kind of power was in those biceps. The memory of the art he created with a cane on her skin made her squirm.
His dirty blond hair was just long enough to muss—it had to look like everyone else’s—framing a strong jaw decorated with a few days’ worth of dark blond scruff. And he had ice-blue eyes she swore could see more about her soul than she would ever understand.
He’d also saved her life a few years ago, and aside from the refusing-to-fuck-her thing, had never steered her wrong.
It was probably for the best. He was a teacher when she entered the academy at thirteen, so he had to be at least twelve years older than she was. Not that it showed in his face or movements, but that made him almost forty now. At least.
The last thing she needed was to get hung up on some Daddy fantasy.
Too late.
Starkad returned but didn’t sit. He handed her the paper coffee cup. “They’re out of honey.”
“Aww.” She pouted, stood, and took the drink. This place didn’t have honey, and she didn’t drink it in her coffee.
His comment meant he didn’t see anything worth worrying about either. It wasn’t so much an established code phrase, as an off-the-cuff, this doesn’t matter—let’s go.
They stepped outside, merging into morning foot traffic and letting it carry them back toward their hotel. “I’m liking the look of those office buildings.” She nodded to the ones next door to the coffee shop. “How long do you think they’ll be remodeling?”
“Another month or so. The timing should be perfect.”
She agreed.
They shifted from small talk laced with hidden meaning to plain, old, boring small talk. It was meaningless, and intended for anyone eavesdropping, rather than for the two of them.
Kirby let her mind wander. She’d like to say she’d lost track of how many of these jobs she’d done, but she remembered every one of them.
Eight hunts. Sixteen executions. Thirty-two eyes of former classmates that she’d looked into, before pulling the trigger.
It was almost the stuff of fairy tales. The dark kind that went terribly wrong, leaving the reader wondering where the moral was.
She wished she could forget some of it, but with each job, it all rushed back, as if she’d lived it yesterday.
She had been the thirteen year-old orphan who was more trouble than she was worth. When TOM found her, she was promised glory and the ability to stick up for the little guy.
The reality was darker—an institute where children were trained as hunters and assassins. Their sole goal was to destroy potential gods, before the individuals ascended and brought destruction and ruin to the world.
At least, TOM spun them as being destructive forces. Turned out, potentials were competition, and the gods who’d created TOM were unwilling to share the spotlight. It might literally destroy them.
If Kirby hadn’t believed in the gods before she got there, she definitely did after seeing what they could do. Thanks to that knowledge, and the way they’d cast her aside like so much garbage, she’d made her mission to help speed along the demise of the gods who ran TOM.
She had been their top student. Ace sniper. Fighter. Top honors in every class.
And when she was betrayed, expelled, and nearly died, she discovered what they really were—a group of petty gods, looking to bring about Ragnarok.
She was a real life Deadpool, except without the super healing to back up the years of torture and psychological abuse.
And just like Wade Wilson, she was tracking down the people who did this to her, to make things right.
Fortunately, Starkad knew people. An entire organization of immortals who were fighting to make sure the gods that ran TOM didn’t take out all of humanity in their own bid to survive. He used those connections, plus a contact on the inside at TOM, to point himself and Kirby toward planned assassinations. Kirby hunted the hunters and killed them before they could take lives—innocent or potentially godly—now or ever again. She stopped the TOMs and was rapidly diminishing their numbers.
They reached their hotel. She drew a small amount of amusement from the fact it was across the street from a temple that didn’t belong to any god involved in this whole fucked-up mess.
They slept in separate rooms when they traveled. It marred the illusion of the happy vacationing couple, but Starkad insisted, since their... blowout a few years back. She assumed he went out and got laid. She did. School taught that sex was stress relief, and she knew how to stay removed. Sex was also the only time she allowed herself to surrender control.
But tonight, she’d be in his room, finalizing tomorrow’s plans. They’d sleep during the day. Waking up hours before the hunt would give her time to shake off any drowsine
ss and ensure she was alert.
Back in her room, she hung out the do not disturb sign, drew the blinds as tight as she could, popped a couple of Ambien, and let the pills drag her into sleep.
She tossed and turned for the next ten hours—as was typical the day before a hunt. She was about to look former classmates in the eye and execute them for doing the only thing they’d ever known.
The first time she’d done it, she stayed at a distance. Her specialty was sniping, and she took out her target from a few thousand meters, watching them through a scope. It should have been easier that way. Less personal. She didn’t sleep for weeks after.
Doing the job in person let her apologize. It was closure. They never begged for mercy, or made promises to change if she just let them go. They’d all be trained too well for that. But face-to-face felt more like real combat. Maybe it would still give her former classmates their time in Valhalla
When it was time to get up, she struggled to wake up. The cold shower helped a little. The coffee helped more. This would get her through planning. The Adderall she would take before they set up, combined with a heavy dose of natural adrenaline, would keep her sharp when the time came.
She dressed in worn, baggy clothes. She and Starkad didn’t want to be the cute couple for this stage. They’d look destitute—the kind of down on their luck that most people turned away from. The oversized clothes would mask their appearance, and the backpacks would hide their weapons.
Kirby’s shoes didn’t make a sound on the carpet as she strolled down the few doors to Starkad’s room.
He still answered before she knocked. He would have spotted her shadow under the door and seen her through the peephole as she approached.
He had set up his computer on the table in the corner, and white noise filtered from the speakers.
Kirby gave him a grateful smile when he handed her another cup of coffee. She should buy stock in Folgers, give herself a nest egg of her own money to retire on—she drank so much of the stuff.
She took a long sip of the almost too-hot drink and let it sear through her veins, before saying, “Thanks. And hi.”
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